A Slow Dance

A Slow Dance.

I’m waiting for the bus, sipping coconut water trying to decipher what Renato, coconut stand owner, is telling me while he waves his machete as an extension of his arm before he shovels it into the green coconut cutting perfect slices of the fibrous nut. He doesn’t stop talking while he points, with the big knife, at the bus I must take to Itapuã.

The bus runs as if it were late, I have to hold on to the bars to make it safely to a seat. The vitreous eyes of the construction workers sitting at the back follow my steps, while a mom carrying her babies seems to look like through me. The windows are open, a sticky hot wind curls up in my hair, tangling, sticking it to my face and leaving as fast as it came. I can see strands of beach, luxurious hotels, and then modern houses looking empty, eager to accommodate entire families of tourists.

Finally Itapuã., the bus slows down with open doors and spits me out without stopping on a busy street corner. Suddenly my flip flops have to compete with the bricks and cables on the sidewalk, my hands want to explore, touch the sarongs, get burned and oily with the spicy, hot, smelly acarajé, my eyes peep at the sea and then at the Bahianas serving the typical foods. I try to be subtle, but my senses give me away. The need to soak up the concentration of blue, white, black, red and orange is too strong. I have to look intensely, I have to stand right next to the oil frying acarajé breathing in deeply and learning the movements that prepared such a succulent, incredibly spicy tidbit.

I’m amazed at how many people and businesses can fit into one street corner. My flip flops continue the negotiation for space to move forward. My nose catches an irresistible smell and I’m drawn to a caju vendor, he arranged the fruits on a wooden board, improvised a chair with a used oil barrel and without a word draws out a confident wrinkled toothless smile embellished by the spark in his eyes. The heat is helping the man, liberating a powerful scent out of the fruit making it magically delicious to the imagination. I have to purchase a handful; the fragrance will accompany my steps through the beachfront stroll this morning.

The people of Salvador, Bahia are powerfully calm, natural enchanters to the foreign eye. They walk with me, our flip flops look the same, and yet while I struggle watching my steps, they seem dancing through the busy sidewalk. It’s a slow ancient dance masked into everyday routine. Only rhythm, percussion, or a joyous moment can suddenly unveil the true, powerful whirl of Salvador.