The Pelourinho

I started my spiritual tour in the heart of the newly restored old town known locally as the Pelourinho. This UNESCO protected area is currently undergoing substantial redevelopment, and the many colonial houses are being painted and restored to their original condition, which are simply divine. In fact the area is considered to be the finest example of colonial architecture in the Americas and is largely attributed to the dedication of former governor of Bahia Antonio Carlos Magalhaes. It reminded me of the pretty coloured houses I had seen in Macao.

However, the beautifully painted houses in the quaint cobbled streets belie a more sinister history. One that we should never forget. The area, where today tourists stroll with cameras poised and a nonchalant step was once the scene of brutal ritual punishments that were handed out indiscriminately to slaves. Pelourinho actually means whipping post, and today the post has been partially restored, lest we forget. Next to it I found a poignant poem:

Of the 166 churches in Salvador the most famous, and possibly the most impressive, is the Igreja Sao Francisco which dominates the eastern side of the Praca de Se. From the outside it looks a modest, almost humble church, simple yet pleasing architecture and an almost nondescript façade. This simple façade, which was made from local sandstone blocks glued together using whale oil, belies the glorious interior. It is without a doubt the most stunning church in the Americas - if not the world.

Before entering the church I passed into a sanctuary that contains splendid ceiling paintings by the local artist Jose Joaquim da Rocha. The artwork is often compared to the Sistine Chapel due to its use of perspective such that the figures seem to follow you through 360 degrees. It was at the time an original and stunningly conceived piece of art. Today, it loses none of its power, and unlike the Sistine Chapel is not obscured with hoards of tourists. In fact, wandering around on Christmas Eve, I was almost alone. I could not think of a better way to spend the day.

Entering the church is like entering the clichéd fairy tale grotto, a parable of baroque decadence worked in gold and silver with an over exuberance of precious stones and imported Portuguese tiles. By itself, the sheer affluence of the church made me gasp. On each subsequent visit to the church more of its intricate details, leering cherubs and enigmatic saints became apparent. Each visit revealed more layers of complexity and meaning.

The church was built for the most part by slaves who were largely prohibited from practising their own religion. This is reflected in the architecture. In a twilight-zone of ecclesial styles nothing is quite what it seems – saints are over endowed with amusingly large manhoods, some of the cherubs are heavily pregnant and one even appears to be both male and female. Each pillar and gold-coated post presents another surprise; naked angles vie with revered saints whilst Saint Ana (the mother of the Virgin) rubs shoulders with a pouting cherub. The church is revered to both Catholics and the indigenous African cults and joint services are often held. I couldn't help but feel that only in Brazil would two such radically different systems of belief fit so well together.

It was whilst marvelling at the statue of St Benedict – the first black saint in Brazil, that the Father came rushing over to me. After I had received a blessing and a prayer wishing me good fortunes for the New Year and for my travels, he asked me what I thought of the church. "It's the second most beautiful church in the Americas," he explained to me barely able to contain his enthusiasm, "second only to the Catedral Metropolitana on the Zocalo in Mexico City". I thought he was going to hug me when I told him that the Catedral Metropolitana was currently ungoing heavy restoration work and had lost much of its charm. Instead he wistfully shook my hand and wished my luck on my trip.

But, Igreja Sao Francisco is more than just a wonderful diversion for tourists and historians of art. It is still a working church. Every Tuesday, come rain or shine, is o dia da bansa (the day of Benediction). The service is held at 6pm and after the final blessing has been said and Saint Antonio has been venerated, bread is given out to the many poor (Salvador has the highest birth rate in Brazil, and more tragically the highest infant mortality rate). The Pelourinho is closed to traffic, and the population throng the streets. "Of course", someone later told me, "it's just an excuse to celebrate living in one of the world's most diverse and spiritual cities." Who was I to disagree?

Local life in Salvador

On Christmas night I strolled with the crowds in the Pelourinho. Bands had begun playing on every street corner and the air was rich with the smells of the traditional Bahian cooking. The women, who without exception looked stunningly attractive in their long white dresses and turbans, sat on every street corner behind bubbling drums of sweet smelling dende palm oil. This wonderful aroma draws you towards their trays laden with acaraje. This superb dish is made from beans which have been mashed in salt and onions then fried. The fried balls are then split and filled with a mixture of coconut paste, seafood, red peppers and shrimp. It can be sublimely hot.

However, when I think of Salvador I will probably not remember the stunning architecture, the curious mix of cultures or the warmth of the blessing I received in the church, I will not even recall the fantastic food and the charming turban clad women who sold it. I will, however, remember my final bus journey back to the Pousada Azul.

A few blocks from the town centre a rag-tag bunch of teenagers got on. They sat quietly at the back of the bus for a few minutes. Then in a casually nonchalant manner, whilst he chatted with the pretty girl next to him, one of the older boys began to drum a simple rhythm out on the seat. A few minutes later another boy joined in the rhythm and was quickly followed by a crystal voiced girl who began to sing a haunting refrain. Another boy joined in to answer the refrain, his voice less strong, but still carrying powerfully down the bus. Within a few more stops the whole group had spontaneously burst into song. The drummers drummed on the seats and the girls' refrain was matched with passion from the boys, even the conductor was clanging his change in time with the drummers. The singing became louder and louder, more passionate with each new verse, the drummers drummed intensely on the seats. I stayed on the bus many stops past my own to listen, and during the long walk back to the hotel I found myself still humming their tune. It is still with me today.

About the Author
The author grew up in West London and left initially for a position in Japan. He is a regular contributor to several travel magazines. His travels have taken him across Asia, through Africa and into South America. He fell in love with Brazil two years ago and has been travelling thought out the country ever since. He currently lives in Fortaleza where he is attempting to learn the "language of angels".

Questions?
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