The Day I Was Invited In

Immersion in the Forest

While in Rio de Janeiro, one of the Caciques from Bahia invited me to meet a colleague in Paraty and take images for him and his family.
My heart leapt.

We arrived on a quiet Friday, the air heavy with the scent of the Atlantic Forest.
The light was soft, as if the forest had exhaled.

The next evening, as the sun lowered and shadows stretched across the earth,
we were invited to participate in an open celebration by the river.

I had no idea what to expect.
What awaited me was unlike anything I had ever seen — or felt.

The forest became a cathedral.
The waterfall, its altar.

People gathered slowly,
faces painted,
feathers catching the last light of day.

Drums began to echo,
the air filled with the smell of woodsmoke.
Smoke curled upward,
prayers rose,
and a rhythm older than memory filled the clearing.

For a moment, time stood still.

I stopped being an observer.
I became a witness.

Through the Lens

The light was soft,
falling in golden sheets across the water.
Late afternoon in the forest,
the hour when the shadows lean long and the world feels hushed.

The sound came first :
low voices, a chant carried through the trees.
Then the column of people appeared,
slow and solemn,
feet pressing into the earth as if waking it with every step.

I lifted my camera.
Sascha, patient and silent,
held the light exactly where I asked,
so every face, every feather,
would be honored in its detail.

The Gathering

The Cleansing

She was the first to step forward.
The woman who led them,
her face painted with quiet authority.
She carried a bundle of leaves,
its scent mingled with red earth.

One by one,
she bathed each participant,
pressing earth and foliage to their skin
as if returning them to the forest.

The drums swelled,
voices rising with them,
filling the clearing,
bouncing off the stones and water.

I kept photographing,
my lens steady,
my heart anything but.

When the bathing was done,
a silence settled,
thick and reverent.

The air seemed to hold its breath.
It was time for the pipe.

"The women mixed sacred foliage with red earth,
bathed each participant, and blessed the path to the water."

The Ceremony Deepens

Drums began to echo, voices rose,
their rhythm weaving through the trees, calling the night closer.

Two sat facing each other,
their headdresses catching the last light.

Smoke curled upward,
slow and deliberate —
a prayer you could see.

I clicked the shutter once,
then lowered the camera.

For a moment,
I only watched.

After the Forest

The drums faded into the distance as the night deepened.
The air still carried the sweetness of crushed leaves
and the faint trace of smoke.

I packed my camera slowly,
as if closing a book too precious to rush.
Sascha and I walked back in silence,
our steps careful on the forest path.

I thought of every face that had passed before my lens,
every gesture, every sound.
None of it staged, none of it rehearsed.
All of it a gift.

That night, I understood that my work
was not merely to photograph,
but to bear witness.
To hold a fragment of their story
so it would not be lost.

And to share it —
here,
with you.

This is Nomadic Light