A Magical Night of "The Silent Drums"

A vibrant homage to Olinda's African heritage

It was to be a magical night—dedicated to African ancestry, cultural resistance, and the heritage of Olinda.

The Night of the Silent Drums—which, as it turned out, was not very silent at all. A display of a different kind of Maracatu, unlike the one I had seen on my last visit to Pernambuco.

This was Maracatu Nação, the Afro-Brazilian tradition born from the coronation ceremonies of enslaved kings in colonial times. The procession moved like a royal court through the streets—drummers pounding heavy alfaia drums, women in flowing skirts spinning in rhythm, flag bearers lifting their emblems high.

The music was deep, steady, hypnotic. Less chaotic than the Maracatu Rural of Nazaré da Mata, but just as powerful. It wasn’t just a performance—it was a living link to African ancestry.

It was also a good reminder of how a camera opens doors and opportunities. I had the best spot in the entire area to witness this unforgettable event.

It began with performers arriving, gathering along the street. Some already in costume, others dressing right there in the dark, in the shadows. As everyone stood waiting for the parade to begin, you could feel the anticipation—the excitement of the younger participants, and, to be honest, the older ones too.

This was my third straight day shooting, and I felt I was finally getting into a rhythm—able to handle complex situations compositionally, because I already knew what to watch out for, what to avoid. Moments like these are the photographer’s equivalent to nirvana—when everything falls into place, when you're in a flow, when the right subjects present themselves to you.

And then the music started.

Drums began to beat. Singing rose up. The first of many groups began their journey through the streets of the historical part of Olinda.

There was a film crew. At least a dozen other photographers. A battle for angles.

But when you're in the flow, it doesn’t matter. You weave through the crowd, find your shot, capture your moment.

Almost every group had at least one truly photogenic, commanding character. I focused on them, trying to capture the best possible frame—dancing, moving, caught in a fleeting expression.

And then, as the last of the groups made their way through the streets, I wondered—where were they all headed?

They were moving toward the Church of Rosário dos Homens Pretos. This was where the grand finale would take place.

Founded by freed and enslaved people of African heritage in the 17th century, the church had long been a spiritual refuge in a world that offered them little space of their own. It stood as a symbol of resilience, built by those who were denied entry into the grand cathedrals of colonial Brazil. Now, during Carnival, it became a stage for one of the most sacred moments of the night.

Most people were kept outside, behind a fence. To my surprise, I simply showed my camera—and was let inside. Confidence pays off. And just like that, I had the best seat in the house.

The groups entered, performing a final, grand dance—presenting themselves before a massive crowd of onlookers.

I kept photographing, recognizing faces I had seen earlier in the night. Smiling, getting a smile back.

Then, a large figure appeared—Homem da Meia-Noite.

A towering Boneco Gigante, the most famous of all Olinda’s giant puppets. Since 1932, he had marked the official start of Carnival, emerging at midnight on Carnival Saturday to lead the revelry.

Dressed in his traditional green suit, black top hat, and neatly groomed mustache, he moved through the streets with an almost regal presence.

Some say he brings good fortune for the festival.

Others say he carries the weight of Olinda’s Carnival spirit itself.

With my limited Portuguese, I understood that a spiritual moment was coming.

The music shifted—the drumming slowed, the energy changed. The dancing, once frantic, became softer, almost like swaying. The song now felt like worship—its words unfamiliar, an African language.

This was a tribute—a recognition of the enslaved Africans who had fought, suffered, and resisted, whose presence still echoed through the traditions being carried forward.

It was beautiful.

And in the crowd, I saw tears.

A moment I wasn’t expecting to have.

Then, one by one, the groups began to leave. First, the giant figure was carried away. Then, the performers trickled out into the night.

At the end of the night, I checked my Garmin watch—14 kilometers. I had run back and forth, chasing one group, then rushing to the next as they prepared. Running up hills. Back down again. Over and over.

I stayed behind, chatting with a new photographer friend, talking to people in the streets.

Before I knew it, it was 1:30 AM.

Where I was staying was only half a kilometer away, on a hill. But, as I started to head up, a couple of young guys warned me—the road was dark and empty. Not safe to walk alone.

Since I had my camera and my most expensive lens with me, I took their advice seriously.

But Uber wasn’t working.

Then I saw a neighborhood security car and asked them for a lift. They said they couldn’t take me, but they could escort me.

And so, with a security car following behind, I walked up the hill, through the silent streets. Dark. Empty.

The only movement—homeless people occasionally lifting their heads to watch the passing foreigner, an escort trailing behind him.

A magical night. And a fittingly unusual ending.