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It was a stirring piece that soon had us all dancing. Painfully
trapped in my own Britishness, I
needed to be encouraged, nay
invited, to get up and dance. I did not have to wait long before
one of the
elder dancers beckoned me into the
fold with an accompanying smile.
By
David Alexander Robert
The young man who finds himself as the title of this article is singled out as he was the only person who left the
Candomblé1 ceremony, which I had the pleasure of attending this evening, miserable. But then so would you if you sat through an
entire ceremony willing the cowbell player to strike his own thumb knuckle with such force that he had to be replaced: but to
no avail. The ceremony was part of an event named Aldeia Sagrada2, organised by The Movimento Inter-Religioso do Rio
de Janeiro at the church in Glória.
I had an extensive opportunity to study the percussion band as they filled the hour and a half delay whilst, as one of
the drummers explained, the dancers put on their intricate costumes. I, of course, had arrived promptly at the scheduled
hour, though my suspicions were immediately awakened to the fact that events were running late. Even my limited knowledge
of Candomblé told me it had little to do with bald, bearded men standing around a burning bird's nest, throwing in incense
and blowing into giant seashells. I retired to the information stalls.
Returning about half an hour later I found a line of six drums, ordered from big to small, followed by a solitary
cowbell upon a chair and then finally an empty chair. When the musicians finally entered and took their positions, I realised that
they too were ordered, though in terms of age. The largest of the drums, which had to be played standing up, was joined by a
man who must have been in his fifties. Then came the second drummer, probably in his thirties. And so it went on, the drums
gradually decreasing in size so that they could be played sitting down by young men, followed by spotty teenagers until it
reached a boy of about nine, who proudly took to his seat, cowbell and stick in hand.
They burst into what I can only describe as enchanting, spirit-rendering rhythms that they produced with
complete naturalness. I soon melted into foam and rode the crest of their musical waves. I would have happily stayed there had I
not been distracted by the arrival of a small, yet strong, black boy who plodded reluctantly to his place: the empty chair
beside the cowbell player. And he sat their sulking. Every now and again he looked enviously, bordering on hatefully, towards
the one with the cowbell, who was a fine young musician by the way. At one point he got up, walked towards drummer
number two, stood in front of him and raised his arms in a gesture of appeal. He was promptly and sternly told to return to his seat.
The musicians made the long delay pass quickly and pleasurably. They were aided by the only two dancers who
were ready and impatiently waiting the arrival of the rest of the troupe. These two were little girls dressed in big, white,
many-layered, cotton dresses and headscarves, featuring elaborately hand-sewn designs of flowers and leaves. Their sun-kissed faces
shone with happiness and a love of life.
They entertained the audience with their repertoire of antics which featured practising their twirls, making their
own percussion instruments with gravel and empty bottles of mineral water, stealing a beat on the drums and flirtily trying to
disrupt the young lad with the cowbell. This only added to the fury of the reserve for he was being totally ignored. You had to
be a real cowbell player to get the girls.
Finally there was movement in the wings as a mature-looking woman in a sky-blue dress and headscarf appeared.
Now when I say sky-blue I'm talking the hot summer sky of Bahia3 as it reflects the depth of the ocean. The outfit was so
blue; so deeply, brightly, luminously blue that it barely allowed you to make out the features on her face. And thus I could not
work out if she was an incredibly cross woman putting on a smiling face, or an over-jovial woman trying to take things seriously.
She sat in a chair centre stage and bathed the entire performing space in her bluey, unstated demand for deference.
She must have been Mãe Beata d'Yemanjá4, part of the troop's name. No one else in the area was even near worthy of such
a title. Once she was sitting comfortably, the show began. Seven women of varying ages shuffled on followed by three
men. The women were larger versions of the little girls, dressed in equally fine embroidered dresses and also boasting a
brilliance to their faces.
The men wore colourful sleeveless tops and trousers, patterned with conflicting hues calmly separated through the
clever use of geometric patterns. One of the men caught my attention. He was a huge black man. Not fat, just big all over.
Broad-backed, palmleaf-handed, gorilla-buttocked, sashumi-lipped, saucer-eyed big. He looked like the fully, over-grown
version of the wee, yet strong, reserve cowbell player. In fact the more I thought about it the more I made a connection between
the two. For if the regular cowbell player failed to slice open his wrist on that dangerously sharp-edged cowbell, forcing him
to be rushed to hospital due to severe blood loss, the reserve might well be destined to a career as a dancer.
With the presence of the dancers the show got into full swing. Individuals twisting and turning within the
collectively rotating circle, allowing each member to explore his/her own style whilst adding to the ensemble. The young girls
watched attentively as they immediately mimicked the movements of their elders, not wishing to make the slightest of........ No. I
was going to say "errors" but I realised that there is no such thing as a mistake in this ceremony. For they all dance with
love. Dance from the soul.
This fact was eloquently explained by one of the male dancers who also acted as spokesperson. He said that if he
were to sum up Condomblé, it would be about the love of nature. Hence Oxum the divinity of rivers; Xangô, God of thunder
and lightening, Iansã for the wind. Yemanjá, the goddess of the sea. He concluded by saying that with every step the
dancers take, they are celebrating their love of their land.
There were two triumphant moments during the celebrations. The first was when the great, blue Mãe strutted her
stuff. In the very centre of the circle she moved with gentle ease, slightly slower than the others, a speed that seemed
appropriate to her position. Her movements were always sugared with a relaxed grace, which illustrated she had been doing this
since she was younger than those two youthful dancers who were watching her in awe.
The second moment, unlike the first, may well have only been appreciated by myself, due to what had become the
main focus of my attention. The moment happened when one of the younger drummers relieved himself of his drum in favour
of another instrument. It was a handheld shaking instrument made up of a circular vase covered in a netting of what looked
like nut shells. The instrument is actually called a
xequeré the body of which is called a cabaça which is made from a root of
a tree. The netting consists of the shells of mini coconuts from the aptly called coqueirinho5. Now I hasten to add at this
point that I, an Englishman, knew nothing of this until I asked one of the musicians at the end. Even then I was unable to
remember all these strange new words correctly and in the first draft of this piece I stated that the musician was shaking his
"xereca" made from a "tabaca". A friend kindly pointed out my double-barrelled reference to the vulva6.
Anyway, the important point is that having left his drum free, it was taken up by the young cowbell player who ,in
turn, left his own instrument upon his seat. The reserve sat up excitedly, nervously. He looked at the musicians, his hands
already edging forward, hoping for some sort of consent. But it was not forthcoming, not even from his now drum playing object
of envy who was too engrossed in his own new role. It was a natural slip up the hierarchy, a vacuum he was there to fill.
With all the speed and stealth of a snake's tongue he whipped up that cowbell and stick and had it making music.
His music in his way. The look of serious concentration could not hide the white of his teeth as a broad smile broke through
his face, like the full moon shining through the grey night clouds. And then suddenly, abruptly, the music ended and each
segment of the hierarchy slipped effortlessly down to its former position and that little boy found himself empty-handed once more.
The evening ended with a song and dance blessing Yemanjá, a most fitting finale for this group that bears her name
as they spread their magic across the Bay of Glória. It was a stirring piece that first had everybody standing up with their
right palm facing the performers and then had us all dancing. Painfully trapped in my own Britishness, I needed to be
encouraged, nay invited, to get up and dance. I did not have to wait long before one of the elder dancers beckoned me into the fold
with an accompanying smile.
The celebration ended with a long session of hugging. Starting with members of the group hugging one another, it
quickly moved to the dancers hugging the participating audience members and then to a free-for-all. Still being a ridiculous
diplomat of my country, I stood stiffly on the sidelines, waiting and wanting to be hugged. The first body to confront me was the
huge, black dancer. He looked down at me with a smile the size of a slice of watermelon, and as we both stretched out our
hands to meet in the ever-closing gap between us. Our eyes made contact, a knowing, trusting contact which allowed that
handshake to metamorphose into a hug. I could barely get my arms round that sweaty trunk of a body.
As I felt my spine being gradually compressed by his effortless strength, I looked around his shoulder, not being
able to look over it, and saw the small, yet strong, black boy. He was the only person sitting down, not participating in the
group hug. And yet I felt that I was hugging him, hugging him in his future when he too would be a great man in this
Camdomblé group of Nova Iguaçu7. And at that moment the God Oxóssi, the hunter, caught us all in his net of creativity. And I had
to rush home and get to the page and write about this inspiring evening.
Thank you, Mãe Benta d'Yemanjá and Omo Ara8. Thank you Oxóssi.
Notes
1 An orthodox religion of African origin. The African word Candomblé denotes a dance in honour of the Gods.
2 Sacred Village.
3 A north eastern state.
4 The name signifies a priestess of the goddess of the sea, Yemonjá.
5 Little coconut tree!
6 Unfortunately my two slight errors in pronunciation were both slang for the vagina.
7 A district in Rio's suburbs.
8 The full name of the troop.
David is a freelance writer and English Language Consultant who has been living in Brazil, mainly Rio, since
November 1997. He can be contacted on davealexrob@yahoo.com
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