Didá Speaks

Tonight Pelourinho was alive-- the pastel-colored buildings vibrated with a rhythm you could feel in your chest; a pounding that rocked the foundations of the buildings, and seemed to make the cobblestones swell like beating hearts. Didá was playing.

They were strong, they were soulful, they were the sound of power, like thunder itself coming around the corner. A flurry of bouncing black curls, glistening brows, and heaving chests, Didá filled the streets with vibrant turquoise and red. Drums hung from their hips like pregnant bellies; it was as if the sound echoed out of the womb itself. 

To me, this was Brazil; the sound of Samba Reggae unifying all within earshot; reaching the quietest corners, the most neglected attics, and then sending vibrations back into the ground like an earthquake shattering the earth’s solid surface. 

They moved together-- rhythm was the language of their undulating swarm. In that moment, I couldn’t think of anything more powerful than a force of women beating out the rhythms of their soul.