Pantheacon (6) – Pomba Gira

After the poly workshop I headed for the big Pomba Gira dance, scheduled to begin at 11 p.m.  This is a ninety-minute dance in honor of Pomba Gira, a figure in several Brazilian Afro-Catholic traditions (Umbanda, Candomblé).  At Pantheacon she is referred to as the “Sacred Harlot of Rio De Janeiro.”  To what extent this is true I do not know.  Is she thought to protect prostitutes?  Does she promote sacred sexuality?  I don’t know.  From online reading, I see that she is probably insatiable sexually, and that “you don’t want to make her mad.”  She is noted for her connection to women and to gay and effeminate men.

 

Pomba Gira apparently is actually a type of spirit, so there are many different incarnations; some of which are definitely promiscuous and vulgar.

Again, as at the Blues/Voodoo talk, I wondered how much of this presentation has been distorted by outsiders.  In the introduction to the dance, we are told that Pomba Gira will give you anything you want—as long as you are willing to pay for it.  I could not determine to what extent the presenters were Brazilians themselves or familiar with the Brazilian culture which gave rise to this tradition.  However, the annual dance to Pomba Gira is a very popular event at Pantheacon; this is the second year I have attended.

People attending are asked to dress in red and black, the colors associated with Pomba Gira.  All participants are checked for IDs on the way into the hall.  No cameras or recording devices of any kind are allowed.  Although I heard a report last year of a fondling “incident,” I noticed nothing of the sort—and noticed no incidents this year either.  I wasn’t aware of any nudity or any sexual activity.  Nevertheless, IDs are checked—no one under twenty-one is admitted! (I keep waiting for something to happen—it doesn’t).

Well—Let’s clarify that.  The dancing happens.  I dance for ninety minutes to the beat of the drums and the chanting, and I enjoy it.  We’re cautioned to drink plenty of water (but I’m never aware of any particular dehydration).  The drums continue, the chants go up to Pomba Gira.  From time to time I recognize someone in the crowd.  But my lovers aren’t there; the people I recognize are either casual friends or people I could conceivably feel attraction to—and I do feel attraction to them.  My mind goes into a weird space.  I suppose I’m in a light trance since time becomes timeless and the dancing goes on and I allow myself to feel the attraction towards certain people I have always found interesting or been attracted to or fantasized about.  This happened last year and happens again this year.  I open myself up psychically; I look into the eyes of these few people—and nothing happens.  They acknowledge my glance; but our eye contact is momentary.  Either we both feel too weird, or we’re both too unwilling, uncomfortable, or uninterested.  But I do feel like we have at least opened ourselves to honestly looking at one another.

So, as has happened earlier in the day and will happen again, I end up feeling alone and a bit let down.  I have again failed to connect with people.  But this is only the first day of the conference, and I did spend some time away in order to facilitate the writers club open mic elsewhere.  Perhaps tomorrow?