INTENSITY

I wasn't really concerned until my colleague started with the questions.

Do you know where we are going?
Do you know who is taking us there?
Do you know who will be there?
Do you know what will happen once we get there?
Do you know what time we will be back?

The answers, of course, were all no, and it was then that I started to think that maybe I should be worried.

An unmarked white van picked us up at our hotel and swiftly carried us away through dark and winding streets to Caixa D'Agua, a lower-income neighbourhood in Salvador. The access road was high up on the side of one of the city's many hills and the van left us in front of a non-descript row of gritty houses. We scrambled down a steep and narrow alley and then up a staircase at the end to get to our final destination - a small room on the second floor of someone's house.

The intense heat of the room hit us as soon as we entered. The pounding of drums in the corner was rhythmic and hypnotising. Women dressed in white were dancing in what little space there was. Bodies were pressed together. We slipped into the crowd. People were chanting in Yoruba. A row of community elders were seated at the back of room, clearly not able to see a thing. As the crowd grew and swirled, I found myself pushed to the far corner of the room, mesmerised by the sounds, the movement, and the heat, split from my companions.

Slowly, more and more people started to enter the room through a small side door. People dressed as Orishas - Afro-Brazilian deities - started dancing. Chanting. Girating. Eyes clenched shut.

A low moan eminated beside me. I turned around and saw the girl standing next to me swaying to and fro, as if nauseous. She started to falter and collapse. As she straightened up, I could see that her eyes had rolled to the back of her head. She arched her back and let out a moan that turned into a long, low howl. A woman in white careful guided her into the back room.

The dancing continued. The drumming got louder and faster. More people squished into the room. The heat rose. All around me, women fell into trances. One. Two. Three. Four. Some were led away, bodies still convulsing. Others were calmed and brought back to the here and now. Two dancers collapsed on the floor and were ritually carried off by the rest of the group. My companions and I, scattered throughout the room, tried to make sense of eveything. We flicked our eyes at each other, hoping that we would understand our own strange sign language. It was like watching a video of which we alternately were, and then were not, a part.

Two hours later, we made our way to the door and slipped out, the fresh air of the outside world hitting our lungs like a bright white light. We were driven back to the hotel at which point we headed straight to the bar, unsure whether a smooth caipirinha would help us make sense of the intensity of what we had just witnessed.