So the big news is that I'm a godfather now. I was asked a few weeks ago by my cousin to be godfather to her son. Like me, he shares cultural influences from England and Brazil since his dad is British and his mum is Brazilian. As we have this similar cultural mish-mash, she thought I'd be the perfect candidate for the position. Unfortunately, I couldn't be at the baptism myself as I was working on that weekend, so I was represented by someone else. Nevertheless, I'm a fully fledged godfather now (aside from a few signatures here and there, but let's be honest, that's just bureaucracy). So as a godfather, I thought my first act of duty should be to actually meet my godson. He was born in February of this year, in London, so I hadn't had the chance to meet him. I decided, then, to go to the small town of Itambacuri in the state of Minas Gerais, where my cousin and her (whole) family had decided to hold the baptism. My visit there coincided with the town's main religious festival, a celebration of its patron saint, Our Lady of the Angels. I remember going to it 6 years ago and being overwhelmed by the number of family members I hadn't met and who were just itching to see me for the first time. I also distinctly remember a lot of shouting, mainly because everyone there equated having a sound opinion about a topic of conversation with who could shout it the loudest. And judging by how most people handle arguments, they're probably not alone in thinking that. It was an... eventful weekend, shall we say, one which I wasn't prepared for. This time, I was ready.

So off I went to Itambacuri, 18 hours on a bus. Yes, that's right, 18 hours. Consider that I was going to make the same trip several days later; for a weekend away, 36 hours on a bus is dedication, right? The trip was mostly filled by sleeping with the added luxury of a film screening: 'Big', dubbed of course. I normally hate dubbing but ironically, it made watching Tom Hanks for an hour and a half a lot easier. The only truly torturous stage of the trip was in the last few hours, when I wasn't tired or sleepy anymore and my book just wasn't doing it; to quote Addison DeWitt from Joseph L. Mankiewicz's 'All About Eve', it was making minutes fly like hours. Eventually, the driver put on another film to pass the time, 'Stuart Little' (incidentally, I didn't know that was co-written by M. Night Shyamalan. Never would've guessed it). The first few minutes of the film were fine until it started skipping, not just a few seconds but whole chunks of the film. The 90 minutes were over in quarter of an hour, the cinematic equivalent of speed-reading. Someone alerted the driver to it and he put the film on again to see if it would work; the same thing happened except it showed slightly different bits so you could sort of fill in the holes. Just about. The driver eventually gave up on the film and decided to remedy the situation by putting on a CD of Brazilian Country music. On repeat. A fair few people around me were singing along with it. Those were the longest 2 hours of my life.

We finally made it to Itambacuri and it was the complete opposite of what you'd expect from a small town; there were shopping stalls absolutely everywhere around the bus station on account of the festival. In fact, the bus barely managed to squeeze past them for us to get off. These stalls were selling anything you can imagine, from spare washing machines parts to those little lazer pens that were really popular when I was about 12. Weaving my way through the countless shoppers looking for the best deals on pressure cookers and colourful kids' socks, I made it to where I would be staying. Thankfully I got in just in time for lunch and was greeted with a plate of beans, rice, chicken, beef, and four different types of salad: exactly what I needed.

Most of the weekend was spent eating, sleeping, and sitting around talking. And spending time with my godson, of course. This consisted mostly of watching over him whilst he looked curiously around this new environment, with hundreds of wrinkled faces looking at him and making silly noises in the hopes that he'd giggle back (most of the time, he would). Most surprising was how unphased he was by the whole thing: random fireworks at odd hours of the day, cars slowly going past blasting church music on the radio, lots of people shouting about nothing in particular, and not once did he cry. He's even more laidback than me, and that's saying something.

In the evenings, there were concerts in the main town square with "Brazil's biggest musical acts" playing, none of which I had ever heard of. Curiously, rather than having only one stage, there were two stages set up within less than 100 metres of one another, facing each other. As one band would finish on one stage, the next band would start within a few minutes on the other stage, resulting in the entire crowd running from one side to the other. I suppose that it saves some time but I doubt it was worth it, financially or infrastructurally. I was told by one of my cousin's (a different cousin) friends who lived there that it's how concerts are normally done. I thought about correcting him but then I decided against it.

The main feature of the festival was on the Sunday evening, with a large procession walking around the whole town in honour of Our Lady of the Angels, culminating at the church on the hill (pictured above). At the back of the procession was an effigy of the town's patron saint, atop a float decorated with all kinds of flowers. All the houses along the procession's route were also decorated, each one in its own style. These varied from a few ribbons and candles to more intricate adornments; one house set up a small backdrop and had lots of little kids dress up as angels holding candles, a bit like a live representation of a fresco or something. If that sounds cheesy or corny from a more secular point of view, seeing it live is a more humbling experience since you see how important a religious festival like this is to these people. The procession was estimated at 20,000 people, almost the entire population of the town. As this festival has become so popular over the years, people from all around come to participate in the celebrations; I wouldn't be surprised if there were 40,000 people on that weekend, if not more. The house I was staying in happened to be on the route and we stood there for nearly an half an hour watching all those people walk by. I'm not a particularly religious person myself but it's hard not to feel the faith and importance they have for their beliefs.

And so the weekend was over and it was back to normal life for the folk of Itambacuri. The streets vendors were packing their pirate films and cheap underwear whilst all the friends and family who came to visit were slowly making their way back to their respective homes. My journey back to São Paulo was actually better than going there. My bus wasn't as nice as the other one so I was denied a few luxuries, such as a TV showing films, or a seatbelt. And there were quite a few kids crying for most of the journey (remember now, 18 hours). I did, however, manage to sleep about 17 hours (somehow), so it made much quicker. All in all, a great relaxing weekend and one which I would definitely do again. Thank god it's only one weekend a year, though...