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In Brazil’s Costa Verde, local communities are tapping into the ancient stillness beneath their town’s thrum
Another gold rush followed: the transportation of Arabica coffee beans, or “black gold”, to Europe. Then, in the mid 19th century, a railway was built connecting Rio and São Paulo, cutting the port out of Brazil’s economic loop. Time spooled backwards. Buildings devoured by termites collapsed behind their façades. Meanwhile, Caiçaras – the coastal people of South Brazil, descended from a mix of Portuguese, freed Africans and Indigenous people – quietly subsisted through traditional canoe fishing, foraging for food and forest medicine.
Almost returned to its original state, Paraty was “rediscovered” in the 1960s by left-leaning creatives escaping the scrutiny of Brazil’s military regime. Among them were Djanira, an artist of Guaraní descent, and members of the new Cinema Novo movement. “They came here by boat, drank cachaça and took LSD,” says Nina Taterka, a Paraty resident whose father was one of Gilberto Gil’s producers. “Free-spirited people, they fell in love with the simplicity of Caiçara culture.” It wasn’t until the 1970s, when a new road was built, that Paraty was opened up to São Paulo’s wealthy, who bought up derelict warehouses, whitewashing the centro histórico.
Fifty years on, Taterka’s shop, Canoa Arte Indígena, is a lone stalwart of pre-colonial Brazilian culture in Paraty town. It is a window onto a world of Indigenous crafts with geometric patterns, fringed textiles and jewellery made from trading beads and seeds. “I want to keep Indigenous communities relevant – show that they’re still alive all over Brazil, not just in the Amazon,” she says. “I have always admired Indigenous people for their resilience, surviving 500 years of colonisation.” In 2019, Unesco paid tribute to the “remarkable” authenticity of Paraty’s Caiçara, Indigenous and Quilombola communities. Quilombolas are the descendants of Africans who, having fled enslavement, founded self-sufficient settlements called quilombos. Yet it’d be easy to weave in and out of Paraty’s galleries, and samba on the beach during a host of festivals, without meaningful encounters with these communities – even if Guaraní women from nearby villages do sell headdresses in the streets after dark. However, a new wave of creatives – many of whom moved here during the pandemic – are beginning to acknowledge Paraty’s original inhabitants as muses. “This place brings out the creativity in people because there’s a strong tradition of Indigenous and Quilombola women making things by hand,” says Salvador-born costume and sustainable fashion designer Lena Santana, who moved here 11 years ago.
