Carnaval Tropical de Paris - Cargo Literary Magazine

Photographer’s Statement:

The prospect of spending the first weekend of July in Paris came as an afterthought. After Euraling from St. Andrews via London via Bruges via Lille via Toulouse to Ceret in French Catalonia, where we wandered streets that once inspired locals Chagall, Dali, Matisse, and Picasso, where baby bulls are released every summer to run through the streets, we decided the time had come to make hotel arrangements for Paris. Acting at the last minute, we settled begrudgingly for a noisy, tiny, second floor room that looked out over wide, heavily trafficked Boulevard Voltaire. We had no idea that the annual Carnaval Tropical de Paris would take place the day after our arrival, much less that it would prance, sing, and dance right by our hotel for five magical hours. If we lacked courage to join the throngs lining the street, we could always watch the festivities from our private viewing stand.

Occurring annually on the first Saturday in July, the Carnaval Tropical officially involves over 4,000 dancers, musicians, and other street performers grouped under the banners of carnival “royalty,” countries, or “associations.” Many costumed, rogue performers also drop in and out of the parade, solo, in pairs, or in small groups. My wife, Ginger, is crowd averse, meaning she’s isn’t instantly attracted to the prospect of mingling with a quarter million strangers. So, before we got into negotiations, she told me, “I’ll watch from the window. You go have some crazy fun, but don’t knock yourself out, and come up and visit sometime.” The crowd was still building when I hit the streets. For blocks up Voltaire, nearly every respectable square meter of space was already occupied at least three bodies deep. Did I really need to secure my own space? Did I have to pick a group of strangers who’d soon become fast friends? Couldn’t I just let them pick me?

The National Police, heavily armed, were distributed along the entire parade route, but clustered at the end of Boulevard Voltaire, just above the official judging area at Place Leon Blum. As the parade finally approached our hotel and the official judging area just beyond, it became eminently clear that the western side of Voltaire was reserved for paraders. Most observers stuck to the sidewalks. However, the east side of Voltaire was also occupied by dogs leading people, strollers pulling parents, teens and young adults in need of running room, and people who can only watch a parade through a camera lens. I fell into in the last, sizeable group. Possession of a camera also seemed to enable its bearer to occupy perches on elevated median strips, to jump into the middle of the oncoming parade, or to ask a paraders and even watchers to pose. Now and then, when they had nothing better to do, camera bearers paused to take memorable pictures of each other. Everyone became a legitimate photo subject because, not only were we all participating in a parade, this was Carnaval.

I found myself repeatedly running up Voltaire to meet the parade. I wanted to see what was coming before it arrived. After their 4.5 km journey from Place de la Nation to Place Leon Blum, some of the child and elder paraders looked tuckered out. Occasionally, family members enticed them to take a break, get re-hydrated, and alter a weighty costume. Now and then, I ran back to check in with Ginger, who was making occasional field trips to Voltaire, before scurrying back to our private viewing stand. By the time I got back outside, I found the same groups were arriving that I’d just run up Voltaire to meet.

The most celebrated people in the parade were the Carnaval queen, her runners-up, the junior queen, and her runners-up. But the dominant figure was the parade marshall, an imposing man dressed in 19^th-century attire, who played several crucial roles. First, he was an eye-appealing parader who, instead of passing by, seemed ever present. Second, he linked the crowed standing on the sidewalks to the parade by pulling people out of the crowd to walk with him awhile. Third, using his own camera crew, he conducted impromptu interviews with both paraders and people in the crowd, which was live-streamed to a television audience. Fourth, he maintained order in a light-handed manner when the flow of the parade intermittently placed either paraders or the general public in jeopardy.

Countries participating in the parade included Bolivia, Brazil, China, Colombia, French Guiana, Guadalupe, Indonesia, Martinique, Saint Lucie, the South Pacific, and Vietnam. Some, like Vietnam, were participating for the first time. Some countries were represented by regions, such as French Guiana, represented by a large, diverse, impeccably-attired delegation. Most participating groups represent associations or clubs, though in many instances the clubs also represent specific national groups now living in France.

Men and women of all ages participated in Carnaval Tropical de Paris. The men tended to play in bands; the women tended to dance. However, there were also women who played in bands, and men who danced. Complicating the distinction is that, by tradition during a carnival—when illusion is a major theme—many who wouldn’t normally regard themselves as transsexual dress like the opposite sex. Some did so flamboyantly and with the clear intent of demonstrating that their attire was a cross-gendered costume. Many children marched as part of pre-defined groups. Often, the children’s costumes resembled those of the adults in their group. However, some children’s costumes were among the most ornate in the parade.

Overall, the parade was a lovefest. Only one sidewalk stander got upset at me for taking a picture that came near his family. Only one chihuahua snapped at me as I chatted up her owner. Many people offered to share food and drink with me. Lots of people met someone at the parade and prepared to depart together. The parade’s only intimidating aspect occurred during lags between groups, when hundreds of teens and young adults jumped onto the paraders’ side of Voltaire. They’d begin strutting, then the strut would turn into a jog, the jog would morph into a run, and the run would careen on the edge of becoming an all-out stampede. The parade marshall stepped in after observing this pattern and directed the young people to relocate to the pedestrian side of the parade route. He spoke with the young people like a stern, yet loving, father who had their own best interests at heart. Word spread and they complied.

Still, the scariness wasn’t totally over. During the parade’s final hour, hundreds of teens and young adults came running toward me in a potential stampede on the pedestrian side. I had no place to hide. I knew I couldn’t turn around and keep up with the stampede at the speed it was coming. Instead, I did something even more foolish: I made believe I was a football fullback and kept moving into the oncoming stampede. I had to maintain eye contact, look for openings, twist and turn, and step lively—something I don’t often do. Instead of blocking me as they would have done to a real fullback, the oncoming crowd enabled my cutting and weaving through their ranks. After that, all was well until after the entire parade passed by, when many watchers occupied the full width of Voltaire to follow the paraders in one last collective dance to Place Leon Blum. After judging, the paraders valiantly made their way 4.5 km back to the starting point, Place de la Nation, and the crowds finished dispersing.

Done, I returned to the hotel. Ginger said, “Where’ve you been?” I said, “At the parade. Where were you?” She said, “Right here, waiting. Was there a parade today?” We then went back downstairs, headed across Place Leon Blum, and mingled with a quarter of a million people looking for a place to have a quiet dinner in la Ville Lumière.