The first time I heard the patter of bongos in the streets of Salvador da Bahia, I followed it down crowded Avenida Carlos Gomes. It took me up five flights of rickety stairs to a display of acrobatics so bold and poetic it made my heart jump. Two caramel-colored men were demonstrating the martial art of capoeira, facing off in a muscular show of power kicks, head-stands and cartwheels, while a pair of drummers coolly tapped in the background.
I took that serendipitous foray to be a sign: For the rest of my stay, the drummers of Salvador would be my pied pipers. Whenever I heard the rhythmic bang of bongos or other drums, I would try to trace it to the source, using my ear as a compass.
One Sunday morning, it led me to a Catholic church where prayers were sung in a kind of Portuguese rap to the syncopated beat of a bongo. A couple of nights later, the drums drew me to a tiny neighborhood restaurant for lunch. The dreadlocked chef served shredded beef with manioc root and played an impromptu drum concert on the side. Another evening, I followed the beat down an oceanside trail to a jagged cliff. There a lone musician tapped out an homage to the blood-orange ball sinking into the horizon.
I had come to Salvador, on Brazil's northeast coast, to explore its Afro-Brazilian heritage. About 70 percent of its approximately 2.5 million residents have African roots. On your first swing through the city, you can sense their presence: in the skin tones of the locals, which range in hue from dark chocolate to milky coffee; in the white can-can skirts and flamboyant headdresses sported by matrons on street corners; in many local recipes, from the fish stew called moqueca, to acaraje, a bean fritter dish from Nigeria that Bahians gobble down quicker than Americans eat hog dogs.
But I wanted to dig deeper. Tracking the drum beat to the source might help. After all, it was slaves from Africa, transported here by Portuguese settlers between the 16th and 19th centuries, who brought bongos and other drums to these parts. And their descendants continue to weave drum music into the songs, religious worship and other aspects of Bahian life.
Even without background tunes, Salvador, the capital city of the Brazilian state of Bahia, is one of the world's grandest destinations. The stunning vistas and elegant buildings make an indelible impression on a visitor, like a ballad you hear once and remember by heart. On my first stroll through Cidade Alta, the historic district, I saw some of the most unforgettable architecture in South America: Catholic cathedrals splashed with gold leaf and covered with blue-and-white Portuguese tiles, baroque mansions of fallen sugar barons, towering statues of poets and lawmakers--all remnants of the city's 214-year reign (from 1549 to 1763) as Portugal's colonial capital.
From my room on the 10th floor of the Othon Palace hotel, I looked out over a sandy shoreline that continued as far as I could see along the edge of the city, encompassing at least two dozen beaches that go on for 40 miles--all apparently packed with Brazilian beauties. And then there were the Bahians, whose natural good looks and coquettish charm have been serenaded in song by Carmen Miranda and in prose by Brazilian novelist Jorge Amado, also a Bahian. Perched on cafe stools or standing on street corners, they seemed always ready to engage a stranger, even an American with only a scant knowledge of Portuguese.
Bahia, the center of the slave trade until the country abolished forced servitude in 1888, was Brazil's answer to antebellum South Carolina. The Portuguese brought up to 3 million captives to its ports. That bitter legacy transformed Salvador into the only major city in South America with a majority black population.
Although the style of Salvador has been heavily infused with Portuguese and native Indian customs, the mark left by the Africans struck me as most prominent. Among the handful of strongholds of the African diaspora spread across the New World--places where African-rooted people have put down the deepest stakes--Salvador seems to cling most faithfully to the traditions of the mother continent. Just as in Cuba, the Bahian music and dance customs are punctuated with the syncopated drums and rhythms born along Africa's Gold Coast. And like the people of the Gullah region in South Carolina, Bahians faithfully carry on African religious customs.
But one aspect of Salvador that distinguishes it from any other city I know is the extent to which the general population, including whites, has embraced African cultural traditions. Regardless of race, almost all Bahians eat acaraje and know by heart lyrics to the tunes of Olodum, a local Afrocentric musical group. A year and a half ago, the city fathers erected towering replicas of a half-dozen orixas, the gods worshiped by Bahians of African descent, in the middle of a pond in the Dique de Tororo, the most popular park in the city.
Back, if I may, to the drums. Early one evening, as I wandered the old city looking for a place to eat supper, I heard a patter from an open window above the cobblestoned Rua Joao de Deus. I followed it into the Casa do Gamboa, a restaurant much loved by upscale locals that specializes in a blend of Bahian and African recipes. I dined on vatapa, a seafood stew made with manioc paste, coconut and dende oil--probably the best known of many Brazilian dishes that originated in Africa.
As soon as I stepped onto the street, I heard a drum overture coming from the nearby Casa Olodum, the headquarters of the music group Olodum. Known for its thunderous chorus of drums, the group is waging a campaign to combat racism and boost the image of African people in Brazil. The shop sells musical instruments and Afrocentric memorabilia, stages informal drum jam sessions and acts as a center of information for readings and artistic performances by locals of African descent. After a chat, a clerk recommended I pay a visit to Mestre Mele.
A short, spry man with a bald head and a gray beard, Mele was standing outside his storefront office on the Rua do Passo when I arrived. As president of the Bahia Association of Capoeira Angola, he is an expert on capoeira, the martial art that has become as much a pastime in Brazil as hip-hop dancing in urban America.
A graceful combination of acrobatics, aerobics and high-rolling body throws, capoeira captured my imagination throughout my stay. Impromptu demonstrations are staged on street corners all over the old city. Whenever I saw one, I had to stop and gawk. Classes, open to visitors, are held at select locations. (I took one lesson on my fourth evening in Salvador and spent the rest of the week limping with a strained tendon.)
A 72-year-old who first learned capoeira when he was 15, Mele explained the way the art has evolved over the years. At first used to help slaves revolt against their masters, its practice was banned until the 1920s, when tamer forms were introduced. Now there are two types, capoeira Angola and capoeira regional.
Mele explained the difference: The former style, believed to hold closely to forms imported by slaves, is more graceful and performed closer to the ground. The latter is more acrobatic and has a stronger spirit of combat about it. Capoeira Angola is usually accompanied by a small band of instruments, including drums and the berimbau, a bow-shaped piece of wood with a gourd at one end. Capoeira regional is usually performed only to drumbeats.
"It used to be that only people of African heritage practiced it at all," Mele said. "But we've opened the doors for everyone to take part, and just about everyone has come in."
One Saturday evening, the drums called me to a service of Candomble, the religion Yoruba slaves brought to Brazil and practiced clandestinely until 1970, when a law lifted many of the restrictions that had been imposed on its practice. The services are conducted to rhythmic chants and the constant banging of drums--and are real foot-stomping, holy-rolling affairs. Typically, the participants commune with spirits, fall into deep trances and sometimes collapse in faints.
A Brazilian friend had suggested the Casa Copra. One of dozens of Candomble houses sprinkled across Salvador's residential settlements, the Copra is deep in the rough-and-tumble Federacao district, the kind of neighborhood where young brothers in soccer jerseys linger all evening in front of beer joints. After an hour's search for an address scribbled on a napkin, I was hopelessly lost and about to head back to my hotel. But then I paused, cocking my ear. After a few seconds, I caught a whisper of a drumbeat. It would lead me to one of the most electrifying spiritual events of my life. Literally.
By the time I arrived at the Casa Copra, a small building set back in an alley, the Candomble service was underway. The room had white streamers across the ceiling, bright green leaves strewn along the floor and a wooden pillar in the center. About two dozen women, all clad in elegant white dresses of lace, linen and satin, were slowly circling the room, constantly chanting. All were black, ranging in age from late teens to eighties.
I made my way through the packed room to the corner, where three young men were banging on a tall set of bongos. Another played cymbals, while a third carried on a high-pitched chant in Yoruba.
Every terreiro, as houses of Candomble are called, has its own mae de santo, a senior woman who officiates over the ceremony. In Casa Copra, it was Carmen. A stout, matronly woman in a white dress, she stood on the sidelines, keeping a watchful eye on the women as they passed. If their dresses needed loosening or they seemed about to faint, she was there to look after them.
Candomble means "dance of spirits" in Yoruba, and it's all about dancing. Throughout the night, the women remained in constant motion, swinging their hands slowly, swaying their hips and stepping lightly. Their goal was to receive the spirit.
After leaving the room for a break, the women returned, each carrying a wooden vessel of water over her head. Meanwhile, a small army of men held a white veil over the women's heads. It was about three hours into the service, after a constant flow of dancing, drumming and chanting, when the women started to transcend into trances, one by one. Their eyes closed, they appeared possessed with a spirit. Some shook, others shrieked. A couple of them fell on the floor and began crawling.
As one of the entranced women circulated, she stopped directly in front of me. Unlike other congregation members, I failed to put up my hands, palms out--a signal that the spirits should not approach me. I felt an electric force--powerful enough to push me slightly backward--surrounding her body. For the rest of the evening, whenever the entranced women passed, I raised my hands toward them. One by one, they were guided from the room. The drumming and chanting only stopped after the last woman had left.
The centerpiece of my tour through Salvador was Pelourinho, a historic old city perched on a hill overlooking the islands scattered across the bay, Baia de Todos os Santos. The name, which means "pillory" in Portuguese, dates from when masters publicly beat their slaves in the area's main square.
Constructed during the colonial heyday of the 17th and 18th centuries, Pelourinho fell into neglect in the 1920s and '30s. With the ongoing gentrification, the area somewhat resembles old Lisbon: houses bathed in mango orange, robin's egg blue and other bright colors; cobblestones that echo the clatter of pedestrians' footsteps; cafes offering coffee, beer, souvenirs and desserts rich in coconut or tropical fruits.
With its breezy, youthful ambiance, Pelourinho is the city's tourist epicenter. It's where students in backpacks linger over beers in cafes and young couples haggle over Brazilian keepsakes. The area also draws hordes of peddlers and beggars; in the course of one hour, six kids approached me offering "a free gift" (a bracelet made of colored string) and asking for a donation.
Nightlife is the quarter's biggest draw. I took a stroll there one Tuesday, one of the biggest nights of the week (Sunday's the other), when every square and public space seemed to be a concert scene. Music is a major part of the life of Bahia, and most major groups (and many minor ones) flock to Pelourinho to compete for the crowds in free, open-air performances. For music enthusiasts, an evening walk through the streets offers the chance to pick and choose among venues. It's also one of the easiest ways to gain entree into Salvador's upbeat, vibrant groove.
As I toured the streets of Pelourinho the next day, a Brazilian no more black than Richard Nixon gave me a thorough discourse on the role Afro Brazilians have played in this district of the city. Jorge Hage was one of those rare guides who could discuss every statue, museum or church in detail without missing a beat.
The airy, picturesque plaza at the center of Pelourinho may be best known as home to the museum dedicated to Jorge Amado, he explained, but locals of African heritage think of it as the place where their ancestors were flogged. Underneath the plaza is a dungeon once used to hold slaves.
The Igreja de Sao Francisco, the church whose gold-leaf interior has made it the most celebrated example of baroque architecture in Brazil, was built by slave labor in the 1700s with the light of lamps during the dark of night. And the Igreja de Nossa Senhora do Rosario dos Pretos, a powder-blue baroque church a few hundred feet down the hill, was also constructed by and for slaves at a time when they were discouraged from worship in other Catholic cathedrals.
Here and there were shops selling black-oriented souvenirs, including T-shirts emblazoned with "100 percent Negro"; musical instruments such as the berimbau; and paintings of Carnaval, Salvador's major event.
"If anybody stopped to think about it," Hage said, "it would be clear the elegance of Salvador could not have been possible without the sweat of African slaves."
The Museu Afro-Brasileira, prominently perched at one end of the Terreiro de Jesus, is a must-see for students of Afro-Brazilian history. While no single exhibit in the museum is a standout, the whole place offers a useful lesson in the overlap between the Brazilian and African cultures. There is a thorough exhibition of the transport of slaves from Africa to the New World, a concise introduction to the basics of Candomble, and displays of Brazilian and African pottery and other artifacts.
On my last day in Salvador, I took an afternoon spin in a boat around the massive bay surrounding the city. It was a sweltering afternoon. The 32-foot Juan Carlos, full of South American and European tourists, made short, pleasant stops on the tiny islands of Itaparica and Dos Frades.
But it was the return journey that made the trip poignant. As we chugged slowly homeward, it struck me that the vast blue ocean is the only proper way to make an entrance to this city.
The trip put me in the mind-set of the Portuguese explorers who first pushed their way into these waters, originally alone and later with boatload after boatload of slaves. They arrived on All Saints' Day in 1501, and so called the place Salvador, Baia de Todos os Santos--the Savior in the Bay of All Saints. Considering the spirituality of the city five centuries later--enhanced by an array of ornate cathedrals devoted to Catholicism and shrines dedicated to the Orixes of Candomble--the name seems appropriate.
With my sunburned back to the ocean and the winds wildly flapping the sails, I looked toward Salvador. I listened closely for the soft sound of drums, but heard none. Never mind. The array of low-rise pastel mansions, captured for a moment in the orange glow of the setting sun, struck me as a fitting end to the kind of ballad you hear once and remember by heart.
DETAILS: Salvador da Bahia
GETTING THERE: My round-trip flight from Washington to Salvador on Continental Airlines (via Newark and Sao Paulo) cost $740. I booked it through Texas-based Escape Tours (713-774-0600), a specialist in Latin American travel.
WHERE TO STAY: I opted for the Othon Palace (Ave. Presidente Vargas 2456, telephone 011-55-71-203-2000), which lies on the Atlantic Ocean but has no beachfront. It's a nice place, though the decor is a bit tired. The $110 nightly rate includes a sumptuous buffet breakfast but not the hefty taxes and service charges, which were added to the bill at the end.
I also checked out the more intimate Hotel Catharina Paraguacu (Rua Joao Gomes 128, telephone 011-55-71-334-0089), set in a wonderful, small mansion in a fun neighborhood. Doubles, including a great breakfast, are $100 a night.
If you want the beach at your doorstep and don't mind being removed from the historic city center, the Transamerica Salvador (505 Rua Monte do Conselho, telephone 011-55-71-330-2233) is a good option. The rooms are spacious and nicely decorated. Doubles, with breakfast, are $120 a night.
WHERE TO EAT: Iemanja (Ave. Otavio Mangabeira 929), a 20-minute taxi ride from the center of town, serves the best Bahian food in a romantic, calm atmosphere. I particularly liked the moqueca, a Brazilian fish stew. Dinner for two, with drinks, runs about $50.
Casa da Gamboa (Rua Joao de Deus 32) is a classy place in the middle of Pelourinho. The fish dishes and desserts are especially worthy.
Although the food at Senac, a cooking-school restaurant on Pelourinho Square, is just average, it's a good bet for those who want to sample a range of local dishes. Lunch and dinner are served buffet style, and cost $10 and $18, respectively.
GETTING AROUND: Cabs between the tourist district in Pelourinho and the major hotels along the beach run about $7. Buses, which cost 60 cents per ride, are also convenient.
TOURS: Tours Bahia, off the Terreiro de Jesus in Pelourinho, is a great resource for changing money, organizing excursions and so on. Jorge Hage (telephone 011-55-71-267-0990), an excellent guide with expertise on the city's history and architecture, can arrange tours to churches or services of Candomble.
INFORMATION: Pro-Brazil (212-997-4070), a privately owned company that promotes travel to Brazil, can provide information about Bahia. Lonely Planet's Brazil guide is also helpful.--Gary Lee
