# 51 Beautiful Brazil is Changing Me, One Samba Step at a Time
On the transformative power of music, dancing, and being together.
One
Music pours out onto the cobblestones. People on the street step to the beat of African drums in the last rays of the sun. They sing along with a velvet voice coming from a bar.
Daniel and I slow to a stop and peek inside through the wide open windows. A happy crowd surrounds five musicians at a table cluttered with green bottles of German and Dutch beer. They’re playing their hearts out, yet appear calm and in control.
I knew live music and spontaneous dancing were part of Brazilian culture, but before coming here, I never imagined they would be as ubiquitous as this. I felt spoiled in Rio de Janeiro and feel even more so here in Bahia’s capital, Salvador. Music lifts the air and paints the already colorful façades.
“These guys are so good!” says Daniel, who used to make records for a living. “They would fill clubs in Europe.”
I cannot recognize talent and skill like he does, but I know when music moves me, when the collective sound of multiple instruments pulls at my strings.
The bar is full, so we stay on the street with the other lucky listeners. There’s a strong sense of community, of shared awe. Middle-aged women dance in threes and fours, connecting with one another in visible yet unnamable ways. Old gentlemen make subtle, expert moves. Young girls swing their hips with incredible agility.
And I stand still, as though indifferent. Too self-conscious, perhaps. Too sad, maybe. Too overwhelmed as an observer to truly take part.
Two
“You must see the Museum of Carnaval,” said our tour guide the other day.
So here we are, seeing it. We read the descriptions and learn how carnival changed from an excluding Christian celebration to the embracing world spectacle it is today. We watch the documentary footage of performances and parades and photograph the costumes.
Unimpressed by the rather flat representation of the larger-than-life festivities, we reach the top floor where we enter a darkened space. A dance floor is bordered by a huge screen. Shelves hold masks, hats, and other carnival paraphernalia. We’re alone save for the museum attendant, who invites us to dress up. This is our time to shine.
Daniel gets out his camera, thinking I will be game. I used to love dressing up, and he doesn’t know me as someone too shy to dance. But I shake my head: not here, not now.
In the first video the attendant puts on, Daniela Mercury, a national star, explains the African influence on the Brazilian carnival and how this has made it so vibrant and unique. Clips of dance groups follow.
My body remembers the pulse of my youth, the sweaty jazz ballet rehearsals and thrills of Janet Jackson moves. In high school, I danced a solo performance of Prince’s Kiss on stage that boosted my profile. Later, I played the djembe to get better at African dance.
Yet here I am, standing still.
I imagine the attendant telling his girlfriend that evening: “There was this white couple today, just standing there like statues, defying our music.”
I’m close to tears by now, and although there’s nothing wrong with crying every now and then, I dislike getting emotional in public, so I turn my mind around. I go outward instead of inward. Look how these dancers sway their arms! How their feet merge with the drums! Feel their energy radiating toward you!
Miraculously, it works. I warm up. I don’t dance, but I sway and go from sullen to smiling within minutes.
The tears that linger are no longer proof of my sadness. They’re a sign that I’m alive.
Three
In a wooden house on an island hill that reminds me of our place on the Galápagos where I felt happy and part of the world, Daniel and I are watching videos together on his phone.
Two friends from Vietnam taught themselves swing dance from watching videos, and we follow their example. Not to learn Lindy Hop, but to practice our samba steps.
It takes us a while to find the right lesson; most videos aren’t meant for middle-aged authors who cannot remember the last time they truly let go.
“I need to see her back,” I say. “I cannot mimic her steps when she’s facing me.”
Finally, we land on a patient young teacher who breaks down the most basic move into three steps. Back, forth, together. Left, then right. We get it. These are the steps we’ve seen every Brazilian make the moment music touches them. We feared the rhythm was inborn, in their blood, and we would be forever excluded. But no. We, too, can surrender. We, too, can let in the light.
The next day, as we walk through the cute yet touristic village of Morro de São Paulo, where we’re fortunate to stay for a while, the music performed on the street sounds like an invitation.
“Let’s go,” I say. “I’m ready.”
I’m Claire Polders, a writer of fiction and nonfiction. Read about my books and more on my website www.clairepolders.com.
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Daniel and I will remain on Morro de São Paulo for one more day. Tomorrow, we travel to Boipeba, an island farther south where tourists are still in the minority.
All my best,
Claire
P.S. This post is one day late. I sometimes fail to plan ahead and suffer from migraines. Maybe it also means that I’m on island time—a good thing.
Face it, Claire, we white people are stiff and afraid to let go without copious doses of alcohol. Just look at the regimentation of traditional Eurpoean reels, minuets, and other forms we brought to America. I was a wild child and danced in the livingroom to Elvis Presley. It blossomed from there until the past 20 years. One friend claimed a love for music, but I never saw or heard her play an instrument or sing. It was all academic. When she and I attended a street festival in Reno, NV, I surrendered to the rock music and found a casual partner for our wild gyrations while she stood by literally hugging herself to remain absolutely still. Not a toe twitched to the music. When we attended a dinner show at one of the casinos, she cautioned me from losing control of myself. At that moment, I was swaying in my seat and she probably thought I was about to blast off to the moon. I'm glad you finally warmed to the luscious abandonment of music and dancing. Apparently, it scares people. My daughter and I were in an Austin, TX bar one night one Sexth Avenue, the epicenter of their musical scene. Only a couple people sat at the bar, hunched over their drinks, talking to the bartender. Val and I stood across the empty room and I committed the faux pas of doing a little dance, just a little movement, to the music. How the fuck can a person stand still? Well, Val told me to knock it off or I'd be 86'ed for being drunk. REALLY? IN AN AUSTIN, TX BBAR ON 6TH STREET???????
Another great colourful and vibrant article. Brazil sounds really good. Reminds me of being in Havana and the impromptu music we came across everywhere 🩰 🎵🎶