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afrot

he CandomblCeremonyhasjustbegunandalreadytheworshippersare twitching and moaning, channelling their West Arican gods, the orixs.

Bareoot, dressed head-to-toe in white, they shue through a deep carpet o

broad green leaves toward the me de santo, a white-turbaned Candomblpriestess seated on a plastic chair at the back o the whitewashed room, where

she watches as, one by one, the dancers all into a trance. A stocky man with a close-

cropped beard clutches his waist as i gored by a spear and hollers, Arrrgghh!

46 WestWorl d >> november 2008 Elcio Carrico/gettyimages.com

MUNDO

byJennifer Patterson

A journey to the

African heart of Brazilreveals the secret tosurviving 300 years

of slavery

Existiu um El Dorado Negro no Brasil

Existiu como claro que o sol da liberdade produziu

Refetiu a luz da divinidade do ogo santo de Olorum

Revivieu a utopia um por todos, e todos por um.

Once there was a Black El Dorado in Brazil

There it was like a shat o sunlight that liberty released

It was there, reecting the divine light rom the holy fre o Olorum

And there it revived, the utopia o one or all and all or one.

Lyrics from Quilombo, O El Dorado Negro by Gilberto Gil/Waly Salomo

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When the drumming stops, he growls and

snores, eigning sleep. A slender woman

with pale eyes aps her elbows, eyes closed,

eyebrows twitching. Another whimpers as

she crumples to the oor in a aint.

Tonight, on the outskirts o Salvador da

Bahia in northeastern Brazil, we are witness-

ing a Candombl ceremony. Similar to thesyncretic religions o Santera and Vodoun

brought by Arican slaves to Cuba and Haiti,Candombl is the oldest Aro-Brazilian reli-

gion, a mixture o traditional Yoruban,

Bantu and Fon belies. The practice was out-

lawed in the 16th century under Portuguese

rule, but survived underground until its per-

secution by church and state oicially

ended in 1976.And on this July evening, weare again honouring Xang, lord o justice,

lightning and thunder, and Ogum, god o

war. Notably absent are my personal avou-rites: Oxum, the siren o resh water and

goddess o wealth and love, and Iemanj,

Yoruban goddess o the sea.

Until now, Ive had little exposure to

Candombl, though over the years one

might say Ive nurtured a mild voodoo etish.

I married an Aro-Cuban, so I know about

Santera irst-hand. And world-renowned

ethnobotanist Wade Davis opened my eyes

to Haitian Vodoun ar more hauntingly

complex than Hollywood would have us

believe with his 1985 non-fction adven-

ture The Serpent and the Rainbow. But my jour-

ney to Bahia and the Arican heart o Brazil

really began a decade ago, when I discovered

Gabriela, Clove and Cinnamon, a novel by Bra-

zilian Jorge Amado, at a used-book store.

48 WestWorl d >> november 2008 (tp) P. naaya, (tt lft) mafd Gttschalk/axxiags.c; (y,Baiana) Jif Patts

(pag 47) Canmb pi ah Fa Bnm pcin in hnu

f oxa, h Af-Baziian quivan f

Chi; (cckwi fm f) bach if inBaa; -wn faa; Puinh

Piy squa; h gan fBahian wmn fabic an ign

imp fm Afica in h a 19h

cnuy w nc famu hughu

Bazi; savaan yuh paci hhyhm f um up oum.

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Inside, a personal note to a past owner was

penned: This book is one o the most

amous Brazilian romances. Its set in the

1920s, but many habits remain the same in

the state o Bahia, Brazil. The book shows a

little o Brazilian northeastern culture, which

is, in my view, the strongest regional culture

in my country because o its Arican roots.

Intrigued, I read Amados popular love story

and thenDona Flor and Her Two Husbands,

both set in or close to Bahias capital, capti-vated by the languid sensuality o the tropics

and Bahias rich Aro-Brazilian heritage. Still,

it would be another 10years beore I fnallyew over Brazils jungle canopy and into Sal-

vador this place o Yoruban chants, Can-

dombl, carnival and capoeira, where

traditions brought by Arican slaves are pre-

served in amber.

I thought youwould be black,my Brazilian host Brbara Nascimento de

Oliveira an award-winning writer and

riend o a riend said upon welcoming

me into the home she shares with her

mother, Zlia. The assumption about my

race was understandable, or whywas I sokeen to explore Bahias Aro-Brazilian cul-

ture? My English ancestors could be consid-

ered colonizers. Perhaps I was here to make

amends, to take my Eurocentric view o theworld and turn it on its head. But then,

thats what I was here to explore, as, rom

that irst day, she and Zlia escorted me

around their town and guided me in my

quest: to witness a Candombl ceremony,

just as Wade Davis had done with Haitian

Vodoun in the 80s.

One thing I did know: the majority o

Bahians are descendants o West Arican

slaves. In act, the state o Bahia has the

highest concentration o blacks in Brazil

which, in turn, has the worlds second-larg-

est black population behind Nigeria. But as

Brbara and I strolled the streets, I drew my

own comparisons to Cuba mostly, though

Salvador seemedsomehow closer to Cam-eroon than the Caribbean. Salvador is like

Angola, Brbara declared one morning as

we passed rows o shops signs in Yoruba.And it appearedto be true rom theimpromptu capoeira perormances in ront

o the Aro-Brazilian Museum to the Bahian

street vendors dressed in white lace, hoop

skirts and turbans, selling Arican-inspired

fnger ood. The aroma omoqueca, a rich

seaood stew made with coconut milk, and

acarajs, deep-ried bean ritters stued with

My quest:to witness a Candombl ceremony as Wade Davis had done with Haitian Vodoun.

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shrimp, were hard to resist. Still,

we opted instead or tropical ice

cream: cashew and passionruit.

Geographically, as well, Salva-

dor is closer to Arica than North

America. Draw a line across the

Atlantic and you ind Angola,

while the same chart that traces the

transatlantic slave routes between

West Arica and Brazil illustrates

how snugly the South American

and Arican continents once ittogether: the coastline o north-

eastern Brazil tucked beneath the ormer

Arican Slave Coast that comprises mod-

ern-day Ghana, Togo, Benin and Nigeria.

Almost 2,000 km northwest o Rio de

Janeiro, on Bahia de Todo os Santos (All

Saints Bay), Salvador was established as the

countrys capital in 1549, ater the regions

discovery by the Portuguese in 1501. The

city soon served as an important slave port,

its abundance o churches (one or each day

o the year) earning it the nickname Black

Rome. The frst Aricans were transported

herein 1550, and an estimated 4.5 millionslaves rom Senegambia to the Kingdom

o Congo, romAngola to Mozam-bique soon ollowed, more than

were enslaved in any other colony

or country in the Americas, to cul-

tivate Brazils coee, cotton, cacao

and sugar. It would be three centu-

ries later, in 1888, beore Brazil

abolished slavery, the last country

to do so 81 years ater slaves were

reed by Britain, 40 years ater their

emancipation in France and 23 years

ater the end o the U.S. Civil War.In Salvadors old quarter,

Pelourinho, the cries o slaves were once

heard as men, women and children were

publicly whipped and tortured on the

steep, wedge-shaped Largo do Pelourinho,

or Pillory Square. Today the pedestrian-

only colonial district has been transormed

into a hive o black pride. Declared a

Geographically,Salvador is closer toAfrica than North America.

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UNESCO World Heritage site in 1985, it is

now a popular tourist attraction, with cob-

blestone streets bordered by storeronts and

restaurants neatly painted aades o tur-

quoise, ochre and lime green. Reerences to

Arica are everywhere: beauty salons spe-

cialize in beaded braids; shops hawk ebony

sculptures and T-shirts in gold, red, greenand black, the colours o the Arican

diaspora; the percussion group Olodum

(which perormed on Paul SimonsRhythm

of the Saints album) is headquartered here;

and martial arts studios oer workshops in

Angolan capoeira.

For seven sultrydays o Brazilianwinter, urther warmed by the Bahians

gentle, lilting accent and orr and samba

tunes, I explored, rom the bookstores o the

upscale residential district o Barra to thewhitewashed seaside churches and orts

across town. One entire morning was whit-

tled away at the Mercado Modelo, beneath

the art deco Lacerda Elevator that connects

Salvadors upper town with its seaside har-

bour, where Brbara took meshopping orsouvenirs Arican-inspired clay igurines

and musical instruments like the one-

stringed berimbau and high-pitched cuca,

the laughing sound o samba. Some days,

we ate our biggest meal at midday, vegetar-

ian buets on leay patios where monkeys

climbed the jungle-like plants. But mostly, I

skipped lunch and made the 20-minute pil-

grimage by bus to Pelourinho in the upper

town, away rom the sur, sand and salty breeze

o the palm-ringed beaches, yet with occa-

sional views o the Atlantic and the reighters

in the bay that reminded me o Vancouver.

One lazy aternoon, down a cobblestone

side street decorated with azure, orange and

jade-coloured ags, an impromptu peror-

mance by Escola Olodum: boys in red

T-shirts beating carnivalesque rhythms on

brightly painted oil drums; teenage girls in

canary-yellow tops, many with Arican

tresses, tilting their aces skyward, swinging

their arms and sidestepping to the layered

beat a rapid barrage o percussion. The

troupe leader blew his whistle and the crowd

squeezed onto narrow Rua das Laranjeiras,

where a boy, barely nine years old, pounded

a drum with a orce that belied his size. As

the swaying throng pulsated down the

street, the beats reverberated o buildingsand resonated like a communal heartbeat in

my ribcage. Carnival was still six months

away, but, closing my eyes, I could already

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eel the energy o Salvadors pre-Lenten

party that is said to eclipse Rios.

Only the day beore, I met with Denil-

son Jos, black activist, choreographer and

English teacher, inside his classroom over-

looking Praa da S.Salvador is the black-est city outside Arica, he told me as we

discussed the countrys contemporary blackmovement and the importance o its cul-

tural links with the Arican continent. Bra-

zils long military dictatorship ended 20

years ago and, since then, we have been

trying to make new ties with Arica espe-

cially while [Aro-Brazilian singer] Gilberto

Gil was cultural minister. Under Gils ten-

ure, Salvador hosted the second world con-

erence o Arican intellectuals and the

Arican diaspora, where world leaders con-

vened to discuss an Arican renaissance, a

new world order and enhanced culturaland economic ties between black popula-

tions on both sides o the Atlantic. During

the 1970s and 80s, the black consciousness

movement o Brazil may have taken its cues

rom the American civil rights movement,

the Black Panthers, unk and James Brown.

But today, Jos stressed, Aro-Brazilians look

increasingly toward Arica or afrmation.

Black Brazilians are still struggling to

fnd their place in Brazilian society, agreed

Dr. Joclio Teles dos Santos, anthropology

proessor and director o the Centre or Aro-

Oriental Studies at Salvadors Federal Univer-

sity o Bahia, when we met that same

aternoon over sweet black coee in his colo-

nial ofce. To urther complicate matters, dos

Santos explained, race is not defned by the

American-style one-drop rule, whereby

one drop o black blood makes you black.In act, in Brazil, the deinition o black is

much more complex and depends mostly on

skin colour and acial eatures, rather than

racial heritage. For example, in a country

where interracial relationships are the norm,

there are also many terms to designate skin

colour: rom black, black/brown, dark brown

and light brown to the dark-skinned cafuzo

and copper-coloured caboclo.

And, still, history repeats itsel in Bahia,

even in Black Rome. Not ar rom the Cen-

tre or Aro-Oriental Studies is the ormer

senzala, or slaves quarters, which despite its

sad history has been converted into an

upscale waterront restaurant. Here, one

aternoon, I ound only middle-class whiteBrazilians dining on pricey lobster moqueca

and shrimps in coconut; yet the kitchen and

wait sta were black. Outside, two shirtless

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boys rowed past in a painted wooden boat,

heading or their cliside slum.Asked i theghosts o tortured slaves still haunted the

place, the waiter smiled broadly. No, he

said, there are no ghosts. These days, this is

a happy place.

On a muggy afternoonin the

heart o Pelourinho, I climbed a narrow

staircase to the Federao Baiana do Culto

Aro-Brasileiro, the association that connects

outsiders with the secret world o Candom-

bl. A woman oered the single wooden

chair in the sparsely decorated space. The

only light: shats o equatorial sunlight fl-

tering through the shuttered windows.

Moments later, a man emerged rom the

shadows and led the way across Pillory

Square to the sky-blue slave church, Our

Lady o the Black Rosary. The baroque edi-fce, which was built in the 18th century by

slaves, or slaves, and took almost 100 years

to complete, was decorated with yellow and

white gerbera daisies. A breeze rued the

curtains and the scent o candle wax min-

gled with the aroma o peanuts and palm

oil. The streets din o voices, canned bossa

nova music and the occasional car horn

turned distant, otherworldly.

In a back room, an older gentleman

swept the uneven tiled oor. He was black,

but so were the aces o the saints whose

portraits hung romthe walls around him.In the ar corner, a display cabinet o wooden

fgurines: black patron saints, slave martyrs

and guardian angels, a long-haired Rastaar-

ian Bom Jesus, a black baby Jesus, and a Bra-

zilian rendition o Saint Francis o Assisi in a

brown tunic, his hand on the shoulder o a

shoeless boy whose yellow-and-green

clothes are the colours o the Brazilian

national soccer team. In the cloister, I paid

the young Candombl guide, Elaine Batista

Santos, 50 reais (Cdn.$25) to attend that

evenings Candombl ceremony on the out-

skirts o town.

The churchs Yoruban-language mass

starts at 6 p.m., leaving just enough time to

sample local dishes at the nearby Senac

cooking school and return or a recitation

o chants, which now competed with the

samba-reggae rhythms rom the music

shops on Pillory Square. Fittingly, the mass

seemed to reect a new social order: most

o the whites were standing; the blacksseated in the pews. Only latecomers are

orced to stand among the tourists. Elaine

then ushered six o us an Italian couple,

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two Spaniards, a Mexican man and me

down a side street and into a passenger van.

And we negotiated trafc-clogged roads

fve lanes o trafcowing each way in achaotic blinking river o red-and-white

lights through the already dark suburbs o

Salvador, then descended a steep ight o

steps through a terraced garden laced withoerings to the gods. In this place o wor-

ship, mulheres (women) are seated on one

side o the room, homens (men) on the

other. Visitors wear white out o respect or

the orixs. We were not to speak or take

photos, as the dancers circled the room

and, one by one, ell into a trance chan-

nelling their gods.

givenmyanglo-saxon, roman CatholiCupbringing, I fnd the dancers possession

by Arican spirits difcult to comprehend.But, like Wade Davis, I try to understand,

recalling something Denilson Jos told me

a ew days earlier, about the importance o

Candombl: that our people came to this

country completely deeated, yet they could

imagine a god o war. It is the most impor-

tant thing or us that Candombl resisted

persecution. Candombl brought people

together and gave them hope. Try to imag-

ine fghting against the Catholic Church in

slavery conditions. Our ancestors only per-

severed because they were very strong.

Ater a short break, the now-costumed

dancers return, kissing the loor as they

enter the room. The me de santo pus on

her cigarette. There is a warrior, a prince, a

king and a woman in straw channelling

Omol. A statuesque young man in pale

aqua wears a crown and carries a sword; he

is Xang. Another crowned, ebony-skinned

worshipper holds two swords, a white

sheet tied around his midri; he evokes

Ogum, god o war. The two men dance

aster and aster, legs ailing, arms slicing

the air, their bare eet clearing a pathway in

the leaves scattered on the oor. The pale-

eyed woman lunges like a wild animal. A

matron convulses and a young man trem-

bles like a rumba dancer. And in the midst

o this crescendo, I at last eel a connection

to the shores o Arica and these people

whose ancestors crossed the Atlantic in

slave ships centuries ago. I eel strangely

elated. Ater this night, I realize, I will leave

Brazil with more than a ew drops o Aricain my blood.

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