I seek refuge from the touts by appearing preoccupied with the glorious view over the Bay of All Saints, namesake of the Brazilian region of Bahia. The sun is setting behind the island of Itaparica, casting an orangey glow over the bay. Beyond that lies the Recôncavo, the green, fertile lands that were home to the sugar and tobacco plantations that so defined this region.The plantations fueled the slave trade, bringing 3.6 million Africans to Brazil between 1550 and 1888. Today, Salvador – capital of Bahia – is known as the African soul of Brazil. This oldest part of Salvador is called the Pelourinho, or “whipping post”, named for the square where Africans were publicly flogged and sold into slavery. Nowadays, it is a place where Afro-Brazilian culture is celebrated: where drum beats have inspired Brazil’s greatest musicians; where Catholic saints intermingle with African deities.
Bahians are famous for needing no excuse to make merry, and the narrow streets of the Pelourinho are packed with people year-round, especially on Tuesday nights. But Salvador is even more festive at holiday times. It is arguably Brazil’s hottest spot to celebrate Carnaval: the pre-Lenten fête attracts over two million revelers to dance and drink around the clock for a week straight. I am here for another rabblerousing street party, the Festa de São João. The two-day holiday is named for St John, but it is traditionally a harvest festival: celebrants dress up in farmers’ garb and dance to forró, Brazil’s upbeat version of country music. The streets are strewn with colorful banners and flags, while each square features a stage with gigantic speakers and rotating musical acts.
I make my way over to one corner of the plaza, where a circle of men, all dressed in loose-fitting white, are banging on drums and chanting in sync. Two of them engage in a dance – or is it a fight? – in time with the music. The men’s graceful steps mirror each other, but they are punctuated by threatening kicks and spins and jumps. This form of martial arts, called capoeira, originated amongst African slaves as a form of self-defense. Banned by slave owners, the practice was set to music in attempt to disguise the fight as a dance.
I join the edge of the circle and watch the two men joust for advantage. They jump from hands to feet, sending their limbs sailing within inches of their opponents. One contender hoists himself into a one-handed cartwheel, so his feet fly in the face of his rival. The crowd gasps, as his target ducks smoothly out of the way. These days, capoeira is part performance, part practice: the goal is to show your strength, but never to inflict harm.
As I slip back into the crowd, I pause to admire one of the city’s many mural-covered walls. One vibrant painting depicts Oxalá, the Bahian god of creation, clad in flowing white garments and silver crown. Nowhere is the influence of Africa more prominent than in the practices of Candomblé, the mysterious religion that the Yoruba people brought to Brazil from Nigeria and Benin. Oxalá is one of many Bahian deities, or orixás, each with a unique personality and sphere of influence. The faithful believe that everyone is protected by a particular orixá, much like a patron saint. They engage in female-centered rituals to honor their orixás, plying them with food and gifts, especially on festival days.Many Bahians practice both Candomblé and Catholicism, which may seem contradictory. But when slaves were forced to convert to Catholicism, they reconciled the two belief systems by acknowledging and celebrating the similarities between their orixás and the Catholic saints. So Omolú, god of plague and disease, is also known as St Lazarus; Yemanja, goddess of fertility, is likened to the Virgin Mary; and Oxalá, the supreme deity, is also called Nosso Senhor do Bonfim, or Jesus.
As I examine the mural of Oxalá, a tout presses me to invest in a fita, or ribbon, which is a souvenir of Salvador’s most important church, the Igreja Nosso Senhor do Bonfim. My wrist is already adorned with a bright blue fita, which – tied with three knots – guarantees answers to three prayers. My fita is from the church itself, from the very steps that are washed during the annual Lavagem do Bonfim, a ritual presided jointly by Catholic priests and Candomblé priestesses. I wave the tout away.
As the night grows darker, the drumbeats in the Pelourinho grow louder. I duck down an alley, where a crowd has gathered around the music makers. They are Didá, an all-female percussion band, hammering out rhythms guaranteed to make you move. They range in age from six to twenty-six. And they are gorgeous, with braids hanging down their backs, brown skin glistening with sweat, and ample hips swaying to the beat of their own drums. The sun has hardly set, and there is already dancing in the streets.
Didá is playing axé music, a fusion of samba, reggae and funk that is defined by its heavy percussion and powerful rhythms. These are the same drumbeats that drive the Candomblé rituals, and the same drumbeats that set the pace for the dance of the capoeristas. Axé is edgy, energetic and purely Bahian.
The music gained worldwide recognition when Paul Simon featured the local band Olodum on his aptly named album, Rhythm of Saints.Axé is an invention of the 1980s, but Bahia has long been the birthplace of Brazilian music. The country’s most famous songwriters – Gilberto Gil and Caetano Veloso – are both from Bahia. In the 1960s and 1970s, they were part of a movement that fused traditional instruments and rhythms with new international influences, revolutionizing the Brazilian sound. Before that, Bahian João Gilberto was the father of bossa nova. Even samba – the foundation of all Brazilian music – was born of black Bahians who had moved to Rio de Janeiro.
These days, Salvador’s favorite musical daughter is Virgínia Rodrigues. Born and raised in the favela, she worked as a waitress and a washerwoman before being discovered in 1996. Her songs incorporate various Brazilian styles, including axé, but it is her pure, haunting voice that entices listeners. “I sing for the people of African descent,” she once explained. “I sing for the orixás… for the earth, water and air, for myself and for us.”
On this warm evening in June, the drumbeats of axé and the danceable melodies of forró float across the Pelourinho, infusing the crowds with energy. It’s as if the orixás have blessed the entire city with nimble feet and fantastic rhythm. It was Gilberto Gil who penned the classic Eu vim da Bahia ("I come from Bahia"):
If we have nothing to eat
We don’t die hungry
Because in Bahia we have Mother Yemanja
And next to her Senhor do Bonfim
Who help the Bahian to live, to sing
To dance the samba…
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