Part I: The Binary

Three hundred and sixty-nine kilometers east of Manaus, accessible only by boat or plane, lies an island that has bent global capitalism to its will. In Parintins, population 100,000, Coca-Cola produces blue cans. Not as a promotional stunt. Not temporarily. Every year, for over two decades, the world's most recognizable brand surrenders its iconic red and manufactures an alternative version — because half the island simply refuses to buy red products.

This is not a metaphor. An imaginary line runs from the Cathedral of Nossa Senhora do Carmo straight through the city to the Bumbódromo, dividing Parintins into two nations: vermelho (red) and azul (blue). On one side, the Baixa do São José belongs to Boi Garantido. On the other, the Bairro da Francesa is Caprichoso territory. Houses paint their facades accordingly. Sidewalks declare allegiance. Even pedestrian crossings carry team colors.

The rivalry began in 1913 when Lindolfo Monteverde, son of Azorean immigrants, created Boi Garantido as a promessa — a vow to São João Batista after recovering from illness. Shortly after, the Cid brothers from Ceará founded Boi Caprichoso. For over a century, these two folkloric associations have competed annually to stage the most spectacular theatrical retelling of the Bumba Meu Boi myth: the death and resurrection of an ox, killed to satisfy a pregnant woman's craving, brought back to life by a healer's magic.

But Coca-Cola is just the beginning. Azul Airlines — a company named "Blue" — temporarily rebranded to red to sponsor Garantido, changing its visual identity, slogan, and even its theme song. Brahma produces commemorative cans for both sides. Nestlé launched Leite Ninho tins with boi caricatures. The message is clear: in Parintins, popular culture dictates terms to multinational corporations, not the other way around.

Part II: The Ritual

The Festival Folclórico de Parintins happens over three nights in late June at the Bumbódromo — a 35,000-capacity arena built in the shape of a stylized bull's head. Each night, both bois perform for two and a half hours, judged by nine referees from different Brazilian states on twenty-one criteria: allegorical floats, evolution, ritual presentation, indigenous figures, costumes, toadas (musical compositions), the Cunhã-Poranga (indigenous beauty queen), and thematic coherence.

The competition is cumulative. Scores from all three nights determine the champion. In recent years, Caprichoso dominated, winning 2022, 2023, and 2024 consecutively. In 2025, Garantido reclaimed the title with a narrow 1.1-point margin: 1,259 to 1,257.9.

The most extraordinary rule: when one boi performs, the opposing galera (fans) must remain completely silent. Thirty-five thousand people — half of them sworn rivals — watch in respectful stillness as the enemy presents. No jeering. No disruption. Only at the end do they erupt. This cultural technology — intense rivalry channeled through silence — is what keeps the competition generative rather than destructive.

The rivalry permeates everything. Residents inherit allegiance by birthplace, not choice. You don't select your boi; geography decides. Families divide. Friendships strain. Yet there's profound respect. When a Garantido household lives in Caprichoso territory, neighbors decorate the entire street in blue and white — except that one house, which they leave neutral, honoring the rival's presence.

Part III: The Myth

The narrative both bois enact comes from 18th-century Northeastern Brazil, arriving in the Amazon via migrant rubber tappers. The core story remains constant: Mãe Catirina, pregnant, craves ox tongue. Her husband, Pai Francisco (a laborer or enslaved person, depending on the version), kills his master's prized bull. Discovered, he faces punishment until a pajé (shaman), priest, or healer resurrects the animal. The ox's return symbolizes renewal, reconciliation, and the triumph of life over death.

In Parintins, this foundational myth becomes an armature. Each year, both bois hang entirely different thematic content onto it: indigenous cosmology, environmental destruction, Afro-Amazonian resistance, river mythology. One year might center on Amazonian deforestation; another on indigenous warriors; a third on the spirits of the forest. The ox's resurrection provides continuity; the annual theme provides innovation.

This is fundamentally different from Rio's samba schools, which choose new enredos (narrative themes) each year without a fixed mythic structure. Parintins operates more like Greek tragedy: the plot is known, but each interpretation reveals new dimensions.

Part IV: The Artisans

Now the buried story: when you watch a float at Rio's Sambódromo move — when a sculpture raises its arm, when a serpent's head sways, when an águia (eagle) spreads its wings — you're witnessing technology developed in Parintins.

Since 1998, Amazonian ferreiros (ironworkers) have migrated annually to Rio and São Paulo to build carnival alegorias. They arrive in August, work through February, then return to Parintins in time for the June festival. The technique they bring is simple but ingenious: using cables, pulleys, hinges, and levers, they animate massive structures weighing tons, making them move fluidly during the parade.

Nildo Paris, who has worked Rio's carnival for decades, explains the origin: "The technique was created by artists Jair Mendes and Juarez Lima" for Parintins. When Salgueiro brought the enredo "Parintins, a Ilha do Boi-Bumbá" to the Sambódromo in 1998, they hired eighteen Parintinenses to operate the floats. One alegoria — "Lendas e mistérios da ilha" — featured a giant serpent that moved its body and opened its mouth, with the destaque (featured dancer) performing atop the swaying structure. Salgueiro didn't win, but it gabaritou (scored perfectly) on allegorical execution. It was revolutionary.

Since then, Parintinense teams have become indispensable. Jucelino Belém Ribeiro, who works with Salgueiro, started as a pintor de arte (art painter) in 2007, then became a ferreiro under carnavalesco Cahê Rodrigues. He's part of a twelve-person Parintins crew responsible for all sculptures and kinetic movements in Salgueiro's floats. Glemberg Castro leads the painting team at Beija-Flor. Leandrinho Rodrigues sculpted the controversial "Jesus Cristo Negro" for Mangueira's 2020 parade — a twenty-meter-tall crucified Black youth with bleached hair, tattoos, and a body riddled with bullets.

The 2024 Estandarte de Ouro award for innovation went to Portela's mechanical águia — built by Parintinenses Ederson Simas and Leonardo Cantanhede. Viradouro's 2025 championship? Nildo Costa (Naruna) and Alex Salvador, both from Caprichoso.

Approximately sixty Amazonian artisans work Rio's carnival annually. In São Paulo, they're half the workforce. Florianópolis, Campo Grande, Manaus — every major carnival draws from this pool. They're sculptors, welders, painters, carpenters, electricians, specialists in kinetic movement. As Osleilson Souza notes: "In Parintins, we learned to make things with cheap, rustic materials. Out of necessity, each professional is multiple: a ferreiro is also a sculptor, painter, and knows revestimento (surface treatment). In Rio, everyone specializes."

Part V: The Invisibility

Here's the paradox: Parintins artisans build the visual spectacle of the world's most famous carnival, yet remain largely unknown outside specialized carnival production circles. Rio Carnival is recognized globally as Brazilian culture. Parintins — despite predating Rio's escolas de samba by fifteen years, despite training the workforce that constructs Rio's alegorias — remains obscure internationally.

The cultural flow is complex. Parintins (founded 1913) and Rio's escolas (founded 1928) emerged from parallel Afro-Brazilian cultural traditions: Parintins from Northeastern bumba-meu-boi transplanted to the Amazon; Rio from samba circles and ranchos carnavalescos. They didn't influence each other initially. But by the 1960s, when Parintins formalized its competitive festival structure, it borrowed organizational models from Rio. Decades later, Parintins returned the favor — not aesthetically, but technically.

This is the overlooked story: Amazonian artisans are fluent in multiple Brazilian visual languages. They can build allegorical floats whether the theme is Afro-Brazilian orixás or Amazonian forest spirits, whether the aesthetic is Southeast cosmopolitanism or Northern indigeneity. Their mastery transcends regional codes.

Yet they work in the shadows. Carnavalescos (creative directors) get credit. Compositores (songwriters) are celebrated. But the ferreiros who make the águia move? The escultores who shape the Cristo Negro? Anonymous labor.

Part VI: The Aesthetic

What makes Parintins distinct is its radical commitment to handcraft. Unlike Rio, where some schools use hydraulics or motors, Parintins alegorias move through human ingenuity — cables, pulleys, manual operation. During performances, operators hide inside the floats, listening for specific toada cues, then pulling levers to animate sculptures at precise moments.

Ericky Nakanome, president of Caprichoso's Arts Council, describes the difference: "We have a much more rustic, original aesthetic." Everything in Parintins is built by local artisans, assembled without mechanization — an ode to caboclo Amazonian craftsmanship. This is the technical excellence that Rio's carnavalescos now actively recruit.

León Antan, Salgueiro's carnavalesco, confirms: "The combination of alegorias with Parintins technology and programmed lighting is a good marriage that has produced excellent results." Cid Carvalho, from Beija-Flor, visited Parintins specifically to work with the artisans: "The Festival de Parintins is marvelous. People say the two events are very distinct, but in emotion and many other ways, they're similar."

Part VII: The Economics

For Parintinenses, carnival work is essential income. They leave in August, missing their families for six months, living in Rio's Cidade do Samba barracões (workshops), working ten-to-twelve-hour days. Pay is modest. Conditions are tough. When the 2021 carnival was canceled due to COVID-19, dozens were stranded in São Paulo without income, unable to send remittances home.

Bruno Castro Pimentel, alegorista from Parintins: "I used to leave money for my family, especially for my daughter's mother. Now I can't. The money is stuck." Marco Aurélio Rodrigues de Souza, soldador (welder): "We work in this field, and suddenly, adapting to another job is a whole process."

The migration pattern creates an annual circuit: August to February in Rio/São Paulo building carnival; March to June in Parintins preparing for the festival. Then repeat. Entire families depend on this cycle. When one breaks, both suffer.

Yet they persist. Jucelino Ribeiro, winner of the Prêmio Pluma e Paetês (a carnival industry award) for best escultor, describes it as honor: "For me, it's a great honor to carry Parintins's name to the Carioca carnival, which is considered the world's greatest, magnifying Parintins's name, the festival's name, and especially Boi Caprichoso, where I grew up since childhood."

Part VIII: The Silenced Authorship

This is the story your zine needs to tell: How Amazonian cultural mastery remains invisible while Southeast spectacle claims international recognition. How technical innovation flows North-to-South but credit flows South-to-North. How artisans who build Brazil's most famous festival return to an island most of the world has never heard of.

The mechanism of erasure is structural. Rio Carnival is legible to global audiences: it's in the former capital, it's broadcast internationally, it aligns with existing narratives about Brazilian Afro-diasporic culture. Parintins is remote, indigenous-influenced, caboclo — cultural categories that don't translate easily to international frameworks.

But look at what Parintins actually is: A century-old tradition that forces Coca-Cola to change colors. A rivalry so intense yet so respectful that 35,000 people sit in silence watching their enemies perform. A festival that trains the artisans who build the world's most spectacular carnival. A cultural technology that channels competition through art rather than violence.

And most importantly: a reminder that when you see Rio's alegorias move, when you marvel at the technical mastery, you're witnessing Amazonian genius — unnamed, uncredited, essential.

Coda: The Return

Every March, after Rio's carnival ends, the Parintinenses pack up and fly home. They bring back techniques learned in the Southeast: new welding approaches, different materials, innovations in kinetic engineering. Then they apply them to Garantido and Caprichoso's floats, pushing the bois' technical capabilities forward.

It's a feedback loop: Parintins trains the artisans, Rio refines their skills, Parintins benefits from their return. Both festivals improve. But only one gets global recognition.

The question isn't whether Parintins influenced Rio or vice versa. The question is: why do we know the name of every major samba school, but not the names of the ferreiros who make their alegorias move? Why is Amazonian technical mastery invisible in the story we tell about Brazilian culture?

That's the silenced authorship your zine exists to document.