2008 is a very unusual year in that Carnaval was not only two weeks earlier than usual, but in that the Festival of Iemanjá also fell coincident to Carnaval, which NEVER happens. I know that Carnaval dates are hooked to Ash Wednesday and Easter, and that this year it happened freakishly early. Why? Something about the solstice, I think. What’s going on here?

The Festival of Iemanjá (Ee-ah-mahn-JAH) is always held on February 2, which is also the Day of Our Lady of Candeias, a holy day associated with Oxum, the jealous queen of sweet water. Here’s the great part. You’d think a festival like the one for Iemanjá has been going on since Brazil first rose from the ocean and cooled into a continent. Not so.

According to Bahian history, the festival began in 1923. The fishery was in ruins, and the men of the fishermen’s association (!) decided to please the vain Mother of the Waters with gifts. Since they needed a day to do it on, and since the day of Our Lady of Conception had passed (in December), they used the next best thing: the day of Our Lady of Candeias, February 2. They decided they’d deal with Oxum first since it was officially “her” day, and they were bringing in this vain upstart of a goddess to possibly steal her thunder.

Now what about this Oxum? She’s the “jealous queen of sweet waters.” What does SHE think about Iemanjá and her mirror? I don’t know. I’m sure it’s not good. I DO know that before anybody gives Iemanjá ANYTHING, they go out at dawn and regale Oxum with music and gifts first.

It’s a little complicated. Iemanjá (a.k.a. Dandalunda, Yemanjá, and host of other aliases) is a Yoruba goddess, the daughter of Obatalá and Oduduá, the creators of the world. She wears light blue and silver, the colors of the Bay of All Saints. Her face is like the reflection of water, and she carries a mirror that she uses to gaze upon her reflection frequently. Iemanjá is Yoruban. I don’t know what Oxum is, but I’m sure she and Iemanjá behave like soap opera villainesses at a party whenever they happen to bump into each other under the sea. Rowrr!

Vain goddess? Check. Jealous original goddess? Check. Party time? Check.

It’s a big day for the Rio Vermelho neighborhood. Over 300,000 people bring offerings to the goddess–mainly flowers in baskets, but also mirrors, jewelry, letters, food and other precious items. After all the gifts are collected, the fishermen (in over 400 boats) take them out to sea and reverently lower them into the water for Iemanjá while they drum, sing, chant, and generally insure good luck in their fishing efforts. Fortunately for the environment, the people only give biodegradable presents, or those that the goddess can really use.

Combine this faithful throng with the Carnaval humanity swelling in the streets, and you’ve got another scorching mass of flesh packed together like potted meat.

Armed with none of this knowledge beforehand, Jean and I slept like rocks after the previous night at Carnaval. All we knew was that the next day we were gonna wear white (or as close to it as we could), and go down the hill and placate this vain goddess. Oh, don’t think the Bahians are only thinking about the goddess. Oh no. They are using this as another excuse for alegría. Who blames them?

That gol-durned Blackberry alarm obnoxiously announced itself all too early. By the time Jean and I made it in to the breakfast room, Carol and Pettus were dressed in white, like a couple of virgin schoolgirls. Robo was actually wearing cotton, and not quick-dry. Jean had originally planned to wear a demure jacket over a tank top, but decided that nobody at the festival would remember her in just a sleeveless shirt. After stepping out of the air conditioned bedroom, I was wearing my 50/50 shirt: 50% cotton, 50% water.

Carol had already begun to prepare her basket. It was decorated with official blue Iemanjá ribbons (Licensed? Surely not. Maybe I ought to have a talk with the Fishermen’s Association about that.). We were going to walk down the hill to the festival and buy flowers there. She assured us that there would be plenty.

She wasn’t kidding.

Right after leaving the little world inside the gate and getting our final thumbs up for the morning, we took it down the winding hill to the village. On the way we encountered a gentleman peeing on a colonial-era stone wall, a park full of partiers dancing to music pumped out of distorting speakers in the hatchback of a car, numerous food stands, and flower vendors enough to choke Holland.

The delightful odor of urine wove a rich tapestry of olfactory delights when combined with the venerable cooking grease, car fumes, sea air, fish, and homo sapiens sapiens. Truly, though, the Bahians were a non-smelly bunch of folks. I think they bathe two or three times a day during Summer for all the right reasons. Not to be a dickhead, but they smelled okay! Even in huge crowds! I don’t know if that would be true in the U.S.

I had wised up to the camera situation by now, and had it with me! I was just judicious about when I took it out. Not around the distorted speakers and peeing guy, but once in town, OKAY!

We first selected the flowers for Carol’s basket (as shown above). I loved the irony of the Christian t-shirt on the young man selling flowers for a pagan celebration, and giving the money to his church. God works in mysterious ways.

Carol did tell us that there was a contingent of fundamentalists that had begun to decry the festivities in recent years. I guess that’s one thing we haven’t got a lock on in America: religious superiority and intolerance. I say, let the Yorubas have their Candomblé. Love it all. It translates into many tongues.

This needs a little clearing up. When I moved here in 1986, the Catholic Church was fairly tolerant of syncretism. When Cardinal Neves was named Primate Archbishop in the late 80s, after having served a number of years in the Vatican, he began to call for a sharper line between Catholicism and Candomblé. To the outrage of many, he would not allow Bonfim Church to be opened during the Bonfim festival, which he said was a pagan celebration.

Several years ago an even more conservative Archbishop was named, Cardinal Majella, who reprimanded a priest who baptized Caetano Veloso’s youngest son and invoked the name of an orixa.

However, it is the fundamental Protestant sects that have a vendetta against Candomblé, calling it devil worship. The “Temple of Faith” in your photo is the Igreja Universal Reino de Deus and is growing by leaps and bounds in Brazil and abroad. Its founder Edir Macedo wrote a book slamming Candomblé, which was pulled off the shelves as it was considered hate literature (How’s that for being a good Christian?) I would imagine that the flower vendor belongs to a Protestant sect.

Once we made it to the water, we saw the line of umpteen thousand, ready to take their gifts to the goddess.

Carol insisted on standing in the gargantuan line to present her beautiful basket of flowers. It was one of the best offerings in the queue, and I swelled with pride to have such a generous cousin. In reality I was just puffy from gratitude, once Carol told us we didn’t have to stand there with her. I had already begun to chug water and spout it out of my pores like the cat in the cartoons that drinks a glass of water after being shot at point-blank range by the mouse. (See illustration.)I couldn’t fathom Carol’s dedication, but was glad to have her do it instead of me. Robo was openly deriding the entire concept and MOCKING the goddess! I didn’t mock her openly, I cursed her silently for not talking to the goddess of the local environment and giving me a breeze of some sort. But no.

Carol got in the line like a dutiful Rio Vermelhoan, while we milled aimlessly through the crowd, trying to get up to see the goddess. There were all kinds of video cameras and stuff going on, so I barged up front politely and took these pictures of the goddess and the people who had gotten to the front of the line.

Who were the ladies in white being interviewed and photographed? I don’t know. I suspect they are the wives of the heads of the Fishermen’s Association, and probably have an Iemanjá sewing circle at their Yoruba Candomblé (worship place). But then, I could be wrong.

Notice the largish girl in the front. Is she gasping at the beauty of the goddess? Or is she about to throw up? I voted for number two and decided to say “buh-bye” to Iemanjá and skedaddle.