So, there I am, on my merry tod, with the rarity of a free Saturday afternoon. 'Carnaval' seems like an enlightening cultural experience and I feel someone should go. Alors, my mind full of fuzzy childhood memories of my town carnival (a few papier-mache coated lorries and always the baton-twirling girls and the ever-cheerful Sally Army), I head into town.
Quelle surprise! I haven't seen so many people since The Strike To End All Strikes. As soon as I reach the Elephants, I'm in a different world. 3-foot Disney princesses garnish me with silly string whilst a miniature Batman holds me at gunpoint, a giant candyfloss/poodle in the other hand. Confetti explosions fill the air and my ears are bombarded with a bizarre melange of Elvis, War of the Worlds and circus music.
So this is Carnaval...
I allow myself to be swept into the crowd and watch the show. The sixty-year-old Elvis impersonator, complete with spangly suit, reassures the crowd that whilst he may not be a good singer, he's damn good-looking. He moves on (unlike the elderly women beside me, still gazing rapturously after him) and the next tractor pulls up. (Naturally, in rural Savoie, all the floats are pulled by tractors.) This is an elaborate affair with an enormous bent crane on hydraulics. A deep-sea diver is inexplicably dangling from the centre whilst an alien trapezes past him, occasionally dropping a ball to the ship's captain below in a haze of smoke. Cracking stuff!
So many of the floats defy definition and description; I'll let the pictures speak for themselves.
The last stunt involved two towering poles, each with a dancer on. The dancers climbed up sans rope and started making the poles sway. I shuffled around nervously, trying to get out of their line pf plummet in case it all went wrong, but soon realised that this encompassed most of the square and, as I'm sure Elton John would agree, it wouldn't be such a bad way to go anyway - surrounded by merry people and a colourful fuzz of sweets, balloons and glitter.
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