The Carnival That Refused to Be Second by Marina Marián Rodrigo

Carnival has a special place in my heart. In Gran Canaria, where I grew up, Carnival is a tradition with a history spanning five centuries. It symbolises creativity, music, and freedom.

Now, let me share a bit of an inside joke. For much of the twentieth century, Carnival celebrations in Tenerife were more recognised than ours. Their festivities were declared a Festival of International Tourist Interest in 1980, and few things irritate a Gran Canarian more than hearing that a tinerfeño has done something better. The Carnival of Santa Cruz de Tenerife is often described as the second most popular carnival in the world, behind Rio de Janeiro, of course; I say this not to add insult to injury, but out of pride in our shared Canarian heritage.

That said, this article is not really about Carnival in general. Rather, it is about one of the distinctive and influential elements to emerge from it. After the end of the Franco dictatorship, Carnival could once again be celebrated openly. At the same time, Gran Canaria was determined to step out of Tenerife’s shadow, and local organisers began searching for something that could make their Carnival distinctive, something that would set the island apart. What they came up with was controversial at the time, but it would eventually become one of the defining symbols of the festivities.

The idea was to introduce drag shows, but the idea did not emerge in a vacuum. Las Palmas de Gran Canaria already had a vibrant nightlife during the 1970s, 1980s and 1990s, with parties and venues where drag performers and cross-dressing entertainers could express themselves freely. Against this backdrop, in 1986, the Carnival Organising Committee of San Bartolomé de Tirajana, in the south of the island, launched the Gala Miss Traveskarnatival (try saying that three times fast) in an effort to boost tourism. The event showcased drag performers in elaborate costumes and theatrical performances. In many ways, it resembled what audiences today might recognise from RuPaul’s Drag Race: contestants paraded in daring outfits while lip-syncing and performing for the crowd. Although modest by modern standards, it laid the foundations for something much larger.

Then, in 1997, a committee tasked with redefining the Carnival of Las Palmas visited the Traveskarnatival gala. What they saw inspired the creation of the first “Gala Drag Queen de Las Palmas”, which would be held the following year. At first, the idea faced resistance; many people simply did not understand the concept. Yet the visibility of the queer community on the island was undeniable: established communities flourished in neighbourhoods such as La Isleta and around Santa Catalina Park, where drag performers often entertained passers-by along the so-called Derby Corridor, and it is for this reason that Santa Catalina Park remains the home of the Gala every year.

Of course, the queer community did not necessarily need official recognition in order to exist. However, the gala provided a public and recognised platform where artists could showcase both their creativity and their identities.

With that in mind, the organisers decided to take a chance. After all, Carnival has always been about freedom, satire, self-expression and challenging conventions. If any event could embrace something as unconventional as drag performance, it was Carnival itself. The first Gala Drag Queen took place in 1998. What was initially conceived as a trial run became an immediate success: the novelty of the event, the playful subversion of traditional gender expectations, and the inherently inclusive spirit of Carnival all contributed to its popularity. What distinguished the gala then— and what continues to distinguish it now— is its unique aesthetic: Drag queens perform on platforms that are around thirty centimetres in height, and their performances are not limited to cross-dressing. While early participants drew inspiration from films such as “The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert”, performers were ultimately free to develop whatever style of drag best represented them.

Moreover, even the most conservative critics found it difficult to deny the artistic merit involved. Contestants designed and created their own costumes, developed original performance concepts, mixed their own music, and brought everything together on stage, often without the benefit of a formal rehearsal, with the majority of the participants practicing lip-syncing in their bathroom mirror and walking along their miniscule corridors at home on their platforms.

Today, more than a quarter of a century later, the gala has celebrated twenty-eight editions and has become inseparable from Gran Canaria’s Carnival. Personally, I find it difficult to think of Carnival without thinking of the Gala Drag Queen.

Even so, there are those who insist that the gala is not what it used to be. Yet I find myself asking why. Has it changed because queer expression has become more normalised? Because seeing queer performers on stage is no longer treated as something shocking? Because society has become more accepting?

Perhaps. Yet drag has always been about challenging expectations. Its purpose has never been simply to fit in, but to question conventions and play with the boundaries of identity and performance. Whatever the answer, one thing is undeniable: drag has become part of the cultural fabric of Gran Canaria. It is a tradition, and perhaps that is the greatest measure of its success. The gala cannot be credited to a single person. It belongs to the city and to its people: to a community willing to embrace new ideas, celebrate diversity, and transform something once considered controversial into an essential part of what makes Canarian Carnival unique.