An Intimate Moment In A Sea of Thousands

His black curly hair stretched upward, blending into the darkening sky. Tears, in single file, traced the edge of his strong jaw line, clung to his chin, and then fell onto my sweaty forehead like plump, heavy raindrops dripping from a thatched roof. His slim, honest face hovered inches above my own, lips parted, eyes fixed in the direction of the berlinda hundreds of believers away from us. He was so close to the rope that if he maneuvered his arm pass the dense barrier of men with their hands already fastened to it, he, too, could have touched its coarse, yellow fibers. We were two of a thousand Cirio de Nazare pilgrims swaying in perfect sync to a hymn sung in a strong, unified Brazilian Portuguese.
On any other day, Avenida Presidente Vargas, is buzzing with cars and tourists ambling by the vendors of Praca da Republica selling clove cigarettes, handmade sandals, and sweet, sticky treats fashioned from tapioca and condensed milk. However, on the second Sunday in October, this street, along with the rest of the city of Belem, swells with an estimated 2 million faithful who take part in one of the largest Catholic processions in the world. Although it was by pure coincidence that my Brazilian excursion was timed during, what the locals refer to as, “The Cirio,” the reverberations of the festival lifted from the streets and drifted into my hotel room begging me to investigate.
The impenetrable humidity that typifies the Amazon embraced me as soon as I exited my hotel. A colossal wall of devotees moving millimeters at a time marched a few feet away from me. Despite the music and hundreds of voices humming together, an esoteric peace blanketed the area as many of the people there concentrated all of their energy into simply being present: as if to offer their entire physicality to the Virgin of Nazareth in the hopes of feeling closer to God in that single moment.
Drawn in by the energy, I curiously stepped into the crowd and was immediately swept into the current of the procession. As part of this religious observation, many want to hold the rope attached to the berlinda (stand) carrying the holy statue of Our Lady of Nazareth. As if it were a magnet and my bones were made of pure steel, I floated through the throng and was positioned in arm’s length of the thick, twisted rope. Albeit my faith did not run as deep as my surrounding company, my heart resigned to a young stranger behind me. His face crimson, brought to tears by our mere proximity to the rope; the crushing pressure of bodies upon bodies packed tightly together almost alleviated by sheer faith.
Upon my next day departure, a local friend of mine wished me, “Happy Cirio” and offered me a piece of the rope without asking if I was even a practicing Catholic. I gladly accepted his gift as a true welcoming to the City of Mango Trees.