The Eyes of the Goddess
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Tag: Salvador
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The Goddess Yemanja as a wooden mermaid in the Museu Afro-Brasileira
Local woman in Baiana de Acarajé, the traditional dress of Bahia[/caption]
Across the square, Red Bull workers set up a wooden stage and an enormous screen for tonight’s capoeira competition. Michael Jackson’s voice croons from an open doorway. Years after his death, Jackson remains a Salvadoran hero—he filmed the video to his song, “They Don’t Care About Us”, with the Bahian percussion band, Olodum, here in Pelourinho Square. A cardboard Michael Jackson stands on a balcony overlooking the square. In a nearby shop, the vendor will play the video if you ask. Nearly every shop displays t-shirts with images of Jackson and Bob Marley as well as caps in Brazil’s colors—green, red, yellow—from which dangle black dreadlocks made of yarn. A music store off the square blasts samba-reggae against a backdrop of African masks and dusty wooden instruments and jewelry.
Today, Largo do Pelourinho is a UNESCO World Heritage site, alive with music, events, and tourists, but the name, Pelhourinho, refers to the pillar of wood once used to attach slaves, and this was the square where slaves were bought and sold. Here, in Salvador—the first capital of Brazil, and now the capital of the northeastern state of Bahia—85% of the population has African heritage, and memories don’t die—they are transformed into creative expression. Samba was born here, as was the Brazilian form of Candomble—the African-based religion that worships orixas. So was capoeira, a fusion of dance and martial arts that requires extreme strength and grace. And every form of creativity is driven by percussion. According to indigenous shamanic teachings, drums are the heartbeat of the earth, and nowhere do you feel this more vividly than in Bahia.
Candomble literally means to “dance in honor of the gods,” and one night I have the opportunity to attend a ceremony at Ile Axe Opo Afoja—the largest and most important candomble house in Salvador—and to watch the worshipers dance and chant to the relentless pounding of percussionists. The founder and high priestess, Mother Stella de Oxassi, reigned over hundreds of followers and a thriving community until her death in 2018 at age ninety-three. When I saw her, she bestowed blessings from a chair and solemnly watched the dancers. A mix of hoedown, wedding celebration, revival meeting, and party, the festive gathering is held in a simple room decorated to give the feeling of being outdoors in a forest. The night I attended, the orixa the honored was Oxassi, the god of the hunt and the forest. His color is green, and his blessings are patience and prosperity.
[caption id="attachment_12164" align="aligncenter" width="800"]
Worshipers entering Ile Axe Opo Afoja, the largest and most important*
My second sighting of Yemanja is on stage at the explosively brilliant Bale Folclorico da Bahia at a performance performing in the tiny Teatro Miguel Santana in Pelourinho. Face covered with a seashell-beaded veil, she wears a bustle gown in pale lilac, blue and white. Shell bands grip her arms, and she carries a jeweled fan. Men in straw hats and white pantaloons dance joyfully around her—she has given them fish to eat. The women crouch and wash their clothes in the river—she has given them water for survival. And when they draw near to her, they shudder, shoulders jerking wildly, in a pantomime of the power of the goddess’s presence. She too dances slowly and regally, weaving around and between her worshipers, and I can’t help but remember Nietzsche’s words, “I would believe only in a god that knows how to dance.” [caption id="attachment_12161" align="aligncenter" width="768"]
The island of Itaparica on the Atlantic coast in Bahia[/caption]
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On my last day in Bahia, I sail to Itaparica, a lovely, sleepy island a hour ferry ride from Salvador. It is mid-morning, the heat and humidity intense, as I stand on the deserted beach. A lone fisherman sails in the distance. I wade into the sea, and cool, clear water swirls around my bare feet. Although I am alone, I easily imagine thousands of worshipers dressed in pale blue—Yemanja’s color—gathering to honor her on February 2nd, her feast day in Salvador (in Rio, it is December 31). They fill holes in the sand with lighted candles and flowers. They also carve little wooden boats, cram them with mirrors, combs, flowers, and lighted candles, and send them into the sea with prayers. I wade deeper, lower my head and stare into the water. In the wavering light, my sun-dazed eyes see Iemanja, rising, tall and graceful, from the waves. My third sighting of the goddess. Before I can register the wonder of this magical encounter, her face turns toward me, and her eyes meet mine. For a long and terrible moment, I stand utterly still. I blink, and she is gone. But I saw her. And she saw me. Somewhere drums are pounding. My chest shudders. I dip my hand and bring it to my mouth and lick her sweat from my fingers. Slowly, slowly, I make my way back to the mainland. Born in Morocco, Ruth Knafo Setton is the author of the novel "The Road to Fez", and the forthcoming "Darktown Blues". A multi-genre writer whose award-winning fiction, creative nonfiction, screenplays, and poetry have been widely published, she teaches Creative Writing at Lehigh University.There was a problem reporting this post.
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