Issue link: http://digital.canadawide.com/i/303828
s u m m e r 2 0 1 4 | w e s t w o r l d 35 you don't have just one god. You've got hundreds: African, Christian, zombies, saints, voodoo spirits . . . whatever works. e more, the merrier! Life's meant to be fun." And so, early on a hot tropical evening, I set out through the crowded streets of Salva- dor, hoping to witness first-hand what hap- pens when the gods descend and enter the bodies of worshippers who are then trans- formed into trance-dancing deities. How does a Bahian woman become Yemanjá? Or a man become a zombie? My destination is Terreiro São Roque in the city's working-class Tancredo Neves district. Across Salvador, there are 1,200 of these Candomblé terreiros or temples, four times the number of Catholic churches there, and a fraction of the tens of thousands of terreiros across Brazil. Once forbidden by Catholic authorities as voodoo, they serve today as centres of local social life, providing spiritual guidance and neighbourhood cohe- sion for millions of celebrants. e hallmark of Candomblé is prolonged rhythmic drumming because, in Afro-Brazilian belief, the gods like to party. And it is the language of drums that calls them down from the sky. In fact, it is this drumming, far louder than the hubbub of Salvador's traffic and boom-box-fuelled side- walk partying, that indicates I'm approaching Terreiro São Roque. Crowds of white-dressed celebrants, the women in magnificent turbans, enormous bustled skirts and enough necklaces, bracelets and rings to stock a modest jewellery store, fill the terreiro's sidewalk and courtyard, and a larger crowd has sardined itself inside the small temple. e packed dance floor – where gyrat- ing initiates await the gods' arrival – is covered with scattered cinnamon leaves while, sus- pended from ceiling latticework, thousands of white ribbons and grasses indicate this is a sacred place. Here magic happens. e drum- mers keep up a relentless beat. Hands clap. Chants syncopate. Whenever a solo dancer begins to spasm, her eyes roll upward and she careens aimlessly, like a slowing top about to tumble. At that moment – and the moment is repeated throughout the evening, as others are possessed – the dancer becomes the deity. e invisible goddess or god – after a trans-Atlantic journey – has joined the party. Africa and Brazil are united. Exile is bearable. Redemption pos- sible. The beliefs and traditions of long- abandoned ancestors, the knowledge of herbs, of prophecy, of nature's wisdom, are reasserted . . . even as the drummers play on and 20 or so trance-dancers slip into a backroom. When the mesmerized dancers reappear, they are transformed by masks and costumes into living gods. e drumming and chanting and rhy thmic shaking of rattle-gourds increase in tempo. Firecrackers erupt outside. There's Omulu, the god of epidemics and health, who's covered head-to-toe in an incred- ible raffia haystack. ere's Oxum, the West African goddess of love, her face concealed by a tinsel-draped crown. And, of course, there's starfish-crowned, blue- and white-dressed Yemanjá, the feminine spirit of moonlight and the goddess of creation. I step outside where the ground is littered with fallen hibiscus petals and firecracker shrapnel. All over Salvador on this night, I tell myself, all over Brazil in fact, the descendants of millions of West African slaves are calling their gods back. There's a cooling evening breeze off the appropriately named Bay of All Saints now. And in a city named for salvation, there's the sense an exiled people and their far- away gods have finally found accommodation with their fate. W jan sochor/alamy/all canada photos p30-35_Brazil.indd 35 14-04-11 2:45 PM