The outfit was marvellously camp. It wasn't just the tight red swimming trunks peeking out from behind the red patterned loin-cloth that made me feel particularly outrageous. Nor was it the bracelets with their dangling red streamers, the wooden shoulder frame from which draped fake white fur, the two feathered wings, nor even the Roman centurion's hat made from plastic sea-shells. The extravagance was in the visual overload; the mix of the contemporary, the historical and the fantastical. Who was I supposed to be? An Amazonian indian god, Genghis Khan's gay younger brother or the flamboyant missing member of Village People?
In fact, I was a figure inspired by the life of Anita Garibaldi, a Brazilian version of Joan of Arc - a local girl who married and fought alongside the 19th-century Italian freedom-fighter Giuseppe Garibaldi when he was in South America. Anita Garibaldi was something of a tough cookie - some would say flat and speckled with raisins - spending her honeymoon in armed naval conflict.
Garibaldi has been mythologised as a warrior-heroine. As such, she is the perfect subject for mystical interpretation, hinting on wider themes such as religion, femininity and nationalism. When seen through the eyes of Joãsinho Trinta, who designed the costumes, she could have been anything from a witch to a queen, a transvestite pop star or a jungle animal. Even though Garibaldi was the theme of Trinta's parade in 1999, the costumes said more about him than her.
Trinta is also something of a myth in Brazilian culture. A tiny man, whose resemblence to a ventriloquist's puppet is accentuated by a paralysed arm, he's the one who many - himself especially - believe made the carnival parade the luxurious visual and cultural tour- de-force that it is today. Trinta is Brazil's most famous carnavalesco , the name given to the creative directors of each of the samba schools whose parades light up the Sambadrome through the carnival's steamy nights. Trinta was the first to camp up the performances, to make them a symbol of excess and extravagance. At first, commentators thought this an affront to the poverty of most of the people taking part, but it was the poor who adored it most of all.
Sitting on the pavement in full regalia at 2am, awaiting my turn to dance down the Sambadrome's narrow arena, I pondered the irony that tourists like myself and rich Brazilians now paid high prices for appearing as lavishly attired as people who earn about £50 a month.
The analogy that is always used to describe how the carnival parade works is football. This is a doubly good explanation considering that football is about the only other thing most people know about Brazil. There are 14 main samba schools, and they function like football clubs - they have team colours, fanatical supporters and a home ground - the carnavalescos are the managers, and the carnival is like the league - an annual competition to see who is best. Every year, each school chooses a different theme and a different song to go with it.
But the football analogy fails to capture the dimensions, organisational complications and artistic resonances of the event. I'd say think of Cecil B DeMille shooting a ballet as a Biblical epic - seven times a night, once for each of the seven samba schools who parade during the two principle nights. Each school's parade consists of around 4,000 people in about 40 different types of costume, with about seven enormous floats pushed along by teams (it's hard not to think of Biblical slaves or Roman galleons), choreographed dancers and a rhythm section of about 500 drummers.
As well as the swelter of the humid climate, the atmosphere is prickled with the heat of excitement and competition. There is a constant pressure that everything is under scrutiny: the quality of the drumming, the way the carnavalesco has developed the theme, the tune of the samba being sung. The unregulated exuberance is, in fact, strictly regulated. If you dilly-dally down the Sambadrome, you are penalised. Everyone - even the foreigners who turn up - can lose the day for the team.
To really enjoy the experience, it's best to come prepared. In my case, this was making sure my swimming trunks were bright red (to fit in with the rest of the costume) and learning the words to the samba (as you are expected to sing while you parade). I only knew I would be parading 24 hours before, so this meant getting a taped copy of the song and learning it by rote.
The Sambadrome is a kilometre-long stretch of walkway with stands on either side. It was designed by Oscar Niemayer, the architect who created the concrete minimalist city of Brasilia. Backstage, so to speak, is central Rio's main avenue, where all the floats and the paraders wait for their turns. Here, it really does look like the set of an epic film. Tens of thousands of people in costume walking around, drinking beer, eating hotdogs as thousands of those who couldn't get tickets for the Sambadrome mingle and look on.
I was to parade surrounded by about 40 other similarly attired people. As the zero hour approached, a member of the samba school who was in charge of our section came and gave us a pep talk. All we had to do was sing, dance and look happy. Easy. Well, not quite. At about 4am, the samba school I was with, Viradouro, moved into place at the beginning of the Sambadrome. We stood up, got in line and then heard our drummers kick off. As we started parading, Viradouro helpers lined the side of the avenue and, like the bike fans who giddy-up cyclists on the Tour de France, they yelled orders: "Smile! Smile! Be Happy." I don't think I've ever looked so terrified.
For about an hour, it was a total high. You can feel the sense of pride and happiness of both the paraders and the crowds by the looks on people's faces, by the interaction between the audience and the spectacle. On the tops of the floats are Brazilian celebrities and models. It's like a showcase of their own hopes and desires. Critics say that the carnival has sold out to tourists. I did not sense that at all. I felt it was an uncompromising celebration of Brazilianness.
This did not exclude me from the party. Like many other parts of Brazilian life, the carnival fosters a communnal inclusivity you do not get in Europe. Brazil is not a country where people like to be different - perhaps because racially and socially, there is no country so diverse. People like to share, to be as one - and being a foreigner does not forbid you from feeling part of this.
The carnival experience is not over when you walk out the Sambadrome, though. The climax is the judging a few days later, which is as drawn out and as melodramatic as the Eurovision Song Contest. Broadcast live on television from a stage on the Sambadrome - with cameras also positioned at every competing samba school, the city is glued to the screen.
For such a popular occasion, much of the judging is steadfastly highbrow. (Give or take a few kickbacks between the mafia bosses who bankroll many of the schools). Experts in music, dance and art, historians and journalists are among those who do the scoring. The Brazilian equivalent of Terry Wogan comperes and milks every last drop of tension. The result marks the end of carnival, and the closing images are of hundreds of people swarming to the winning samba school to celebrate.
Last year, unfortunately, the winner was not Viradouro, despite being one of the favourites. However, I feel fairly confident that my novice parading skills played no part in our downfall. We wuz robbed.
Don't just stand and watch
Carnival 2000 takes place from Saturday March 4 to Tuesday March 7. All the samba schools have chosen themes related to the 500th anniversary of the first Europeans landing in Brazil.
On the two main nights, Sunday and Monday, 14 samba schools parade, each made up of about 4,000 people - which makes 56,000 dressed in ridiculous outfits, or the largest fancy dress party in the world. There is always space for some tourists.
Within each school's parade, there are several different sections with separate costumes, each called an "ala". Some will be just for members of the community where the school is based, but others will be open to anyone who is willing to pay. In fact, the latter subsidise the former by charging middle-class Brazilians and foreigners quite large fees for the costumes, whereas local people get theirs free.
You can pay anything from £50 for a simple costume from one of the less glamorous schools, to more than £100 for one from the top schools.
Travel agencies sometimes arrange a costume as part of a package. But once you are in Rio, you can do it yourself. Ask your hotel receptionist to call the alas who are selling outfits. Once you've got your costume, you learn the words to the school's song and turn up in time on the day.
This year, the process has been made simpler thanks to the internet, where some of the big schools have their own websites. The most detailed is by the Salgueiro samba school, which has a list of almost all the costumes from all 44 of its alas. Previously, each school's costumes were a closely-guarded secret.
You can chose to be Napoleon, an Indian spice merchant, a botanical garden, or even "Beneficent England" - dressed in red stockings, with a Union Jack coming out your back and a globe on your head. Next to each picture is a contact number.
Other good sites are Viradouro, and Beija-Flor. The Independent League of Samba Schools also has useful links.
The practicals
Bales Worldwide (01306 732718) offers seven nights at the Luxor Regente Hotel (room only), Copacabana, for £14445pp based on two sharing and including BA return flights, transfers and a grandstand seat at the carnival parade. Eight nights at the Caesar Park Hotel (deluxe room), Ipanema, with BA Club class flights, transfers and a special chair at the Carnival parade, costs £3695. STA (0870 1606070) has return fares to Rio for £288 plus £27 tax. The fare is open to all and valid from London, Manchester, Edinburgh and Birmingham for departures until March 31.
