It’s five o’clock in the morning when dawn breaks on Rio Vermelho beach in Salvador de Bahía (Brazil). For hours, people have been crowding the sands, waiting to witness firsthand this Thursday one of the most important festivals in the Brazilian religious calendar: the day dedicated to Yemanjá, the Orish, revered as the Queen of the Sea. In this edition, the party turns a hundred years old and is truly massive after the standstill forced by the Covid-19 pandemic. Its fame has gradually grown in recent years, attracting more and more tourists, especially those who come from Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo.
The festival in its current form dates back to 1923 when a group of fishermen made a sacrifice to the Orisha in a time of scarcity to ask for protection and plenty. The date of February 2nd was consolidated in the fifties thanks to the syncretism with the Virgin of Candelaria. The offerings for Yemanjá are thrown directly into the sea: they are usually flowers or small wooden boats on which mirrors, necklaces, combs or lavender perfume are placed. Throughout the early morning, devotees and tourists come to deposit their gifts for the goddess around a humble house where she is worshiped in several statues. From there, at the end of the afternoon, a procession of boats leaves leaving everything on the high seas, including the main gift, a statue of the goddess herself, which the fishermen will make and which will rest at the bottom of the ocean.
A citizen of Salvador, Brazil, brings flowers in tribute to the Rio Vermelho beach on February 1. STRINGER (Portal)
But aside from the official ritual, many choose to make the sacrifice themselves, sprawling among the rocks to pray, throwing white, yellow, or red roses into the sea. Getting an intimate moment is not easy. On the shore, dozens of boats take turns taking tourists out to sea, and on the sand those present face each other with improvised stalls where one can be blessed with sacred leaves. Among the crowd, Asila Camila, a mãe de santo (priestess of Candomblé, a religion of African origin) of considerable height, looked out for her children, the faithful of her terreiro: “For those of us who are from Salvador, The day of Yemanjá is every day, because the sea is our refuge. We did the foundation itself (the ritual) three days ago because it’s more complicated today,” he says, referring to the influx of people. On the beach, the faithful gather in traditional clothing (turbans, large embroidered skirts and sacred necklaces related to the deities) to have their moment of spiritual contact, while mobile phones beckon them in search of the precious photograph of an “authentic” surrounded by moments”.
For Talita Machado, who believes in Candomblé and dresses strictly in white, tourists are not a problem: “It is a pleasure for the Bahians to spread this wonderful energy, our Yemanjá will surely be happy about all these emotions,” she says . What annoys him more than the influx, he says, is the lack of respect for those who pervert the original meaning of the party. With the fame of recent years, February 2nd has become a claim around which concerts and parties are organized that fill the Rio Vermelho neighborhood throughout the week. By mid-morning, the streets are already crowded and the sound of DJs playing from some balconies reaches where the waves break. There are hundreds of street beer vendors and there are many faces along the seafront promenade, making the excesses of the night clear. In the days leading up to the party, the bars in the area do not serve crystal glasses or glass beer bottles to avoid incident.
A crowd on the beach at Rio Vermelho STRINGER (Portal)
The sacred and the profane coexist naturally in Brazil, but sometimes friction is unavoidable. So believes Bruno Lima, a young man making his debut at the celebration after starting Umbanda, another Afro-Brazilian religion. Along with his colleagues from the Estrella de Aruanda Centre, he admits that he is somewhat frustrated with the direction the party is taking: “So far what I have noticed is that it is very different from what I had imagined. It seems they are trying to turn it into a pre-carnival. There are a lot of concerts, a lot of parties, it’s all annoying, it’s a very invasive thing. There’s room for everything, but there’s a bit of a lack of respect,” he said. For others, however, the celebration is a powerful showcase against intolerance toward religious minorities in an increasingly evangelical and fundamentalist Brazil.
The Yemanjá festival has been officially Salvador de Bahía’s cultural heritage for the past three years, and the mayor’s office is trying to increase its tourist vocation by decorating the streets and deploying a strong police force. The 2020 edition, the last before the pandemic, brought together more than 600,000 people. Cities like Rio de Janeiro are trying to replicate the party, and this year they’ll be hosting their own version with concerts on Ipanema Beach. Between the blue and white pennants in honor of Yemanjá that decorate the beach of Salvador, some old photographs of artists like Pierre Verger, the great portrait painter from Bahia, have been hung, where one can glimpse what the party was like before the era of selfies and posing.
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