The Real Brazil

THE

Two Journalists’ Excursion Through Bahia Becomes One Of Humility And Reverence.

Written by Laurence Bass & Naimah Jabali-Nash

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Students of Olodum School perform in the streets of Pelourinho. Photo by lawrence jenkins

Pelourinho streets at night. Photo by lawrence jenkins

I thought. Whose shadow cast like mine? On the first night in Salvador, the answer came while standing in its nucleus— Pelourinho. The tour guide, a native Bahian, explained that Pelourinho, which means “whipping post,” was the place to torture and trade slaves in the early 1800s. Fading in and out of his diction, I could only stare at the Church of Our Lady of the Rosary, built by these very same hands. The deep violet night’s sky blended with shades of orange. The breeze from All Saints Bay was no longer light and refreshing, but heavy. A weight pressed on my shoulders and rooted my feet in the cobble stoned street. Portuguese colonial mansion windows now resembled mezzanine seating. There was no need to snap shots with a camera. The light was different here. Newly installed fluorescent street lamps added texture to the canary yellows, powder blues and sea foam greens on the facades of shops and restaurants. Standing atop this bustling ravine of history, I could hear the off axel wheel of a merchant’s pushcart carrying empty fruit baskets. ¶ As I picked up my leaden feet, the distinct smell of palm oil lured me to a nearby Baiana. A community confidant and preserver of Afro-Brazilian culture in Bahia, she donned a white, embroidered, eyelet lace blouse and skirt, with a pannier structure for added fullness. “Duas Reais,” she said (app. 0.90 USD). Her outstretched hand revealed a sculpted arm. She took a wooden ladle and heaped freshly diced vegetables and cararu (okra stew) into the middle of the now opened acarajé. The deep fried black-eyed pea paste took on the proportions of a massive hush puppy. She gave me a kind nod and a few napkins while I offered her gratitude in my butchered Portuguese. I stepped back into Pelourhino’s center, the rest of my tour group shuffled farther up the narrow street flooded with vendors. From a distance I heard them calling out, almost jeering, “Hey, America!” It was at this moment, I became the straggler. Pelourinho was moving and I needed to do likewise.

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To The Hills Portuguese settlers first ventured into what is now known as Salvador’s Baia de Todos os Santos (All Saints Bay) in 1549. Tome de Sousa, Brazil’s first Governor/General, led the modest fleet. Salvador eventually became one of Brazil’s main ports of commerce and later the country’s first capital. With an abundance of tobacco and sugar cane in this region, slavery inevitably became a pillar of this emerging economy. By the mid-1500s, Portuguese slave traders had

begun to bring captives to Brazil from West and Central Africa. The African captives built the cities and cultivated the land. However, they were able to keep their customs and religions alive under the veil of Catholicism. For the few who sought complete autonomy from their masters and the government, the hills became a place of refuge.

Torrential rain forced our tour bus to hug the curves of the mountain road. The usually scenic route to Cachoeira was lost as rain coated the

windows of the bus. About 20 minutes outside the riverside village, our tour guide caught my attention. His Portuguese suddenly became jumbled while he pointed at a large hill on my side of the bus. Our translator intervened: “This is where some of the Quilumbos settled and still live.” At least once a day since arriving in Bahia, I had inquired about the Quilumbos. Now only glass, rain and a deep gorge separated us. The rain fell thicker as I squinted and cupped my hands to the window for a glimpse

of their hidden settlement. No such luck.

According to C. Daniel Dawson, noted Africana Studies scholar and professor at New York University, “Quilumbo simply means those Africans wanting freedom in the Americas. The word ‘Maroon’ means ‘wild’ like a crazed dog. So, when they [Portuguese slave masters] referred to the Quilumbos as a Maroon colony, they put them in the same light as a dog, wild and unkempt, ravaging around in the forest.”

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Obscure purity

The beat becomes an extension of our own body to the crerator.

“Zumbi!” the tour guide said with a smile as hills shot past my window. I remembered standing in Pelourinho, witnessing Salvadorians, young and old, pose for pictures in front of the onyx statue celebrating this “hero of the Brazilian nation.”

Maroon colonies were comprised of fugitive slaves throughout Brazil and Zumbi Dos Palmares (Zumbi of Palmares) is one of the movement’s famous leaders. Born free in 1655 in the state of Alagoas, northeast of Bahia, Zumbi was captured and sold to Catholic missionaries when he was a child. He was taught Portuguese and all of the mores of the “civilized.”

Zumbi escaped from captivity as a teenager and began a life as one of the many Quilumbos. Recognized for his strength and combat intelligence, he was an invaluable asset to Quilumbos in the state of Pernambuco. In 1678 Pedro Almeida, Pernambuco’s colonial leader, tried to make peace with the Quilumbos in Palmares. Zumbi, however, remained leery of the Portuguese as they offered freedom to the Quilumbos while other Africans were still enslaved. Zumbi was steadfast in his resistance to Portuguese tyranny until he was beheaded in 1695.

Brazil remained a de facto slave society until 1888. Many of the Maroon colonies withstood the transition from slavery to freedom. Those who remained in these secluded hideaways were overlooked as Brazilian citizens—thus hindering the exercise of civil liberties. It took a 1988 government ruling to grant full citizenship to the descendants of the Quilumbos.

Currently, the Brazilian government recognizes 11 settlements out of the 600 still in existence. In 1995, the fanfare surrounding the 300th anniversary of Zumbi’s death reached unheralded proportions. His name, image and legendary story flooded newspapers, theaters, telenovelas and academic seminars. Zumbi’s heightened appeal exceeded symbolism. His strength and unbreakable will are more than cultural cornerstones—they are the bedrock of Bahia’s historical edifice.

Dancer’s performance tells story of Ovixas & Cardomble. photo by Lawrence jenkins.

Bonfim Ribbons line the fence of Savadors church of the Good End.

The bus came to a halt in Cachoeria.

I wiped the window with my sleeve to bring the distorted colors into focus.

Rain drops slid down the glass. She stood in the doorway of the pink and white stucco church—a woman of The Sisterhood of the Good Death.

For more than 300 years the Sisterhood of the Good Death has served as a religious and political resistance movement. Fidelity to the Sisterhood can be traced back to slaves congregating at night to discuss emancipation and to recite prayers for the dead. The presence of men is forbidden. A number of the women who are initiated in this sacred society are descendents of slaves and connected to the Orixás and terreiros of Candomblé.

Candomblé is a religion of AfroBrazilian practices, originating from the Yourba in West Africa. Followers of Candomblé worship deities known as the Orixás, who each hold a specific color, power and day of recognition.

“The Candomblé were aggressively persecuted by the government.

Police would arrest people at ceremonies,” explains Dr. Lisa Earl Castillo, researcher at the Federal University of Bahia. “Africans maintained their religious practices that they brought with them. They would participate in Catholic proceedings in public and conduct their own practices in private.”

Members of the Sisterhood are referred to as Filha de Santo or Daughter of the Orixá. For three years women, between the ages of 50-70, must complete a training period and learn all the formal procedures of the Sisterhood. Women wear white as an external symbol, signifying the process of purification. The Sisterhood annually prepares for the Good Death Festival in August. It recognizes the abolition of slavery in Brazil and praises the Virgin Mary.

Crossing the church’s threshold rays of sun pierced the foyer. I clasped her warm, callous hands and said, “Bom dia” (Good morning). This Daughter of the Orixá humbly smiled. The downpour echoed through the dark

alcove. I sat on the cold, wooden pew as she explained the importance of the Sisterhood’s existence in the city of Cachoeria.

Cachoeria, The City of Waterfalls, was one of the most prosperous cities in 17th and 18th century Brazil. Today its rich soil and dense landscape is home to cash crops such as tobacco, sugar cane and cocoa. It is also home to one of Brazil’s foremost artistic visionaries.

“This is the city of the future,” declared Damário Da Cruz. “Major cities are on the brink of death. The major currencies, gold, the Euro and oil will be gone and replaced with clean water, silence, singular culture and creativity.”

His disdain for the former US President overcame the language barrier, “Don’t bring him on a plane here,” Da Cruz quipped. “Because he may discover our treasures and invade here, not Iraq!”

Order or Progression Favelas, Portuguese for “shantytown,” are everywhere in Salvador. These makeshift housing projects run alongside large hills or are nestled within the city’s various business districts. Newly constructed luxury condominiums are within a stone’s throw of these pockets of poverty. The poor break bread in the ominous shadow of wealth.

“It’s necessary to have order in the organization of any society,” says Natali Reis Silre, a native Salvadorian in her fourth year at the Federal University of Bahia’s Academy of Medicine. “The question is: What kind of order are they talking about? We have liberty, but we don’t have any order in the distribution of money within the population and throughout varying regions. The wealth and development is primarily in the southern half of Brazil. The northern half of Brazil is without that wealth. So, it’s necessary to understand the real meaning of the word ‘order’ in order to have ‘progression’.”

Education is one social fault line.

Students from Bahia’s upper class are among the few who are able to afford institutions of higher learning. College

graduates are usually employed in federal occupations which are considered formal careers. Afro-Brazilians make up 45 percent of the overall population in Brazil—only two percent attend universities. Afro-Brazilian women generally make 75 percent less than non-Afro-Braizilian men in similar occupations. The dilemma is systemic.

In many ways, the price of education keeps the majority of the population in a cycle of poverty. However, another fault line is more psychological.

Clicking from station to station, I and the Afro-Brazilians who look like me were nowhere to be found. Here I sat in Salvador, Bahia, once nicknamed Roma Negra (Black Rome), watching Bundchën and Klum look-alikes flood my screen with anything but Ebony. I went to breakfast.

The sounds of a samba-reggae group blared into the dining hall from poolside. From my seat, I witnessed an all black band performing for an all white resort crowd. Every choreographed move was finished with a smile. All of the servers shared my complexion.

Hope’s common thread Three knots is all it takes. A binding symbol that flows throughout Bahia is seen on a simple ribbon. “Lembrança do Senhor do Bonfim da Bahia,” roughly meaning, “A memento from the Lord of the Good End in Bahia.”

I’m not superstitious. So when a Baiana tied the red ribbon around my wrist for good luck, I wasn’t very optimistic. Later, my tour guide revealed that the band not only brought good luck to its wearer, but that each knot represented a wish. I have yet to find millions in my bank account or a deed to a house in the South of France. But the ribbon has not fallen…

The story signifying its place in Bahiain history slightly differs depending on who you talk to, but the idea remains the same.

In the early 1700s a captain set sail on the Atlantic. Before he left Bahia’s shore, he made a prayer to The Lord of the Good End, asking Him for safe travels. The captain’s ship wrecked yet

his life was spared. When he returned to Salvador as the sole survivor, he erected The Church of The Good End to display his gratitude.

Ask and you shall receive—this is the belief of many Bahians. Built in 1745 Igreja do Senhor do Bonfim, The Church of The Good End, lies on the crest of Salvador’s Itapagipe Peninsula.

Favelas distort the peripheral, cluttering the hillside like dots in a stippling painting. I weaved in and out of panhandlers and vendors to reach this religious relic. Hundreds of nylon ribbons covered the corroded, rod iron spindles that border this architectural landmark. Streams of yellow, red, orange, green and blue flickered in the day’s humid, melancholy haze.

The Bonfim ribbon or fita, as they are traditionally known, was created in 1809. Its length, 47 centimeters, correlates to the right arm of the statue of Christ located on the church’s high alter. Names of saints were inscribed on this “measure of Bonfim,” with permanent ink. Pendants displaying holy images dangled from the necks of those who warranted assistance. Today, it is usually tied around the left wrist— a marker of wondering tourists, but more importantly it epitomizes faith.

“The Church of The Good End is identified solely with Salvador,” remarks Dr. Lisa Earl Castillo. “It is the only city in Brazil where this particular saint is worshipped and people travel from all over South America to make a pilgrimage to this church.”

Beneath the right bell tower, an unsettling silence loomed in Bonfim Sala dos Milagres, the Room of Miracles. A collage of faces covered the corkboard walls. My eyes met with the thousands posted. Tacked with these images are the hopes, dreams and prayers of those who believe in Senhor do Bonfim. Replicas of arms, hands, feet, heads and infant bodies hung from the ceiling. It’s a shrine of offerings and affirmations to Salvador’s beloved saint.

I stepped out to catch a breath of fresh air. The sight of lifeless human limbs and bodies disturbed me.

Leaning on a concrete banister outside the church, my attention turned to the weathered red ribbon on my wrist. The wishes of those in the room not only reflect the past, but aspirations of the future—a future heard in the drums of Olodum.

Established in 1979, Olodum (oh-loodoon) uses percussion, art and dance to promote black pride and stem social injustices. “The drums represent a primal beat and rhythm—a heartbeat,” explained Ana Reymundo, Editorial Director of Nexos Magazine. “The beat becomes an extension of our own body to the creator. The music made from the drums is in a sense a prayer to this ‘supreme being.’ And each beat signifies something different.”

The name Olodum derives from the Yourba term Olodumaré meaning a supreme being. Current President, João Jorge Santos Rodrigues, and his counterparts decided to use creativity as a means to fight drugs and crime plaguing Pelhourino’s youth. In 1984 the Escola Olodum (School of the Supreme Being) was founded. With a strong emphasis on self-esteem, love, music and education the school serves as a haven of liberal expression and growth.

Like the drumming for which Olodum has become famous, Bahia’s history is one of call and response.

Beyond the vibrant and indelible pictorial synonymous with Brazil, resistance to injustice continues to reverberate. A vain tryst with the Quilombos and Candomblé, isn’t worthy of the everyday struggles of Bahians. To be lost and selfless, to discover your own shadow amidst the cobblestones—is to find the real Brazil.

Bahia is one of the 26 states of Brazil, and is located in the northeastern part of the country on the Atlantic coast. it is the fourth most populous Brazilian state after São Paulo, Minas Gerais and Rio de Janeiro, and the fifth-largest in size. It is also one of the most important states in terms of history and culture in Brazil.

photo by LaUrence Bass.

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