Brazilians approach Catholicism with the same laid-back and casual attitude with which they approach life. Surrounding the cathedral is a beautiful public park, carefully designed with high, leafy trees to provide shade from the hot sun, ponds spanned by bridges, elegant green benches, and cast iron gaslights. Under the swaying palms, I while away the night in an atmosphere of Bossa Nova and lanky heat.

The next day, my hosts suggest I see another aspect of religion in Valença. There is an Umbanda temple nearby. I do not know what Umbanda is, but I am interested in the opportunity to experience it first hand. I am told that during the days of Valença’s plantation past, African slaves were a large presence in society. Slaves had been brought to Brazil from the 1500’s and by the 1800’s were openly allowed to hold religious ceremonies of their choice. Macumba is a blanket term for African spirit worship. Candomblé and Umbanda are the two most common forms of Macumba in Brazil. Umbanda is a combination of African, Catholic and Amerindian religions and focuses on the revelation of saints and ancestors through a medium during ceremonies.

Off the side of an unassuming street in a hilly residential area, there is a long stairway that twists and descends through waist-high overgrowth, flowers the size of watermelons and trees encircled by parasitic vines. My friend points out a large white flower called a “trumpeta” for its trumpet shape. This flower can be ground up into a powerful hallucinogen that provokes intense visions and hallucinations. A native flower to the region, the trumpeta is very fragrant and stunningly beautiful. When I comment on how the trumpeta could have become Brazil’s opium, I am set straight…the effects of trumpeta are often permanent and none but the most foolhardy touch it. I feel like I am in a state of constant learning, and with each shallow step further down the path, I learn more about my environment.

Near the bottom of the staircase, a one-story compound comes into view. There is a main house, what looks like a workshop or conservatory, and a passage way that leads to a building in the rear that I cannot yet make out. I am greeted by an old man with a very bent back, who nods and beckons me to follow him into the workshop. The walls and floor are all white. Outside, there are maybe forty birds hung in cages, and their collective racket is distracting.

Umbanda ceremonies are conducted by high priestesses, a result of slavery. Originally, the ceremonies were held by priests, but as the men had to work in the fields growing coffee, women began to replace them in spiritual positions and gradually priestesses were the status quo. As the priestess approches, I see that she is short, maybe 4’9”, and almost equally wide. Her skin is a very dark black, almost as dark as her eyes. Her hands are twice the size of a man’s and feel rough as she takes my hand in hers. She says she is sorry that their calendar of ceremonies is completed for the season, and that I will not be able to witness the spirits firsthand.

As she leads me into the temple, which is a separate building at the back of the house with a single, large room, there is a terrible smell. I try not to curl my nose as I look around for the source, because I do want to appear disrespectful. The walls are covered with images I recognize (St. George and the Dragon, the Virgin Mary) and others I do not. The altar is covered with candles, some melted all the way down with wax dripping over on to the linen cover. I see four glasses of water arranged in a square, with rusted scissors opened and balanced on top. I see the source of the smell at the foot of the altar; several plates of food in various stages of decomposition being enjoyed by a species of large fly. In one corner of the room, there are two life size mannequins, one man and one woman. The priestess explains that they are dressed in the simple costume of the African slaves in Brazil. The slave woman is in a full white dress with ruffles and a bonnet; the slave man in long pants and a button down shirt. The mannequins have realistically arranged hair and brightly painted faces. The priestess tells me that they are there to remind worshipers of the spirits of their slave ancestors, who are often channeled in the ceremonies.

She points to a large chair next to the slaves, more like a throne and entirely covered in white linen, saying it is where she receives the spirits. From what little I understand about Umbanda, it involves channeling spirits into a ceremony in order to be in the presence of the divine. I ask her about spells and Candomblé, which has a reputation for black magic. Umbandists do not practice black magic, she explains, not because they cannot, but because they believe that if you order something bad onto another person, it must come back onto you tenfold.  She discourages the practice of dark magic among her followers, but indicates there are others in town who perform such rituals. As I leave the temple, I notice a separate altar outside. This altar is clearly to Satan, in his form of the Black Prince. There are daggers, skulls and bowls of blood underneath. When I ask her why she has an altar to Satan if they do not practice black magic, she explains that they believe all spirits deserve worship, even those who have gone astray. I thank her for her time and make my way back up the staircase. As I emerge from this hidden world, I am significantly more educated than I came, but somewhat relieved to return to the more familiar environment of a borrowed home and a colonial cathedral.

Whatever it was that I thought I would find in Valença when I drove away from the rainy coast, I found it. While I was never the Girl from Ipanema, I discovered a Brazil far away from a fashionable beach and a famous song.  There is a certain kind of traveler than cannot be content with checking off “destinations visited” in their guidebook. Certain travelers need unexpected events to mold their experience in a new land, to shape their relationship with a people and a place. What really is a journey cannot be a destination; for me, that is the essence of travel and the essence of coffee cathedrals and slave spirits in Valença, Brazil.

The following are the previous articles Elienne wrote for the magazine:

• Rio In The Rain ~ In Brazil
• Escape to Lebanon ~ Travel To Lebanon