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Writer's pictureLisa Tisdale

The Rise and Fall of the São João Festival

In search of my next home in Portugal



Three large puppets, two male puppets with black hair and black suits and one female with blond hair and a pink dress tower over the spectators that line the streets as they march in a parade.
It's Festival Time in Braga! (photo by author)

Returning to Braga at Festival Time


When I first came to Braga a year ago, I was fleeing the Feast of St. Anthony, a month-long celebration of the patron saint of Lisbon. The festival was taking place in my Alfama neighborhood and was full of the smell of sardines on the grill and urine in the narrow streets. While it is a lively and colorful festival that I enjoyed, after coming home one too many times to find someone drunk and urinating on my doorstep, I needed a break.


For the week in Braga, I had rented an apartment in the center, conveniently located near shops, restaurants and grocery stores. When I checked in, my host cheerfully told me that today was the beginning of a week-long festival celebrating St. John (São João). She could barely contain her excitement as she shared the happy news that I was fortunate to arrive in time for the big party that night, an epic event that would keep people celebrating in the streets below my window until dawn. 


I wanted to hurl this perky woman out of the lovely French doors onto the soon-to-be chaotic streets below. I had come here seeking peace and landed smack dab in the middle of another festival. 


In a turn of luck, last year’s festivities never ran extremely late and were never noisy enough to keep me awake. During the week it was quiet except for some performances in the square near me that ended around 10pm. I ended up enjoying it so much that I booked the same apartment for the entire month of June this year, so I could enjoy the festival once more.


The Festivities Begin!

On the Friday this year's festival was to begin, I began my day in the usual way at a corner café with large windows to two of the main streets. My regular waiter, Marcos, was working. As I settled into my favorite table, I heard noises coming down the street. I followed Marcos into the street to greet the “Rodopiada de Gigantones e Cabeçudos” which basically means big puppets that spin and love to drop down on unwitting spectators. Marcos smiled excitedly and I snapped photos as these entertaining puppets in various shapes and sizes came whirling down the street. 


Last year, these puppets were the highlight of the festival for me, and I was so excited to see them back in the streets. Yet as excited as I was to see them, I knew they were just a little taste of all the fun things to follow. Shortly after the puppets made their entrance, the bands, mostly drumlines, started making their way around the city center streets, tapping out the familiar sounds of the festival. You could also hear the sounds of the festival being piped into the streets all day and into the evening from speakers located all around the town.


That night, I went to my local pub to watch Spain play Croatia in the Euro group stages. To take advantage of the nice weather, the owner had put the TV outside so we could all watch the game seated at tables in the warm summer evening. As we watched the big game in the side street, we could hear the excitement of the festivities all around us as the puppets and drumlines wandered the streets.


It was such an exciting time to be in Braga!



Two young boys in baseball hats, one with a drum, look down the street with expectant faces
Hoping to Join the Band! (photo by author)

The Festival Hits Its Stride

Saturday, I got up and completed my morning routine as quickly as possible so as not to miss any of the festival activities. I headed down to the still quiet café to have a front row seat of the action as I studied Portuguese while having my galão. Soon the spinning puppets and all the drumlines would fill the streets. 


After my galão, I walked out into the now crowded streets. The twirling puppets, followed by a drumline, were making their way towards the café, much to the delight of a tiny spectator who was playing along with his own drum. I snapped a bunch of photos of this little guy and his brother, wanting to accurately capture the joy on his face.


As the various drumlines came through, I cheered them on much as I would have if they were runners the NYC marathon heading up the hill on 1st Avenue. Of course, the mostly female drumline got the largest amount of my support, not just because they were female, but because they were bringing the music to the street with an energy level unmatched by the others. 


Later, I headed up to my apartment to do a little work from my desk in the window. I had my go pro camera set up just in case the giant puppets came my way. Suddenly I noticed the streets below me lining with spectators. It must be parade time!!



Proud Braga Residents Displaying Their Heritage (photo by author)
Braga Residents Proudly Displaying Their Heritage (photo by author)

I started the go pro camera so it could film the entire parade as I snapped still photos with my camera. The lengthy parade was filled with what must be a large portion of the local residents which left me wondering who comprised the spectator crowd. The participants marched proudly down the street dressed in traditional costumes that depicted life in the region over the years. All generations participated from grandparents to great-grandchildren. 


I took it all in, waving to the participants to encourage them in the afternoon heat as they marched in their heavy costumes. I loved the pride in their faces as they brought to life this amazing display of their culture.



The São João Festival Begins to Jump the Shark

This year the São João festival seemed far more intense than last year. My friend from Braga said most residents credited this to local politicians trying to put on a spectacle in the run up to elections. As the second weekend of the festival was underway, I was starting to yearn for a time when Braga was normal again. 


It began to feel like the spinning puppets had taken up permanent residency in the streets and were now my new, weird best friends who never stopped smiling and spinning. I looked forward to mornings when I would be awakened by my alarm instead of the incessant rat-a-tat-tat of a drumline. I spent time with my local friend discussing ways to disconnect the speaker outside my window that played those same five festival songs on a loop. 


Still, I threw myself into the festivities, trying to make the most of the experience. Sunday was supposed to be the biggest night of the festival, when everyone buys plastic squeaky hammers and bangs each other over the head with them. None of the locals could tell me why this is done, only that it is something they do at the end of the festival. I was not entirely excited by this idea, but I chose a red and green hammer, the colors of the Portuguese flag, paid my 2 euros and started banging heads. 


I joined some friends in front of the stage of a live band, ignoring the fact that being 4'11" these experiences are usually wasted on me. After some live music and more head banging with hammers, we headed to the pub to meet up with friends and enjoy, what I thought, was the last hurrah of the festival. After a couple of late festival nights, I was rallying for this one, knowing that tomorrow I could peacefully sleep in without the fear of a drumline giving me an 8am wake up call.



Large, colorful, festival puppets sit on the side of the street
Even the Puppets Need a Break from the Festival (photo by author)

Please, Make Them Stop

At 8am the next morning, a drumline made its way down the street. I shot straight up in bed as if I was the main actor in a horror movie and had just been awoken from a deep sleep by a blood curdling scream. Given that the previous evening’s last concert started at 1am, this seemed cruel and unusual punishment for city center residents. 


Fueled by only 4 hours of sleep, I did not have energy to get out of bed. I tried ear plugs and burying my head in pillows, but nothing blocked the noise from the incessant drumlines. I felt like I was in a torture scene, chained in a basement with loud music blaring in an attempt to destroy my resolve. I wanted to throw open the French doors and shout “I will tell you whatever you want!! Just make it stop!!!”  


When the latest wave of drumlines passed, I barely had time to breathe a sigh of relief before the orchestra in the square across from me, started up for what was to be a repeat of the same concert they performed the day before. At some point my need to escape overpowered my extreme exhaustion and I climbed out of bed, leaving the ineffective cocoon I’d built around my head. I made my way to the café where I found Marcos working his 8th straight shift. He wandered around robotically looking like someone had sucked out his soul and left a shell of a man. 


While having my galão, I struggled to find the energy to sit upright in the chair and not collapse on the table. Afterwards, I paid poor Marcos and headed into the streets, afraid of what fresh hell might be waiting for me. 


Without thinking, I started walking away from the city center. I walked until all I could hear was the occasional car and a few birds singing. There were no drumlines, no concerts, and no speakers blasting the same five festival songs over and over. A wave of relief filled me as I was finally enjoying the unfamiliar feeling of PEACE. It was a transformative moment like those in over-the-top rom coms when the perfect couple's eyes first meet.


Let me go on record to say if that moment of PEACE was a man, I'd marry him today.  



Eight to nine men dressed in red robes carry a platform with a statue of a saint down a pedestrian street lined with spectators
The Saints Coming Marching In...Braga (photo by author)

But Wait…There’s More

Exhausted, I returned home to find the concert had finally ended. Before crawling into bed, I took a quick look out the window to make sure nothing was coming. WAIT. Why are all these people lining the streets again??? NOOO!!! Go home! There is nothing more to see!!!!


But there was. Another parade was making its way down the street. The parade was a procession of groups of sturdy villagers carrying heavy statues of saints on their shoulders. Surrounding each statue was a group of locals dressed in angelic attire, carrying banners with the name and other information about their saint. As with the previous parade, all ages participated, and the locals wore proud looks on their faces. 


Whether you are religious or not, this was a beautiful parade.


As the holy parade passed, I thought how sad it was that it followed such a stream of late-night parties and way too many drumlines. This, I would have actually enjoyed. This, I would have set up the go pro to record. However, by overdoing it, the city had ruined it for me and many of the residents of the city center that I had met. I was getting texts from my new friends who were hiding at home saying, “I’ve never been so happy to see something end.”  


Yes, festivals like this must take place in city centers but after a night when you start the last concert at 1am, please do not release the drumlines at 8am.


Heck, just go ahead and make that a general rule of thumb. No drumlines, EVER, before 10am. 


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