Cachoeira
Author: Shirlz
Sunday, 11 December 2011
On Friday my top priority was to buy a new camera. After asking around, I managed to locate a few shops selling electrical goods and one of them had a selection of three reasonably priced digital cameras. My luck was in. Soon I was the happy owner of a neat little ‘Lumix’, offering 12 megapixels, 4x optical zoom, wide angle lens, face recognition, anti-shake, and on and on. A nice Li-ion rechargeable battery and complimentary 2G memory card. I could start happily snapping away again.
Using the small floating dock to get ashore needs a bit of planning as it settles in the mud at low tide. There is an interesting local trimaran on a permanent mooring close to shore. It sits lightly on the water looking like an extraterrestrial visitor. It’s owner comes down regularly to tidy things up and take it for a short sail up and down.
The Saturday morning market spreads over an enormous area, extending into side streets where the produce is laid out on the ground. There was an even better selection of wonderful fresh fruit and vegetables than in Maragojipe. I tried to be unaffected by the subdued clusters of chickens, feet tied and huddled together waiting to be selected for someone’s dinner.
I reminded myself of how much better off they were than the millions of poor unfortunates in more ‘civilised’ batteries,who had lived their sad lives debeaked, overfed and crowded, waiting to be hygienically wrapped in clingfilm and tastefully displayed to fastidious supermarket shoppers.
Cachoeira is well known as an important centre for the African adaptation of Catholicism known as Candomblé. Originated by the slaves who were banned from worshipping their traditional spirits.
I wandered into a small shop with an interesting display of Candomblé paraphernalia. Delicate white lacework dresses. Some, very elaborate in embroidered satin with beads. Fantastical headgear with bead fringes to cover the face. The shopkeeper noticed my interest and asked if I’d like to attend a Candomblé session that night. It seemed like a good idea. To show me where to find the place, she very helpfully escorted me to the ‘terreiro’ of Mãe Madalena in a narrow sidestreet near to a church on a hill.
We waited a while for someone to come to the open door. Eventually a woman dressed all in white approached us bent over with hands fluttering. In what appeared to be a trancelike state. The shopkeeper also bent at the waist with hands outstretched for the traditional embrace. This involved much gentle patting and hugging. A second woman (also in white of course) came out and the greeting ceremony was repeated. I quickly gathered that I was expected to join in. No problem. A long gentle discussion followed which I wasn’t able to hear properly but I came to understand that it would be fine for me to come and observe. They planned to start at 21:30. While they were talking I had a chance to look around the room. The walls were covered with framed pictures of legendary heroes.
A big carving of an eagle with wings outstretched was perched on top of a totem pole garlanded with brightly coloured artificial flowers. The floor was strewn with leaves and petals. Grasses and fluttering pennants hung from the ceiling. The drums and a carved wooden throne on one side. The remaining walls lined with a row of chairs and stools for lookers on.
On the way back down the hill Rosangela explained that the participants spend about a week preparing themselves for the ceremony. Fasting and meditating. Hoping to achieve readiness for their possession by the spirits. And so on.
I had a snooze in the afternoon as I was told that the rituals continue right through the night. At nine-thirty I found my way back to Mãe Madalena’s. It was a beautiful night and the waterfront was crowded with strollers and families enjoying the cool of the evening. I joined the small group gathering outside the terreiro. The lane had been decorated with artificial flowers and fairy lights. Stringing-up of lights was still in progress. Women dressed in their white frilled and embroidered finery were arriving in dribs and drabs and disappearing inside. Soon the men arrived, also in fancy white gear. I also moved inside and found a small foot-stool to perch on. The proceedings started. The men have the job of beating out a rhythm on the drums which will hopefully draw down the spirits. They went at it with a will. The ladies, and a few men, started a slow shuffling and twirling dance round the flowered totem pole in the centre of the room. Carefully dodging lit candles which had been placed in symbolic positions on the floor. The music was mesmerically repetitive and It was easy to understand how it could be trance-inducing to a receptive mind.
The dancing continued on into the night. The full moon looked down from above. Every now and then there would be a short break for refreshments. Then they would start again with renewed vigour. As the pace accelerated the occasional dancer appeared to become possessed and would start to shake and twirl about. When this happened three of the calmer folk would hover around protectively. Wiping sweat off the face. Adjusting clothing which threatened to fall off. Showing much tenderness and caring. At about two in the morning there was a long break while new, brightly coloured and more elaborate costumes were put on. Now the fancy headgear and straw fringed face veils were assumed. Things became more frenetic. And it went on and on. I was starting to get drowsy as my normal bedtime is about 10’ish. During the next break I slipped away and walked back by moonlight to Speedwell and the cat. It had been an interesting experience and I was grateful for the generosity and welcoming openness of the group.