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Once, Valença attracted the wealthy elite and crafty entrepreneurs, when Brazil’s economy exploded in the 1800’s after the discovery of gold in Minas Gerais. The gold was brought down to the coastal port of Paraty for export to Portugal. The golden trail between the mines and Paraty was dotted with towns and villages that supported this mass transfer of wealth. In the fertile valleys of the Paraiba hills, coffee plantations sprang up and took advantage of the road to the coast to sell their coffee beans for export. Elegant towns like Valença were built around the most successful coffee plantations. Today Valença has two faces. One face is the result of careless modern expansion, a place where the air is choked by car fumes and streets are lined with numerous small convenience stores selling plastic Brazilian flip-flops in every color, knick-knacks for children, Amazonia shampoo and buckets of lumpy fruit. The town has one internet café, where just about everyone sits around exploring dating and singles sites, and one small bookstore trying to convince the book-shy Brazilians to read. The other face is a different place entirely. Elegant parks, sleepy gazebos and a central promenade do justice to the town’s colonial past. Donkey-drawn delivery carts, sprawling cemeteries where children play with remote-controlled cars and monuments to famous Valençans, including Valença’s only soldier killed in World War I, are as much a part of Valença’s gentle present as they are of its past. In the midst of thoughtless modern “progress” and the urban atrocities of design that result, the restoration of the Cathedral de Valença is nothing short of a very public statement believing in the value of one town’s beautiful legacy. The completed restoration is certainly worth a party, and Brazilians are always ready to support a party. When I reach my friend’s home, I am embraced as a member of the family, and no sooner have I put my bags down than I am stuffed full of scrumptious home cooking. A rich beef casserole, crunchy farofa, ever present rice and beans, and the obligatory salad with hearts of palm are passed around a table that even a steep language barrier cannot make less friendly. My Portuguese is very basic, so there is chatting in halting Portuguese, Spanish, English and French alternatively. Somehow it all comes together by dessert, where candied orange peel and banana paste satisfy my sweet tooth, and equally sweet smiles make me feel very welcome. With a kiss and a pat the lady of house sends me on my way into town with the young ones to enjoy the night. The festival that evening is the full of youthful excitement. My friend points out the town beauty, and I marvel that there are still places small enough to know exactly who the most beautiful girl in town really is. She looks like a young Gisele Bündchen, with darker hair and eyes, and every man seems to walk by her and nod their acknowledgement of her looks. I had expected more masochism and catcalls, like one would find in Italy or Argentina, but Brazilian men are too relaxed for such concerted displays of admiration. Anyhow, it is suggested to me, there is food to be eaten nearby. Bubbling pots of stew, candy apples and steaming beef abound. There are many stray dogs with marbleized coloring underfoot, attracted by the smell of the roasted pork and buttered corn. There are stalls for vendors selling leather goods, cheap plastic toys and feathered Amerindian crafts. The evening air is warm and thick with humidity and cooking smoke. Fireworks light up the night sky, and far away from my home in America, I feel like it’s the Fourth of July. The walls of the new and improved cathedral are so white they still smell of fresh paint. The Easter egg yellow trim chosen to highlight the architecture enhances the bright-summer-day feeling. The building is carefully proportioned, with five equal windows on the second floor, bright royal blue French doors and twin bell towers sailing high above. There are candles hung off railings under the windows, and the effect is enchanting. The interior of the cathedral is modest by the standards of the Vatican, but I imagine that in provincial South America the Baroque gilding and ornate molding is overwhelmingly impressive. The central figure of the Virgin, the Nossa Senhora da Gloria, is a pale-skinned, dark-haired representation of the Virgin Mary dressed in the blue and gold mantel of heaven and graced with a large silver crown. Two cherubs, modestly dressed in a gold, red and blue wardrobe, gaze adoringly at the Virgin, who stands barefoot on a pink and blue cloud with outstretched arms and compassionate eyes. The figure is small for a central icon in a cathedral, but the small size invites the visitor to approach closely, thus giving a sense of intimacy and familiarity. 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.
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:
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