First published in 'The Oldie', March 2007
www.theoldie.co.uk

Today, 2 February, is the feast of the Yemanjà: the patron of fishermen. I stroll down to the Rio de la Plata before sunset to see what it’s all about. The beach is almost deserted. On the shore is an exquisite cardboard boat, decorated with tinsel and flowers. Watermelons are strewn everywhere.

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A group of about half a dozen people, dressed in long white robes, are carrying a big cardboard boat down the steps.

In front of the Casino Hotel, a few white-clad people are building a sand altar. I wander towards them, nearly tripping over a bloody headless chicken.

A blue-haired girl is lining each side of a path from the altar to the sea with alternating candles and flowers.

"Señora," I say, "Could you tell me about this feast? I'm a foreigner.”

"We're preparing for the Virgen de la Yemanjà. She’ll be here soon".

"The Virgen? She's coming?"

"Yes, but the bus must have got delayed . Here, take this card."

The Virgen's business card? "La May Adelcia", it says, under a faded 60s photo of a smiling buxom young woman.

I approach a couple. Maybe they can enlighten me. I show them the card. "Ah, the May", they say. "That's a woman priest. She’s the Virgen's representative."

“What about the watermelons? And the chicken?”

“Oh, those are sacrifices to the Virgen , the Goddess of fishermen, to thank her for last year’s blessings, and pray for protection next year. They send jewellery, perfume, and flowers out in the boats. If the gifts sink, the Virgen has blessed them; if they come to shore, she has rejected them. They will party until dawn.”

“Is it a sect?”

“More a religion. Its origins are Yoruba. The slaves brought it to Brazil, but it’s become very big in Uruguay now.”

The beach is filling up. Each group has a maté, the calabash which Uruguayans carry around, containing a strong type of tea, sipped through a silver straw. I look at the sand altar. There is some activity now. It’s almost eight. In the centre of a group an elderly woman wearing a long pink satin dress and a rich brocade beige shawl, surrounded by white-clad acolytes. I recognize her as an aged May Adelcia from the card. On the altar stands a statue of the Virgen, decked with bead necklaces, wearing a blue satin dress and a brocade cape. In front of the altar is a large plastic inflated dinghy. People are queuing up to lay gifts inside. I can't distinguish between participants and onlookers.

The May gives a signal, and she and her assistants walk down the path to the river shore, chanting softly, arms raised high. Suddenly there is a loud hacking noise. The May is laughing - a strange, guttural croak. They walk backwards to the altar, except for one young man who prostrates himself in the water. The crowd is thick now. It’s cold and eerie. The May and her followers are chanting and shuffling. The May is pouring Fanta onto the statue’s expensive-looking clothes.

I decide to get some sleep, go home, and set my alarm for five.
As I drive out, dawn is just breaking. The May and her followers are in the dinghy, their arms raised to the sky, with the Virgen, in the Rio. The beach is packed now, a frenzy of chant and dancing. Empty bottles, dead flowers, and rubbish are strewn on the beach. A few people lie face down in the river. I see now that the dinghy has a small engine. Slowly, it disappears into the misty morning.