Under a bygone sunset, five ships enter serene waters, in a bay dotted with islands and surrounded by sandy cliffs. Vespuccio, the fleet's cartographer, barely glances at the shores, amazed by the hundred colours of the sky. He remembers the frescoes of an old church in his native Florence, and ponders on rumours of shipwrecked Christians that already inhabit the New World. While the soldiers plant stone crosses on the coast, the explorer baptizes these waters in his notebook.
Night was falling on the Bay of All Saints.
***
It is difficult to wander in Rio Vermelho without getting blinded. As the sun reflects mercilessly on its lime walls and stairways, one’s eyes can only rest by gazing at the sea. This neighborhood, south of Salvador de Bahía, is a little maze of hills, lying next to long beaches. This early in the morning, under such intense heat, the ocean can only be enjoyed by fishermen and children brawling on the sand.
Still, Rio Vermelho is like a miniature of Bahia, mimicking the city's countless contrasts: crumbling palaces stand next to towers of concrete, and all seems covered in a veil of humidity and greenery. The beaches are always dressed with elegants walls and columns, standing proud among the joyful chaos. Old Bahíanos lie on them, gazing at the blue sky and smelling the morning breeze.
Next to the dike stands a church covered in azulejos, arrogant and empty. Beside it, a humble shack recieves dozens of fishermen, and old vendors roam around it, offering roses and stamps to the visitors.
This is the House of Iemanjá, the beloved goddess of the sea, the most venerated Orixá of Bahía, perhaps of all Brazil. Coming from Africa with the Yoruba slaves, today she is mother of many, and receives gifts in exchange of joy and prosperity. Sheltered in her temple, faintly lit by candles and surrounded by offerings, her statue celebrates a silent faith.
It is common to worship the Orixás in Brazil, even though Candomblé cults are mostly surrounded by mystery. To understand them, one must unravel a web of rites and prohibitions, discovering the gods that hide behind the saints: a labyrinth that keeps strangers at bay.
The Senhor do Bomfim Basilica celebrates a beautiful mixture of faiths. Erected on a hill north of Salvador, its railings are covered with coloured ribbons, tied every day by the worshipers. From its corridors, one can see a landscape of impoverished homes, surrounding the old and rich neighborhoods of the city. In this temple, covered in gold and surrounded by misery, people worship Jesus Christ and Oxalá, the creator of Humanity.
The ex-votos hanging off the roof ask the Gods for healing, and countless letters praise them for their miracles.
Masses never end in the Temple of Bonfim, and it is impossible to know which Heavens the worshipers pray to.
***
The old Salvador de Bahía grows over a ravine, safe from the waves and from prying eyes. It is an ancient city of temples and palaces, the work of Jesuits guided by a crazed castaway. Even today, some places, such as the Carmo Convent, hold remnants of those times of abundance.
But Salvador, more than any other city in America, was ruthlessly struck by History. This land of arrogant riches has been invaded by Dutch fleets, sacked in religious wars, abandoned by its founders. And centuries of contempt have only reinforced its mystical reputation.
When Salvador ceased to be Brazil's capital, it unveiled its African heart. The Orixás abandoned their disguises of Christs and Virgins, and old palaces and gardens gained new names and functions. Today, old Bahía is nothing more than an island amid an ocean of concrete homes. The Terreiro de Jesús and the Pelourinho of today are impeccable plazas, adorned by beautiful churches, but the heart of the city surpasses its ancient walls.
Near the stones of the Terreiro, a boardwalk overlooks the sea and its countless boats. When the sunset starts, wanderers stop in front of that incomparable scenery, or descend the centennial Lacerda elevator to touch the waters of the Bay.
Tonight, a strange procession leaves the cathedral, carrying a sleeping Christ, not even glancing at the coast. Dressed in colonial costumes, the Bahians sing mournful psalms, enduring the heat. With them, I passed by abandoned alleyways, and little streets lost to restoration. Old Salvador, proud of its ancient and mighty History, can ignore its moments of misery.
***
Under the waves of the Bay of All Saints rests an old shipwreck. Four centuries ago, a galleon sank among its waters, and brought its load of treasures to the deep. Tales of the lives and riches lost that night still ignite the imaginations of Bahía's children, who swim in its beaches, hoping to stumble on a diamond.
Among the stones lying on the sand, the fortress of Barra watches over the waves. According to some, this old fort and its lighthouse are the first european buildings in the Americas.
Today, Barra is a beacon standing over the waters of Bahía. Its dark stone courtyard overlooks the waves and the distant island of Itaparica.
I will never forget the sight of the sunset over that sea.
Between its walls and towers, I saw the sky and its clouds covered in blood. This world of stone, ocean and blue sky, was painted over with traces of red, orange and purple, colours so diverse that I forgot the night that was to come.
The horizon, the island, its mountains, the clouds, almost burning, became a thread of exultant, painful, beautiful tones.
For some unfathomable reason, every corner of Bahía seemed to be sculpted for sunsets: in that fort among the rocks, in that esplanade in the old city, in that waterfall in the wilderness.
A world that abandons the sun by surrounding it with immense beauty.