My first Mardi Gras was not your typical first Mardi Gras experience. I began with a ramen at a side alley off King St, which would ordinarily be popping off on a Saturday night. But on that night, the only people around were tragically heterosexual. My mum had assured me that it would be totally fine to have dinner in Newtown an hour before the parade began, but my scepticism increased with every passing minute. Theoretically, the parade didn’t start until seven, if it did begin on time, but the media bay was quite far along the route. The floats were famously slow, right? They were crawling at a snail’s pace, so they probably wouldn’t get to the media bay before me. It would be a breeze.
I found myself on the T2 line at five to seven, surrounded by people in conspicuously bland clothing. The train inched forward a metre a minute, and even had the audacity to stop for a whole forty-seven seconds. My life flickered before my eyes.
When I disembarked at Central at quarter past seven, there were signs all over the place saying ‘OXFORD ST FULL. GO TO MOORE PARK’. This wasn’t an option for me. Moore Park was kilometres away, and I’d need to go there and loop around the northern side in order to get to my destination, which was next to the Oxford Hotel. At Central the crowds seemed barely thicker than an ordinary Saturday. There was a faint tension in the air, and a distant thumping sound.
I marched past several more signs, all glowing orange and tall enough to surpass my head. A handful of officers told me that Oxford St was full to the brim, and that there would be absolutely no way I could get in. I persisted, with grim determination. The weight of Honi was heavy on my shoulders, and nothing short of Kylie Minogue herself could stop me.
The crowds got thicker in increments. I spied the tail end of the parade: a queue of dozens of floats, suspended on Wentworth Ave as they waited for their turn. Barricades appeared out of nowhere, and my brisk walking pace slowed as I tried to weave between the masses. After about fifteen minutes of trying to wiggle past people, I realised, to my horror, that I was on the southern side of the road, and that I needed to be on the northern side in order to get to the media bay. Crossing Oxford St during Mardi Gras would be as tall an order as crossing the Pacific Ocean in a paddleboat.
I made several enemies as I manoeuvred back through the crowds and looped all the way around Hyde Park. The northern side of Darlinghurst was awash with leather-clad twentysomethings, drag queens, and house parties in terraces that spilled onto the street. I was getting a bit desperate by this point and started running to get to my destination — something that I’ve been doing concerningly often since becoming an editor.
When I got to the Oxford Hotel, I had absolutely no idea where my media bay was. It was a little red X on the map on my iPhone, but the crowds were jammed in so tightly that I could barely move a muscle. I asked a security guard, who directed me to the left with more confidence than he inspired. I followed a string of people squishing through a barricade to cross a street, and found myself at another corner with just as many people and no security guards. I shouted to two men in hi-vis who were sitting atop a truck to enjoy the view of the parade, to ask them if they’d seen a media bay. They shook their heads. I briefly considered asking if I could perch on top of the truck with them and do coverage from there.
I went back to my starting spot and asked for help from people at the ABC contingent (who had a gigantic bay all for themselves, the lucky ducks). They directed me to the right, and I followed their directions and found myself in more crowds. After much arguing and a bit of pleading, they gave me more comprehensive directions. I spotted an iron barricade, within which were two dozen journalists holding cameras the length of my arm. There were a few volunteers in pink vests who were busy watching the parade, and I trod on several toes and clambered past grouchy spectators as I hollered and waved my arms. Eventually I managed to catch the attention of one, who told me at first that I didn’t have permission to go in before he spotted my orange media pass. Thank God for the orange media pass.
He came over and told me to climb; it was too cramped for him to move the barricade to let me in. I swung a pantsuit-clad leg over the fence, makeup streaked by tears, before toppling into the arms of my hot pink saviour. I had missed the first thirty floats and failed in my journalistic duty, but fortunately, the parade would go on for another three hours, and I don’t think anyone noticed (although I suppose they will now). I’d missed the iconic Dykes on Bikes, but I got an eyeful of Jeremy Fernandez in his luminous turquoise suit.
This year’s Mardi Gras theme was Free To Be, and I have a gigantic hot pink fan to prove it. The festival took place from the 14th of February to the 2nd of March, featuring over 80 events.
The most memorable floats were gigantic and ostentatious, such as a pole dancers’ float which featured a dance floor on wheels, complete with half a dozen men in varying layers of leather twisting around poles. Another was the furry contingent, who somehow made it all the way down Oxford St inside gigantic furry costumes without suffering from heat exhaustion.
One crowd favourite was Surf Life Savers with Pride, a float which featured several dozen people in matching swimwear and budgie smugglers, who shone in the light from a mix of sweat and body glitter. They received raucous applause when they dropped to the floor and started doing push-ups. Andrew, one of the life savers marching in the parade, had spoken to Honi prior to the parade: “We’ve been through five rehearsals over the last two and a half weeks. There’s choreography, we’ve got some accessories, we’re in our uniform, and there’s always pushups in our routine.” He added that the importance of having the float was that “we’re visible, it’s an inclusive space, it doesn’t discriminate… what people usually see as a male-dominated organisation is inclusive of everyone.”
The Glitter Babes were the last to round out the parade, blazing forth in a gigantic Viking boat. Fiona and Michelle, two of the participants, told Honi that they were “marching for the freedom of being here in Sydney. It’s really important to show the world & all the kids and people in Australia that we’re free to be us.”
The parade ended in a blaze of glory: literally, there were bursts of fire coming from somewhere to my left. The air was thick with confetti, my phone battery was nearly dead, and I felt a strange mix of exhilarated and exhausted. Jeremy’s suit had disappeared. Crowds flowed out of Oxford St like a liquid rainbow. The night ended in the morning, and the glitter lingered on my skin for a long, long time.
