The square started filling well before dawn. Some revelers arrived clad in neon fishnets and doused in glitter. Others, who had been at parties elsewhere, napped on a grassy patch. The musicians came last, lugging drums and trumpets.
It was Sunday morning during carnival in Rio de Janeiro, and the square in the city’s historic center was the setting for the start of a kind of roving marathon block party known as the Boi Tolo.
The Boi Tolo has no set time, script or route, a swell of thousands of euphoric revelers marching through the city at a frantic pace.
Those who miss the start spend the day trying to catch up, firing off messages in group chats: “Where is Boi Tolo?”
Keeping pace is grueling.
“Along the way, you start wondering, ‘Should I give up? I’m going to give up,’” said Lucas Fagundes, 35. “It’s like the ultimate test of your stamina.”
Few parties represent the fervor and chaos of Rio’s street carnival scene better than the Boi Tolo. Far from the glamour of official carnival parades, it has come to embody the gritty informal celebrations that take over the streets.
By 6:50 a.m. on Sunday, the crowd at the square had grown to a few hundred people clad in bejeweled cowboy hats and shimmering bikinis. The musicians erupted in an improvised symphony of brass, drums and percussion instruments.
A giant human chain formed around the band and everyone set off through the narrow streets, paralyzing traffic. As they passed a tram stop, a shiny Medusa blew soap bubbles toward commuters. Stilt walkers passed a bus stuck in the sea of people.
One of the few rules of Boi Tolo is to keep moving. Whenever anyone stopped for an impassioned kiss, the crowd erupted: “Kiss and walk! Kiss and walk!” The direction is not always clear. “We decide the route in the moment,” said Luís Otávio Almeida, 62, one of the party’s founders.
The Boi Tolo started by chance two decades ago, when a group of people arrived at a public square during carnival Sunday ready to party, but found no party, apparently misled by a newspaper announcement.
Frustrated, they decided to improvise. A beer vendor nearby had a tambourine. Someone called a friend with a drum. A lone trumpeter showed up, joining the group.
Then, a reveler picked up a piece of cardboard and in lipstick scribbled “Boi Tolo,” or “foolish bull” (for their falling for the faulty announcement). The tradition stuck and it now draws tens of thousands of people each year.
“Boi Tolo only exists because people want it to exist,” Mr. Almeida said. “Carnival is made on the streets. It’s made by the people.”
This year’s party eventually spilled into a sprawling park, where costumed spectators hung off tree branches and squeezed under an overpass, as hundreds of people cheered above.
To many “Cariocas,” as people from Rio are known, carnival is often akin to an extreme sport that requires grit and endurance.
In recent years, growing numbers of visitors and searing temperatures have made it harder for even the most resilient to party hard. To try to beat the heat, Boi Tolo set out earlier than usual this year.
Still, as temperatures topped 90 degrees, people fanned themselves and doused each other with water. By 11 a.m., the sun was scorching; a stilt walker in a sequin bikini crumpled to the ground. “I’m fine, my blood pressure just dropped,” she said, as she got up and started twerking again.
The procession headed toward a pair of tunnels leading to Rio’s beachfront. Most participants were drenched in sweat, their makeup melting. But this is what they had been waiting for; the highlight of Boi Tolo.
The beat quickened, echoing through the tunnel. The crowd burst into euphoric jubilation. “It’s magical,” said Perola Mendonça, 26. “It’s this incredible feeling of ecstasy.”
On the other end, the party kept moving along the beachfront. By 4:30 p.m., the participants reached the end of the boardwalk, but they weren’t ready to stop. So they turned around and headed back toward the tunnel.
After a 12-hour march through the city, a few hundred partygoers were still not ready to quit. With the light fading, they made their way back toward the city center where it all started.
As they passed a stretch of beach they rushed onto the sand. A man in a cowboy hat hooked his snare drum on the crossbar of a goal post. The crowd closed in, as the musicians started playing a party anthem with lyrics the crowd could relate to.
“I’m not going home! I’m not going home!” the revelers belted out, jumping up and down in the sand.
Exhausted, Yasmin Santiago, 22, leaned on the goal post. She had joined a few hours earlier, not knowing what it was but eager to party.
“This is Boi Tolo? No way!” Ms. Santiago said when she found out, her face lighting up. Turning to her friend, she called out: “Girl, did you hear that? We found Boi Tolo!We were looking for it for ages.”
Ana Ionova is a contributor to The Times based in Rio de Janeiro, covering Brazil and neighboring countries.
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