Backlands (23 page)

Indeed, as we contemplate the insane messiahs of the backlands and the rebellions that they provoked, we are strongly reminded of the prophetic figures of the peninsula—the king of Penamacor and the king of Ericeira, who wandered over the mountains and infected credulous multitudes with mad dreams of martyrdom.

This historical comparison is an exact one that can be traced back for three centuries. Time has stood still in the rustic backlands, and the people who live there have not been touched by the progress made by the rest of humanity. The backlanders still breathe the same moral air of the madmen who pursued Miguelinho and Bandarra. To round out the comparison, the political mysticism of the Sebastianist movement still persists unchanged in our northern backlands, even though it has become extinct in Portugal. But we will not get ahead of our story.

These regressive traits gave rise to a unique psychology that is reinforced by the physical environment. The man of the backlands, as we have seen, has a deep relationship with the land. He is at the mercy of the elements and his awareness of his vulnerability intensifies his constant reliance on the marvelous. He is reduced to being the stupid dunce of fate. In more favorable climates the need for supernatural patronage would not be as great. In this place, however, individual tendencies are exacerbated by environmental conditions and result in extremes of apathy and impulsive mysticism, fatalism, and religious fervor. The teachings of the missionaries could not overcome these tendencies. So for this reason, as in a palimpsest, the imperfect consciousness of the backlander shatters the beautiful ideals of Catholicism, and as in a broken mirror, reveals all the stains of an inferior intelligence.

Even in times of normalcy, backlands religion is ill-defined and variable. Just as the Hausa blacks adapt the liturgy of the Yoruba rituals to the Catholic mass, a common sight in Bahia, the
sertanejos
also leave holy services to join the pagan orgies of the African candomblé or the Tupi
paracés
.
²³
It is not surprising that surprising anomalies can be found within this strange religious mix.

It is a touching sight to see the
sertanejo
family kneeling before its roughly hewn oratory or humble icon, praying by the faint light of oil lamps for the souls of loved ones who have died or asking for protection against the storms of life.

Their cult of the dead is remarkable. In remote regions, far from any human settlement, they bury them on the roadsides so they might not be forgotten and will always have the benefit of the prayers of travelers. Those who pass by can leave a flower, a bough, on the arms of the small cross, a fleeting but ever-renewed remembrance. The cowboy, riding at breakneck speed, will abruptly halt his horse at the sight of this humble memorial, a cross on a mound of stones, and, head bared, he will continue slowly on his way, praying for the salvation of a stranger he may have never seen and who might even have been his enemy.

Life on earth is a torturous exile, and death is always greeted as a blessing.

The death of a child is treated like a holiday. In the hovel of the bereaved parents guitars thrum joyfully to the sound of tears. A loud samba churns in the background, and the verses of the poet-troubadours are loudly declaimed. At the side of the room the dead child is laid out, a candle at each end of the coffin. Bedecked with flowers, the dead child smiles in death with the contentment of one headed for heaven and eternal bliss—the predominant concern of these simple souls.

In contrast to these interesting traits, their religion has an ugly, repulsive side, brutal aberrations that corrupt and defile it.

The backland rebellions, from Maranhão to Bahia, have not yet found their historian. We shall not take on that task. Instead we will focus on one incident, among many, which we have selected at random.

In the state of Pernambuco, in the district of Pajehú, the Carved Mountains, or Serra Talhada, rise majestically above the region and form a huge amphitheater that can be accessed through a narrow gorge between perpendicular walls of granite. In this place a lone block of stone rises like a gigantic pulpit—it has been named Pedra Bonita, or the Rock of Miracles.

In 1837 this place was the stage for the sinister religious practices that recall the rites of the Ashanti Negroes of Africa’s Gold Coast. A clairvoyant
cafuzo
or
mameluco
gathered all the population of the neighboring territories and from the rock pulpit assured the coming of the enchanted reign of King Sebastian. The rock would be shattered not by mallets but by the blood of infants shed in a great holocaust. The great king would then thunder forth surrounded by his gleaming entourage and would mete unflinching punishment on an ungrateful humanity while showering riches on those who had contributed to releasing him from his spell, or “disenchantment.”

A nervous shudder rippled through the
sertão
.

This deranged preacher found fertile ground for the propagation of his insane teachings. With babes in arms, mothers rushed forward to the monstrous altar and fought among themselves to be the first to offer their infants as a sacrifice. Blood gushed and splattered on the rock and pooled around it in great quantities. According to newspaper reports of the times, when the macabre farce was finally ended, it was impossible for anyone to remain in that infected place.

Yet there are other equally impressive facts to counterbalance those aberrations. The soul of the backlander is a blank slate, and thus, depending on the forces working upon it, his behavior can range from extreme brutality to utmost devotion.

In one instance, we see him distorted by fanaticism. Now let us observe him when he becomes transfigured by faith.

Monte Santo is a legendary place. At the end of the seventeenth century the discovery of the mines shifted attention from the coast to the interior of the country. Led by the mirage of silver, adventurers descended on the northern backlands, and they followed the elusive trail of Belchior Días to the Jacobina Mountains. Here they stayed for a long time. The solitary Mount Piquaraçá, with its unique shape, dominated the horizon in all directions and guided them in their meandering course.

The mountain itself was a singular attraction. On its flanks were gigantic piles of rocks, forming the mysterious letters
A
,
L
, and
S
—marked by a cross, which originated the belief that here was the long-sought El Dorado. The area was searched in vain by many seeking to emulate the crafty Muribeca, and finally the adventurers abandoned the place to go on to other parts with a contingent of peaceful Potiguara Indians and other newcomers armed with muskets. The mountain once again receded into the landscape.

At the end of the eighteenth century, however, it was rediscovered by the missionary Apolônio de Todi. When he arrived there from the mission at Maçacará, the great apostle of the North was so impressed with the look of the mountain, finding it similar to Calvary in Jerusalem, that he promptly erected a chapel there. It was to be the crudest and yet the most influential temple of religious faith in the region.

The priest described in detail the process of the construction and the unstinting help given to him by settlers in the region. He described the solemn ceremony to celebrate the completion of the temple. A majestic procession wound its way slowly up the mountain, buffeted by hurricane-force winds that swept up from the plains and put out the torches. He gave a penitential sermon, exhorting the faithful to visit holy places on holy days, since they lived in such neglect of spiritual things. Then, he concluded, from this day forward they should no longer call the mountain Piquaraçá but Monte Santo. And thus was built this impressive temple, erected by nature and by faith, rising higher than the grandest cathedrals on earth. The people of the backlands completed this missionary’s undertaking.

Whoever should attempt to climb the five-mile-long
via sacra
, along which are to be found twenty-five stone chapels housing the stations of the cross, will be able to form an idea of the brutal labor that went into the construction of this site. Supported by concealed walls, paved in some places and elsewhere revealing bedrock carved into stone steps or upward-sloping ramps, this white quartzite road is a wonder of bold engineering skill. For over a century, legions of Lenten pilgrims have processed here and sung their litanies, which echo through the rock. At the beginning of the ascent the road follows a slope of almost twenty degrees. After the fourth or fifth chapel it bends to the left and becomes less steep. Farther on, beyond the biggest chapel, an interesting church perched on a ledge overhanging the abyss below, it swerves again to the right with the incline decreasing in a straight line until the summit is near. Then follows a small depression and a sudden rise to the sharp summit where the calvary is located.

As the visitor climbs, gasping for breath and pausing at each station, he is offered a succession of overwhelming views: first the plains, spreading far below in vast, level tablelands; then the distant mountains, clustered at all four points of the compass; finally, at the summit, a view of the mountaintops—a strange sensation of infinite space and enormous heights, intensified by a glimpse of the tiny town at the foot of the mountain, which is little more than a chaotic jumble of rooftops.

When local families come here during Holy Week and the faithful cross these same mountain roads where long ago the ambitious adventurers traversed, restless with dreams of glory, one realizes that Apolônio de Todi was more capable than Muribeca in uncovering the secret of the letters of stone. He discovered the real El Dorado, a rich spiritual treasure hidden in the desert.

Unfortunately, the missionary had no successors. With rare exceptions, the modern missionary is a very destructive agent who only aggravates the state of emotional imbalance of the
tabaréus
, or backland dwellers. Because he lacks the spiritual stature of those who preceded him, his actions have negative results. He destroys, erases, and perverts the good that the earlier evangelists had achieved with these simple people. He lacks the talent and the art to transform souls. His vulgar methods are the opposite of his predecessors’. Instead of advising and consoling, he threatens and punishes. Instead of praying, he rants. He is brutal and treacherous. He emerges from the folds of his dark vestments as if out of the shade of an armed ambush, to prey on the unquestioning innocence of his listeners. When he climbs into the pulpits of the backland churches, he does not offer a vision of heaven and its rewards but instead he brandishes images of a vicious, flaming hell. His sermons are a babel of barbaric phrases uttered with demented gestures and grimaces. It is ridiculous and horrifying to watch this impostor abuse his privilege by engaging in melodramatic buffoonery. Only tragic words come out of his mouth. He does not portray a better or nobler life for these simple backlanders—of which he knows not—but brays about sin, depicting gross scenes of infernal torment. He vomits avalanches of penances on the heads of his defenseless flock and rants interminably about imminent catastrophes while repeatedly raiding his snuffbox as he opens Pandora’s box.

He casts a spell on the vulnerable
sertanejo
—he deludes him, depresses him, and perverts him.

Let us find a single, last example. In 1850 the backlands of Carirí were thrown into a state of alarm by the raids of the Serene Ones, who committed large-scale robberies. This was the name given to bands of fanatics who practiced macabre rites of self-flagellation and self-torture at night on desert crossroads. They would torture themselves with hair shirts, thorns, nettles, and other forms of penance. One day these mad zealots burst out of a church in Crato and dispersed over the countryside—the women wailing, the men apprehensive, and the children in tears—as they sought the horrible punishments that the missionaries had threatened. Meanwhile, inside the church, these new missionaries continued to prophesy the end of the world. God was proclaiming it in bad Portuguese, bad Latin, and bad Italian: He had seen enough of the sins of the world.

And so these demented creatures went around begging, weeping, praying, and living in the most abject idleness. Since there was not enough public charity to support them, they turned to theft. This is when the populace drew the line. The instigators of the crimes were asked to leave and take their unfortunate teachings elsewhere, while the law repressed the banditry at great cost.

It was not surprising that our deep ethnic strata pushed up the extraordinary figure of Antônio Conselheiro, “the Counselor.” He is like a fossil. Just as the geologist can reconstruct the inclination and orientation of very old formations from truncated strata and build models of ancient mountains, so can the historian deduce something about the society that produced this man, who himself is of little worth. Under normal circumstances this man would have been diagnosed as a neurotic with progressive psychosis. However, in his social context he becomes an alarming anomaly. The stages of his career do not parallel a serious illness; however they do give us the profile of a grave social disorder. This man was driven by forces larger than he was, to lead a conflict with an entire civilization and to go down in history when he should have gone to a mental hospital. For the historian, however, he is not someone with mental illness; he represents the integration of various social traits, which would not be perceived had he remained anonymous, but were forceful and well defined when this man came to represent a social movement.

His ferocious mysticism contains all the popular beliefs of the lawless backlands: from barbarous fetishisms to a warped Catholicism. He was, at the same time, a passive and an active agent of the rebellion that surged up around him. His highly impressionable temperament led him to absorb the state of mind of his environment. At first his tormented mind was little more than a morbidly passive vessel. With time his delirious consciousness unleashed these forces on the surroundings that had produced them. It is difficult in this case to draw the dividing line between personal and collective tendencies. The life of this man is a summary of the life of his society. If we trace his individual path and place it in the context of his times, we can see the most complete mutuality of influences.