My first two nights in São Luís reminded me of something essential in travel and documentary photography, even if it sounds like a cliché: being in the right place at the right time.

Bumba Meu Boi is not a single event, but dozens of celebrations and smaller performances scattered across the city, often happening simultaneously, sometimes even within the same neighbourhood.

My greatest challenge was working out where it was most worthwhile to be. Fortunately, several of the season’s largest gatherings took place during my first week. After two nights photographing the celebrations of São Pedro in darkness, I was ready to experience Bumba Meu Boi in daylight at the Festa de São Marçal.

Held in the João Paulo neighbourhood, the Festa de São Marçal marks the traditional conclusion of São Luís’s main June festivities, although Bumba Meu Boi continues with other events elsewhere. Its roots reach back to 1928, when Bumba Meu Boi groups began gathering in an area beyond the city centre, where working-class popular traditions had long faced prejudice and restrictions.

Today, dozens of groups belonging to the sotaque de matraca parade from morning until night. This is one of the most traditional styles native to São Luís, driven by the thunderous clatter of wooden matracas and the deep pulse of enormous frame drums called pandeirões.

I arrived early to catch the preparations, faced again with the same choices: which spot to get to, which group to follow. I wandered through, capturing bits and pieces of the buildup and falling into conversations with members of the Bumba Meu Boi batalhãos (groups).

People in Brazil love being photographed. The downside is that the second you raise a camera, up comes a thumbs-up or an automatic, cheesy grin.

That is why I look for the in-between moments. I want the scenes where people either do not notice the lens or are simply too busy to care. The quiet bustle of morning preparations is where opportunities for these images are plentiful.

A singer for one of the groups was a young man of just 18. When he opened his mouth his voice sounded well beyond his age, powerful and unwavering. I complimented him on his talent, his face lit up with a smile.

As the performers gathered, the morning sun lit up their colorful headgear, turning the crowd into a vivid, shifting mosaic. The procession was about to begin. Every year, this single event draws over 100,000 people, shutting down roughly a kilometer of roadway as the batalhões take over the asphalt. Thankfully early on, it was still quiet and still possible to get photos without excessive visual chaos.

This man was particularly striking and fiercely proud of Bumba Meu Boi. His role was to dance inside the bull frame, moving with great energy and occasionally lifting the skirt of the bull, while twisting and turning. I caught him as he slipped beneath the structure, just before he started to move.

Dancers take turns carrying the bull and dancing inside the costume. As they get tired, they pass the heavy frame between them.

In the relentless equatorial heat of São Luís, the dynamic movements required to bring the bull to life become an endurance test.

I always tried to focus on the faces inside the costumes, grounding the fantasy in the very real, human effort driving it.

Bumba Meu Boi is deeply spiritual, rooted in Maranhão’s Afro-Indigenous traditions where Catholic devotion blends with Tambor de Mina and the realm of the Encantaria.

For many dancers, the festival is not just street theater, but a living ritual and the fulfillment of sacred spiritual promises.

Dressed as a caboclo de pena, this performer was entirely lost in the dance, spinning in hypnotic, rhythmic circles. In local belief, states like this are not simple exhaustion, but the incorporation of an Encantado, an ancestral spirit stepping into the physical world through the pulse of the drums. Hands from his group guided him and protected him as he moved around with his eyes shut. For a moment he stopped, took a sip of liquor offered by a woman, threw his head back, and let out a raw, joyful scream.

Each group brings their massive wardrobe packed inside trucks. Being near these vehicles gave me some of the best opportunities for candid frames. Away from the spectacle there were these quiet unscripted moments that only exist in the margins of an event this massive.

The costumes are unloaded piece by piece and passed down to the performers. Most dancers do not own these garments. Because each piece requires months of intricate work, the batalhões (the groups) own and maintain the wardrobe collectively, transporting it in bulk to distribute before each procession. An entire local economy of artisans and embroiderers thrives around Bumba Meu Boi, backed by cultural funding from the state and municipal governments to keep the tradition alive.

As the streets fill and the crowd thickens, I get away from from wider scenes and narrow my focus. I look for the details: textures, repetitive patterns, and the harsh interplay of tropical light cutting deep shadows across the asphalt.

For a photographer, Bumba Meu Boi is a true visual spectacle. Once you make sense of the sensory chaos, the opportunities become endless. The power is not just in the explosive energy of the main parade, but in the subtle nuances and textures that you only really begin to see once you get past the initial impact of the obvious.

The event at São Marçal marked the final massive Bumba Meu Boi gathering of the season in São Luís. But… I had already heard, that one last large festival would take place in a week, at the neighboring town of São José de Ribamar. That left me with a full week to fill. Smaller, neighborhood-level Bumba Meu Boi performances still happened every day, but for one night I decided to shift my focus. I saw that a Tambor de Crioula circle was gathering right in the heart of the historical center, so I headed out to take a look.

Tambor de Crioula is a traditional Afro-Brazilian street dance. It’s powered by call-and-response singing and three heavy, fire-tuned drums.

Women in wide floral skirts take turns dancing in the center of the circle, tagging the next dancer with a quick bump of the belly.

The historical center of São Luís was the ideal backdrop for Tambor de Crioula. Watching the circle come alive gave me a whole new appreciation for the city. It felt like there was something happening every other day, tucked away in one plaza or another.

Most of these events pop up on the Instagram of different cultural groups, or on the website of the municipality. I spent an evening digging through the listings and decided to check out a smaller, neighborhood Bumba Meu Boi performance the following day.

Even at the bigger events there were almost no international tourists. The few visitors who did show up were Brazilians traveling from across the country, just as drawn to the spectacle as I was.

At this smaller neighborhood gathering, things were obviously far more local. I was the only outsider. I drew plenty of curious looks, with people genuinely puzzled by what this gringo with a camera was doing there.

The neighborhoods further out from the center have a rough reputation, and stepping outside the performance perimeter carried real risks.

People warned me about local drug corridors and territory lines. As I followed a group that had just finished their performance past the edge of the event, one of the leaders turned to me.

“Hey, be careful. Look after yourself.”

“What, even right here?” I asked.

“Yeah, even here.”

I weighed the risks against the visual potential and realized walking further down dark side streets made little sense. There was nothing compelling to photograph.

Just before I called it a night, though, I caught one last shot of a young performer heading home, the bull mask resting high on top of his head.

It was a fitting close to another great Bumba Meu Boi event. With a few days left before the weekend, I decided to completely shift gears for the next couple of days and to explore something completely different.

That is what the next piece will be about.

Life goes by far too quickly. There is always more to see, more to experience and more that we imagine we might still accomplish.

My grandmother’s recent passing was a very real reminder of that. So, although I had spent more than a year living in a place most people would call paradise, I decided to do what I love most. I set off on my first solo photographic trip in seven years.

My destination was São Luís do Maranhão, on Brazil’s northeastern coast.

The reason? To photograph Bumba Meu Boi, a cultural tradition I had wanted to experience for years but had never managed to encounter at the right time. This year, shortly after celebrating my 45th birthday with the girls, I finally went.

Bumba Meu Boi is Maranhão’s great celebration of the bull, bringing together music, dance, theatre, craftsmanship and religious devotion. At its centre is the legend of a beloved bull that is killed and eventually brought back to life. Its cycle extends across roughly three months, beginning with rehearsals and the baptism of the bull, continuing through weeks of public performances, known as brincadas, and ending with the ritual death of the bull.

São Luís is about 2,000 kilometres from where I live, so seeing the entire cycle was not realistic. I had to choose one part of it. After some research, I decided to go at the end of June, when the celebrations reach their height. On June 29th, groups from across the region would converge on the Capela de São Pedro to ask for blessings and give thanks.

I used Claude AI to help me find the main events and their locations. The information proved surprisingly accurate. But beyond the large official gatherings, I wanted to find celebrations that felt more intimate and grassroots, events rooted in the communities that had created them.

When I arrived at the Capela de São Pedro, in the neighborhood of Madre Deus, on the night before the main gathering, I found a large stage and crowds of spectators filling the stands. Aesthetically, it was not what I had imagined. I had expected something more rustic and on a smaller scale. Instead, the setting was unmistakably urban, enclosed by concrete, buildings, traffic and all the infrastructure required to manage so many people.

Yet there were no crowds of international tourists and only a couple of other photographers. This was not a spectacle arranged for outsiders. It was a genuine celebration made by and for the people who lived there.

I began to understand that the urban environment was not getting in the way of the tradition. It was the setting in which the tradition now lived, and therefore the visual reality I would be working with. I used that first night to try to make sense of it all and to get back into the rhythm of photographing. I had not picked up a camera for a serious shoot in quite some time.

What captivated me immediately was the music.

Bumba Meu Boi is performed in several different styles, known as sotaques. A sotaque determines much of a group’s musical character, including its rhythms, instruments, costumes and choreography. The five most commonly recognized are Matraca, Zabumba, Baixada, Costa-de-mão and Orquestra.

The Orquestra groups use wind and string instruments, producing sweeping melodies that can feel almost like popular dance music. Their songs, known as toadas, are melodic and immediately accessible. This was the music I found myself enjoying most instinctively. This song in particular seemed to be everywhere. Everybody knew it, and I heard it performed again and again.

But visually and culturally, I was much more drawn to the Matraca and Zabumba groups. Matraca has this raw, rattling energy, created by hundreds of wooden matracas, maracás and enormous pandeirões drums.

Zabumba is heavier and deeper, driven by the powerful beat of its large drums. Bumba Meu Boi mixes Indigenous, African and European traditions, but with these groups, those older roots somehow felt closer to the surface. There was something raw and communal about them. It felt less like watching a performance and more like being pulled into something that had been passed down through generations.

The next day came the great gathering for São Pedro. Throughout the night and into the morning, Bumba Meu Boi groups arrived one after another. Some first stopped at nearby terreiros, Afro-Brazilian houses of worship such as Casa das Minas and Casa de Nagô, before making their way towards the chapel.

This journey between the terreiros and the Catholic chapel reflects something central to Bumba Meu Boi.

Catholic devotion and Afro-Maranhense religious traditions have become deeply intertwined.

For many of the groups, paying respect in both places is not a contradiction. It is all part of the same faith and the same tradition.

The group members brought their bulls with them. These were not living animals, but richly decorated bull figures carried and brought to life by performers inside them. At the chapel, each group presented its bull to be blessed and gave thanks to São Pedro.

After my introductory first night, this was where I began to grasp the scale of Bumba Meu Boi and the place it holds in people’s lives. Around midnight, the packed streets vibrated with drums and the sharp clatter of matracas. The sound did not come only from the performers. Spectators had brought their own matracas and drums and joined in, turning the crowd into part of the music.

I was still trying to understand what I was experiencing. Photography has always been one of the ways I make sense of things. My aim was not to document every costume, character and performance, at least during this first encounter with Bumba Meu Boi. I was searching for something more universal: small moments of real life within all the theatre.

It might sound strange to go to a performance and then look beyond the performance itself, but that was what interested me most. I watched the preparations, the waiting and the glances from the crowd. I looked for performers absorbed in what was happening.

I was searching for those brief, unguarded moments when people forgot, or simply stopped caring, that cameras were there.

The performance gave me the stage, but what I was really trying to photograph was life unfolding within it. Every now and then, if you remain open and observant, real life gives you something that feels almost poetic. Those were the moments I was looking for.

The image above, of a boy briefly showing his face from inside the bull costume, is a literal representation of the in-between moment I was searching for: the instant when the performance pauses and the real person behind it is revealed.

The preparations carry their own kind of visual drama. Before playing, the musicians hold their enormous pandeirões, large frame drums covered with animal skin, beside an open fire. The heat tightens the drumheads and brings them into tune. It is a practical job, but the darkness and firelight make it feel mysterious, almost magical.

The costumes are elaborate and impressive, but wearing them is intensely physical work. Some of the headpieces are enormous and have to be balanced, lifted and readjusted throughout the night. In Maranhão’s tropical heat, it quickly becomes stifling inside them, and nobody can remain fully enclosed for too long. Between appearances, performers emerge to breathe, rest and gather themselves before stepping back into character. The man in this photograph has bloodshot eyes, perhaps irritated by standing too close to the fire, or simply showing the exhaustion of several nearly sleepless nights.

Children take their places alongside the adults, not simply watching from the sidelines, but already participating in the tradition. Bumba Meu Boi does not feel like a tradition in danger of disappearing. It receives meaningful support from the government and cultural organizations, and, more importantly, it remains popular with younger generations. The children seem genuinely proud and excited to be part of it. This is not a tradition being remembered. It is one still being lived and passed on.

As the night wears on, the streets become almost impossible to move through. Performers, musicians and spectators press together as a police vehicle slowly forces its way directly through the parade. Members of the Bumba Meu Boi groups are visibly frustrated. They see the repeated interruptions as disrespectful, even insulting, to a celebration of such importance to them.

Later, I am told that the police are patrolling because the surrounding area is known for drug-gang activity and they want to prevent any sudden conflict.

So, despite streets so crowded that even walking is difficult, the vehicles continue making their rounds through the middle of the celebration.

Towards morning, I navigate the crowd and make my way up the steps of the chapel. From above, I finally get a sense of the event’s true scale. The separate groups merge into one enormous, constantly moving mass of feathers, drums, bulls and people.

The São Pedro celebration continued throughout the night and well into the morning. Until then, almost everything I had photographed had been seen under streetlights, surrounded by darkness. When daylight finally arrived, it felt as though I was seeing another side of Bumba Meu Boi.

The costumes had already been vibrant during the night, but under the morning sun their colors became even more brilliant. Everything seemed to come alive with even greater intensity, giving the celebration a different kind of energy.

That is where the next part of this story begins.

There’s a voice I heard before I was ever born.

From the womb, it was already familiar. Warm, steady, certain. It must have been one of the first voices that made the world feel safe.

When I was a baby and my mother was still young, my babushka, my grandmother, helped raise me. She wasn’t just someone who visited. We all lived together in a tiny one-bedroom Soviet apartment: my parents, my grandparents and I. She was simply... there.

Her face is one of the earliest things I remember. Maybe the earliest.

Her presence was so constant that I never thought of it as something separate from life itself. It just was life.

Even when she scolded me as an adult, I found it oddly comforting. Not because I enjoyed being scolded, but because hearing her voice meant she was there. Everything was in its place.

Her voice was an anchor. A root. A reminder of who I was and where I came from.

No matter where I went, that voice was something I could always return to. Home base.

Not because we saw each other often. After we immigrated to Australia, we spent much of my adult life on opposite sides of the world. But I always, always knew she was there.

Today I’m writing this from a house near one of the nicest beaches in Brazil.

The sky is blue, the ocean is calm, and the air is warm. Palm trees lean lazily over the sand. It’s the kind of place people dream about and, for me, it really is a dream place. I’ve lived here for much of the last two years.

The place feels like a different dimension. World crises and political dramas feel far away. Entire news cycles pass without anyone seeming particularly concerned.

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At first, that felt like freedom. It felt like paradise, and in many ways, it still does. But paradise has a cost, and it’s subtle enough that you don’t notice it at first.

Time stretches here. The days blend together in a way I’ve never experienced before.

Before you know it, a year has slipped by, and you’re left wondering where it went. The world keeps moving while you remain in the same beautiful place, slowly becoming more and more disconnected from the wider world.

For some people, that works just fine. I thought it might work for me too. But I’ve come to understand something about myself. I need movement, friction, unfamiliar people, and ideas that challenge my assumptions. I need to feel connected to the wider world.

Every time I’ve stayed in one place for an extended period during my adult life, I’ve come to the same conclusion. Travel isn’t just entertainment for me. I seem to need it in the same way I need oxygen.

One night during my last journey through the interior of Bahia, I parked my camper on a street in a small town. My neighbour was a homeless man in his sixties who made a living collecting discarded things for recycling.

Most people avoided him. I smiled, we started talking. Before long, he was sharing something deeply personal with me.

He began reciting poems he’d written. They were about recycling, the cycle of life, love. They weren’t someone else’s words. They were his. His treasures. Hidden inside a man that most people walked past without a second glance.

I couldn’t help thinking I was listening to a poet in the truest sense of the word. Someone whose reflections on life were more profound than much of what passes for culture in the mainstream. Yet almost nobody knew he existed.

I’ve come across people like this all over the world. Again and again, travel reminds me that intelligence, talent, wisdom, kindness and creativity aren’t distributed according to wealth, geography or passports.

Travel has a way of dismantling assumptions. It asks us to look beyond the surface because people and places are almost always more than they first appear.

Looking back, I think I started seeing the world this way long before I ever travelled.

It probably started with my grandmother...

She was a dentist, and her dentist’s office was my playground. I’d pump the dentist’s chair up and down like it was an amusement park ride, rummage through drawers and cupboards, and examine all the instruments. I loved being there.

Then I’d watch other children arrive. They’d be terrified, sometimes crying, dreading the exact same room that felt completely safe and even pleasant to me. The room hadn’t changed. I’d simply had the chance to become familiar with it and see it differently.

Without either of us realising it, those afternoons in my grandmother’s dentist’s office were teaching me something that would shape the way I see the world.

The closer we look, the more we discover that things are rarely what they first seem.

Travel deepened that lesson. Photography made it stick.

Photography is my excuse to slow down, to stay longer, to look harder and to notice things I would otherwise walk straight past.

The combination of travel and photography has become my favourite way of experiencing the world. You move through it, observe it, engage with it, and somehow even manage to preserve a part of it.

For years, I thought I was travelling for myself. And of course I was. But over time, I’ve realised that wasn’t the whole story.

Every journey had an audience. Every photograph, even the ones I never shared publicly. Every strange encounter. Every new discovery. My family always wanted to hear about them, but my babushka was one of the very first people I’d tell.

Especially after WhatsApp arrived, we spoke almost every day. I’d send her photos, tell her stories, describe the places I’d visited and the people I’d met. She experienced the world through me.

And without ever really thinking about it, I came to understand my own experiences more deeply by sharing them with her.

She wasn’t just hearing about my travels. She had quietly become part of them. Then again, maybe she always had been.

She’s the one who taught me to ride a bicycle, which eventually led to tens of thousands of kilometres on motorcycles across continents. She’s the one who, when the first foreign films arrived in the USSR, took me to see King Kong at the cinema. Not once. I think it was ten times. Looking back now, I can almost draw a line from those afternoons in the cinema to the documentaries and YouTube videos I make today.

She even encouraged my basketball obsession in my teens. While my parents worried it would lead nowhere, she simply said, “If you want to be good, you have to practise. Again and again.”

The older I get, the more I realise how deeply she shaped me. My curiosity. My stubbornness. My hunger for the world. So much of who I am traces back to her. I suspect I’m still uncovering the ways she influenced me.

And she never stopped being curious herself. Even in her nineties, she remained open to new ideas.

She was willing to change her mind, willing to learn, willing to grow. Most people lose that long before old age.

She never did.

A couple of months ago, my babushka, my grandma, died. She was ninety-four.

Ninety-four sounds like a complete life, and I know how fortunate I was to have her well into my forties. But none of that changes the feeling of such enormous loss and grief.

Even now, I still catch myself reaching for my phone. I open WhatsApp, and then I stop because there is nobody to call.

The voice I’d been hearing since before I was born is gone.

More than ever before, I’ve come to realise what the greatest gift of travel and photography really is…

They’ve certainly brought me adventure, taken me to beautiful places and introduced me to remarkable people. But that’s not their greatest gift.

It’s the awareness to appreciate what’s in front of me while it’s still there, while I still can. If anything, this has only strengthened my desire to keep travelling, to keep meeting people, to keep seeing the world and to keep paying attention.

Years ago, I visited my grandmother for the last time, though I didn’t know it then. I deliberately recorded her telling me our family history. I filmed her talking about surviving the war, commenting on family photographs and sharing stories from everyday life. I knew those recordings would matter one day.

Now they mean more than ever.

I can hear her voice. I can see her smile. I can watch her face. For a few moments, she isn’t just a memory. She feels present, as though she’s right there.

She was sharp, witty and even a bit of a smartass, right up until her very last days.

I love you, babushka. I always will.

Over the years of traveling and photographing, there’s one thing that’s always bothered me: arriving at an amazing event only to witness the end of it.

You get a glimpse of something incredible, but you know you probably missed the best parts.

That was exactly how I felt last year when I arrived in the town of Aliança in Pernambuco.

The sun had just set, so I missed the golden hour. The last groups of performers had already arrived. Buses that had brought earlier groups were already leaving.

Still, I liked the setting of Aliança and could see its photographic potential. Unlike many of the other places I visited, Maracatu here unfolded against green rolling hills.

It was a welcome contrast to the uninspiring architecture of the small towns in the interior of Pernambuco. I also discovered that Aliança plays an important role on the final day of Carnival. Most Maracatu nations pass through here.

So this year I made sure I wouldn’t repeat last year’s mistake.

I decided to spend the entire day in Aliança. I’d already seen what the other locations looked like, so I had reason to believe Aliança would offer the best photographic opportunities. After spending the night up in the hills among the sugarcane fields, we drove into town.

Things rarely begin on time in Brazil, so even though I arrived on time, we were early.

It didn’t take long to realize I’d made the right decision.

The morning golden hour was gone by the time everyone arrived. But the light was still atmospheric. It highlighted the intensity of the Maracatu performances.

I walked around… looking, photographing whatever caught my eye.

Along the way I made friends with a couple of local women selling refreshments. I bought a few drinks for some exhausted performers. They travel from town to town and perform several times on this same day.

Normally I’m careful about handing things out. I’ve seen how something as innocent as giving a child chocolate can quickly turn into an entire village chasing you, demanding more. But this situation was different. No one was asking for anything. Conversations had already started, and my small offering felt appropriate in the heat of the Brazilian summer.

As in many situations like this, I didn’t focus only on the performances themselves. Of course I photographed them. But even in Aliança, with far fewer photographers around, I couldn’t simply walk into the middle of everything to get the exact angles I wanted.

And in my experience, the truly special images usually happen behind the scenes. That’s what I spent most of my time photographing that day. People preparing. Arriving on buses. Unloading costumes. Interacting with one another. Joking around.

One of the best things about these events is the faces. So many wonderful faces. Characters. Expressive. Sometimes performing for the camera in playful ways, other times surprisingly relaxed and simply themselves.

A detail that caught my eye. Objects hanging from one performer’s neck. Crosses, rosary beads, a small flower, even a set of keys. In Maracatu, faith, daily life, and tradition often mix together in quiet ways.

These performers aren’t actors or professionals. They are ordinary people who carry their beliefs, their responsibilities, and their culture with them into the celebration.

I noticed this man leaning against a wall and liked his style right away. He told me he used to be a Caboclo de Lança, one of the iconic figures of Maracatu. But he said he was too old for that now. Still, he had come with his Maracatu nation to support them. He spoke a little about the past, about how things used to be. There was pride in his voice, but also a quiet acceptance that his role had changed.

One of the really encouraging things about Maracatu is that young people still embrace it. There are many young performers involved. At almost any Maracatu performance you’ll see boys and girls who have just reached their teenage years, and often many who are younger.

The day was partially overcast. Sunlight kept breaking through in small windows. It created deep shadows and made the colors feel alive, especially as the sun began to sink.

A few other photographers had come earlier to shoot this important event. But they left around lunchtime. I stayed.

The thing is, with travel and documentary photography, the special moment can happen at any time, in the most unexpected places. The most meaningful encounter can appear out of nowhere.

That’s the beauty of this kind of photography.
Its unpredictability.
The feeling of being alive.

I wanted at least a chance to photograph during the golden hour. I just hoped the clouds would open up when the time came. Last year, many of these events took place under cloudy skies. The golden hour usually wasn’t golden at all. So it was fantastic to finally capture some of those vivid, vibrant colors this year.

Almost anyone I pointed my camera at seemed to have a little bit of magic around them because of the light. I ran around trying to photograph as many different subjects as I could while that dramatic golden light lasted.

Much of the action was happening around the buses, especially when groups returned from their performances. Once they finished, people seemed more relaxed and a bit more unguarded. It felt like they’d gotten the performance out of the way. Now I could capture genuine expressions, not just the posing or playing for the camera.

That mix of everyday life and the quiet glamour of Brazil and Maracatu. An ordinary setting between buses and dust. Yet sudden flashes of elegance.

Once the sun went down, the pressure to photograph everything eased. I moved around less frantically, talking and interacting more.

People in Northeast Brazil, despite lives that aren’t always easy, are almost always good humored. One man joked with me, asking if I’d noticed the difference in quality between their “budget” mascot and the much more elaborate ones used by other groups. I laughed and said, “Hey, at least you guys have a stuffed mascot.” Some Maracatu nations have nothing more than a picture. A traditional shield or a flag printed on a large piece of cardboard.

That led to a conversation with one of the older mestres, the community leaders who guide the Maracatu groups and help preserve the tradition.

Earlier I’d heard an announcement honoring some of the elders, the keepers of the Maracatu tradition. The announcer called them superheroes. I realized he was absolutely right.

These are people who aren’t paid. They keep this tradition alive through passion, pride, and love for the culture. That earns my deep admiration and respect.

When I met this elder gentleman, I told him exactly that. I said how remarkable it was that he and others had kept this tradition alive, and that people were finally starting to recognize their work. He seemed proud, but there was also a trace of melancholy in his voice.

“Yes,” he said. “But it’s still tough. It’s expensive to keep this going.”

Many of the costs come out of their own pockets. The government has set aside some funding, but much of the burden still falls on the communities themselves. It’s not easy. They need more help.

At the same time, he told me it was encouraging to see young people still getting involved. That gave him hope.

For my part, I said I hoped my photographs might help bring a little more attention to their work. I also plan to send the images to the event organizers.

I wanted to squeeze everything I could out of the day, so I stayed well after the sun had set.

I only left after the last performance ended. Another mestre was honored. Emotional reactions were everywhere. Faces full of pride and happiness. The thing they love so much, the thing they dedicate themselves to, was bringing joy to others and finally receiving recognition.

After Aliança, we headed south toward Bahia. That’s where we’ll be staying for the next year while my daughter goes to school. From there I’ll continue traveling and taking shorter photographic trips.

I came to Goiana to see part of the carnival and to return photographs to Pretinhas do Congo, a small carnival bloco with deep roots and cultural weight. I’d photographed them last year. But on this day, I arrived without anyone’s contact. When I got there, I learned they wouldn’t be performing.

They’d gone to Recife, the capital of Pernambuco.

So I drove around looking for something else to shoot. I spent a couple of hours moving between nearby villages where carnival activities were underway. The light was bright but flat. The streets offered nothing that held me long enough to raise the camera. I was frustrated.

I headed back toward Goiana, expecting samba later in the evening, but nothing before that. Instead, I found a pleasant surprise.

There were bulls, or the suggestion of them, part performance and part competition. Then came the burrinhas, the little donkeys. Men and boys stood inside wooden frames draped as donkeys, pretending to ride themselves. They lunged and twisted with exaggerated seriousness, faces tight with theatrical intensity. The absurdity made it better.

There were dancing bears too. One of them was named Urso Preguiçoso, the Lazy Bear, and he was too lazy to dance, like the other bears. The whole scene hovered between ritual and comedy. It was a spectacle, and it gave me what I hadn’t found earlier, photographs, fragments from the moving theater of life.

I’d lost the golden light chasing what wasn’t there. But the stage cast a hard, angled spotlight into the square. It wasn’t subtle, but it was dramatic. I made sure to use it.

Then the local Maracatu nation began to perform. The colors deepened. The shadows thickened. When you’re working a theme, repeating forms, similar movements, familiar subjects, you need variation or the images blend one into another. The spotlight gave me contrast, something to separate these frames from the ones I’d already made. I loved it.

After the Maracatu, the bears, donkeys, and bulls returned. More chances. More humor and chaos. Tired faces. I prefer the tired faces to the smiles offered to the camera. They’re real.

Around the corner, the samba parade was forming. It was late. I was tired. The next day I’d photograph Maracatu in what I knew would be a photogenic location. I told myself I wouldn’t stay long.

Then a group of girls approached me. They asked if I charged for photos. I said no. They asked if I could make some for them. “Sure,” I replied.

It was an easy exchange. Their teacher gathered them. They posed, but I asked if I could photograph them while they practiced instead. The ice broke.

I made a few more images of the drummers, a mother and child, and an elderly woman in an elaborate samba costume. Then I called it a night.

We drove out toward the sugarcane fields just beyond the town of Aliança. I’d spend the next day working there. The hills were quiet in the dark. I knew they were lush green, even if I couldn’t see it.

The afternoon had begun in frustration. The evening ended better than I expected.

If you’d like to learn more about my process and the thinking behind these photographs, you can find a deeper reflection on my educational Substack HERE.

For the second year in a row, I went to Pernambuco to photograph maracatu. The first time, I hadn’t gone looking for it. I found it almost by accident. A legendary local photographer mentioned it to me in a museum, as if it were obvious. As if everyone already knew this was the thing to see, the thing to shoot. I went to watch a rehearsal in the off-season.

The sound, the color, the intensity of it stayed with me.

The following year I made sure to return, to be where maracatu is practiced. For me, it had become the most compelling part of Carnival.

This year I came again. I missed most of the pre-Carnival preparations, but I arrived in time for the festival itself. Cambinda Brasileira, one of the oldest maracatu nations in Brazil, as always was holding its first ceremonial opening at its headquarters, as it does every year. I sent a message to Mestre Anderson, my contact from the year before, and asked if I could stay again near the cluster of buildings where the group gathers, to photograph the preparations. Of course, he said. You’re very welcome. Speaking with that particular warmth of Pernambuco, a warmth that feels immediate and unforced.

That’s what stays with you in the Northeast. The roads may be poor. You may have to drive over dirt tracks and broken ground to reach Cambinda Brasileira. But the welcome is constant. It doesn’t fail. It’s one of the reasons I’ve grown attached to this region, why I’ve decided to remain here for at least a couple of years.

The elderly men, the caretakers and longtime stewards of Cambinda Brasileira, recognized me vaguely. They see many faces, local and foreign. But they remembered my camper parked outside. They smiled. Shy, aging men who’ve given their lives to this tradition.

This time I knew what I wanted. I wanted the Caboclos de Lança dressing in their elaborate costumes. The Caboclos de Lança are the spear-bearers of maracatu rural, its most iconic and visually arresting figures.

They wear towering headdresses layered in colored cellophane, catching the sun like stained glass.

They wear heavy embroidered jackets, layers of beads, and carry long spears wrapped in ribbons. Historically, they are said to represent Indigenous warriors, sugarcane field guards, and spiritual protectors at once. They move between beauty and threat, spectacle and discipline.

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I wanted the makeup going on, the quiet concentration before the spectacle. I recognized a girl from last year. A Brazilian photographer I follow, and who follows me, noticed a photo I posted of her on Instagram last year. He told me she’s the daughter of a friend and asked for the images I made of her. I told the family I’d pass the photos through him again. These circles overlap in small ways. Word travels.

When you understand the rhythm of an event, you waste less energy. You move with purpose. You anticipate. It’s obvious, perhaps, but it’s satisfying to feel it proved true.

There was also burrinha, the little donkey. A playful character.

A performer wears a small donkey frame around their waist, the animal’s head and body bouncing as they dance. Comic and agile, the burrinha moves between the more solemn figures, breaking tension, teasing the crowd, keeping things human. In a procession heavy with symbolism and hierarchy, it brings lightness.

Some maracatu nations have especially funny burrinhas. Usually they’re grown men who commit to it completely, whipping the imaginary animal with intense seriousness, dancing with exaggerated focus, as if the whole thing were very important and hard work. That seriousness is what makes it hilarious.

I photographed the Baianas, the traditional female figures of maracatu, often representing Afro-Brazilian matriarchal strength, as they prepared to walk with the symbolic royal court. In maracatu rural, the royal court recalls the Afro-Brazilian coronations of enslaved kings and queens during colonial times.

There is a king, a queen, princes and princesses, standard-bearers, ladies of the court.

The Baianas, in wide skirts and white lace, carry themselves with gravity. The court doesn’t rule anything tangible, but within maracatu it represents memory, dignity, and a reassertion of presence.

A friendly photographer I’d met the year before told me where to find them preparing. He was back again, leading a small group. Speaking of photographers, there were more of them this year, many more.

Cambinda Brasileira has become well known. Brazilian media come. Foreign media too. This exposure has attracted dozens of photographers. Not all of them are considerate. Now… I believe in stepping forward when you must. Claim your frame. But once you have it, move aside. Let someone else have a go. I try never to cut across another photographer’s shot. I look first. I might not always notice, but I try. Not everyone does.

Still, I had the advantage of familiarity. I knew what would happen next, and where. So, I was able to find quieter corners, which is just as well because the main performance was nearly impossible to photograph. Too many bodies, too much interference. I turned away from the center. I knew I’d have other chances at performances in other towns, where I might be the only photographer.

I worked the edges. I waited for pauses. I wanted images that felt like stills from a film. Something about to occur, or something just finished. A reaction half-formed. A person caught mid-thought, mid-action. I made a few portraits, but I didn’t pull performers aside to pose them. Others did that. I preferred what felt unarranged. Alive.

There’s irony in wanting to photograph performers outside their performance. But that’s where things felt most genuine, real.

Everything ended earlier than the year before. The sun was low, and the light turned heavy and gold. Clouds parted in places.

The sugarcane fields deepened in color. I remembered the images that first drew me here, the ones I’d seen in books and online, and now I stood in that same light.

I didn’t want to stop shooting. I knew there was a larger maracatu gathering in a town not far away, a place I’d visited before.

Last time, the performances were held in open fields. This time they took place in the plaza.

Less photogenic. Harder light. Flatter space. Still, I made a few frames before night ended.

When I finished shooting, I was exhausted. It had been hot and humid, and I’d been sweating the entire day. We drove a few kilometers out of town and slept among the sugarcane fields. Toward evening a breeze came through, and then rain. After the chaos and constant motion, it was a quiet, almost blissful night.

And maracatu, for another year, had already begun to give me what I came for.

This Substack is where I share the journeys. On my educational Substack, I break down the photographic thinking behind them in a more practical way. You can explore that HERE.

In Brazil’s Northeast, the street is the stage. And life plays out in full view.

People dress up… Not for spectacle, but for meaning. They come with belief, with grief, with gratitude. With something to ask for. With something to give back.

At midday the light is harsh. Hard shadows. Strong textures. Every surface sharply defined. Whites flare. Contrast runs high. By late afternoon it softens. Blues turn electric. Colors deepen. The streets begin to glow.

Last Sunday I photographed the Yemanjá festival, an ode to the water goddess.

Yemanjá belongs to Afro-Brazilian spiritual tradition.

Here in Bahia she’s the sea. She’s motherhood. She’s protection. She’s longing. For many, she’s also memory.

The ocean here isn’t just water. It’s history. It’s the route of the transatlantic crossing. Loss, survival, ancestry.

To offer flowers to the water isn’t just a ritual. It’s a gesture toward something older and deeper than words.

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In Bahia especially, Yemanjá transcends categories. You don’t have to belong to a religion to participate. People bring flowers, perfume, small mirrors, combs, tokens of beauty and care. They ask for protection. Healing. Love. Direction.

The act itself is simple. You carry something to the water and let it go.

But inside that simplicity lives gratitude, hope, grief, continuity.

For some, it’s faith.
For others, tradition.
For many, it’s simply part of the rhythm of life here, like the tide coming in and going out again.

This wasn’t the grand-scale Yemanjá of Salvador.
It was Cachoeira, smaller, quieter, more intimate.

Cachoeira has just over 30,000 residents. A historic colonial town along the Paraguaçu River. Long considered one of the cultural hearts of the Recôncavo Baiano.

And it’s small enough that, this being my third time here, some people recognized me.

The homeless figure who lingers near the church courtyard where I park.
A man I met on the church steps and spoke with for an hour, as if we’d known each other for years.

And the coconut seller by the water. He saw me, broke into a wide smile, and said,

“E aí, guerreiro, você voltou.”

Guerreiro. Warrior. It’s not literal. Here it means someone who keeps going. Someone who returns.

You came back.

Then he laughed and added, “You must really love Brazil.”

He was genuinely pleased when I told him I’m living in Bahia now. Not too far from Cachoeira.

In Cachoeira, Yemanjá is honored along the Paraguaçu River, not the open sea.

People arrive carrying baskets. Flowers in yellow, white, red, stacked high.

The baskets matter. Woven. Natural. Built to float for a while before they sink. They hold the offering together. They give it shape.

The flowers are sprayed with perfume, an act of care and respect. Yemanjá is associated with beauty and the sea, so the scent is offered as something pleasing. Something intimate.

The spray settles over the petals before the boats push off. A quiet way of honoring her before the flowers are released into the water.

Then the devotees board the boats and move toward the Whale Rock, a formation in the river that anchors the ritual.

Tourists rarely go. The boats are few. You usually need to know someone. Security doesn’t allow improvisation.

I really wanted to go. So I approached one of the private boatmen waiting at another pier. He named a price. I agreed.

Others appeared. Within minutes the boat held nearly thirty people, and we divided the cost.

Most hadn’t planned it. Like me, they just wanted to be there.

And so we pushed off.

The shore had quieted. The real movement was on the river. A few boats moving across the surface. The baskets no longer balanced high, but resting on the wooden floorboards.

Out there, the atmosphere changed. Less noise. Less urgency. Just water and faces turned toward it.

My daughter came with me. She made her own offering.

As the boat returned to the pier and I began to step off, the captain said, “Stay. Another round. More devotees coming. You wanted photographs.”

So I stayed.

The second trip felt different. Not less crowded, but more focused. The energy had shifted. It was about the river and the people who had come with intention. Everyone on board was a devotee. This was an important day in their year.

A woman next to me sang softly. The words drifted across the water.

On a boat beside ours, a Candomblé spiritual leader lifted the first basket and released it into the river. Then another followed.

A woman wept quietly, overcome by the moment. A mother held her daughter close, while child curiously watched everything.

Two twin sisters dressed as Yemanjá. An elderly woman in white beside them, clapping softly to a song that seemed to linger in her head. She was too weak to stand for long, yet unwilling to miss this.

Then it was finished.

The boats turned back to shore. The river kept moving.

Another day in Cachoeira.

I’m fortunate my work brings me here. Photography and the camper that carries me from town to town make journeys like this possible.

I didn’t mean to be absent here for so long, and I’m hoping I still have some outstanding posts to share from last year.

For a few months, I stopped traveling and stepped into something close to a regular life. Finding a house to rent in a little paradise by the coast. School for my daughter. Bureaucratic work for my digital nomad visa here in Brazil.

Now I’m hoping to do something I’ve never really managed before. Find a balance.

Half regular life.
Half travel and photographer life.

We’ll see how it goes.

I won’t say anything just yet. I’d love for you all to watch this and… well, I’m very curious to hear some thoughts. If you know

you’ll get it quickly, if don’t know, you must watch until the last seconds. I’ve love to have a creative, philosophical discussion, though I know some might feel a certain type of way about all this.

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Every story has a beginning. Mine began in Belarus.

Well—technically, it was the USSR back then, a country that no longer exists. But Belarus is the land where I was born and spent my first ten years, until my parents left for Australia.

I’ve never been one for nostalgia, never felt that sentimental pull toward my birthplace the way some do. I was grateful we left, especially when we did—right after the Soviet Union collapsed.

Those were hard years. Long queues for anything, crime spiraling out of control, winters that seemed even grayer under the weight of uncertainty.

But one place in that country stirs something in me, a flicker of warmth.

Some of my earliest memories are from here. They’re faint—images, smells, brief moments. The Braslav Lake region, tucked away in the north of Belarus.

I was a child on holiday. I remember the rural shops, the bus stops, the lakes. I remember my father and I fishing, again and again, until we finally caught one tiny fish. He still reminds me of our failure as fishermen.

Years passed. Life took its turns. I never had much attachment to my so-called motherland, but somehow, I married a girl from Belarus. Together, we kept coming back. First once, then again, then almost every year. My wife would visit her parents. I needed something to do.

And so, by another twist of fate, I found myself back in Braslav. Looking for things to photograph.

As an adult, I saw it with new eyes. And then, the smells, the sounds—they unlocked something. Memory is strange that way. I kept returning, summer after summer, until 2018.

Then we went to South America. Then COVID happened. Then political turmoil.

And suddenly, everything changed.

My wife lost both of her parents during those Covid times. My grandmother passed away. Some of my best friends left Belarus. Some of my family did too. The country began to feel distant in a way it never had before. My reasons for going back unraveled.

What I have now are photographs…

Many of the photos I have made in Braslav are tied to one man—Yuri (above). He reintroduced me to region, welcomed me into his home, a place I stayed for weeks at a time nearly every summer for a decade. We did a lot together.

We fished. We sat in the Russian banya, sweating it out for hours, talking about life, about travel. Yuri even joined me for a couple of days in Barcelona when I was traveling around Spain.

One summer, I bought a car—an UAZ Buhanka, nicknamed the "loaf of bread"—to navigate the backroads of Braslav.

Maybe I’ll share more photos from that time.

For now, this is an introduction. Visual notes of a place lodged in memory, a region that stirs something close to nostalgia. Not for Belarus as a whole, but for personal memories and the Braslav I knew. A place that gave me something rare and good.

I think of those sunrises at 4:30 in the morning, the fog rolling in come autumn.

The crayfish we used to catch by the bucket—until the nearby collective farm started dumping something into the lake, turning the water murky, making it impossible to see what lay beneath.

So much has changed…

I look at these photos now and realize they captured something unrepeatable.

The children have grown. Yuri no longer lives in the house where I spent so many summers. I’m pretty sure that the grandmother in the photo above isn't alive any more.

And so, the photos take on a different weight. They are not history in any grand sense. But they are a record—of a period in my life, and of a place I may never return to.

It was unlikely, this chapter. But for a time, it was mine. And it was good.

When I lose my sense of what to photograph in Brazil, I look to two things: the chaos of celebration, and the quiet persistence of fishermen. Carnival grabs the headlines, but it’s the lives connected to the water that hold my attention. I’ve called it an obsession—but it’s more than that.

Fishermen are like an indicator species. They tell you more than the health of the river—they reveal the state of a place, its people. A kind of pulse.

When I arrive in a village and see nets drying, boats on the water, men casting lines—I know the river is still alive. There’s food, work, and a tether to nature that hasn’t been cut.

And there are always stories. These are people I admire. Hard lives, close to the land. I respect that. Sometimes I even think I want to live more like them.

I looked at the map again. Which villages still rely on the river? Where could I find what I was after?

I asked ChatGPT. I’ve been experimenting. Got a few suggestions.

But theory’s not reality.

The first village looked promising—at least on the map, and from the scraps of info I’d gathered. When I arrived, two kids were swinging in a hammock beneath a tree by the river. A simple, timeless scene. Poetic, almost. But as soon as I pulled up, they ran. In the end, I got a photo of some boats, a cart, and a pair of vultures.

The next village had no fishing at all. Just dust and a boy chasing cows.

I stopped a man on a motorbike. “Where do they still fish around here?”

“Barra de Cruz,” he said. Just thirty minutes away.

We drove 15 kilometers down a dirt road, deeper into nowhere. Near the village entrance, I asked someone where the port was. They looked puzzled. I explained—roughly—that I was documenting life along the São Francisco River.

They pointed, vaguely. “That way.”

A low-hanging cable stretched across the road—too low for the camper to pass. A boy appeared with a long stick, the kind used to knock down coconuts. He lifted the line for us, then walked ahead, guiding me to the water.

There wasn’t much. A few wooden boats. Muddy riverbank. No one coming in that evening, but they’d be back in the morning.

Too late to drive elsewhere. Tanya and Mia stayed in the car with the AC—it was brutally hot outside. The village had two streets. I decided to go for a walk.

I talked to the first man I saw. Told him my plan. He said the fishermen head out around 7 or 8 a.m. Kids gathered nearby, curious. I asked, “Not many foreigners come through here, do they?”

He looked at me, a little lost. “No. Just you today… and no one else before.”

Remote. Isolated. The kind of place most Brazilians haven’t even heard of. We had the strange honor of being the first outsiders.

That evening, I photographed kids playing football. One girl stood by a house, bathed in golden light. I took the shot on instinct. Only later did I see the shadow on the wall—another girl, mid-jump, arms up, hair flying. Not hers. A strange, beautiful accident. A small, surreal gift.

I woke at 5:45 the next morning. In the countryside, time bends. I didn’t want to miss anything. But by the time I looked out, the last fisherman was already gone.

I walked around. The fishermen were gone—not just from the port where I’d slept, but from the other one too. The village was quiet. I saw only one familiar face—the man from the evening before, just finishing milking his cow.

For the first time in Brazil—a country that had felt warm and open, I felt deflated. Had I been tricked? Had my luck finally run out?

It’s strange how the mind works. One small thing feels off, and suddenly you start to spiral. Why did I even come here? Maybe they don’t want visitors. Maybe I’m intruding. What’s the point of all this?

I started packing. There was a Zoom call later. Maybe it was time to move on.

Then a modest old car pulled up beside our camper. A man stepped out, hesitant. “I feel shy talking to you. Sorry to disturb you,” he said. “But I wanted to tell you… there’s a beautiful beach by the dunes. You can’t reach it this time of year, but I thought you should know.”

It was a small gesture. Maybe pointless. But it shifted something. Maybe I wasn’t unwelcome—maybe they were just shy. This was their small, self-sufficient world and I was the outsider.

Around 7, I spotted a fisherman in the distance. I walked over. He had two large fish. He cleaned them at the river’s edge in his boat. The light was perfect. I took what may be my favorite shots of the past few days.

A pig wandered down to the water, waiting. It knew the routine. The man tossed the guts into the river. The pig waded in after them.

It was quiet. Raw. Real. The kind of moment you wait for.

His name was Catarino. He’d been out just an hour. Caught three fish. Enough to eat. One to sell.

Just like that, the morning turned. The doubt faded, replaced by a quiet satisfaction—the kind you feel when you find something. I was happy. Like I’d uncovered a small photographic treasure.

After the Zoom meeting, Tanya told me there was more activity at the other beach.

I drove over. More boats. Young fishermen with a big catch. They were cleaning fish, surrounded by pigs and vultures. It looked almost post-apocalyptic. But honest. Photogenic in its own strange way.

One of the men looked up. “Do you have a bag?”

“No.”

“I’ll get you one. Take some fish.”

They gave me five kilos. Just like that.

Later, we had it made into moqueca—a Bahian stew rich with coconut milk, tomato, garlic, and coriander. We ate it at a small restaurant in a larger village nearby.

A day that began in doubt ended full of generosity, heat, light—and the kind of moments you can’t plan for.

I’m loving these journeys. Falling harder for this country. Especially the forgotten corners. I feel like I could do this for years.

P.S. Above is the village of Barra de Cruz. You can see how small it is and how isolated it is, and maybe you can even spot our camper closer to the shore of the river.

The São Francisco River flows across the width of Brazil, steady and, at times, wide. I’d always had a hunch it was worth photographing, especially further inland where the pace slows and the river seems to settle into itself.

After wrapping up with the cowboys in Piauí, we headed down into Bahia, aiming for the coast. I wanted to give Mia a chance to stay in one place for a while. At least a month. Time for school, for making friends, for a bit of stillness. So we rented a place in a small beach village that promised just that. That’s where we were headed.

I looked at the map. A broad part of the river lay in our path. It suggested quieter rhythms. Fishing villages. Slow boats. Maybe even a swim. I felt drawn to it.

One town stood out—Remanso. Years ago, the original settlement was flooded to make way for a hydroelectric dam. The town was relocated uphill, and what remains below the waterline is said to surface when the reservoir dips low enough. It was small, out of the way. A few photos online showed a modest port. Even a river beach. It had potential.

We arrived. The beach was chaos—everything I try to avoid. Giant speakers blasted clashing soundtracks. Riverside bars fought for volume.

Trash littered the shore. In the waist-deep shallows, a kid stood eating chips. He crumpled the empty bag and tossed it into the river without thinking.

I left for the port. It had a kind of apocalyptic charm, if that’s the word. Dead fish lay scattered along the muddy ground. A small snake had its jaws around one, halfway through swallowing it. Still, I knew it would photograph well.

I met a father, his son, and their hired helper. They’d just returned from six days of fishing. The catch had been poor for the effort, they said, but still decent. I made a few photos. The father, the one in the photo above, offered to sell me some fish. I said yes, of course. He handed me a large surubim—a freshwater catfish common in this region—for about seven dollars. The son filleted it right there on the riverbank.

We couldn’t sleep at the port. The music from the beach carried through the night, still blaring at ten, even eleven. A fisherman who lived nearby said it sometimes lasted until dawn. “These people are inconsiderate,” he told me.

So we slept at a gas station instead, something you sometimes do in Brazil. Some are set up for long-haul travelers. It was surprisingly quiet.

At sunrise, we returned to the port. The water was still. Not much movement yet.

I met a man named Valdamir, who owned one of the small barracas—simple riverside stalls that serve food and drinks. Kind man. Big smile. Warm.

“If you need anything,” he said, “cook your breakfast here, whatever—my space is yours.”

He’d lived in São Paulo for years. Came back after retirement. Now he ran this little food stand by the river.

I went to eat breakfast back at the camper. Later, I saw some fishermen had returned. I walked over. They were pulling fish from tangled nets, cleaning them, tossing them into plastic crates.

One man asked about my camera. “How many clicks per second?” he said. Sharp guy. He told me he’d become a fisherman out of necessity, not choice. The others, he said, were born into it—came from fishing families.

If he had the chance, he’d travel too. Photograph life. Build a photo archive of everything he saw.

Then the conversation shifted to politics. He felt betrayed by both major parties. Said the left just talked, and the right only cared for themselves. It reminded me of the kind of frustration I’ve seen in the media back in the U.S.—disillusioned, cynical, but still paying attention.

I kept shooting. Looking for emotion, expression. Fish mid-air. Hands moving through nets. I didn’t quite get the frame I was hoping for, where it all came together, but I moved on to other fishermen.

One man was clearly still drunk from the night before. He reminded me of an Eastern European drunk, except warmer, softer.

He looked at me, puzzled, then turned to another fisherman and asked, “What’s he saying?”

Turns out he didn’t realize I was speaking Portuguese. Later, he began to catch about half of what I said. He shook my hand again and again, repeating, “We’re all friends here. Sorry if I said anything wrong.”

The morning felt warm. Strange. Beautiful… in a strange way.

Another fisherman looked serious—almost stern—but as soon as he spoke, his voice was soft, his manner gentle. That’s him smiling when the drunk man approach and playfully chatted.

A different man told me he’d once worked as a seaman near São Paulo. Lost his job. Went through a divorce. Moved back in with his parents. Now he was just trying to reset. No rush, he said.

The port was full of lives like that.

As the boats began heading back out to fish, I flew the drone—to get a wider view. A tiny port, full of stories.

We packed up the camper and got ready to explore some of the smaller villages along the São Francisco River. I had a good feeling.

It was clear no tourists ever made it out here. We were truly exploring. These were forgotten places, overlooked by the government, maybe by the world.

For some reason, that felt more reassuring than alarming. I was eager to see what else we’d find.

CONTINUED HERE

Mornings in the countryside are the most pleasant part of the day—at least for me. Everyone’s waking up. You hear roosters. The air is still cool, and the temperature is bearable even after the first rays of sun hit.
It wasn’t a golden light kind of morning—but it was pleasant nonetheless.

The air carried a quiet tension. The event would begin soon.

The man who owned the fazenda—father to the seven brothers and their sister I’d met the day before—was generous and kind. He let us stay near his house, use his electricity, brought us corn and water. His wife kept offering more food, which we had to politely decline—we’d eaten well at lunch and were still full.

As we went to check out the bulls, he handed me a coffee. When we got back to the house, I made a portrait of him, lit by the doorway light that fell across his face just right.

The cowboys started to appear.

It was frustrating. The light was flat. The sky, overcast. These were men worth photographing, expressive faces, quiet pride in their posture—but the magic wasn’t there yet.

Later, the sun came out. But the moment had passed. That golden hour never returned.

Trucks arrived carrying the horses the cowboys would ride to catch the bulls. Entire families had come from across the region. Some of the boys looked too young to be doing something so dangerous. But they were calm, sure of themselves, completely at ease in the saddle.

I photographed one young cowboy pulling on his boots—the traditional kind worn by vaqueiros here, made of leather and string.

There was a quiet pride in how he carried himself. No bravado. Just a calm readiness.

The kind of maturity and ease you only find in those raised close to the land—where life is hard, and necessity teaches you to make do, to endure, to grow up before your time.

One of the defining traits of Pega de Boi no Mato is the gibão—the heavy leather vest worn for protection, usually paired with the leather helmet you’ve seen in many of these photos.

In the 35°C-plus heat, no one wants to wear the gibão a second longer than necessary. So the cowboys take them off between runs, draping them wherever they can.

In this case, across the hood of a beat-up old truck. The worn leather, the rusted metal, the group of young cowboys perched up top—it all came together into one of those quiet, layered visuals.

The excitement was building. Then—finally—the first chase.

The bull was released and the cowboys took off—but the animal darted into the bush.
The event—Pega de Boi no Mato—literally means “catching the bull in the bush.” Once a bull disappears into the thicket, it’s unlikely to be caught.

The first few cowboys couldn’t reach it in time.
Then, suddenly, a bull came charging in my direction.

A cowboy leapt from his horse, grabbed the animal—wrestled it to the ground, tore off the tag, and handed it to his partner on horseback. He galloped towards the judges without a word.

Now I understood the process.

Each chase was exhilarating—but incredibly difficult to photograph. I’d stay in one spot for a few runs, then wander off to see what was happening away from the action. I looked for the quieter moments. Then I returned for more.

The same two videographers I’d met the day before were there again. They explained how things worked, where to stand, how not to get trampled.
I mimicked them—took cover behind a thin tree like one of the guys had done earlier.
But a bull ran right past me. Then horses thundered by on either side.

It was one of those moments when time slows down. No panic—there was nowhere to run. I saw everything clearly. And then it was over, before the adrenaline had even caught up.

Only later did I realize it hadn’t been the smartest place to be. I should’ve picked a bigger tree. If one of the animals had hit this one—as they did later—I could’ve been badly hurt.

I climbed on top of the enclosure and shot from different angles. Even sent up the drone.

The action was incredible—but what fascinated me most were the characters: the cowboys, their faces and expressions, those leather helmet hats, the traditional jackets.
They were wild men, in a way. Some might even say the whole thing was savage. But the atmosphere was raw. Real.

A few had scratches on their faces, blood running down their necks.

I asked one young guy about his wounds—he laughed them off.
“It’s nothing,” he said.

Later, I told this to the woman who owned the fazenda, the one organizing the event. She smiled.

“They don’t mind. In fact, they like it. If they don’t catch a bull, at least they get a scar—a story to tell. Their battle scars.”

I stuck around all day, only taking a short break during the hottest hours.
Wandering around, I noticed a few activities for children—a surreal contrast. Swings, climbing structures. A family atmosphere, set against something that, in much of the Western world, would be frowned upon.

And yet, these were genuine, welcoming people—people with a deeper understanding of these animals than most of us will ever have.
It was brutal. Savage, even—for the Western mind. But strangely poetic.
Just the way I like it.

I could relate to the idea—ancient as time itself—of men proving their courage through seemingly reckless, extreme acts.

Young women had dressed their best. You could see new couples meeting for the first time—maybe the start of something lasting.

For those willing to look past the surface, the event revealed something deeper.
Something enduring.
A ritual, ingrained in the culture for as long as anyone can remember.

The energy was amazing.

As the sun began to set, I hoped for a final chance to capture the action in golden light. I focused, waited—and got it. One cowboy caught a bull just as the light turned perfect. I got the moment.

There were 260 bulls that day. I don’t know how many cowboys—but some entered two or three times. The winning time was just under 11 seconds.

One man came close. He had the catch. But his horse bolted—took him on a wild ride around the park instead of heading toward the judges. He whipped the horse in frustration. It cost him the prize.

But that’s part of it: you have to stay calm, be in sync with your horse. Everything depends on it.

The final bull catch of the day was impressive—but not fast enough to win.

When it ended, people packed up. Some headed back to their farms. Others stayed for the party starting next to the bull park.

They were handing out prizes, but I was spent. I’d started before sunrise, run around all day. The music was deafening, the space dark and crowded.

I wanted to stay for the final shots—the winners with their awards—to round out the story.
But I knew it wouldn’t offer much, visually.

So I saved my energy. And called it a night.

There are parts of Brazil few people—Brazilians included—ever get to see.

Places where the dust hangs in the air, where cowboys still chase bulls through thorny brush, where stories stretch like the land itself. It’s not forgotten. It’s not a museum. It’s alive and it’s what I was after.

But almost a year in the country—over three separate trips—I still hadn’t seen it for myself.

I’d seen the photos. Cowboys in leather hats and vests, chasing bulls or just sitting tall in the saddle, looking like they were born on horseback.

I’d heard the stories. Read the legends. I even visited a museum to learn more about the Sertão—a hard land, full of folklore, where cowboys rule. But I’d never seen it with my own eyes.

The main reason was simple: we usually came to Brazil early in the year and left around June (visa reasons). And June is when most of the cowboy festivals happen. Every time, I missed out.

This time, I tried something different… Very different. I asked ChatGPT to find where something called Pega de Boi no Mato might be happening in April.

It translates, roughly, to “catching the bull in the bush”—a traditional cowboy event where men chase and wrestle bulls through the scrubland.

Within minutes of “deep research,” I had a list. Some places were wrong. But one led to an Instagram post for an event. In Brazil, everything is on Instagram. This one looked legit. So I thought—this is my chance.

The catch? It was 900 kilometers from where I was.

Still, I’d been wanting to see more of Brazil’s interior. I’d spent most of my time near the coast or in big cities. This would take me into the heart of the interior. The Brazilian outback. Far from the tourist trails. A different world entirely.

The drive would be long and dull for the most part, but I had time—five days to cover the distance.

We left Parnaíba and headed inland through Piauí, passing quiet villages and long, straight roads.

We stopped in Pedra de Castelo—Castle Rock. An impressive formation that looked like a crumbling stone fortress.

Locals say Pedra do Castelo holds healing power. They bring wooden legs, arms, even carved heads—offerings for ailments they hope to cure. Inside the rock’s caves, these objects rest in silence, lit only by slivers of daylight. The air feels heavy, the atmosphere reverent. No one was around when we came. Only the wind and the distant sound of cattle bells. The silence made it feel like the rock was listening.​

We spent the night there, and much of the next morning. Mia absolutely loved exploring the area the next day.

At one point along the journey, I met a cowboy on the roadside. He said Pega de Boi no Mato events happen all over the state—but most are never advertised. That gave me hope. Maybe if I liked this one, I could just return and ask around.

When I told him I’d come to document people like him, he seemed proud. We talked music. I said I loved Luiz Gonzaga’s A Morte do Vaqueiro—The Death of the Cowboy.

He nodded. Said they played it at his father’s funeral.

To me, this world was strange, fascinating. To him, it was life.

As I turned to leave, the cowboy said, “Hey, record this. I want to sing a cowboy song for you to remember me by.”
I did. It was beautiful. A quiet, generous moment.

We eventually reached Campo Alegre de Fidalgo, the town listed on Instagram. At a gas station, I asked where the event was.

“Ten kilometers back, then turn to the left,” the attendant said, pointing to a truck blasting music. “Follow that one.”

So I did. A few kilometers later, I arrived.

The event was already taking shape. The main action would begin tomorrow, but the prep was well underway.

Villagers were painting numbers on bulls, tying cloth markers around their necks. The goal was simple: bring the bull down, rip off the tag, hand it to the judges. Fastest wins. The prize? Equivalent to about 1,500 US dollars.

The family organizing the event welcomed us like old friends. They offered a bed inside or a hammock on the veranda. We didn’t need it—we travel in a camper—but we accepted their offer to plug in and run the air conditioner.

The heat was brutal. Forty degrees. So yeah, it helped. A lot.

From the start, I was swept up in it all. Two locals were filming the event—one has a YouTube channel dedicated entirely to Pega de Boi no Mato.

I joined them near the enclosure, then stepped inside. Some of the bulls were wild, charging with little warning. A few came close to smashing into me. But I’ve photographed similar events in Peru—I’ve learned when to move.

It was thrilling.

And finally, the light. Golden hour. After weeks of dull skies and coastal rain—always timed with sunset—this was something else. Dry air, sharp shadows, and dust hanging just long enough to catch the glow.

I photographed a 72-year-old man, still active in the cowboy scene. He’d be chasing bulls the next day. Just as involved as the younger guys. When he finished for the day, he took a sip of rum straight from the bottle and rode off.

That evening, I talked with the brothers from the family who hosted us. They were nine siblings—eight brothers and one sister. They had lost one of the brothers in an accident.

The park where the event was held bore his name.

The Pega de Boi was, in part, a tribute. A way to honor him.

That night, under a sky thick with stars and the hum of cicadas, I fell asleep thinking about what tomorrow would bring.

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A friend once told me about a place in Brazil—remote, almost mythical.

Vast dunes stretched like waves of white linen, dotted with clear pools of rainwater so pure they looked unreal. It sounded like something out of a dream. Too strange to be true. But I looked it up. There it was. Lençóis Maranhenses.

The photos stopped me. A landscape that didn’t make sense. Otherworldly, yes—but real. “Lençóis” means bedsheets. An odd name that made sense once you saw it. It lies in the far northeastern tip of Brazil, in the state of Maranhão. A place hard to reach. Harder for me to forget.

Before I even set foot in Brazil, I knew—if I ever made it, I’d go there. But Brazil is not a country you conquer with plans. You don’t understand how big it is until the roads stretch on, hour after hour, with no end in sight.

The first time we came, we had six weeks. Not enough.

I had to get back to the Peruvian border. Paperwork. Deadlines. The kinds of things that don’t care about dreams. So we let it go.

The second time, I had a plan. Drive from Peruvian border, cut across Brazil on the Trans-Amazonian Highway, reach Lençóis Maranhenses, then drop down the coast. It looked possible. On Google Maps, the road was there.

But maps lie. I researched further and what looked solid turned out to be a giant dirt track.

When it rains, that dirt turns to mud. The kind that swallows tires and keeps you stuck for days. Add the heat, the thick, wet air, the miles of nothing—and it stopped sounding like the kind of adventure that I wanted to make with the girls. We took another route.

If you’ve followed my travels, you’ll know that trip didn’t start well. We lost our camper—had to rebuild the whole rig. By the time we reached the north, the rains had come heavy. We let the plan go. Again.

Third time’s the charm, right? Almost.

By the time I realized we could finally make it to Lençóis Maranhenses, the dream had changed. I’d seen too many videos. It was now firmly on Brazil’s tourism map. That usually means noise. Crowds. Rules. Not the kind of experience I was after.

So I started looking elsewhere. On iOverlander, I found a comment that stopped me: “We found paradise. An oasis very much like Lençóis, just smaller.” That got my attention.

iOverlander is an app for people like me—those who live on the road. If someone posted it there, it meant you could actually get there on wheels.

But there was a catch. Seems there always is with those special places.

The pools were tucked between a tiny coastal village and a mangrove river. No road in.

The only way was driving on the beach, and only at low tide. Years back, I lost a car doing just that. So… I don’t take those chances lightly.

I asked around. Locals said it could be done. I studied the tide charts. Looked at the maps. It felt right. So we set off, late in the afternoon, hoping to get the golden hour before sunset and to wake up with the golden light breaking over the dunes.

It was just as I’d pictured—maybe better. A true desert oasis. I’ve always had a thing for dunes, for that endless, shifting silence. But deserts are hard places. No shade. No water. Beautiful, but brutal.

This was different. Here, the pools were fresh—clear as glass, cool on the skin, even sweet on the tongue. Real water, in the middle of sand. Paradise, for me.

We spent the afternoon exploring. Me and Mia must have swam in 10 different pools.

But the sky turned. Clouds rolled in thick, and golden hour never came. I couldn’t get the shots I wanted. I told myself: tomorrow.

That night it rained. By dawn, the clouds were still there. Heavy, low.

Still, I sent the drone up. Even under gray skies, the place looked unreal—soft, wild, untouched.

A local had told me the wind here is strong, always moving. Even when it rains, he said, the wind clears the sky quickly.

And he was right. By mid-morning, the clouds broke.

The sun came out—not low enough for that gold, but bright enough to carve the dunes with shadow and light. The whole place lit up like it had been waiting for it.

We went back from the dunes down to the car. As we were packing up Mia pointed—a man with a bucket and a net. She knows me well. Fishermen are one of my favorite subjects to photograph.

I went over and asked if I could make his portrait. He smiled. “Claro,” he said. Sure.

We talked for a bit. His name is Elias and he was moving small fish from one lagoon to another—a pool he’d built himself, where he was raising them.

At first, I thought it was a typical fish-farming setup. Nothing unusual. But then he invited us to see it for ourselves. Of course I said yes. Any time someone offers a window into their life, I step through.

Mia and I followed him along a narrow sand path, winding through the brush. It led to a piece of land—his family’s old property. A few chickens scratched the ground. A horse stood in the shade. He told me he had bees for honey too.

This was how he lived. Simple. Self-sufficient. Probably the same way his parents had lived. Maybe their parents, too.

Now, the fish. I’d assumed he was breeding them—but that wasn’t the story. One day, during a high tide, fish had entered a pool connected to the mangroves. He saw the chance. Bit by bit, he hauled in soil with a handcart, sealing the pool. No machines. Just sweat.

The fish couldn’t reproduce there, but they could grow. He fed them not pellets, not chemicals, but smaller fish he caught from a nearby lake.

Whoever ends up with those fish—well, they’ll be eating something rare.

We stayed a while, watched him work. He cut the bait by hand and tossed it in. Before we left, he gave us some eggs from his hens—just handed them over.

He wanted us to remember him with something nice.

We headed back to Tutóia, the nearest town with more than a handful of streets. To get there, we had to drive the beach again. I kept an eye out, hoping to see more fishermen at work.

But the weather had shifted again—rain and wind sweeping in from the sea. The coast was empty.

We returned to a campsite we’d stayed at before. The owner recognized us right away. Said he wouldn’t charge us—just happy we came back. Another quiet gesture of generosity.

He remembered I was a photographer, remembered I’d been asking about fishing villages. “Why don’t you visit Seriema?” he asked—a small village just across the river from the oasis we’d been to.

Indeed, why not? I thought.

So the next morning, we went. It was Sunday. The sky was still heavy, the light soft and gray. As the tide pulled out, a few fishermen set off into the shallows. Others stayed behind, tending to nets, boats and other fishing related things. I decided to explore the village.

One man I met wasn’t a fisherman—he was a prawn seller. Dried and salted them. Knew everything there was to know about prawns. Said his name was Shaginha.

He told me life in the village was good. Peaceful, mostly. But not as safe as it used to be. A few times, thieves had come into his riverside shack (they don’t usually lock anything here) and stole his stored prawns. He shrugged when he said it.

Not angry. Just the way things are.

Further along, I found two fishermen talking by the water. I must’ve interrupted, but they were kind. Welcoming. Even posed for a photo.

I kept walking—following small paths down to the river. Like a treasure hunt. You never knew what might be around the next bend.

At one stop, there was nothing—just a quiet window, and a beautiful young girl framed in it, coming out to look at the strange visitor.

A few steps later, I met a man mending a long fishing net—seventy meters, he said. It was worn through, torn in too many places. Would take a week to fix, maybe more. Until then, he couldn’t fish. So he sat there, working, stitch by stitch.

Not far from him was another house. A younger fishing family lived there. I asked what they fished. “Prawns,” they said.

I smiled and told them I loved prawns. The woman disappeared inside and came back with a bag. “Here,” she said.

Just like that. Another simple, generous gift.

I had come to this region chasing surreal pools of crystal-clear water—but I left with so much more.

Photographs, yes. But also stories. Glimpses into quiet lives. Small gestures of kindness I didn’t expect. Encounters that stayed with me long after we drove away.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about what photography means to me. Why I even started this Substack in the first place.

Back in university, photography gave me something to hold onto. A direction. Later, as I began traveling more seriously, it developed. The camera became a kind of passport. An invitation. A reason to slow down and a way to experience the world in a deeper way.

And over time, I’ve realized something important: you can’t buy your way into those moments. Not with money. Not with gear.

It takes time. Curiosity. Patience. Genuine respect.

You can’t fake your way in. There’s no shortcut. People feel if you’re just out there to exploit and take.

I came for one of the most stunning landscapes on Earth—and left with something deeper. A heart full of gratitude. And a hard drive full of quiet, unexpected treasures.

I won’t hide it—I’m obsessed with something.

Fishing, fishermen, fishing villages—anything tied to the sea and water draws me in. I have to photograph it. It’s more than an interest. It’s a love.

I grew up in Sydney, always near the ocean. I’ve loved the sea for as long as I can remember. I was snorkeling as a teenager. Later, after photographing spear fishermen in Vanuatu and the Philippines, I started spearfishing myself.

There’s something about water—oceans, rivers, lakes—that lives in me. The way people depend on water. Not just to survive, but to build a life. That kind of relationship feels sacred.

Water is volatile. It turns without warning. But it’s essential. To me, it’s a higher power. And the way people live with it—submit to it, wrestle with it—feels like a metaphor for how we deal with forces beyond our control.

That dependence shapes people. Especially those who live off the sea.

They carry a kind of wisdom. A patience with luck. You see it in their faces—burned by sun, carved by wind and salt, aged by hard days.

So wherever I go, if there are fishermen—especially small-scale, subsistence ones—I find myself drawn to them.

I hadn’t planned to photograph fishermen in Maranhão. I stopped in Tutóia with the idea of touring the Delta—maybe catching a glimpse of the flamingo-like scarlet ibises, the guarás.

Tutóia is also known for the shipwreck that sits on its main beach. The Navio Assombrado, they call it—the Ghost Ship. It ran aground decades ago and was never removed. At low tide, you can walk right up to it. Rusted, half-buried, stripped by salt and wind. It gives the beach a strange, somewhat eerie mood.

Now, the Parnaíba Delta… It’s the second largest in the Americas after the Mississippi.

A sprawl of rivers, mangroves, islands, and shifting dunes, stretching across Maranhão and Piauí. Not far from here are the Lençóis Maranhenses—those surreal, transparent pools resting in endless sand. One of Brazil’s top tourist draws.

But famous tourist places don’t usually appeal to me. I always prefer the alternative. On Google Maps, I saw Tutóia had its own dunes. Even some pools. Quiet, near the ocean. I decided to go.

We arrived just before the last light disappeared. I flew the drone and saw enough to know it deserved a proper look in the morning. We parked near some houses behind the dunes. The locals were kind. They let us charge the camper batteries from their home.

At dawn, just before the golden hour, while my girls were still asleep, I took a walk. I’ve only included one drone photo from that morning. Something else caught my eye. From the top of the dune, I saw men pulling nets from the shore.

I hadn’t seen that kind of fishing anywhere in Brazil. I didn’t even have my camera—just the drone and my phone—but I went down anyway.

What I found was timeless. An old way of fishing—casting a net into the sea, hauling it back by hand. It only works when the wind is calm, the sea flat, no rain. That day was perfect.

I took a few photos with my phone and told myself I’d return. And I did.

The next day, I drove straight onto the beach. The weather had changed. Cloudy, a bit of rain, then sun. Everything shifts quickly here.

The process is simple. The men wade out—sometimes up to their necks—and spread the net during low tide.

Then they pull it in slowly, side by side. One man oversees the work, watching for snags or tears.

It’s ancient. And beautiful to witness.

On the beach, there are huts—just sticks and scrap material—where the fishermen keep their engines, nets, gear. The day before, I’d met a man named Branco. I’d bought some enormous prawns from him. Tiger prawns, they call them. One of those huts was his. I asked if I could hang around for a while. He said yes.

Moments later, one of the fishermen I’d seen hauling the net came in. I asked if I could take his portrait.

He smiled, a little shy, and said my camera might break—he wasn’t photogenic, he joked.

I disagreed. Completely.

Branco (above) told me his story. His father had left when he and his siblings were young. His mother later met a fisherman who raised them. Branco grew up by the water and became a fish and prawn seller.

The prawns were massive—two or three to the kilo. The one in my photo? A little under medium, and still big.

I’d only seen prawns like that in Southeast Asia. Branco said they’d shown up out of nowhere. His guess? They came from Malaysia—stowaways in ballast water from cargo ships. (Ballast water is stored in tanks to stabilize ships. When it’s discharged in new waters, it can carry species across oceans.) The mix of salt and fresh water here, the heat—it suited them. They thrived.

Now they sell for about 30 U.S. dollars a kilo.

I spent the whole morning shooting. As the net comes closer to shore, the mood shifts. People gather. There’s hope in the air. Most of the catch is for personal use, but if it’s a good haul, some gets sold.

When that happens, villagers show up to help sort the fish by hand. Who gets what depends on who helped, or who’s close to the fishermen. It’s a system built on trust, like in many small coastal places.

Photographing in the conditions of the day wasn’t easy. The light was always changing. The colors clashed. It was chaotic and sharp and real. I focused on faces and details.

A grandfather and his grown grandson had already pulled in their catch. It wasn’t much—just small prawns—but enough for a meal. I took a few photos, then followed them as they walked into the dunes.

I made small talk. The grandson was shy. The grandfather seemed pleased that a foreigner had taken an interest. They moved through the sand with the ease of habit.

Then, without a word, they turned down a narrow path toward their village and disappeared.

I came back to the point where the villagers were sorting through the fish, I saw a boy carrying fish to a relative. I asked him and an older neighbor if I could follow them for a few shots.

As we started walking, a flock of bright red guarás flew overhead. The boy looked up at them and it was one of those special moments.

And in that moment, I thought: what a perfect ending to this experience.

Photographing fishermen in Tutóia—this place at the heart of the Delta—was unforgettable.

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We were looking for a place to break up the long drive north. On iOverlander, a few travelers had mentioned a campsite they liked, so we went.

But from the moment we stepped in, it didn’t feel like any campground I knew. Something about the place felt different—like it had been made for more than just tents and camper vans.

A girl stepped out wearing makeup that looked like it was meant for a performance. It seemed halfway done.

“Is this a campground?” I asked.

“It is also a camping,” she said. “But tonight is a night of circus.”

“A circus?”

Another girl chimed in. “Yeah, you should check it out. It’s going to be great—we’ve got a lot of good stuff coming up!”

I asked my daughter, Mia, if she wanted to stay and see it. She lit up. So we stayed.

What followed wasn’t the kind of circus I grew up with. There were clowns and some acrobatics, but they were different. It was the 8th of March—International Women’s Day—and to celebrate it, there was a gathering of artistas populares, Brazil’s street performers.

In Brazil, street clowns often do more than entertain. They speak truths. Their work holds a mirror to the world.

That night was about women—about keeping the creative fire alive. It was a call for safety, for dignity, for the freedom to live unboxed. As a father to a daughter, it struck deep. And it hurt, too. We’re still far from a world where women can simply exist, anywhere, without fear.

There was juggling, hula hooping, dance, fire. One young woman performed a piece that blended poetry and movement, telling what it’s like to navigate life as an Indigenous woman from a favela.

The acts weren’t polished, but they had weight. The kind that lands in your chest. The message was clear.

I took a few photos. Carnival had drained me, and I hadn’t planned on shooting. But I couldn’t help myself.

Later, I talked with some of the performers and told them how much I appreciated it.

The owner of the campground—the man behind the event—came over. His name was Douglas and he was part of Circo do Asfalto, a family-run troupe.

“Come for beers,” he said.

“I don’t drink.”

“Come anyway,” he smiled. “Just to chat.”

And if you know me, you know—chatting is half the point. Listening, really listening. Catching a glimpse of another life.

Most of the people I met weren’t part of the core troupe. A few were traveling artists heading north from the south of Brazil. One girl was juggling university studies on the road. Others were locals rooted in the street performance scenes of Recife and Olinda. Each had a story.

I spoke longest with Douglas. He’d spent two years crossing South America in a camper van with his family, performing along the way. He shared stories, offered tips for the road ahead. I shared some of mine too. I talked with a few more artists. At some point, I realized it was 2 a.m.

And I remembered why I do this work. The photography, yes—but more than that. The encounters. The unexpected crossings. The glimpse behind the curtain.

Some of these performers came from favelas, from lives far from mine. Different struggles, different fears. But I believe this: the more we talk to people unlike ourselves, the more whole we become. Empathy starts there. If you understand someone, you’re less likely to harm them. Distance breeds conflict. Proximity breeds care.

That night stayed with me. It reminded me why I’m on the road. Why I carry the camera. We laughed with some of the performers, joked that even when I’m not chasing Brazil’s folk art—Maracatu and all the rest—it keeps chasing me.

Maybe it’s wishful thinking. But I believe it. When you move with intention, the world responds. It lays the trail, one step at a time.

Carnival was winding down, but for me, the last day was going to be the most intense.

I wasn’t interested in the big, crowded celebrations—I wanted to chase Maracatu where it still felt raw, in the villages and towns beyond the usual routes. No fixed plan, no guarantees. Just exploring, following my intuition and seeing what I could find.

Maracatu isn’t static. It travels, shifting from one place to another, performers packing onto buses, rolling through the countryside, stopping in villages where the rhythm takes over the streets. I wanted to follow that movement, to see it where few others do.

I pulled up Google Maps, scanning towns near Nazaré da Mata, the heart of Maracatu. A few names stood out.

No idea what I’d find, but that was the point. I planned a rough route and set off the next morning.

The first place we arrived, I saw one of those yellow school buses. Around here, during Carnival, that means only one thing—Maracatu performers. There was also a truck following them, carrying their costumes and instruments. A few performers stepped out, looking confused. This wasn’t their stop.

I asked a woman who seemed to be in charge, “Maracatu? Where are you going?”

She named a village I hadn’t planned for, but I wanted to go anyway.

“Can I follow?”

“Sure!” she said.

The road was brutal. O

ne of the worst I’d driven in a while. Deep potholes, jarring bumps the whole way. But the village we reached was worth it.

This Maracatu felt different. Smaller, more intimate. And—no photographers. No competition for angles, no performers adjusting for the cameras. Just the raw experience. It was perfect.

The performance was short, but I learned something important. Today Maracatu groups would move from village to village, performing multiple times in a day. That meant I didn’t have to chase one particular event—wherever I went, I’d likely find something happening.

That was good. But now I wanted more. Or rather, I wanted something like Cambinda Brasileira again—Maracatu with green hills in the background, sugarcane fields, an open landscape that gave me cleaner compositions.

I still had no idea where to find it. Just Google Maps and a gut feeling. I decided to go back to the first village where I had met the bus.

By then, more Maracatu groups had arrived. A few people recognized me. “Hey man! Send us the photos from the other night!”

“I WOULD, if you gave me your contact!” We exchanged numbers.

I stayed for a while, photographing some performances, but the performances themselves were a challenge.

The backgrounds were cluttered—power lines, bright signs, tangled wires. Making sense of it compositionally was tough. It always is in towns and cities.

What really fascinated me were the moments before the show, away from the spectacle. I’ve mentioned it before, but for me, the stuff away from the main event was what I actually came for.

Performers getting ready, putting on costumes, chatting, interacting. These were the opportunities to grab real, raw moments from “the show of life.”

Maracatu's vibrant costumes, especially those of the "Índios," pay homage to Brazil's indigenous heritage. Performers wear elaborate feathered headdresses, or "penachos," made from peacock and ostrich feathers. Their attire often features mirror fragments, colorful bands, and intricate beadwork, reflecting Brazil's rich cultural tapestry.

This tradition is reminiscent of the Mardi Gras Indians of New Orleans, African American revelers who honor Native American tribes by donning ornate feathered costumes during festivities.

In Maracatu, the "Índios" symbolize the deep connections between Afro-Brazilian communities and indigenous cultures, blending African rhythms with indigenous aesthetics. Their presence enriches performances, showcasing Brazil's diverse cultural landscape.

The sheer number of performers, costumes, and colors—so much happening at once—created opportunities for more complex, layered shots like the one above. I’d find a scene, pick my spot, and wait for it to unfold.

I didn’t stay too long once the next performance started. I wanted something different. A few kilometers along the road, I spotted another Maracatu bus parked against a backdrop of green fields at the entrance of another small town.

This was very close to the kind of scene I’d been looking for.

I made some shots of the performers unloading their gear. A boy caught my eye—he was carrying a plush jaguar on a pole, the symbol of their Maracatu group. Every group has one, an icon that represents their identity. This one had a jaguar. I followed them.

It seemed that every group had at least one striking character. In this group, there were actually at least a couple. I decided to focus on one of the younger boys. For once, even though this was a town, I had a background I could work with. Or at least, I could make sense of the visual clutter. I kept at it until I got a solid image of him.

I didn’t stay too long here either. Still curious about what else was ahead, I kept driving.

The sun was lower now. The clouds rolled in and out. Eventually, I reached a town called Aliança. I asked around where the Maracatu would be.

By sheer luck, Aliança turned out to be exactly what I’d been looking for.

Rolling green hills, open space. They had a special field for Maracatu. The perfect setting to photograph more photogenic faces and the fantastic, colorful costumes.

The only problem? I was late. The golden hour was gone. It had been cloudy most of the evening, but maybe, just maybe, I could have caught a dramatic shot with golden light against dark skies. It wasn’t to be though.

No time to dwell on it. I jumped right in.

As always, people were open, friendly. I made small talk. Took a close-up of a man who had been performing all day. His eyes looked tired, his face blank. I wanted to capture that. A real moment. Not the glamour or a smile for the camera

One group finished. Another arrived. Two buses—one taking performers away, another unloading them.

The same routine. Dressing up, preparing, getting ready. Locals watching. The show of life. I focused on the process.

I kept shooting well into dusk. The artificial lights came on, throwing a glow on the performers while the sky still held some color. One man caught my attention—riding his burrinha, the small wooden donkey costume. He was a little too enthusiastic. Maybe he’d had a drink or two. Maybe not. Either way, it was hilarious.

Another plush symbol of a Maracatu group—a crowned lion. A man held it high, spinning it on a pole as he danced to the drums. There was something almost childlike, yet beautiful, about the enthusiasm of the performers. This wasn’t their first performance of the day. They were tired, but still fully immersed in it.

In a way, I felt the same. After days of chasing Maracatu, I was still shooting, still drawn in by the energy, still wanting more.

I stayed until the last group performed. Then I stayed longer, capturing them as they packed up, undressed, loaded everything onto the bus. Even though it was the end of the day, they still had more performances ahead.

This was exactly what I had hoped for. The chase, the search, the spontaneity of it all.

Before calling it a night, I went back to Nazaré da Mata. Just to see if something interesting was happening there.

It felt different. Too polished. Too structured. Too organized.

This was the heart of Maracatu, sure. But after the day I’d had, it didn’t feel as magical.

Still, it made sense to end up there. This was where I first learned about Maracatu. Where it all started for me.

And I realized—this was it. The end of my Maracatu chase.

I felt satisfied.

I had imagined this for months. Nearly a year. Now it had actually happened. And it was even better than I expected.

The people I met. The energy I absorbed. A reminder of why I love the kind of photography that I do.

Not just for the images. But for the process. The moments. The encounters. The glimpses into other worlds.

I don’t do this to participate. I do it to observe. To stand on the edge, watching. To witness something real. And I had done exactly that.

Thousands of images to go through. Some of the best ones I’ve posted in these articles. Plenty of video to edit too.

The next day would be Mia’s birthday. She wasn’t as enthusiastic about all this carnival business as I was, so I wanted to do something special for her.

We drove a couple of hours to Porto de Galinhas. Snorkeling, reefs, crystal-clear water awaited.

We arrived late at night, parking between the ocean and palm trees.

A magical night. A magical few days. The most intense week of photography I’ve had in a while.

Time to take a breather.

One of the things I’ve come to appreciate about Brazil is how much Brazilians love to share their culture. They don’t guard it. If you show interest, they welcome you in.

During this Carnival, my goal was clear: photograph Maracatu.

We left Olinda before the madness took over. I had been warned—it wouldn’t be what I was looking for. Not there. Not during Carnival. In Olinda, it would be about the blocos—open to everyone, a flood of people spilling into the streets, costumes, music, dancing, drinking. A celebration, yes. But not the kind I wanted to capture.

I was looking for something deeper.

Another thing I had been warned about: once Carnival started, getting in and out of Olinda would be nearly impossible because of the traffic and the flow of people.

So we left while we still could.

We headed inland, into the rural heart of Pernambuco, where the celebrations were smaller, less crowded—but in many ways, just as passionate. Maybe even more so.

There's one important detail: I’d mentioned the legendary old-school photographer in Recife—the man who first pointed me toward Maracatu. His name is Xirumba.

By pure chance, I encountered him again in a well-known corner restaurant, a familiar haunt where locals linger and conversations stretch into the afternoon.

I greeted him warmly, thanked him, and half-jokingly said it was his fault I was back here again. He smiled, and during our brief chat, he expressed genuine excitement at seeing me return to capture Carnival. Then he offered a tip: “You should be looking for the real Maracatu. The most interesting photos aren’t in the cities—they’re out in the countryside.” That’s when he mentioned Cambinda Brasileira.

Founded in 1918, Cambinda Brasileira is the oldest continuously running Maracatu Rural group in Brazil.

While Maracatu Nação—the regal, processional form—took root in Pernambuco’s urban centers, Maracatu Rural (also known as Maracatu de Baque Solto) was born in the sugarcane plantations of the Zona da Mata. It’s the Maracatu of the laborers, the working class, the outcasts—raw, unrefined, and pulsating with Afro-Indigenous rhythms and improvisation.

Unlike the slow, ceremonial pace of Maracatu Nação, such as during the Night of the Silent Drums, Maracatu Rural is wild, theatrical, unpredictable—explosive even. The Caboclos de Lança, the Lanced Warriors, are its most iconic figures: towering headdresses, heavy embroidered tunics, and spears wrapped in colorful ribbons. Their relentless movements—spinning, flipping, charging through the crowd—create a blur of color and motion.

And Cambinda Brasileira? They’ve carried this tradition for over a century. That’s exactly where I was headed.

I had already made a contact in Nazaré da Mata, a director of culture there. I immediately messaged her:

"Do you know if there’s any Maracatu happening at Cambinda Brasileira during carnival?"

She replied, "Nothing until Saturday."

Then, she gave me the number of a mestre—the leader of the group.

I got in touch.

Soon enough, I was on my way to Cambinda Brasileira, deep in the countryside, surrounded by sugarcane plantations just outside Nazaré da Mata.

We arrived late in the evening and stayed the night.

In the morning, I met the three brothers—the owners of Cambinda Brasileira. Lovely guys. Incredibly photogenic.

They’re in their seventies now, but they’re still deeply passionate about Maracatu. Their father had started the group, and they had taken on the responsibility of keeping it alive.

One of them casually mentioned that he had performed as a Caboclo de Lança just last year.

For context—the Caboclo de Lança outfit and gear weigh about 35 kilos. And you have to move, spin, and dance in it!

The brothers started setting up decorations. It seemed important to them that everything looked right. I’d heard that they want to preserve Maracatu as close as possible to the original form.

But, at first, the place was pretty still, almost too still.

Would this be what I had imagined? Or would it feel like some watered-down version of Maracatu?

Then, the quiet broke.

The performers arrived first. Then the crowd. Then more performers. And suddenly, the energy shifted.

Faces emerged, characters took shape—each one a potential photograph. The real magic of events like this isn’t just the performance; it’s the sheer concentration of people. A gathering where moments unfold unpredictably, where stories appear in an instant, where life plays out in countless ways—all waiting to be captured.

This was exactly what I had come for.
The before.
The quiet moments backstage. The lead-up to the performance.

Performers tightening laces, adjusting headdresses, brushing off dust, exchanging glances before the chaos.

I don’t know why, but I’ve always been drawn to what happens behind the performance—often more than the performance itself. How is the magic created? That’s what I’ve always wanted to see.

This was my chance. And unlike the busy, visually cluttered streets of Olinda, here I had something else—adobe houses, open space, the deep green of the sugarcane fields stretching into the distance.

A Maracatu Rural performance is a living spectacle, built around distinct characters, each with a role in the unfolding drama.

At the head of the procession are the King and Queen, ceremonial figures chosen from respected members of the community. Their presence is more symbolic than authoritative, a nod to the royal traditions woven into Maracatu’s history.

The Baianas move gracefully in their flowing, layered dresses, embodying the deep fusion of African, Indigenous, and Portuguese influences.

Their skirts swirl as they dance, adding rhythm to the visual chaos.

Among them are the Caboclos de Pena, adorned with towering peacock-feathered headdresses, moving in hypnotic unison with the beat of the drums.

Then, there are the Caboclos de Lança—the warriors. Dressed in shimmering capes and heavy embroidered tunics, they wield wooden spears wrapped in ribbons, their movements aggressive, their presence commanding. They are the pulse of Maracatu Rural, the force that drives the energy forward.

Around them, the Umbrella Bearers add yet another layer of movement, twirling their bright, multicolored umbrellas, spinning like bursts of color amid the chaos.

I stayed on the edges once the performance began. Too many people, too many photographers.

I didn’t want my shots filled with cameras and tripods—I wanted to document Maracatu itself, its characters, its essence. Not clusters of people staring into their viewfinders and screens.

Maybe that was a little idealistic, but that was my challenge. That’s what I was after.

I kept searching for those small, unscripted moments. The interactions, the fleeting glances, the way people moved when they weren’t performing for an audience.

For all the extroversion of Brazilians, there’s one thing that can drive a photographer crazy.

The moment people see a camera pointed at them, nine times out of ten, they flash a wide grin and throw up a thumbs-up. A reflex. An instinct.

So I worked around it. Stayed discreet. Caught people before they noticed me. Or, when I had to, I’d simply ask—"Can you please not do that? Be natural."

Suddenly, the Caboclos de Lança—the warriors—gathered, then burst into a run, spears in hand, bells clanging in chaotic rhythm.

They surged forward along the dirt road, cutting through the sugarcane fields.

This—this was the image I had envisioned before I even arrived. The rawness, the movement, the energy of Maracatu Rural spilling into the landscape.

I sprinted ahead, camera in hand, positioning myself before they closed the distance. A few quick exposures—capturing the rush, the blur of sequins, the spears slicing through the air, streaks of color against the green.

The atmosphere was electric. Drums pounded. Bells rang in sharp, metallic bursts. The warriors moved as one, a living pulse of energy and tradition. People on the sidelines held their breath, wide-eyed, caught in the moment. The past and present colliding in sound, movement, and ritual.

And then, it was over.

What I had witnessed was only the beginning—a ritual before the Maracatu group set off for days of performances across different towns.

The truck carrying the performers' heavy costumes and gear pulled up, its doors swinging open. One by one, they lined up, loading their elaborate outfits inside, the energy of the day fading into the quiet work of packing up.

A few meters away, a bus idled, waiting to transport them to their next destination. Another striking scene—twilight settling over the sugarcane fields, a bus surrounded by people in the middle of it all, the last remnants of movement before the night swallowed everything. I kept shooting until the last person was gone.

But I didn’t follow.

I wanted to conserve my energy for what lay ahead—to search for more of these rural Maracatus, rather than chasing the same crowds and competing with other photographers in the bigger towns. So we stayed another night.

The place that had been alive with music and movement was silent now. Only the distant echoes of music from nearby Nazaré da Mata carried through the night.

The next morning felt surreal. The energy, the people, the spectacle—it was all gone. It was hard to imagine it had ever been here. Only scattered ribbons stretched between poles and bits of rubbish left behind hinted at what had taken place.

It was time for us to leave too—time to search for more Maracatu.

Don’t you love it when you get to see something not everybody knows about? Something that feels like a secret?

And how amazing is it when you get to photograph it?

That’s the opportunity I had recently.

During Carnival, I was shooting another Maracatu event when I met a veteran Brazilian photographer—someone who’s been documenting Maracatu for 30 years. The kind of guy who feels warm and familiar the moment you meet him.

He said, “Oh, you have a camper? If I had a camper, I’d go to Goiana, a town about an hour away. There’s a little community there called Pretinhas de Congo, by the river. It would be a unique experience. You’ll probably be the only one photographing them.”

Music to my ears.

But there was a problem—how was I going to find them?

The man gave vague directions. “It’s by the river,” he said. “That’s your landmark.”

I checked Google Maps. The river was long. Which part?

I assumed the community would be outside of town, tucked away somewhere remote. So I drove. I reached empty stretches of road. No houses. I asked around at the only house I saw. Never heard of them.

I sighed. Maybe this was pointless. Maybe I should just head back to a bigger city and see what I could shoot there.

But then I thought—when someone gives vague advice like that, it’s usually because the place isn’t too hard to find. So I checked the map again.

I noticed a smaller section of the river running through the city itself.

I headed there. Asked again.

And yes—that’s where the Pretinhas de Congo headquarters was.

The Pretinhas de Congo is one of Brazil’s oldest Congo dance groups, tracing back to 1938. The name Pretinhas, which in Portuguese simply means “little black girls,” might sound unusual in English but carries no negative connotation here. It was a term of affection, a tribute to the Black women of Goiana who preserved African traditions through dance, drumming, and processions—long before their culture was recognized as heritage.

I arrived at their headquarters, a modest space near the river.

But what do you actually say when you arrive at a place like this? When you’re an outsider, camera in hand, hoping to be welcomed?

I went with the simplest, almost naïve approach.

"Hi, I’m Mitchell, a photographer from Australia. I was told your community is very hospitable and would be wonderful to photograph."

It was exactly the right thing to say.

"Oh yeah, sure, go for it," one of the older women said. She had an air of quiet authority, one of the matriarchs, I assumed.

In this part of Brazil, people are usually open to cameras. Often, they’ll ask for your Instagram, wanting you to share the photos with them.

So I started shooting.

At first, the photos were the usual—thumbs up, smiles for the camera, stiff poses. Brazilians are natural extroverts. Having their picture taken is part of the culture, so many have these automatic, rehearsed poses.

I thought, Photographically, this might be a total waste of time. But at least I made it here.

Then something shifted.

The women started glancing at me, giggling. It was like they had suddenly realized I wasn’t from here.

I didn’t know what to expect. Would they get suspicious? Would they still be okay with this?

Then, suddenly—one woman wanted a photo with me. Then another.

One by one, they handed their phones to a friend and posed beside me like I was a guest of honor.

Then the younger girls joined in too.

For about ten or fifteen minutes, the camera turned on me.

Lovely.

I played along. A big goofy smile. A new subject beside me every few seconds.

"Do you get many foreigners here?" I asked.

One woman cracked up. "No. You’re the first."

Eventually, I was set free and started walking around the neighborhood. The impromptu photo session had broken the ice. Now, everyone seemed more relaxed, more natural.

A group of boys stood near the river, shirtless, dressed in black pants. They moved as one, their bodies clustering together like a single organism. A fascinating scene I had to capture.

More people arrived. Music started.

The Pretinhas began their procession, walking through their neighborhood toward the plaza.

It wasn’t much of a performance—just movement, rhythm—but you could see the joy in their faces, the pride.

Then something happened.

One of the songs changed, and the energy shifted. The older women, who had been dancing calmly, suddenly came alive. Their faces lit up, their movements grew more animated. It was as if the music had awakened something—a memory of their youth, of what this group had meant to them.

For a few minutes, they weren’t just performing. They were remembering.

They carried on a legacy that had survived for almost a hundred years.

The dancing grew more intense at the plaza. The community was introduced to a small crowd.

I was still the only foreigner there.

I shot some video of the actual dancing. I’ll post it later in a more comprehensive YouTube video.

The performance didn’t last long.

Soon, another group arrived, and the Pretinhas made their way back home.

It was late afternoon. I thought—I should follow them back, try to get some shots in the golden light.

On the way, they kept singing and dancing.

I continued shooting, focusing on a particularly photogenic boy framed against the red dresses of the performers. The sunset deepened the colors—gold, crimson, shadows stretching long.

It was beautiful.

This is the Brazil I have fallen in love with.

Back near the headquarters, a mother sat by the river with her two boys. The golden light hit them beautifully.

One of the boys stood and looked up as dark clouds rolled in. Thunder rumbled. A serendipitous little scene.

And then—

A rainbow arched across the sky just as the Pretinhas finished for the day.

They disappeared inside to change into regular clothes. I thanked them and started my walk back.

I stopped for a final shot. A young girl, hesitant, unsure about the foreigner. Her friend convincing her to pose. The moment before the pose was the real photograph.

Back in town, I grabbed dinner with my girls. Some great northeastern Brazilian food.

I was tired, but I returned to the plaza.

The night wasn’t over.

Now it was time for Samba.

More colorful dresses, striking faces, deafening music—and some floats with dancing that felt uncomfortably sexualized given how young some of the dancers were. A mix of the weird, the quirky, and the visually striking—but also, at times, the uncomfortable. A mix of the things I’ve come to expect in this part of Brazil.

The stage lights transformed even ordinary moments into something visually stunning.

I weaved through the crowd, making photos for about an hour. But the noise was too much.

My ears have grown used to quiet places. The sound of the ocean.

So I headed off.

What a day.

What a little adventure.

What an incredible sense of satisfaction.

All because of a random encounter and the advice of one kind photographer.

He was right. It was a unique experience.

There’s magic during Carnival.

And not just in the famous, well-known places.

Maybe, it’s even more magical in the quiet ones.

The places where you might just be the first foreigner to ever visit.

I finally saw what I came here for—perhaps a little mad to have traveled all this way.

At last, I stood in the streets of Olinda, witnessing Maracatu Rural in all its raw, electrifying glory. Almost all its glory—this was a showcase parade, not yet the full spectacle.

I had journeyed from Argentina, from Patagonia in the deep south. Covering at least 4,000 kilometers over a couple of months, I traced a long, winding route north to arrive in Pernambuco before Carnival.

Maracatu had seized my imagination from the moment I first encountered it. Last year, in a cultural center, I spoke with a kind, knowledgeable woman about my interest in traditions. An elderly photographer—a local legend—walked in. She turned to him.

"What would you recommend this young man photograph?"

("Young man"—flattering.)

Without hesitation, he said: "Maracatu."

"Where?"

"Nazaré da Mata."

"When? How?"

"Every Saturday, something is happening."

That was enough. I took notes, made contacts, and went.

When I arrived, it was only a rehearsal—no elaborate costumes, no full procession.

But still, the energy was enough to pull me in, to make me return.

Enough to make me drive thousands of kilometers back from the south. Enough to bring me from Argentina to Pernambuco again.

And now, finally, I was here.

This wasn’t the main event—another warm-up, another preview—but visually, it was captivating enough for me.

Brazilian events rarely start on time, so I arrived late, knowing the schedule would stretch.

Nothing had begun yet, but the performers were already dressing, preparing against a backdrop I wished I had caught earlier.

Still, opportunities were everywhere—eager faces, brilliant colors, layers of movement and light.

This was Maracatu Rural (Maracatu de Baque Solto)—a wild, fast, improvisational tradition born from the sugarcane plantations of Pernambuco’s Zona da Mata. Unlike Maracatu Nação (Baque Virado) in Recife and Olinda—with its royal court, slow processions, and deep bass drums—this was untamed, high-energy, unpredictable.

Many performers had traveled from Pernambuco's interior, from villages where foreigners are rare. They looked at me, intrigued—a foreigner running around, taking what must have seemed like an absurd number of photos.

The costumes were dazzling, the faces striking. Men, women, boys, and girls—all with incredible presence. Some had model-like features, the kind of faces that, in a different world, might have been on magazine covers.

The Parade Begins

This time, there weren’t many photographers. It felt like the event wasn’t well-publicized. Only two or three serious photographers were around.

The music started, and the first group surged forward. I ran with them, camera in hand, chasing angles, experimenting with the flash—freezing motion, capturing movement in blurs.

At the front was a figure I had read about but had never seen in person:

The Burrinha (or Burrinha de Ouro).

A man, riding a small wooden donkey costume, cracking a leather whip with staggering force. The Burrinha is a trickster figure, drawn from Brazilian folk traditions. He led the charge, clearing the path for the Maracatu group. With each sharp crack of the whip, he signaled the crowd to step aside.

Behind him was Catita (whom I had written about earlier)—a comical, flamboyant character in a bright floral dress, face painted black with exaggerated red lips. He moved through the crowd, laughing, teasing, hyping up the spectacle.

And then, the warriors arrived.

These were the figures that had first drawn me in when I saw photos of Maracatu.

The Caboclos de Lança. The spear-bearing warriors of Maracatu Rural.

​Their glittering capes gleamed under the streetlights; their movements were sharp, rhythmic, and deliberate.​

Each Caboclo de Lança wore an ornate, embroidered tunic, an enormous tasseled headdress, and a leather surrão (belted pouch) at his waist. These warriors weren’t just performers; they embodied resistance.

Each carried a wooden lança (spear) wrapped in ribbons. They spun, flipped, and twirled their spears, moving like fighters preparing for battle.

The drums hit fast and hard—a pulse you don’t just hear—you feel it in your chest, in your bones.

The African roots of the music were unmistakable. The energy was primal, hypnotic.

And then the visuals—swirling skirts, peacock-like reflections from the sequins, flashes of color under the streetlights. The cool night breeze carried the sound of beating drums, the rhythm of Maracatu weaving through the streets.

I started recognizing faces.

Other photographers—Hugo, a specialist in capturing Maracatu, whose presence reassured me that I was in the right place. A French photographer I had met the night before.

We ran through the streets, the parade snaking through familiar areas, though starting from a different point than the night before.

By now, I knew the layout. I knew where the best-lit streets were, where I could maneuver ahead of the crowd, where to position myself. These details matter. They are the difference between a made shot and a missed shot.

The Maracatu Nações, nations of Maracatu as they are called, ended their parade at the Prefeitura—the town hall.

I felt an overwhelming sense of satisfaction.

Not often do you plan something, envision it for months, and have it unfold as you hoped.

I had missed the Iemanjá celebration—the sea goddess festival—though I had planned for it.

That one got away.

But not this.

This, I caught.

And it felt like a validation of the long road I had taken to get here.

And the best part?

This was still just a preview of what’s to come.

More Maracatu. More to photograph.

This time, the night ended earlier. But I was farther from my place, too exhausted to walk up all those hills again.

I managed to get an Uber.

My head was still buzzing with the sound of drums.

My mind filled with the images I wasn’t able to capture.

But there was still time.

The days ahead will bring more of this incredible Carnival in Pernambuco.