On Copacabana Beach, noon on December 31 seems deceptively like noon on any other day of the year. Arm-swinging, hip-swaying power walkers catapult themselves along the sidewalks. Old men in their summer shirts queue up at their usual kiosks for a daily dose of fresh coconut milk (served in the coconut). Sand castles rise. Soccer balls fly. Pale bodies—unaccustomed to the intense kiss of Rio's sun—are turning a pinker shade of pale. Bronze bodies—unaccustomed to anything but an all-out solar love affair—are making Hawaiian Tropic models look like ghosts.
But the day is still young. Other Rio beaches certainly celebrate Réveillon, as New Year's Eve is known in Brazil, but Copacabana Beach is where both religious ceremonies and pagan pageantry conspicuously combust. The city that transformed a humble Portuguese tradition into the uncensored bacchanal that is Carnaval knows how to throw a party. Cariocas (those born in Rio) openly pooh-pooh the ball drop in Times Square, as well as the nonstop celebrations in Paris and Sydney. London doesn't even register. Every year, Rio's party gets bigger and splashier, and both the city and the hotels that jam the length of storied Avenida Atlântica invest heavily in the spectacle. Last year, 60 tons of fireworks exploded for the estimated 1.5 million people that had squeezed onto this two-mile beach. When they aren't oohing and aahing over the flashes and booms, they're dancing to more than eight hours of music from Brazilian superstars like Lulu Santos, Jorge Aragão, and Sandra de Sá, playing samba, pop, reggae, rock, forró (a popular dance music from the country's northeast), and bossa nova.
But in Rio, the party, as extravagant as it may be, is only part of the picture. The backstory is a fierce adherence to tradition, and an even fiercer belief in the power of symbols. During the final week of the year, for example, it's tough to find a pair of unmentionables in this town. Seriously…there's a run on underwear, the color of which is believed to conjure a good year. Pink brings luck in love; yellow, prosperity; and white, peace and happiness.
You might find a fresh bay leaf tucked into a Carioca's wallet: It invites miracles. And at midnight, there's a lot of simultaneous wish making and grape eating (preferably 12, one for each month of the year) or wave hurdling (seven is a popular number of jumps).
Even at midday, everyone is wearing white, as is customary on Réveillon. A woman in a white tank top stands knee-deep in the Atlantic, her soaking wet white sarong clinging to her legs. She confronts the ocean, a swordlike gladiolus in each hand, and then, waving her arms and murmuring, she hurls the flowers into the surf. As they float out to sea, she turns and walks solemnly back to shore.
Nearby, a group of Afro-Brazilians in ankle-dusting white eyelet gowns, with ropes of colorful beads draped around their necks, gather at the water's edge. They chant, they sway; then, like a convention of magicians, they loose a half dozen doves toward the horizon. Couples kneel in the sand over arrangements of candles and fruit, fish and rice, and objects that look as if they were just scooped up from a vanity table—perfumes, powders, combs, and mirrors. Children and their parents launch little wooden boats in the shallows. Some drift away. Some capsize and wash up on shore, the same shore that by daybreak will be covered with empty Champagne bottles, thousands of gladiolus and roses. But on Copacabana, they have far greater significance than they would on, say, Miami Beach. Here, they are gifts to the sea goddess, Iemanjá (pronounced "ye-man-JA"). Because in Rio, December 31 is her night.
Iemanjá is one of 15 orixás—deities originating in West Africa that are more vibrations or energies than gods. Each has a direct link to a specific part of nature (in Iemanjá's case, the sea), at least one unique gift (Iemanjá's is an ability to protect), and a human foible (apparently the orixá of the sea is forever processing a vain streak). Africans who were enslaved and taken to Brazil maintained a strong faith in the orixás. Over time, these belief systems have merged with Catholic and indigenous mystic influences, resulting in a number of parallel but distinct religious sects, such as Candomblé—which is based in Bahia (in northeastern Brazil), and remains true to cults found mostly in Nigeria and what is now Benin—and Umbanda, a much tamer practice mixing Candomblé and spiritism that is native to Brazil and most prevalent in Rio. Both incorporate European religious imagery and icons, combining traits of, say, St. Lazarus with Exú, the god of disease. The Cariocan Iemanjá, daughter of the sky god Obtala and the earth goddess Odudua, is sea maiden, sea goddess, the mother of all orixás, and therefore mother of all. She appears most often as a larger-than-life mermaid crossed with the Virgin Mary.
However she's depicted, believers descend on Rio's beaches to offer gifts to this proud woman, and to divulge their deepest desires. An indulged Iemanjá, I'm told, is a dream-fulfilling Iemanjá. There's also a fickle Iemanjá. She may just send your offering floating back—and that toy shipwreck doesn't bode well for a great year.
Copacabana closes to traffic at 6 p.m. on Réveillon. As night falls, boats crowd the cove; from beachfront terraces and rooftops, the sound of popping Champagne corks begins; people stream out of the Arcoverde metro station; and the beach, the avenue, and those famous mosaic sidewalks become a raucously jubilant scene. Cotton candy, roasted peanuts, and popcorn are sold from old-fashioned carts. Skewers of beef, shrimp, and chewy, salty blocks of cheese rotate over small portable grills. Ice-cold Brahma, Rio's favorite canned beer, and Guaraná, Brazil's signature cola, are pulled from coolers, and the tops of big green coconuts are lopped off and replaced with straws. Impromptu troupes of drummers pound out rhythms. Groups of dancers go through ceremonial stomps and grinds. The faithful line up to be blessed by one of the many filhas de santos ("daughters of the saints"), Umbanda priestesses endowed with the power to grant forgiveness. Charms and totems are spread out for sale on blankets; laughter and singing provide the soundtrack. Few feel the need to hold off for an official New Year's countdown.
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