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“All the leaders of your religion are women?”

“Of course,” Agnaldo said. He laughed. “Or mostly. Women are much stronger for these kinds of things.”

Agnaldo told me about the history of Candomblé, how it had come to Brazil with the slaves in the 1600s or earlier, and how it had been repressed.

“There’s still oppression,” he said. “Before it was the Catholics. Now, it’s the evangelical Christians who think we worship the Devil. Recently, some Christian evangelicals burned a local terreiro and beat up a Mother so badly she died.”

Agnaldo told me to look for the Candomblé subtext in the Catholic churches in Bahia. During the time of slavery, Catholics forced the Africans to worship the Catholic saints and god. “But, it’s strange,” he said. “Those Catholics didn’t know that their saints were so connected to our African gods, the old gods from which their saints probably came. So we pretended to worship their saints, but instead, with the very same figures and altars, we worshiped our own. Saint Barbara is also Iansã, the protector of firefighters. The orixás are all like this. They are our guardian spirits.” He smiled. “As you live here longer, you’ll see. No matter the religion people say they have here, they’re also Candomblé. It’s a force they take care about; when people really need something—a lost lover to love them again, to cleanse themselves, to ward off the effects of Evil Eye, to take out bad spirits that are making them ill—when these things happen, they don’t go to a priest or doctor, they go to the mandingueira, the Candomblé advisor, and then they know what they should do.”

When I told Ana and Andrea of my talks with Agnaldo, they agreed. “If you’re interested,” Ana said, “next weekend, February second, is the day for Iemanjá, the goddess of the sea. Her house is on a promontory overlooking the sea. On Saturday, everyone will be there, making her offerings of flowers, perfume and pretty things that she likes. I always make an offering to her.” She glanced at me. “We can go if you like. You can make her an offering.”

When we arrived at the House of Iemanjá, the line of people waiting to present their gifts, all standing in the sweltering sun, extended a mile. Ana cheerfully directed us to the end of the line. While we waited, she described to me what I could expect at the end of the day. All the gifts to Iemanjá would be loaded onto a barge and floated out to sea. Groups of men would swim beside the barge, wishing to be close to her power and energy. If Iemanjá was pleased with the offerings, she would accept the barge and it would sink, taken by her beneath the waves.

The day was calm. I asked Ana if it were possible that people would rig the barge, put a hole in it or something to make sure it sank, since it was so important that Iemanjá accept the offerings. Ana looked at me in disgust, but she quickly softened her expression to a condescending smile. “No,” she said. “Iemanjá’s wrath against someone who did anything like that would be unspeakable.”

In front of Her House, high on a raised dais, stood a statue of a mermaid, a representation of Iemanjá. Hundreds of people paid homage, kneeling before the statue, touching it lightly or bowing their heads as they passed.

Finally, after more than two hours, we reached the House and stepped inside. It was cool and seemed to have its own breath, deep and rich, dark, scented with flowers, and strangely still despite the hubbub outside. We made our offerings, then reemerged, blinking, into the bright sunlight. Several people played drums.

We noticed a group of foreigners speaking English with American accents. Two were white men—one with a fancy camera—and the third was a very beautiful Japanese woman. She wore a loose robe and sandals.

“So, great. We can get some great shots here,” said the man without the camera. He looked around. “Oh, fantastic, fantastic!” He steered the woman forward. “Get up there by that statue. You’ll look great. You, the metaphorical mermaid. Fantastic!”