On the Edge of a Cloud

By David Murray

A remarkable story of a young man drawn away from his new career by whispers of an adventure awaiting for him. Murray starts a solo journey that from South America to India meeting a colorful variety of enjoyable and sometimes bizarre travelers along the way. In Columbia his journey takes on a new dimension when he is invited to a Shamanic ceremony and is propelled, by a dramatic initiation, into a different world - the mysterious universe of the unknown. From then on his life gets more complicated and confusing as he tries to deal with what is essentially a different world and perspective than what he had previously known. His travels, on a background of play, adventure and fun, are enveloped by an enigmatic force, a spiritual awakening which turns into a real journey of a lifetime. He is brought close to the edge of a new reality has his life begins to get more mystical and magical as the journey unfolds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9781447615859

David Murray

David Murray (PhD, Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam) has pastored four churches in Scotland and the USA. He is also a counselor, a regular speaker at conferences, and the author of several books, including Reset and Exploring the Bible. David has taught Old Testament, counseling, and pastoral theology at various seminaries.

Book preview

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The Hunger

I believe in whispers. Not just the delicate whispers of two lovers in a street-side café or the charged secret communication of two four-year olds, or a tense low exchange shared between two colleagues in a tough business negotiation. I believe in a different, more subtle type of whisper, ones that relate to us, whispers that come from within us, from wisdom, love or fear, or the ones that come from outside us in different guises that help to guide us. Whatever the type of whisper, whatever the source, whatever the intent or message, they have all one thing in common. They share a power.

A whisper will catch your attention, it will draw you closer, cause you to listen, maybe even bend your knees. It’s a whisper that is precious when shared between lovers. It’s a whisper that guards secrets. It’s a whisper that cloaks mystery and in doing so becomes a magnetic attraction for the ancient human affliction that is curiosity.

I’ve known whispers for all my years, the normal ones outside in places like cafes, and also the ones inside my head, the whispers that could support and guide me through difficult times and also the whispers could cripple me through my insecurities. There were very few however that had come like this one, stealth-like in its approach.

It was a whisper without words and unlike my insecurities it did not come from my head. It came from deeper within. It was more like a whispered feeling. It was an ancient stirring, almost primeval in its simplicity.

‘Come away,’ it whispered.

If it is difficult now to explain about the whispers, it was impossible to understand when it was happening. I didn’t know then what they were drawing me toward. It was like the whisper between the earth and the sky, a gravity-like strength, subtle, invisible, universally persistent and inevitably dominant.

‘Come away,’ it whispered.

I was like a tiny droplet of mountain cloud being drawn down to the earth. I could sense the pull of the earth, the flow of the river, the thunder of a waterfall and even before I became a part of a gurgling mountain stream, I could even feel the draw of the sea.

The whisper came in many different guises. It came amidst the laughter of many people, the crying of a solitary child, a friend’s helping hand, a sweep of an artist’s brush. It glowed amid the greetings of strangers. It was echoed by sunset-lit mountains, in fact, it came anywhere where life seemed to glow at the edges.

‘Come away,’ it whispered.

Often when I was alone in my room, it called. It blew like a gentle breeze, it tapped on the window and told me of an adventure waiting, something unknown, something hidden, something deep.

‘Come away,’ it whispered.

The whisper surrounded me and in ways I suppose I let it. That was why it came in a whisper. If it had come in a strong loud voice, my mind would have been alerted and analysed it, evaluated it, contested it, put it under the logical scrutiny that came with my job, tore it to pieces and probably discarded it.

With the whisper, I put up no battle. It was immune to logic or thought. It was a subliminal message. ‘Come away. Come away.’ It became a constant background mantra in my day so much so that it became a call. It made me restless. It made me nervous. I felt it, not in an instant, but as a slow yearning. I felt it as a hunger.

This became very frustrating for me. On the one hand my life was probably going the best I could have anticipated. I had a very active and vibrant social life, I had many circles of friends, through work, sport and social scenes. I lived in Dublin and the big city was getting smaller and smaller.

I had a great job in digital electronic engineering and was making great advances in that. Ireland while on the cusp of a technology explosion was still a place that idolised the permanent pensionable job and an active job in a growing technology was a great position to be in.

Yet something was drawing me away from this and I couldn’t put my finger on it. I couldn’t reason it. The concept of ‘Coming away’ was imbued in my psyche until I just plain and simply knew that I was going to leave this all. The whispers outfoxed my mind because it felt as if a ‘decision’ had been made as if I had nothing to do with the process. I was going to go away soon. I was going to go far away soon. I was going to be gone a long time, at least a year.

It didn’t feel like a decision though. It felt more like an aspect of me than a choice, something similar to puberty, something I had to go through (oh no! not again!) It was as if the decision to give up my life as I knew it and to ‘head off’ was cast in stone somewhere deep inside me. It was as if ‘I' had no part to play in this and any claim on it would have been a thing of the ego. There was something more powerful at play here and I felt the observer, powerless to stop what was unfolding.

The whispers had brought me here.

I had to tell someone. I voiced the decision to my friends. They questioned it.

Why do you want to do it?

What about your career?

What if you don’t come back?

What about your family?

I returned these questions with raised eyebrows and blank looks. I gave reasons that changed everyday as my mind struggled to come up with valid excuses, attempting to justify in a reasonable way, my change of path and pace. It couldn’t. My friends became uncomfortable with the vagueness of it all. They asked more questions for clarification. I realized that they were trying to help and through their questions, they did. They brought around the fact that I didn’t really know what I was doing, or why. I was in a good job with good prospects, and I was leaving. I was at the height of my social life and very much beginning to feel at home, belonging. Yet I was going to draw the line. I was leaving. I didn’t know why I was doing it. I didn’t know where I was going? Whether the choice was mine or not, I accepted it. I now needed to plan what I was going to do.

Another strange dynamic started happening. The more I tried to plan or visualise what the trip would be like, a deeper part rebelled, almost like it was disgusted at the thought of a plan and I would become agitated and restless. What was happening here? It was interesting but a bit scary. Not only did I not really know why I was going, but I had to go into it blind. This seemed to resonate with me.

As the weeks passed and I got more used to the idea, things became a little clearer. If I left things unplanned, if I left things open, I was in some ways inviting the unknown into my life. That seemed to be excellent nourishment for the hunger - The unknown, the unpredictable, the risky. All I needed to do was to have faith in what I was doing, faith to leave things alone. I felt that if I approached the journey in this sense, it would be amazing.

In McDaid’s pub in Dublin, over a cool creamy pint of Guinness, I put a skeletal plan in place. I was going to travel so now I had to pick a starting point. I held out a map of the world and stared at it, trying to fill the space of an entire year. What would I do? Where would I go? I traced the outline of practically every nation, letting my mind flow with possibilities. The map I referenced portrayed natural geography rather than solely the political divisions. I scanned the map and Looked for the bits of white that signified land over 6,000 meters. I loved mountains.

I marvelled at what I was trying to do. A map of the world at my fingertips. In a year, I could go absolutely anywhere, anywhere. What possibilities! In the bottom left hand corner, my focus landed. South America – a country of childhood fantasies. I would start there.

So where to after that? Again full of possibilities! South America it was a pretty isolated place for a round-the-world trip. I saw a route to Asia. I wanted to go to Asia also. Now coming back from Asia, coming home, my attention became focused on India. That was it. That was my initial route.

Within a few days, I had phoned Trailfinders in London and inquired about details for a Round-The-World ticket and various visa requirements for about ten countries. My initial plan gave me six months in South America, a few weeks in New Zealand, a few weeks in Australia, a month or two in Asia, and a month or two in India. The very next day I bought the ticket, valid for one year, with flexible dates but inflexible destinations.

My work had given me the funds I needed. If I travelled for a whole year without working I could only spend an average of twenty Euros a day for accommodation, food, travel and everything from pens to toiletries to shoelaces.

A few days after booking the ticket, I asked my boss, John, for a word. I wanted to leave things open, in case I returned. A leave of absence would be brilliant. If that was refused, a resignation was in order. I was determined to go. In fact, I was defensive about my decision, because I was insecure about it. The unknown was a dare, a risk. I approached him.

‘John, I've decided to leave work to do some travelling,’ I said, feeling like I had to fight for it, ‘... now... I've made up my mind and I would like to take a year’s leave of absence. If I don’t get it... I'm going to quit instead!’

John calmly steadied me and said that as far as he was concerned, I could have the year off, that he would support me in it. His reaction was brilliant and I felt very positive afterwards. It meant a lot.

After a few days, word got out around work and for the five following weeks there was a huge interest in my trip.

Where are you going?

I wish I could do something like that!

Are you going to work abroad then?

I'd love to do something like that!

Are you going on your own?

How will you live?

I wish I could do something like that!

South America …. Jesus, that’s a dangerous place!

What about your career???

What if you don’t want to come back

How are you going to live

I wish I could do something like that!

I bought two travelling guides to extend my basic knowledge. The Lonely Planet guide to South America and the same type of book for Asia. I spent some Saturday afternoons browsing through these books looking for good areas to travel. My journey took on a slight translucent form, ghostlike. It was, however, as delicate as a spiders web. It had one form, one day, and was torn down the next. My plans never became concrete, they were only approximations. I knew that things could easily change along the way, I was better off not planning. After a few weeks I left the books down. I had read enough.

My time was coming up to leave, a few weeks left. My utter excitement was brewing, I couldn’t even comprehend what it would be like, and I didn’t dwell on it. I just knew that it would be brilliant. I found that leaving things unplanned in fact added an extra spice to the mixture. I knew it was the right way to approach it.

I was organising a few going-away parties amidst the impending departure. A going away party at work left me stuck for words and emotional. I had great friends there. New doubts surfaced. Why was I leaving? Was I really leaving? When I was presented with a top-quality rucksack and a good luck card, I finally realized that I was.

Everything seemed to have come full circle. I was very happy with my life. I was in awe of the way it was going. I felt strong. I measured every negative thing that I could remember in my life against the feeling that I had inside me then. No regrets, came out. If all of those negative moments had in some way contributed to where I was at that moment, I accepted them with open arms. I was ready.

A stroll at evening time in Coole woods, in Galway. Was this where I felt the first whispers? I loved this place and growing up around here. After a good nights sleep I said goodbye to my family. My mom gave me a gold Claddagh ring and a St. Christopher’s medal, the patron saint of travellers. She was quietly supportive of me on my journey. My dad, the endless hard worker that he is, didn’t understand my choice. There was too big a gap to bridge between us to warrant a discussion. In the early hours, I left the house with a solitary rucksack, world-bound. My talismans on my journey were the Claddagh ring, St Christopher’s medal, a bodhran stick, a hip flask and a diary. These in part stood for love, safety, passion, fun and knowledge.

The day before departure I had the pleasure of seeing two great people, Siobhan and John, get married. I saw my last day in the company of good friends. I celebrated torn in some ways - incredibly positive and yet momentarily sad. A laugh followed by a breath of sadness that would come stumbling out my mouth sowing seeds of tears in my eyes. After the wedding, a party in Blackrock, Dublin saw me through the night. I saw my boss, John, again and he emphatically wished me a great journey as everyone else I knew, had.

I crashed on a couch when brightness came through the windows. I got up an hour later, had a quick shower and changed from suit to tracksuit, gave one last check for my passport and turned to face car lights coming in the window. James, a good friend was dropping me to the airport. I would miss him. Nizar was there too. My stomach juggled between the drink the day before and the nervousness of tomorrow, the big unknown. Nerves dominated. I said goodbye. Three friends saying a farewell to each other on the one day is a sad event. I took the flight to London to await my flight to Rio.

In London I took advantage of the Lufthansa’s Frequent Flyer lounge. My regular flying back and forth to Germany had allowed me this comfort. I smiled. I was sitting in my own VIP room, surrounded by soft lights and music, in a pair of worn track-suit bottoms, old runners and a semi-soiled fleece top, reeking from the drink the day before. Luxury today, rough travelling for tonight and the next year.

A knock on the door woke me from my slumber.

'Mr Murray, it’s time for you to board,’ a muffled voice echoed from outside the room.

I boarded the plane to Rio-de-Janeiro and slept soundly for hours on end, finally catching up with some of my week’s lack of sleep.

We were soon landing in Rio and I reached for my guide book. Then it hit me! The immensity of my lack of planning finally hit me! I hadn’t made any plans about where to stay in Rio, getting from the airport into Rio? Brazilian immigration? Taxis? danger? I panicked. Was I crazy or was I just plain fucking stupid?! I quickly flicked the pages and looked up Rio. I scanned the pages and the voice in my head poured out the question,

‘Where the hell am I going to stay!!!’

As if by magic, a voice, a mans voice came from my right.

‘Planning to stay in Rio?’ he asked, calmly.

‘Yes...,’ I replied, somewhat taken aback. I looked over and met a face. A foreign face. A friendly face. ‘ ... for a day or two,’ I ventured.

‘I can recommend you a good place to stay, if you want. I've been here a few times,’ he said.

‘Yes, sure that would be great,’ I replied.

He told me the area and the hotel. He assured me that the area was safe enough. I checked it up in the guidebook and found it recommended there also.

‘I am staying there myself,’ he said, ‘If you would like to share a taxi, you are more than welcome.’

I enthusiastically agreed.

'My name is Antonio' ‘Dave,’ I replied. We shook hands.

Something inside me flashed. The air buzzed with potential. There was magic around. I knew it then. If I fed my hunger with the unknown, life would be magic. This was It! Here I Come!

Antonio

Antonio was an angel, not the type you see pictured on a feathery cloud, strumming a lute, but a guide who in a generous fatherly way, allowed my journey into the unknown to start off on the right foot.

My first few days in Rio went without any horrific incidents. I was nervous alright but I intended to get out and have a look around the place. Antonio made this very easy for me. He was familiar with the language and some of the culture. He was at my side as I became accustomed to the curious stares of other people.

We walked through the streets of Rio and he showed me how life worked in the amazing city. We stopped in a juice shop and bought some Vitamina, a drink made from fruit juice, milk and ice, designed to counter the intense Brazilian heat. We sat down to drink it and started talking about why we were travelling.

‘I have had a good college education,’ said Antonio, '… a brilliant one, but I learned from the street how to respect a man. They can’t teach you that in university. I travel because I meet people. From these people I learn about myself, my limits.’

I was delighted to hear this. I hadn’t fully decided why I was travelling but Antonio’s reason seemed a good one to me. I also wanted to meet people and just learn, as I was doing that moment from Antonio.

‘Expose yourself Dave,’ said Antonio, the intensity in his brown eyes increasing. ‘Expose yourself to life and watch it teach you. It’s one of the most enthusiastic teachers you will ever have because it never gives up. It is just us, the students of life, that give up after a while.’

He continued, his intensity still growing, ‘So what happens when you learn? When you learn, you acquire gifts, you become more aware. The more you learn, the more awareness you have. The more awareness you have, the more you must use it for the spirit of mankind, to help mankind on the right road. We have a lot to learn and a lot to teach. Human beings have an incredible potential!’

Whether it was what he was saying or the way he was saying it, I got infected by it and felt the goosebumps rise up in my arms. I sort of understood what Antonio was saying. There is some type of circular motion in life, a flow that we know intuitively. I had hoped to learn a lot when I travelled and if I learned a lot then this could be of use to some other people. When you are born, you receive the gift of life, it seems only right to take the essence of that and share it with other people.

Antonio was a passionate man, fanatical about life, politics and religion. Our days in Rio circled around these conversations.

I was very glad to have him around. He made the introduction to my journey a very smooth one. He also seemed to lend me his perspective on things and I felt a confidence with that. I knew that it was very important for me to become confident as quickly as I could. In that way I could take everything in my stride and I knew that I could risk more.

In the midst of our chats we sampled Rio. One day we went to the famous Copacabana beach. There was an incident at the beach that reminded me of where I was. Everybody was in a joyful mood, playing, swimming, chatting, and sunning themselves. Suddenly there was a shout and everybody within a 50 metre circle, including ourselves, stood up instantly. I looked around to see what was happening. I could see fear in several faces. I scanned more and there was confusion also. What was happening? … Nothing. A single shout was enough to draw the people out of their paradise and connect with a tension that lives within their beautiful city. If these people who live here are tense then I, an outsider should be too. I hoped to develop a travelling sense that would protect me but would not limit my range of good experiences.

In a day or two together Antonio and I did a few touristy things like visiting the famous ‘Christ the Redeemer’ statue and attending a soccer match in the famous Maracana stadium. Much to my pleasure I felt that the touristy things took second place to good chats. I found more life in an hour with Antonio than beneath Christ the Redeemer. Four days after I landed in Rio, I left again brimming with an emerging confidence, a good sense of wonder and a healthy thirst for knowledge, thanks to my angel, Antonio.

A Day in Salvador

It was in the early evening darkness when my bus pulled into Salvador’s main bus station, or rodoviaria. I had been travelling since the afternoon of the day before and was pretty content with my 28 hour bus journey. Though long, it had been comfortable with stops every three to four hours for food, drinks and toilets. The scenery from Rio de Janeiro had been different than what I had expected. Most of the 1000 miles was desert-like, with scorched palm trees being the only seeming living plants. This epic bus journey took me through a small part of Brazil, perhaps through a few states, whereas in Europe you could have moved through several countries. It had been a relatively cheap way to travel and the fact that I could sleep on the bus allowed me a way of maintaining my budget. There were no other foreigners on the bus but I was quite content to spend the time studying Portuguese and reading ahead on Brazil.

Salvador was my first stop in the Brazilian state of Bahia and from what many people had told me, it was the most colourful of places in the world, the colour coming mainly from the people. Salvador, the city of Bahia was reputed to be an exaggeration of senses, from sight and sound, to sense of danger.

After already spending a week in Brazil, I was beginning to progress through Portuguese quite a bit. There were very few English speaking travellers around so, as a necessity, I was picking up the language reasonably fast. I had been chatting with a guy on the bus called Jose, a marine from the Brazilian navy, for a lot of the journey. It was interesting listening to some of his stories, the two of us having to half translate into pidgin English and Portuguese.

We decided to try to get a hotel in the city centre together. At the main bus station a man came up to us with a list of cheap hotels and mentioned a hotel name that sounded familiar to me, probably from a guide book. Once he found out I was listening he pointed to the hotel card and then to my guide book and shuffled us off to his taxi. Before reaching the taxi I enquired about the price and it was well within budget. The taxi driver dropped us off to the hotel and drove off into the night.

The hotel was a complete seedy dive. At reception, a creepy guy called Gorge, hovered and stared and no matter how he looked at you, was always able to catch your eye and look over your shoulder at the same time. The hotel was on a dark, narrow and half-deserted street. Jose seemed happy enough with it and left for his room. He had to go and study for some exams he was taking the following day, and mentioned to give him a shout if I was going for something to eat. Gorge brought me up to my room. It hadn’t been cleaned yet and a good looking, well dressed maid was called quickly to clean up. In front of me, she emptied the toilet baskets (You couldn’t throw the paper down the toilet) and changed the sheets. Gorge smiled, his eyes still disconcerting. I was left alone and reluctantly unpacked a few things from my rucksack.

For the first time on the journey I was worried about security. Usually my money and valuables were organized in a number of ways, typically three forms; local money, travellers’ cheques and spare/emergency money. I could have $20-$150 in local money depending on my location, $1000 in travellers’ checks and maybe $300 of emergency money or spare money in dollars. Add a passport, a camera, a gold Claddagh ring, an address book, a Swiss army knife, a bodhran stick and a diary and you end up with a kaleidoscope of valuables of different size, monetary value, practical value and emotional value. While travelling there is always a risk of getting robbed - Always! It was not the type of fear I was ever used to at home. There was always support around if something went wrong. I travelled with only a bag on my back and a cart-load of wild dreams. My life depended on both.

I naturally tried to minimize the risk of theft and if a hotel had bad vibes, I would think twice about leaving my valuables there. Conversely, it might not be a good idea to bring them out into the street either, sometimes resulting in a conflict – What to do? Gut feeling usually worked out minimum risk.

I usually carried my money in my wallet, in my belt (emergency), or in a second secret place e.g. a sock, usually in a combined mixture. Standing in this hotel room was the first time that I had to really make a decision on my travels. I felt the room totally unsafe and outside equally so. I felt trapped. I could be mugged that night and no-one would ever know or find out. That was always a scary thought. The streets were too dangerous to search around for another hotel and I didn’t really know where I was in this terrible city. There were no taxis around and my only path through ordering one was through Gorge which didn’t seem the safest option either. I felt I was a prisoner.

I got out my sleeping bag, not intending to sleep in the bed with the recently changed sheets. I lay down on the sleeping bag and against background clicking of a large fan, I pondered what to do. The light had a very eerie effect on the room. The shade, which was made from weaved cotton string, had been totally mangled and with the slight breeze from the clicking fan and the light shining through it, it gave the impression of a giant spider web twisting, contorting and enveloping the room, adding to the air of entrapment. I got up from the bed and went to the window but a stinking alley echoing the scrambling and whining of 20 cats did nothing to dispel my despair. Beyond any doubt, this was the eeriest room that I had ever stayed in, in my entire short life.

I turned on the shower and immediately the lights in the room started to dim and flicker and I quickly turned it off. Insecurity was stronger than curiosity and I decided not to find out if indeed the shower water was conducting the electricity, so I opted for a cold shower instead. Jose, my new-found marine friend, called in and managed to tear me away from the evil room to the more evil street. We were both hungry a little bar not far down the road provided a beer and a sandwich. I relaxed a bit and chatted with Jose. I told him that I was changing hotels in the morning. He said that things suited him fine for the night. He was getting some study done and would leave the hotel in the morning also.

We finished up and went back to the hotel. I called down to give Gorge the money I owed for the room and was chatted up by an over friendly girl named Vera. She was trying to practice her English on me, but definitely wanted more than my English.

‘Do you like Brazilian girls?’ she asked.

I was caught initially by her question and thought about saying a strong no but the implications of this then came clear to me and I stumbled giving a strong ‘Yes,’ too strong, however.

She homed in on this very quickly and asked me if I had ever kissed Brazilian girls.

I shook my head and looked over to the television in the corner pretending to be interested in it.

‘Would you like to kiss Brazilian girls?’ she asked in a truly inquisitive tone.

Again I shook my head and this time I added that I was married. She noted that I wasn’t wearing a ring and I told her that I hadn’t been able to afford one. I got up quickly, said goodnight and left. In hotels like this Vera is part of the service and from the looks of it, no need to book in advance.

I went to bed and actually had quite a good sleep until six in the morning when I awoke to the Salvadorian cat’s choir. At breakfast, I met Vera again. She had her own room in the hotel. She winked at me as I gave in my key. I didn’t want to check out until I had a better hotel and I left straight away with daypack and guidebook in hand to find one. Gorge provided me with the name of the street and armed with this I ventured out.

Within about five minutes, I found a hotel recommended in my guide book. I checked it out and got a pleasant surprise. It was clean, and comfortable, totally different to the one that I was in the night before. There was an American couple eating breakfast and I chatted to them for a few minutes. They were the first foreigners that I had met in Salvador.

I went back to my hotel, packed my rucksack and checked out. Just as I was going out the door, Gorge stopped me. His two eyes pinning me, left and right and two different angles. I thought that he was angry that I was leaving, maybe he was going to overcharge me or slap a ‘Vera’ charge on me.

‘If any of your friends would like to stay…,’ he said, handing me some business cards for the hotel.

It had never dawned on me that Gorge thought that he was giving a good service and was proud of his hotel. He smiled an odd-toothed smile and said goodbye as I strolled off downtown to my new hotel, laughing my head off.

It was ten in the morning. Salvador was beginning to change very quickly before my eyes. I found it hard to think that terrible hotel was just a five-minute walk away and it was only just the night before that I had stayed there. The streets seemed so different now.

Salvador is seeped in history. During the 17-19 century over ten million Africans were transported to Brazil (ten times as many as the United States) particularly to the state of Bahia. The effects from those times are still very evident from a walk in the streets. The colours of the people, the difference in the food and the music and dance - the rhythm that has evolved out of captivity. At street corners there were Afro-Brazilian women in indigenous clothes setting up their stands to sell the exquisite acaraje, a strange concoction of deep fried bean curd paste, stuffed with vegetables and shrimp, all lined in a spicy paste called vatapa. My inner glutton surfaced and I downed four of them in an instant, savouring a taste unlike anything I had experienced before.

With the main course completed, I walked around the corner just in time for dessert. Brazil probably has the largest range of fruit in the world and having a large selection of fruits, resolves down to one undisputable fact – It would probably have the largest selection of ice-cream also! So walking into a little Brazilian ice-cream shop means that you can choose from around 40-50 flavours of ice cream. I tasted about fifteen samples before I felt guilty enough to buy a full one. My late breakfast/early lunch was now complete.

I continued on, aimlessly, foot following foot, until I ended up in a church off the main square of the city centre. Salvador had been referred to by many people as the Prague of Brazil and from the number of churches and church spires this could be easily confirmed. I went inside to look around and was approached by a young man who wanted to explain things about the church to me. I half ignored and half listened to him trying to maintain a politeness mixed with a non-interest. He asked me if I wanted to go to a candalomblé session that evening. Instantly I accepted his invitation because I had heard about this candalomblé before. It was famous around Bahia and was a trance dance originating from Africa and banned until recently in Brazil. I made arrangements to be collected at my hotel at about 6:30 that evening, something to look forward to for the rest of the day.

After examining a few more churches I made my way up a little cobble-stoned street. I stopped outside a shell shop and noticed a drumbeat coming from inside. I went into the shop but found no-one there. In the back, through a transparent partition of 1000s of threaded seashells, I could faintly see someone playing drums. I walked closer stretching for a better image when the drummer motioned to me to join him. I found myself sitting on a small stool in a dark corner, listening to a young man play a large bongo drum with such a great beat that only a rhythmic Einstein could attempt to capture. There was something so natural about sitting in this man’s back room, without ever having said a word to him. All around the wooden walls hung stacks of seashell necklaces and I felt as if I was remembering intimate times gone by, a mid-afternoon drink with a friend in some cosy snug, a shared song within a session, a walk in the park - something soulful, something shared. I tuned into the rhythm as he continued through several songs.

He stopped playing. I shook my head and applauded still a little entranced as we exchanged greetings. His name was Tipu. He could speak English quite well