Gilberto and I walked away from the market up a quiet lane and knocked on the door of a humble home bearing a white flag. Dona Filinha de Leman-Ja, the hundred-year-old high priestess of the Sisterhood of the Good Death opened the door, grabbed me and gave me an enormous tight hug. ‘We have the same blood in all our veins. You are so welcome.’
We entered Dona Filinha’s soothsaying room, a china-shop of miniature bulls. Flagstones of five- and six-pointed stars shone from the floor. Sixteen shells lay on a white towel ready for divination. A massive mural of a beautiful mermaid emerging from the sea hung on one wall. On another hung a painting of a sexy squaw in the most revealing of feathered miniskirts fondling a jaguar while being watched by a monkey peeping Tom. She wore yellow knickers.
‘Don’t worry, Howard; personal interpretation is highly encouraged. Bond all you can in any way possible. There is no judgement or disapproval. It is all OK. And it will all get better. Now I have to bargain with Dona Filinha. She raises money for the sisterhood by modelling white robes and necklaces and bracelets of shells to satisfy photographers like me.’
We went to the kitchen of the church of the sisterhood. Food cooked here is highly sought after and given freely – sacrificed but not wasted. Outside, popcorn crackled, fireworks exploded and priestesses broke out in song, lighting cigarettes and puffing furiously. One sang a samba, enjoying the everyday naughtiness of the lyrics. No one bowed, signed the cross or genuflected, or showed any sign of humility. Exuding love and fond respect, the priestesses winked, hugged, kissed, held hands and flirted. One asked if I was single.
‘I like this religion, Gilberto.’
‘Then tonight, I take you to a Candomblé ceremony. Let’s go back to the car.’
Brazil has more Roman Catholics than any other country, but large numbers convert from Catholicism to Afro-Brazilian cults. Candomblé is the religion of the Yoruba from Nigeria, the provider of more slaves to the New World than any other African tribe. According to Candomblé, mankind sprang from a single ancestor, some of whose descendants achieved divinity and were able to control disease, weather, the power of the oceans and other natural forces. Everyone has a spiritual guide, a protective orixá and during ceremonial trances, such as the one I was about to witness, the orixás’ spiritual energy enters their protégés. Candomblé deities vary from humans with horns and erect penises to mischievous entities who delight in destroying happy marriages and promoting venereal disease. Transvestite and homosexual gods abound: one is the son of two male gods, another is male for half the year and female for the other half.
The Portuguese prohibited Candomblé and force-fed their slaves Catholicism, so its devotees concealed their orixás in the identities of Roman Catholic saints, continuing their African religion by covering it with a veneer of Christian ritual. And in due course Roman Catholic saints and orixás were honoured side by side, each gradually taking on the identity of the other.
Candomblé ceremonies are organised on terreiros, terraces or cleared plots of land near houses or small farms. Gilberto stopped his car outside a sprawling complex of huts and buildings decorated with glittering fairy lights named Bate Folha – Hitting Leaves – and walked past a few shrines towards the church. Birds swinging gently in cages suspended from trees nipped enthusiastically at pieces of fresh fruit. Leaves of differing shape, colour and significance, carefully split apples and stiff dark banana peel covered the ground. A paper plate of dried corn kernels, cooked beans and flour lay at the intersection of two dirt paths. A candle sat upright in the plate, and an empty bottle of sugar cane rum lay alongside it. Several unlucky but ecstatic worshippers surrounded the church, which was crammed.
Inside, fringed white crêpe-paper flags covered the ceiling. Vases of flowers, a statue of the Virgin Mary, a brown bottle of water, ceramic dishes and paper bags of bread covered an altar in which were hidden stones containing the spirits of the devotees. Several young brides of the gods glided in like gentle, nervous waves. They wore white lacy blouses and colourful graceful skirts to just above their ankles. Scarves tightly wrapped their heads, stressing the dark bold beauty of their full faces and graceful cheekbones. Confident elderly women, supervising the ceremony, approached the girls, placed their hands on their shoulders, and gave advice and comfort.
Suddenly each of two drummers enthusiastically and ferociously attacked his conga drum. Their fingers frantically hit the leather, and the church exploded into an enveloping rhythm of wild percussion. The church doors were flung open, and an elderly priest, dressed in a white suit, white shirt, white tie, white socks and shoes, shuffled in slowly but still in perfect time to the rhythm. Following him were women dressed in carnival clothes sporting their hair in tight oiled curls, free-flowing waves and straight manes, as well as men dressed as scarecrows, trees and other plants. No one wore ordinary clothes. The brides of the gods began to dance with light steps, lifting their elbows and undulating their ribcages. Slipping into trances as if falling asleep, some nodded while others let the persistent drums take them over. Dreamy-eyed and well out of it, they danced extraordinarily gracefully while thrashing, shuddering, sweating heavily, swaying and sinking to their knees. The older women caught them before they dropped and eased them down.
One beautiful, slim girl collapsed with her head falling forward. Her turban slipped off, letting loose her wavy hair. One of the elderly women gently picked her up, pulled her locks away from her sweaty neck and helped her to the altar. The priest puffed his cigar, took her hand, twirled her in circles and enveloped her in clouds of smoke to identify the spirit. Names of various orixás murmured through the knowing congregation.
The drummers’ rhythm became frantic. With eyes rolled up and spit dribbling from their mouths, people whooped, shuddered, whirled around the floor, sang samba songs while making the sign of the cross, ran back and forth, and bounced off the walls. The all-in-white granny first aid team mopped brows, shouted and applauded. The church was metamorphosing into a rave club, and I was beginning to feel as if I had taken ecstasy: loving the beat, loving everyone. I suddenly understood it all: the importance of music, pretty clothes and food; the reverence for extravagance and embellishment.
A man in a straw suit stamped his feet and lunged forward, hooting and whirling around with his dark loose curls flopping over his eyes and the sweat flinging off his skin. With eyes half-closed, he began to waver. An old woman led him to the aisle as he jerked violently and then began spinning, elegantly bending forward and sweeping the air with his curved arm. He stopped, dazed, and the woman gently guided him back to his seat, took his face in her hands and chanted some words. Practitioners sitting on the sidelines sauntered up, cradled his face and blessed him as well. The priest picked up a small boy and lifted him high enough for the crêpe-paper fringe on the ceiling to tickle his face and provoke a cosmic grin. The ceremony ended as everyone returned to a waking state – happy, relieved, sweaty and shiny-faced. They stroked each other’s hair, embraced, tucked into the sacrificed food and walked out into the night.
Gilberto and I joined the silent but jubilant exodus into the gentle night air. I confessed to him that the experience had left me emotionally and psychologically drained and asked if he knew of a hotel in Cachoeira at which I could stay. The place had exerted a hold on me, and I felt unable to leave without experiencing the dawn. Gilberto said he understood exactly how I felt and drove me to the Pousada do Convento de Cachoeira, a former convent set around a courtyard with a swimming pool. Although the hotel was fully booked, the manager knew Gilberto well and was eager to please. Gilberto and I exchanged telephone numbers as he and the manager led me to a room with frayed-wire spaghetti hanging from the roof beams. I thanked him warmly and promised to stay in touch.
I lay on the sagging, creaking metal-framed bed as feelings of unease and disturbance seeped into my psyche. I had never given speaking in tongues any credibility, yet now I had witnessed it fully. Was the rest of Candomblé also for real? It made sense that
the religion of the first humans in Africa would also be the truest. I thought of my mother’s failing health and the inevitability of her death. I felt frightened and alone, then comforted and happy, then terrified. There was no chance of sleep. The magic of dawn helped lift my anxiety, as did the hotel’s breakfast, but I was still filled with trepidation and premonitions of impending doom as I boarded the bus back to Salvador.
On arrival, I walked to the Hotel di Roma to freshen up and reassure the staff I had not done a runner. There was a message from Gilberto that he would call at the hotel about 8.00 that evening. I decided to spend the day sightseeing and visited the city’s oldest part, the Largo de Pelhourinho, a sloping square along the top of which is a building which has been converted to a museum dedicated to Brazil’s best-known author, Jorge Amado. Pelhourinho means whipping post. This square once witnessed the daily torture, selling and whipping of slaves but now celebrated their emancipation by frequent processions of African drummers and dancers streaming from the Bar do Reggae. The drumming reminded me of last night’s Candomblé and I decided to phone my sister to find out how my mother was faring.
Despite my pre-travel preparations, my mobile rarely registered a signal strong enough to make calls, so I bought a telephone card, strolled down to the seafront, and approached a row of phone boxes. A young beggar caught hold of my arm and asked for money. I refused and picked up the phone. On my third attempt to dial my head was suddenly rammed into the phone box, and I felt consciousness slipping away. A hand grabbed me around the neck and another tore off my gold chain. I struggled to my feet just in time to see my precious gold Buddha glinting in the hands of the young beggar as he sprinted towards the side streets.
My mind flashed back twenty years. I was staying at the Bangkok Peninsula Hotel, and it was my custom to visit the nearby Erawan Hotel, the site of the Erawan Buddha, on a Friday evening. There were many accidents during the hotel’s construction and to stop the deaths labourers placed a Buddha in the corner of the construction site. The deaths ceased, and the Buddha become an important shrine for those praying for upward mobility. When there I would usually see my friend Sompop, a flower seller I had befriended and to whom I would sometimes give money.
On one occasion he said, ‘Sawabdee, Kuhn Marks, sawabdee, Kuhn Marks. I have Buddha for you. Please wear always.’ Sompop had given me what looked like an antique bronze coin, but it clearly wasn’t currency. ‘Wear always, Kuhn Marks, except when with woman or when in toilet or when in bath, mai dee. Wear in sea or lake is OK, dee mak mak. No harm come to you, Kuhn Marks. You have good luck. Buddha look after you. Now we buy gold chain for Buddha from my friend. Wear always, Kuhn Marks.’
We went to a Bangkok jeweller, got the Buddha gilded, and chose for it a large gold chain.
I put my hand in my pocket for some money. Sompop stopped me and asked me to give it to the poor children.
Since then, the Buddha had been my lucky charm, constantly around my neck except when I was in prison, in bed with a woman or in the bathroom. Now it was gone. I was devastated, angry and convinced that bad luck was on its way. Terrified, I called my sister and learned that my mother although no better was stable. But my worries remained.
That evening I described my unhappy experience and fears to Gilberto.
‘Howard, this is common after Candomblé ceremonies, especially when experiencing them for the first time. Don’t forget it is the Sisterhood of Good Death. Energies and forces that we usually suppress or deny roam freely in our mind on these occasions. Coincidences do not exist; there is just what is. We call some events coincidences because we know we do not understand them and cannot explain them by what we think is knowledge. Once we think we understand them and think we can explain them, we don’t call them coincidences any longer; we give them other names like magnetism, gravity, schizophrenia and God. But they are still simply what they are. Our theories may change over time, but what is remains the same. I know from Mr Nice you have studied the philosophy of science. What does gravity explain? Nothing. It is just a name for falling to the floor. The name might change, but things still fall.’
‘I know all that, Gilberto; Galileo said the same. And I know that time changes magic first into one science then another. And I know that all scientific theories except some recent ones have been proven to be wrong, so even these recent theories will one day also be proven wrong. But from where do I get this feeling of fear?’
‘It is the fear of death.’
‘But I am not afraid of death, Gilberto – at least not of my own.’
‘What about the death of someone you love?’
‘Yes, I am afraid of my mother’s death. She is very ill.’
‘It’s the same. If she is to die, her death must be good. The fear you have is escaping. You must let it go and take no further comfort in your denial.’
‘And I am afraid of life without my Buddha; it has been with me for so long. It has saved my life. It is my protection.’
‘I am not Buddhist, Howard, but your Buddha, does it teach you how much control you have over events or how little?’
‘How little.’
‘Then you have learned your lesson. Your Buddha has moved on to protect someone needing it more than you do.’
‘But I let it go through carelessness.’
‘Only if you thought you were in control. Forget your Buddha; it was never yours. It found you. It will now find someone else. Are you still interested in finding your Welsh community?’
‘Yes, as much as ever. Why do you ask?’
‘I have made some enquiries with my academic friends, and they say there has never been a significant Welsh presence in Bahia. However, you should go to Lencóis. It is an interesting place and, who knows, you might find someone of Welsh descent. Don’t take the bus the entire way; go by boat and have a couple of days holiday. There is an idyllic island on the way.’
The following day, my fifty-seventh birthday, I caught the early ferry from Salvador to Morro São Paulo on the Ilha de Tinharé. The boat moved gently through the singularly beautiful bay of Bahia, its vast sweep ranging from luscious flora fringing its inlets to glimpses of the distant hills behind. The upper city sits on a steep bluff, eighty feet above the lower town, which occupies the narrow strip between the harbour and the cliff. Soon we entered the turbulent open sea. The trip took about four hours, and I blessed the seasickness pills I had brought from my first aid kit. Landing was nevertheless a welcome relief.
Tinharé has no cars, no industrial noise, no hassle. The beaches are named One, Two and Three. Wheelbarrows carry ferry passengers’ luggage through lanes littered with bars, restaurants, Internet cafés and money changers. Delicious crab dishes were on sale everywhere, except at my hotel, which was a crab sanctuary. The hotel’s gardens were full of hummingbirds and monkeys, and blue crabs constantly darting in and out of holes in the ground.
As dusk fell, I ventured into a forest of palm trees encircling a Candomblé sanctuary. Between the palm trunks were tree ferns rising to twenty feet and a bewildering profusion of hanging, climbing and parasitic plants, which girdled the boughs with flowers. Then black and white spirits and goblins began to haunt the quiet night. Huge swarms of bats filled the sky. I rushed out to the nearest light, a reggae bar on the beach, and worked my way through several glasses of cachaça, eventually achieving a feeling of well-being. I spent the next day in a hammock watching the crabs.
Two days later and well rested, I took the short boat trip from Morro Sao Paolo to the busy port of Valença and climbed aboard a bus to begin the six-hour haul inland to Lencóis. I swallowed some seasickness pills so I could read without feeling dizzy while the bus bounced through the Sertão, north-eastern Brazil’s vast and fiercely hot semi-arid interior. Larger than any European country and dominated by rocks, cactus and circling hawks, its soils are poor, and rainfall sparse and irregular. Mere showers cause astonishing transformations: trees immediately bud, cacti burst into flower, shoots appear, and
the ground changes colour from brown to green. After a climb, we entered the Chapada Diamantina – the Diamond Highlands. Views of deep valleys, tall isolated peaks, open high plains, shady canyons, cold mountain streams and spectacular waterfalls flanked us all the way to Lencóis, the Queen of the Mines.
Until 1732 India was the world’s only known source of diamonds. At first, the diamonds discovered in Brazil were believed to be fake, so the Portuguese took them to Macau and passed them off as Indian. By the mid-nineteenth century, however, Brazilian diamonds had been judged genuine and Lencóis was a boom town infested with criminals, fugitives and adventurers, diamond merchants and the usual service personnel – hookers and the rest. Shops and banks lined the streets. Then the diamonds became scarce and another source was discovered in South Africa. The boom town became a ghost town and stayed that way until seventeen years ago, when an American geologist, Roy Funch, happened to pass through Lencóis and fall in love with it. Almost singlehandedly, Roy succeeded in persuading the authorities to turn the Diamond Highlands into a national park. Tonight, he was giving a talk at the Cantos dos Aquas hotel, where I was about to check in.