Devour. FOOD & FROLICKS

I wake up disorientated to the incessant beating of drums. It’s barely daylight. I look out the hostel window. “Where is it coming from?” I ask. “It’s the drumming school practicing for the festival”. Like the sirens in London or prayers in Fez, the Afro-Brazilian drums and bongos set the pace of life in Salvador de Bahia.
Drawn to the drumming I set off from the Pelourinho to explore the undulating streets lined with churches and multicolored houses. Graffiti depicting slavery, capoeira and resilient faces tattoo the city walls revealing a unique cultural tapestry and struggle Bahian’s continue to face. A myriad of favelas (Brazilian slums) blanket the surrounding mountains.
I approach Nena, a vendor selling jewellery and her partner in crime Gabriel, bongos tucked under one arm and a staunch afro. An iridescent feather drapes from Nena’s ear, her signature piece. Unlike at home, this jewellery stall has no walls or locks protecting theft; just the confines of a weathered leather briefcase with a strap around her neck to sell in transit. Nena smiles “I’m from Venezuela and Gabriel is from Bahia”. I buy a bracelet. The materials are raw but exquisitely crafted. Nena is an artist.
I visit each day, never in the same place. I invite them for lunch and they take me to a discreet local nook for acaraje, a typical fried bread made from black-eyed peas. We chat about Venezuela and the vicissitudes of life in Bahia. “Where do you live now?” I ask. Nena glances at the dilapidated buildings beyond the city centre “in the favelas”.
On my last night I go to say goodbye. A festival menaces the streets where caprinhas fly from shanty bars and the drumming school pounds in melodic protest. I find Gabriel with bongos, his hands dancing effortlessly on the hide; Nena busy selling. The drumming has hypnotised the city into a seductive trance, “come back to our place we will teach you to play”.
We wind down backstreets and the drumming fades. The contrast in affluence just blocks away is affronting. A small crowd mills outside a grey dimly lit building that stands precarious like a half played game of Jenga, collapsing onto and supporting its neighbors. Inside a hammock stretches between two walls and a tent is pitched on the bare floor. Nena bolts the door behind us.
Gabriel passes me bongos and begins to teach me a basic rhythm. It looks easy, but like Nena’s jewellery is an art. Nena hands me a single feather earring, her signature piece, “something to remember us”.