When I descended the stairs in the Nest on the night of the UBC Brazilian Students Association’s (BRASA) Carnaval party at the Pit, the once-crowded afternoon had quieted down to a few scattered individuals absorbed in their laptops. Music echoed from the lower floor, and as I approached the Pit, I was greeted by Isabel Lara Roque and Julia Sawyer, co-presidents of the UBC Brazilian Students Association. They explained that the Pit was as empty as the Nest itself — Brazilians tend to show up late to a party like this.
Lara Roque and Sawyer said hosting a Carnaval event on campus comes with logistical challenges. The Pit’s hours, for instance, are far shorter than BRASA would like. “Carnaval doesn’t end,” Lara Roque joked. “If we could host a party that we could keep going until 6 a.m., we would.” But the Pit closes at 2 a.m., an hour later than Koerner’s Pub, their venue for 2025’s Carnaval night. While it wasn’t an optimal scenario, she admitted, “that one hour does make a difference.”
Carnival, a festive season that begins the week before Ash Wednesday, is a time for revelry across the Christian world, but Brazil's interpretation, Carnaval, is perhaps the most famous. Celebrations vary by region across the country, with different costumes, parades and dance styles. The extravagance of the festival attracts millions of tourists, with 65 million people expected to participate this year. The image of opulence and unrestrained celebration is one that both Lara Roque and Sawyer, along with many other Brazilians at UBC, know firsthand. Maintaining the Carnaval spirit outside of Brazil is central to their mission. The festival “is such a big part of Brazil and a unique energy that you don't get anywhere else”, Sawyer said. “It's depressing being here and seeing everyone or all of your friends in Carnaval.” To them, this event isn't just about partying — it’s about making sure that Brazilians at UBC feel connected to home.
Sawyer said the goal was for the night to be “not just a party at a club, but to bring the vibe of the street party that is Carnaval in Brazil.” They aimed to meet this goal by incorporating more specific decorations, such as their own flip-flops and cangas which, Sawyer explained, are the popular and unique beach towels found in Brazil.
Inside the Pit, BRASA members had strung flip-flops and cangas across the ceiling on a wire. The dress code for Carnaval was heavily encouraged — Lara Roque said that BRASA cannot “always convince people to dress up, but we always try every year, and we always dress up [ourselves].” To this end, there was a ‘glitter station’ set up in the corner of the room — a table laden with rhinestone stickers, a tub of Vaseline, various glitters, beaded necklaces, neon paint and tulle boas, all of which I eagerly explored.
At first, I sat by the bar and people-watched. Even with the few people there, those present were truly dancing, forgoing stiffly-hinged swaying and redundant jumping — there was actual footwork involved here. Some tracks started off deceptively familiar, only for me to realize, as I began to sing along, that the lyrics were in Portuguese. The songs were remixes, samples transformed with heavier beats that changed the rhythm, reminiscent of the Brazilian funk genre. Among the familiar tunes, I heard Justin Bieber’s “Baby,” Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” and Benny Benassi’s “Satisfaction.” As I was tricked over and over, it became clear how at home the others felt, confidently singing along. The energy in the room was infectious, not because of a large crowd but due to the passion of a deeply invested smaller one. The only songs that remained unremixed were by Bad Bunny, which also elicited a karaoke-like response.
The music was a point of contention — Sawyer said the selection tried to cater to the interests of everyone attending, even “gringos and people who are not Brazilians.” There’s always a fine balance to be struck between accessibility and representation — not everyone was satisfied by the choices in prior years.
“You have gringos who are like, ‘Oh, it was only Brazilian songs, what the heck?’” Lara Roque explained. On the other hand, when they try to incorporate more well-known English songs, Brazilians miss the familiar tunes. Now, the BRASA execs make their own playlists for Carnaval nights, asking on their Instagram story for any particular must-haves.
As it approached midnight, the dance floor filled up completely, with some taking to the stage to join the DJ. The intimacy was intertwined with the nature of the club setting, but this party felt different. A majority of the people here understood not only rhythm, but also its physicality. People danced together, on each other, in beautiful ways. Twerking — something I rarely see in larger settings — was on full display, with impressive variations. This lack of self-consciousness is something Lara Roque said is characteristic of Brazil.
“Everyone's just having fun. No one is judging. No problems with PDA, with showing your body,” they said. At one point, a dance circle formed organically, and the crowd surrounded a person breakdancing. Not everyone followed the rhythm precisely. Some opted to jump ferociously in place, abandoning structured routines and waving hand-held fans in time with the music.
The BRASA team has intentionally cultivated this atmosphere of connection. “We all really miss home,” said Sawyer. “Our club is meant to [promote] a community.” Lara Roque echoed this sentiment, describing the feeling of Carnaval as “[a sense of] freedom.”
As I left, having very unsuccessfully attempted to match the dancing prowess of those with an innate sense of rhythm, the rain brought me back to where I was. There was none of the heat that would be flooding the days in Brazil this time of year. BRASA’s event was a temporary bridge to the Carnaval energy — shared by those who long for home and by those eager to embrace its warmth.
