In this Afro-Brazillian heartland, religion and dance reflect centuries of struggle

As my eyes adjust to the half-light, I discern through a veil of incense a line-up of objects fixed to the temple wall: axe heads, a hollow armadillo shell, a hare pelt. The acolytes, dressed in white, begin to clap slowly, and I join in. As the pace quickens, an elderly woman in front of me starts to spin around in a trance, her eyes rolling, before she collapses. Several others follow — most similarly elderly — but none of the spectators seem concerned. Instead, they raise their palms, believing the elders to be possessed by the spirit of Xangô, the justice orixá (deity) of the Candomblé religion. This is just another Wednesday at Ilê Axé Opó Afonjá, a prominent Candomblé terreiro (temple) in Salvador, the capital of Brazil’s eastern Bahia state.

Salvador is the country’s heartland of Afro-Brazilian culture, and the largest African city in the world outside Africa — more than 80% of its 2.4 million residents are of African descent. And Candomblé serves as a symbol of the resilience and survival of this Afro-Brazilian community.

“We come every week to give thanks to Xangô,” says temple elder Cláudio Fonseca, who’s in a white shirt with beads around his neck, as we eat plates piled with okra, prawn and ginger stew after the ceremony. We’re standing in a tiled porch just outside the ceremony hall, beside a statue of Xangô, depicted as a bearded man in red robes brandishing an axe — that explains the weaponry hanging on the temple wall. Xangô is just one of dozens of gods venerated in Candomblé, a fusion of religious traditions — including Yoruba and Catholicism — brought to Brazil by enslaved people from West and Central Africa between the 16th and 19th centuries. Cláudio leads me through the temple grounds, where, between stands of jacaranda trees, colourfully painted buildings house shrines to other deities. Among them are Exu, the messenger god, depicted wearing red and black and brandishing a trident; and Oxóssi, the hunter spirit, who carries a bow. Cláudio points out a low, thatched building where new followers must take a 21-day initiation, undergoing gruelling rites that are secret to outsiders.

Candomblé was banned for centuries, feared for its associations with witchcraft and for its potential as an organising vehicle for slave uprisings. Even after slavery was abolished in 1888, it wasn’t recognised as an official religion until 1946. Until the mid-1970s, public ceremonies required police permission, which was rarely granted. “This is a temple of resistance,” says Cláudio. “Candomblé was illegal for centuries and even when I joined in 1991, we had to hide. But then writers began to express an interest and attitudes improved.”

A new kind of power

Cláudio says that alongside Candomblé, he performs the martial art capoeira, which, like the religion, was carried to Brazil by the Atlantic slave trade. Cláudio invites me to where he practises at the Instituto de Capoeira Angola Alagbedé in Pelourinho, Salvador’s UNESCO-listed historic core, a 20-minute taxi ride from the temple.

Pelourinho means ‘pillory’, a reference to a whipping post where slaves were once punished in a public square — a time that’s hard to imagine as I walk through the cobbled streets, past banjo players and singers playing samba tunes on street corners. The buildings are all well preserved from the Portuguese era, painted in bright shades of mint, coral and lemon. Stepping into a handsome teal townhouse, I climb the stairs into the capoeira studio, a wood-beamed room with an Angolan flag hung on the wall. I’m greeted by Valmir Santos Damasceno, the institute’s athletic, grey-bearded mestre (master).

“It’s a fighting dance,” Valmir says when I ask him the age-old question: is capoeira art or combat? It began with the Mbundu people of present-day Angola as a military fighting style and was practised as a form of self-defence by enslaved Africans in Brazil. They emphasised its more dance-like movements — sweeping kicks, quick footwork — in order to hide its combative nature from their Portuguese captors. “Over the centuries, some forms of capoeira absorbed influences from karate and taekwondo, but here we practise the more traditional style — more like dancing and closer to the floor,” Valmir says. Over his shoulder, two of his students are practising, evading each other’s roundhouse kicks and hand chops with cartwheels. “It’s a dialogue, not a competition,” says Valmir. “I’m not teaching people to be violent. I’m teaching them to realise their potential, to understand their ancestry.”

Capoeira, like Candomblé, was long suppressed by the authorities for its potential to unite and mobilise the Afro-Brazilian community, and was illegal until 1940. Today, it’s a symbol of African survival of the horrors of slavery and a pillar of Brazil’s modern Afro-Brazilian community. Groups like Valmir’s are a common sight across Salvador, practising in town squares and on theatre stages.

Later that day, I embark on a walking tour of Pelourinho’s cobbled streets with guide Isaco Costa — a mixed-race man who grew up Catholic but later adopted the Candomblé religion of his African ancestors. The influence of African cultures doesn’t just exist in pockets here; it infuses everything. Isaco points out subtle depictions of Candomblé gods — Xangô’s axe reimagined as a towering modern sculpture, and Exu’s trident wrought into fence posts — believed to confer protection and fortune. Beside a sizzling food stall, Isaco introduces me to Veronica Paixão, a woman in a bright orange skirt puffed out by a crinoline. Her neck is strung with colourful beads, which she tells me each represent a different Candomblé deity.

Veronica is a baiana — a vendor of street-food fritters known as acarajé, made from black-eyed pea paste and filled with meat, fish and vegetables. Like Candomblé, the snack originates from Yoruba culture. Baianas are an icon of Salvador and can be seen all over the city, attracting customers with their costumes. Veronica hands me an acarajé, fresh out of the fryer. Once it’s cooled, I bite into it, unleashing an explosion of crab, coconut, shrimp and onion. “The food of the gods,” Veronica says with a grin, and she’s not just being metaphorical — acarajé is among the foods used as Candomblé ritual offerings.

As the sun goes down, Isaco leads me into the blue-fronted Church of Nossa Senhora do Rosário dos Pretos, built by enslaved Africans in the 18th century for the Afro-Brazilian community to worship in — a nominally Catholic space, but one infused with Candomblé influences. A crowd gathers and from a high balcony, musicians play African percussion, drumming the same mesmerising rhythms I had heard at the Candomblé ceremony. A procession advances down the nave, with dancing women carrying baskets of bread, led by a priest swinging a billowing thurible of incense. The congregation waves their hands and hug, singing ‘Hallelujah’ over the rhythms.

“Syncretism. Respect. Resistance,” says Isaco. “When you combine different cultures, you find a new kind of power.” And in that line lies the essence of Salvador: a city bold and beautiful, compelled by its own spirits.