Yemanja and the Rain – Candomble Chants Awaken the Spirits

Perhaps the drought crept in from Laguna Negra, carried on the fangs of poisonous reptiles from the somewhere where rains persisted and hills were plush with green. Some say so. Already in December a forest fire charred the land and the trees were crisp with foreboding. A lone skinny pine waiting for the next spark, spared the first time around.

The grand affair of fire, rain and rebirth in cactus and acacias has been interrupted. No rain fell along the South Atlantic coast from November to February. Dust has replaced sea breeze. Only the sand is unchanged. This was 2010. In 2021 another even more devastating drought threatens daily life in the country of Uruguay.

Stars and silence were my companions. Living on my wooded land in a field tent offered many pleasures, one of which was not the luxury of cooking over an open fire. I didn’t dare. From November through April I ate a lot of cheese, nuts and apples. I went out for coffee. Beer helps on the more stressful days.

One night I had neighbors from Montevideo at a cabin down the way. They stopped to say hello and seemed impressed with my woodsman within. My tent was complete with airbed, blankets, pillows and sheets. Outside were chairs and a desk along with outhouse, the plans of which were concocted by a famous New York architect Peter Francois, now of Chuy.

Despite tradition there was no bidet anywhere on the property or even an aviary since it as far too dry to rely on carrier pigeons to conduct our daily commerce. Rope and garlic surrounded my leafy perimeter, compliments of a local who said they would keep snakes away. That may have worked since in six-month residency I never saw any one.

Even though the sky rain-coated itself in clouds and darkness there was little moisture in the air. I accepted an invitation to join my neighbors on their patio for a glass of wine. The bunched up woodlands running to the beach afforded a quiet rest from the heat of the day.

After lamenting at the lack of rain one of the young women looking more Gitana than Galician began talking to a Guarani goddess she called Yemanja. The others smiled peacefully familiar with the chanting.

“Oh Yemanja, hear your thirsty children. We are sad and alone. Surely your tears will drench the land and save us from the flames,” she sang out. One of the men told me Yemanja was a sea goddess. The others brought out candles, flowers, perfumes and fruit to decorate an altar for her blessings and approval.

“All your tears will make it rain.”

“Kind of like the Virgin thing, isn’t it,” smirked one of the kids to the frowns of the Gitana. “Isn’t everything in Latin America?” said another.

Candomble is an ancient African religion that passed through the slave markets of Montevideo in the 1600s. Many people still adhere to its colorful rituals, mixing it masterfully with Iberian Catholicism and pieces of the surviving Guarani culture.

The Gitana kept up the chanting, encouraging all to join her, which we did. We sat on the porch focused on the goddess and the rain. An occasional breeze gave us hope. A sense of the sea gave us salty energy. We sipped our wine and tried to concentrate as a group. Nothing but our chanting filled the night. Pleas to Yemanja fell to the dry ground unheard. Our petitions lost on a lonely coast in the middle of the night. Then…solo raindrop. Then another.

We looked at each other part in shock, part in celebration. In moments here would be enough water to dance above, below and between the drops. Then a little more rain and the sandy path home felt good under my bare feet. It had rained.

Two days later a major storm arrived from the east drenching the village and the region for 2 days. The land began to return to normal. All your tears will make it rain.

And I for one don’t care if you buy my story or not. I was there. I heard the chanting. I chanted. It rained all he way through the Pampas to Paysandu and from La Paloma to the Brazilian frontier.

February 2 is the Feast Day for Yemanja when thousands of worshippers descend on beaches from Montevideo to Bahia bearing candles, flowers, perfumes and fruit to petition the goddess of rain to intercede on behalf of a mistreated planet.