On a bleak causeway outside of a small village in Brazil that is surrounded by abandoned lots wait two very small children for the bus that will take them to the big city for Carnival. They hold in each hand a set of pods torn off of a bush as scrawny as they are. The dry pods do not seem to be good for eating or for offering to some god but they make great scratching sounds when they are shaken. In Brazil, the instruments literally grow on trees. Even if these little children have nothing, they have a rhythm in their heads that keeps their spirits beating. They will shake their pods and bask with their fellow countrymen in the pride and glamour of Carnival.