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Two JournalisTs’ Excursion

Through Bahia BEcomEs onE of

humiliTy and rEvErEncE.

wriTTEn By laurEncE Bass & naimah JaBali-nash

ThE

students of olodum school perform in the streets of Pelourinho. PhoTo By lawrEncE JEnkins

82 tgmlink.com | February 2009 The Green Magazine | 83

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 grati-

tude 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.

To ThE hillsPortuguese settlers first ven-

tured 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 eventu-

ally 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 emerg-

ing 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 usu-

ally 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 profes-

sor at New York University,

“Quilumbo simply means

those Africans wanting free-

dom 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.”

Pelourinho streets at night. PhoTo By lawrEncE JEnkins

84 tgmlink.com | February 2009 The Green Magazine | 85

“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, how-

ever, 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 hide-

aways were overlooked as Brazilian

citizens—thus hindering the exercise

of civil liberties. It took a 1988 govern-

ment 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 fan-

fare 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.

oBscurE PuriTy 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 for-

bidden. 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 Afro-

Brazilian 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 aggres-

sively persecuted by the government.

Police would arrest people at ceremo-

nies,” 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 pro-

cess 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 bar-

rier, “Don’t bring him on a plane here,”

Da Cruz quipped. “Because he may

discover our treasures and invade here,

not Iraq!”

ordEr or ProgrEssionFavelas, Portuguese for “shantytown,”

are everywhere in Salvador. These

makeshift housing projects run along-

side 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 distribu-

tion 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 fed-

eral 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 pool-

side. 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 ThrEadThree 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 opti-

mistic. 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 depend-

ing 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, clut-

tering the hillside like dots in a stip-

pling 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 offer-

ings 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-loo-

doon) 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 signi-

fies something different.”

The name Olodum derives from the

Yourba term Olodumaré meaning a

supreme being. Current President, João

Jorge Santos Rodrigues, and his coun-

terparts decided to use creativity as a

means to fight drugs and crime plagu-

ing 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 picto-

rial synonymous with Brazil, resis-

tance to injustice continues to reverber-

ate. 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.

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dancer’s performance tells story of ovixas & cardomble.PhoTo By lawrEncE JEnkins.

Bonfim ribbons line the fence of savadors church of the good End.PhoTo By laurEncE Bass.

Bahia is one of the 26 states of

Brazil, and is located in the north-

eastern part of the country on the

atlantic coast. it is the fourth most

populous Brazilian state after são

Paulo, minas gerais and rio de Ja-

neiro, and the fifth-largest in size. it

is also one of the most important

states in terms of history and cul-

ture in Brazil.