Pelourinho

Thirty one years after visiting Pelourinho in the city of Salvador, Bahia, Brazil, we finally got a poster commemorating a concert by the band Olodum framed. I am sharing this story on the anniversary of their concerts – which included a night I will never forget for all the wrong reasons!

I could feel him watching me from the corner of his eye, the big guy called Craig. Maybe it was because I seemed to be one of only two white woman in Pelourinho. Me and Evi, but she was being monopolised by Robinson, the other local sharing our table and drinking beer.  Maybe Craig’s glances were protective – after all, we had ventured to Salvador’s ‘no-go’ area after dark at his invitation. I hoped so. Being here at night was definitely not on the agenda when we arrived in the city, but we’d been into Pelourinho a few times and so far hadn’t had any problems.

Admittedly, it had been daylight then. The old city, with its steep, narrow, cobbled streets, took on a whole new feel at night, and I was wary. ‘The most African city in the world outside Africa,’ according to our guide book. ‘Dangerous and prime territory for robbers,’ it warned. But you couldn’t come to this city by the sea and not visit its most historic part, could you?

We had first ventured to Pelourinho in search of emeralds and books.  Emeralds, because after a Jim Beam-fuelled proposal in a room in a YMCA in Miami, Matthew – my newly-branded ‘fiance’ – thought it would be nice to return to the UK with a ring. And Salvador was the place for great value jewels. Books, because when you travel you read a lot, and in some places getting hold of English language books was not easy. Brazil was no exception.

So earlier in the week we found ourselves at Casa de Jorge Amado, a museum celebrating the famed Brazilian writer. There were lots of books, although only a couple in English, but the presence of lots of tourists assured us that Pelourinho had perhaps grown more welcoming to visitors since the guide book was published – it is 1991 after all!

We called in at lots of jewellery shops to suss out just how expensive emeralds really are. I wanted an emerald ring to match my eyes – who am I kidding, emeralds are bright green, sparkly and translucent, my green grey eyes look rather more like a stagnant pond – but I had my heart set on one. On that first visit, we were careful to leave Pelourinho and head back to our hostel in Campo Grande before dark.

The following day we took the camera into the old town. It is so beautiful, the colourful architecture a contrast of beauty and decay, the steep streets adding to the atmosphere – and probably the danger. We visited a church built by slaves, and another church where we saw a sculpture of the crucifixion crafted by an untrained slave, using real whales’ blood, hundreds of rubies representing the droplets of Christ’s blood. We visited more gem shops, but didn’t find a ring that we really liked. We chatted to some locals, who seemed more than friendly.

It was two of those locals we were sat with now. We had bumped into them earlier today when were back in the old town to actually order an engagement ring. It had been so lovely. We sat in the little jeweller’s shop, and watched as he spread a bag of emeralds before us. They were all shapes and sizes, but after almost a year of traveling, our budget was minimal. I chose one that was small but perfect. Then out came the diamonds. Two tiny ones would sit beautifully alongside my emerald. I was so happy I could hardly breathe. We looked at catalogues and selected a gold setting. My ring was to be handmade and would be ready for collection in a couple of days, in time for our flight to Rio, and from there, home. It had been a wonderful day, and when we met Craig, a big, muscular Rastafarian with impressive dreadlocks, and his mate Robinson, and they invited us to join them for a drink at 8pm, we hadn’t thought twice.

Evi, who is from Holland and is travelling alone, had joined us. Blond and petit, she had clearly enamoured Robinson, who was chatting away to her. Evi was polite but wasn’t encouraging him in any way. She had been on her own for some time, and had had at least one bad experience with a local man. She was careful not to put herself in a difficult situation. I was in awe of her courage.

A change in Craig’s tone drew my attention back. Up to now he and Matthew had been chatting amiably. Now Craig was demanding Matthew give him 5,000 cruzieros to buy marijuana. All the warnings we had ignored clamoured for space in my head, my heart beating madly as Craig jumped to his feet, his massive frame leaning over the table, finger pointed aggressively.

Matthew kept a calm head. We don’t have that kind of money, he said. And we aren’t interested in drugs – we are just here for a drink and to enjoy the local music and maybe a dance. There was a intimidating stand-off, then Craig sat down. “Alright bro’,” he muttered, though his eyes were still angry. I exhaled.

We were lucky. Craig and his mate seemed to calm down, and walked with us to the brighter lights of Praca de Se, the large square beside the Cathedral. But the atmosphere was tense, and as we headed for our bus, Craig stormed off. Robinson lingered nearby, too interested in Evi to follow his friend.

It’s hard to believe that after this experience we decided to return to Pelourinho the following night. But the annual Bob Marley Festival was in full swing, and Olodum, the band of drummers which played on Paul Simon’s album were playing somewhere in the old town.  I was worried we might meet Craig and Robinson again. “What’s the chance? The place is going to be bunged,” we muttered. What’s the chance indeed!

Evi and an Austrian traveller named Jon were coming with us. Safety in numbers, I reassured myself. The bus deposited us at Prace de Se. It was pouring with rain. We walked to Tierra de Jesus and down the narrow cobbled streets into the heart of Pelhourinho. There were people everywhere, excitement was high. We saw no other white faces.

I felt vulnerable as we passed Casa de Jorge Amado and up was is considered Pelourinho’s most dangerous street towards Casa de Olodum. Faces lining the streets, sheltering in doorways, stared at us without inhibition. We were foreigners on their patch, that was obvious.

But once inside the brightly lit Casa, things changed. We asked a Rastafarian guy and his female friend where Olodum were playing. They pointed out a dark alleyway full of people, but said we should stay with them for a bit as the drummers would not be starting for a while. They were really friendly and spoke good English. Dawit, the guy, accompanied Matthew each time he went to buy beers from the stall across the street. His friend Edeline was great company and happy to share their table and chat. During the hour we sat in the Casa, a television reporter interviewed Dawit, and we went upstairs to watch some entertaining but incomprehensible African theatre performed by a group of young people.

Then we headed to see Olodum. Without Dawit and Edeline, we would probably not have made it. We pushed and shoved our way down that steep alleyway, past a heaving crowd, fished out 300 cruizeros each at a little gateway, then fought like mad to get into a fenced enclosure. All the time our friends guided and protected us. They were so incredibly kind.

Inside we bought beers and elbowed our way to a side wall close to where the band was drumming. There were around 30 in the group and the sound was amazing. Brilliant music, loud and rhythmic, almost sensual. Everyone was dancing, the place was alive, the atmosphere hot and sweaty. It was indescribable. No-one paid us a second glance.

There is a price to pay for all that beer, so Edeline led Evi and I to what we thought would be a toilet, but was in fact two tarpaulin sheets hung in the corner of the enclosure. We waited until one tarpaulin was pulled aside and a group of men channelled out. It was our turn. Another couple of girls who were waiting joined us behind the plastic sheets, where we all squatted to pee on the floor which was steaming from the guys who had just left, our urine mingling with their’s running into a pipe, through the courtyard wall and out onto the street below. The smell was hideous and we had to hurry, already another crowd of men had gathered outside and were rattling the tarpaulin, demanding their turn. What an experience. We could only laugh.

Back out into melting pot of bodies, rhythm and music – oh the music….

It ended all too soon. Olodum didn’t hang around for encores, and we waited with Dawit and Edeline until most people had left the enclosure. It was 11.30pm, but the party was still going strong in the streets of Pelourinho. We walked to the House of Reggae, exhilarated by the evening so far, our fears diminished.

We weren’t too daunted to see one of the group of men who had been with Craig the first day we met them. Craig soon appeared. Dawit and Edeline were still with us when he came to talk, doing the friendly ‘You’re my bro’ stunt with Matthew that was now becoming familiar. Matthew knew how to respond.

Unfortunately our Austrian friend Jon did not. Unbeknown to us, Jon, who spoke some Portuguese, was annoyed that Craig had spoken to him in English and turned away. As the rest of us were dancing, the big guy went face to face with Jon, but I couldn’t hear what was being said. Jon joined us. “He wants to sell me cocaine,” he said. Craig demanded Jon’s attention again. Soon they were arguing, but I kept on dancing, staying out of the drama until Jon came up to talk to us again.

Craig followed him and tapped him on the shoulder. Jon turned and Craig punched him in the face. Jon went down. As we helped him up, we could see Dawit and Craig shouting at each other because of what had just happened. Our friend was trying to protect us, and looked ready to fight if necessary. Then, suddenly, Dawit turned and ran from the building. The big guy gave chase.

Edeline had been watching everything, and was now in a state of panic. Craig was now chasing her friend Dawit. Jon was on his feet, confused, but ready to hit out at anything and anyone. We headed outside. Edeline, in tears and desperate to know what was happening with Dawit, went back into the House of Reggae to see what she could find out about Craig. Matthew and Jon went after her, and she told them she had seen that he had a gun – the reason Dawit fled.

Evi and I began to walk in the direction of Praca de Se, where there would be cars, street lights and with those came relative safety. But as we passed Casa de Jorge Amado, we realised we had made a mistake. We were two white girls alone in what had now become an antagonistic world. The faces in the dark doorways were still there, laughing menacingly.

Thank God the others caught us up. But as we made our way through the menacing streets, we realised someone was following us. It was Craig. Edeline disappeared down as sidestreet in search of Dawit, hoping he was safe, fearing the worst.

Craig caught up with us as we reached Tierra de Jesus. He headed straight for Matthew and Jon. Evi and I hung back. We did not yet know that he had a gun, but his eyes were angry. He was wanting to get to Jon, but Matthew intervened, and tried to talk a way out of the situation. Jon disappeared into the darkness. We walked, Craig walked with us, not taking his eyes off Matthew. I felt sick with fear for Matthew, but somehow we reached the relative safety of Praca de Se and, in the distance, a taxi rank.

But he wouldn’t let us go. To run would have been a mistake, and I was furious that we were having to grovel and feign friendship with this horrible man. As hysteria set in, I began to attack him verbally. What I said, I don’t recall – all it earned me was his face two inches from mine, as he leaned forward to intimidate and eyeball me. If I had been male, I think I would have been a goner.

Matthew intervened again, asking the guy not to hurt Dawit as he was also our ‘friend.’ That prompted a tirade about how Dawit was not a ‘real’ Rastafarian. On and on he ranted in a possibly drug-fuelled fury.

Finally, we made it to the taxi rank. There was still no sign of Jon, we could only hope he had reached the square before us and was already on his way to the hostel.

Back in the relative safety of Campo Grande, we were stunned at what had just happened. There was no sign of Jon. Thankfully there was a rap on the door later, and there he was. He had gone to a Police Box for help but had been turned away. His face is badly grazed, but otherwise, he is in one piece.

Sleep was a long time coming as I worried about Edeline and Dawit. They had been so good to us, yet look at the trouble we had brought their way.

The next morning dawned hot and sunny. Soon we would be leaving Salvador and flying to Rio. But we had to make one last trip to Pelourinho. I had an engagement ring to pick up.

The bus pulled into Praca de Se. Tourists milled around, there was no evidence of last night’s rain or the danger that had been so real. But as we headed down the side street towards the jeweller’s, my heart was pounding. Last night could have ended in tragedy and we were so lucky that, apart from Jon’s grazed face and wounded pride, we had escaped unscathed. Jon had taken Edeline’s phone number and it was such a relief to hear Dawit had got home safely – this time at least.

Locked securely in the little shop, I slipped my ring on the third finger of my left hand. If truth be told, it did not look much like the design I had selected, but that made it all the more unique. It was beautiful, and it came with a quite incredible story. But despite all the gem shops, Salvador was not the place to be seen sporting a sparkling new ring. I slipped the box safely into my money pouch, where it remained until I was on board the KLM flight to the UK.

We settled the jeweller’s bill, and stepped back into the sunlight. When we reached Praca de Se we even considered waiting for a bus. But then we saw him. Craig, holding court in the middle of the square.  My mouth went dry. Not far away was the taxi rank. We hot footed it across the square and leapt into the first one, keeping our heads low in the back seat of a VW Beetle. The front passenger seat had been removed, so if anyone followed us into the taxi, they would have no problem reaching for us. As we drove away, I braved peering over the back seat at Pelourinho, retreating in the distance and there, in the midst of the square, the burning eyes of Craig.