by Dieter Rencken
Sao Paulo may have a crime rate that makes South African seem like Singapore, traffic jams that relegate Cape Town’s to mere parking lot hiccups, and streets with more potholes than the Great North Road, but the place knows exactly how to churn out two things: Formula 1 drivers and grands prix.

Okay, make that three things, for Brazilian beef cannot be forgotten once tasted, but let’s restrict this column to matters F1, and the race weekend just past.

That the 16^th race of 17 on this year’s schedule would prove extra special was clear when our Airbus parked up at the grottiest airport on the trail early on Thursday morning in teeming rain. In fact, we were lucky to land at all: three of my colleagues on a (slightly) later  flight from London were diverted to Rio de Janeiro for a couple of hours, where their luggage promptly disappeared...

The rain continued until late Saturday, affecting all three practice sessions, while Saturday afternoon’s white-knuckle session eventually ended over an hour late after a South American monsoon hit the circuit. So heavy was the downpour that Force India’s Tonio Liuzzi lost contrl on the straight and spun into the pit wall at over 300 km/h despite running full downforce – which should press the car onto the track at thrice its own weight!

All this left championship challenger Rubens Barrichello on pole position for his home race, and the remaining two title contenders, Brawn GP team-mate Jenson Button and Sebastian Vettel, 14^th and 16^th respectively. Outgoing champion Lewis Hamilton lined up behind them, while Rubinho was crowded in by Vettel’s Red Bull Racing team-mate Mark Webber and the fast improving Adrian Sutil in the even faster-improving Force India – all on varying strategies, driven mainly by their takes on expected race day weather.

Thus the stage was set for the sort of race which only bumpy, sinuous Interlagos can deliver. I defy you to name a processional Brazilian Grand Prix – there simply aint one. Every race at the venue situated in one of Sao Paulo’s seedier suburbs has been memorable, some for their title showdowns (think the last three years), others for the storms that changed the face of the race, still more due to bizarre incidents and accidents (recall Nick Heidfeld taking a door off the Safety Car which stopped beside a stricken competitor).

Massive crowds chant throughout proceedings, deliriously happy just to be part of the fabric of this great sport, submerged in a spectacle a world away from the squalor and stench found across the decrepit fence dividing circuit from slum. The people are as colourful as the Brazilian flags they so proudly wave, and nowhere else on earth could rich and poor, clean and dirty, perfumed and stinking be found squeezed together for the full duration of a grand prix.

Their cheers every time a driver takes up his grid slot are hair bristling, their roars at the out of the lights primeval. They are a nation both at peace with their lot and desperately unhappy at the cards life has dealt, and somehow their spirits mirror the sport they have chosen to love.

Take Rubens Barrichello: on pole for his home grand prix at the circuit where he cut his karting teeth, one at which he could edge his title dreams closer to fruition, yet destined to watch his 29-year-old British team-mate become champion of the world from 14^th on the grid on his patch in an identical car. Only a Brazilian could find it within him to smile through such bitter agony, then lend Jenson his private jet to fly home to party. Yet he firmly believes he is blessed to be a grand prix in the first place...

Interlagos oozes tradition, history and passion. Every crack in the track tells tales of Emerson and Carlo and Ayrton and Felipe and Rubens, recalls how Fernando trounced Michael and Kimi snuck the crown away from Lewis, and how Lewis in turn did just that to Felipe. On Sunday Mark Webber may have won the race, but Jenson snatched the crown from Rubens and Seb. There never has been a dull moment at the track situated between the lakes, and God forbid there ever is one.

When Jenson gets to Abu Dhabi as champion in a fortnight he will find a clinical concrete and steel autodrome incorporating every single comfort and convenience – including a dearth of passionate spectators. He could do well to reflect on the fact that he took his crown in the most emotional cauldron of all – which should make victory taste doubly sweet.

My good friend Murray Walker once remarked that Brazilian mothers breastfeed their offspring on hi-octane. Only those who know Sao Paulo’s enthusiasm for F1 (and its streets) can truly understand.

So much for bouquets, now a brickbat: When, oh when, will F1 learn to include its champions in the podium ceremonies. For the second time in as many years the incoming world champion has watched the podium ceremony from the sidelines. Surely a separate ceremony is the least Jenson deserved on Sunday, not least for his legion of fans sat before a TV screen?