The Real Brazil

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

Written by Laurence Bass & Naimah Jabali-Nash
Photos by Laurence Bass, Naimah Jabali-Nash and Photo by Lawrence Jenkins

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Dancer’s performance tells story of Ovixas & Cardomble. Photo by Lawrence Jenkins.Whose hands laid these stones? 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.

Bonfim Ribbons line the fence of Savadors church of the Good End. Photo by Laurence Bass.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.