A Man Hole and Stolen Shoes…

On our last day in the jungles of Brazil, we were scheduled to attend a traditional ‘white party,’ hosted not at the marina, but at someone’s private home on the other side of the lakes outside the condominium. Since my friend the Argentine wanted to triple check that the party’s host (we’ll call him X) was okay with putting three foreigners he’d never met on his uber-exclusive list, we went to visit the house pre-lunch to schmooze and offer him gifts of Moet and Johnny Walker Blue Label (pre-purchased at Duty Free for this exact purpose).

Trucks of lighting equipment, toilets, and speakers surrounded the house which was already abuzz with pre-party activities. My roommate and I soaked up the sun by the lake and in mere moments one of X’s many employees came over to us with a bottle champagne and two flutes on a tray, eager to pour. We simultaneously screamed, “NO!” and waved our arms in rejection as if he were approaching us with a machine gun. Unintentionally, we almost scared him over the deck into the lake. We were still so hung-over from the night before and it wasn’t even 1 PM. Cocktails were not happening. We tried to apologize and eventually, the poor waiter slumped away confused.

X the host had no problem allowing three New Yorkers to join his party and hurriedly tried to make friends with us – an unforgettable interaction since he spoke zero English. The much larger issue was the weather. Unexpectedly, a light, tropical rain was spattering the pool and electrical equipment, which party-workers in the dozens were quickly transporting up a massive hill to X’s wrap around porch.

Would the party be cancelled?

NO – of course not, because things like that just don’t happen in Brazil. The festivities, which we supposed to start at eight, were delayed until around midnight. No big deal since that’s what time Brazilians eat dinner anyway. And by the time we arrived at eleven thirty, the entrance was already a mess.

Partygoers were herded in and out of metal gates and then separated into individual lines for men and women (creepy, because at time it felt more like being admitted to prison). IDs were handed through an elegant iron gate to two men in suits and shown to a woman with a binder, who individually checked everyone’s name and ID number. I leave you to imagine how long this process took…so long, in fact, that partiers already inside would sneak drinks over the walls and through the gates to their friends standing in line. Considerate.

Keeping things interesting was this large manhole amidst the entrance. It plunged seven feet deep and I saw at least one man disappear inside before being hauled out by his friends.

The Argentine explained to me that construction jobs in Brazil often go unfinished, and that workers had probably exposed the hole to fix some pipes and then just forgotten about it. We all made mental notes to avoid the man hole when leaving and drunk.

Inside, the party took place between the pool and the lake, beautiful and somehow more relaxing than the massive rave-filled tent parties we’d been to before.

All our worry about the host X not wanting Americans on his list proved to be unnecessary. We not only entered seamlessly, but X fell head-over-heels in love with my roommate. I’d see them zooming through the party, my roommate’s hand always tightly incased in his, X’s body guard always a few steps behind them.

“He’s decided I’m his girlfriend for the night,” my roommate explained helplessly. “We can’t talk, but he really wants to communicate with me. He’s been acting out stories.”

Acting out stories?

I was about to say, “Excuse me?” when X scurried up, took both my roommates hands and began this over-the-top pantomime that somewhat resembled charades. Between him pointing to himself, enacting a sobbing motion, then pointing to a woman across the room, then tracing a heart in the air, we disjointedly learned the story of his ex-girlfriend. The performance was cut short since X saw another one of his guests and jolted my roommate away until they were both swallowed by the crowd.

Since I’d been wearing heels for a week straight and knew this party would be taking place on damp grass (not conducive for stilettos) I’d brought flat sandals in my bag. Half way through the night, I changed and left my high heels behind the Jacuzzi near one of the bartenders. Security encircled the entire area so I figured my abandoned shoes in the grass would be fine.

I spent the majority of my evening conversing with a gorgeous Brazilian (the first man I’d met on the trip who spoke English) who, naturally, was a professional water-skier (what else would a gorgeous guy be in Brazil?). You’d think that because we spent most of our evening on the boardwalk away from the party that we wouldn’t be wasted. WRONG. Because you don’t need to go to the bar to get drinks in Brazil. Clearly they hire men with trays of vodka and Brazilian Redbull strapped to their chest to encircle the party at all times. So we probably consumed five drinks each without ever once having to move. Dangerous.

When we rejoined the party madness at five in the morning, my American guy friend bounced up to me and announced, “Dude, I’m not leaving tomorrow. There’s no way,” and bounced away again. (We were all scheduled on a mid-morning flight.) “Great,” I thought. Typical last night chaos.

Since my best girlfriend had been abducted and the boys had lost all sense of reason or responsibility, the water-skier took pity on me and offered to drive me home. Despite the fact that I’d checked on my shoes twice, when I came to recoup them at the end of the night they were gone.

?!!?!?!?!?!?

Thus ensued a pantomime story in the overly dramatic style I’d learned from our host in which I attempted to relay to the nearby security guard what had happened. Of course that failed miserably, so I went to the other side of the party and retrieved the water-skier, figuring he’d be nice enough to translate. Kindly, he snuck into the behind the bar with me and had a lengthy chat with security. He then turned to me:

“He said a bald man wearing jeans and a white t-shirt came and took your shoes five minutes ago.”

Me: “Someone who works here?”

“No, just some guy at the party.”

“And that’s the best description he can give us?” I surveyed the crowd: everyone was wearing white and 60% of the men had shaved heads.

Utterly perplexed I asked, “Why would a man want my gold platform heels?”

The water-skier shrugged, “Probably really drunk.”

Me: “So the security guard witnessed all this but didn’t stop him?”

“Maybe he thought he was your boyfriend.”

I shook my head trying to ingest the absurdity of the entire situation. “My shoes!” I muttered helplessly.

The water-skier just smiled, took my hand, and began leading me to the car, “Welcome to Brazil.”

Crazy.

Miss Model Behavior’s the new nightlife writer for theBlaqlist.com. Feel free to post any nightlife comments or questions on our forum or contact her at MissModelBehavior@theBlaqlist.com

Think New York and Vegas are hardcore? They are. But nothing can truly parallel Brazil, the culture that gave us Carnival, the caipirinha, and I’m pretty sure the concept of ‘the one night stand.’ Since the weather’s always fabulous and Brazilians are suckers for oceans, lakes, and sunrises, parties are outdoors, last till noon the next day and HUGE – we’re talking about flown in porta potties, massive outdoor tents that make your average celebrity wedding reception look lame, and multiple open bars. Because if you’re not going head-over-heels all out, you might as well stay in and make passionate Brazilian-style love.

My trip originated in Sao Paulo. Then we drove five hours in a bullet proof car to a famed Easter weekend party destination called Escarpas dos Lagos. The Escarpas lakes are outside an area of Brazil called Ribeirao Preto, which my friends described as some of the most expensive agricultural land in the world – valued at a higher price than the most fertile tobacco fields in the US. The main product is of course sugarcane i.e. ethanol, and of course you have some of the wealthiest families with ranches the size of Rhode Island near impoverished towns filled with underpaid workers who can’t even afford shoes. The parties took place inside a gated condominium where most houses had their own helipads. Before even departing from the USA, my friends had been incessantly hyping up Friday’s ‘Marina Party’ or ‘Na Sala,’ apparently the pinnacle event in this Easter weekend of non-stop debauchery.

Their excitement proved to be legit. After a SWAT team checked our tickets, bracelets and frisked us (Brazil’s big on security), we entered the equivalent of an adult party Disney World. This pre-party entrance area had Go-Go dancers above a glowing pool, bubbles galore, a massive Giudo-esque angel serenely overlooking the scene, and a Johnny Walker promotional motorboat filled with cowboys that encircled the party at all times.

And here in New York we think disco balls are elaborate…

Upon closer examination of our angel friend, I became 100% convinced that he was in fact from New Jersey. Despite my immature attempts to seduce him into coming down to talk to me, I still have no way to concretely prove this.

There were also men in silver spandex suits with the equivalent of Christmas lights wrapped around them stealthily slithering through the party. I think these creep-shows represented some unheard of Brazilian vodka brand. Sadly, their reflective suits where so glossy that flash photos of them didn’t really come out: and a huge opportunity for comedy missed. I leave you to imagine. Keep in mind; this was just the promotional fun land at the first bar. Then you entered the actual party:

I’m a newfound fan of these trippy, neon green lights, which lose their full effect in New York since our clubs are essentially tiny, underground hovels. At these house music raves, the lights can extend for hundreds of meters. At one house party, the host even had projections of green frogs dancing on the cliffs across the lake from his house (insane, yet entertaining.) Our Brazilian friends somehow negotiated our entrance into the VIP at the very back end of the tent closest to the water, where you could literally survey the entire crowd from above and feel like the neon vortex was swirling directly AT you.

Other interesting cultural phenomena of note:

-Grape juice and vodka! Brazilians in Escarpas love their grape juice. This was a mixer more common than cranberry or orange. Detrimental if you’re wearing white.

-You know how house music freaks in the US like to dance pumping their fist in the air? In Brazil, you nix the fist and pump your hand in the air while performing a wrist flick. It’s sort of a ‘come here’ movement…I’m assuming to evoke the party spirits/Gods.

-DJs dance! Maybe I’m going to the wrong places, but in New York it seems like the DJs are locked away in some dim booth, always with their head down, studiously flipping through binders of music with a puzzled look on their face, occasionally stopping to survey the crowd and take a swig out of a Poland Springs water bottle. They make standardized testing look more fun. Instead in Brazil, the DJ was the powerhouse epicenter of the party’s universe. I couldn’t even understand how he was spinning since he appeared to be always conducting the crowd like it was his own massive orchestra, flailing his hands, shaking his fingers and thrusting his head. I was the furthest away from the stand and could feel the DJs electric energy from his God-like booth on the opposite end of the tent. Talk about being dynamic!

Partying till long after sunrise is standard in Brazil, so you have the opportunity to play tourist drunk at seven in the morning and get photo ops like these.

Here’s a video I took trying to capture both dawn over the mountains and the rave below. Enjoy!

Miss Model Behavior’s the new nightlife writer for theBlaqlist.com. Feel free to post any nightlife comments or questions on our forum or contact her at MissModelBehavior@theBlaqlist.com