Initially, I only stepped into a church because I had a pressing need.

Not the religious kind of pressing need, like a five-minute confession or a buy-one-get-one-free salvation, mind you. I… well, I just needed to pee.

It’s hard to find public bathrooms in the Pelourinho, a picturesque maze of narrow cobblestone-paved streets, historic buildings, and souvenir shops. There are no shopping malls or chain restaurants where nobody cares if you just go inside to use the facilities. And by the time I reach the “Pelô,” I’ve usually downed two bottles of water, a cafezinho and a can of Coke because it’s a 60-minute uphill walk in 30⁰C weather, so even if I sweat out most of it, I still need to pee at one point.

Without that, I think I would have skipped most churches. Not only I’m an atheist but I also see enough of Jesus every day. Technically, there’s no official religion in Brazil, yet the country is anything but secular. We’re talking about the largest Catholic nation in the world here. According to a 2020 survey, 54% of Brazilians are Catholic, and 24% are Evangelists. So just like in the rest of Central and South America, most vehicles have bumper stickers with the word “fé” (faith) and a crucifix, not to mention tons of “inspiring” products—t-shirts, phone covers, bedsheets, you name it—with sentences like “Nunca Foi Sorte, Sempre Foi Deus” (“It was never luck, it was always God”). Hell (pun intended), a supermarket chain in Maceió displays an open Bible at the customer service desk.

So yeah, I bump into Jesus every day. It doesn’t hurt my feelings or anything, but I didn’t feel like stopping by his house on top of that.

Except that when you need to pee, one of the Pelô’s historical churches is a great option. The ticket is 5 reais ($1) and you gain access to clean bathrooms—Jesus must have noticed that worshipping is best performed with an empty bladder, hallelujah.  

And once I was done peeing, I still explored the church and I realized that I was missing out. Salvador’s many, many historic churches are actually fascinating, so I changed my mind and started visiting churches again.

I’m an atheist but I’m also a curious traveller, after all.

I visited the Igreja e Convento de São Francisco, which is probably the Pelourinho’s most famous church—the interior is awash in sculpted gilt woodwork and Baroque paintings. Maybe there’s real gold, maybe it’s long gone or never existed… nobody knows for sure.

I explored the Igreja Nossa Senhora do Rosário dos Pretos, “Church of Our Lady of the Rosary of the Black People,” an interesting mix of Catholicism and Candomblé I’m not sure the Vatican would approve.

I went to the Basílica do Senhor do Bonfim, home of Salvador’s famous “fitas do Senhor do Bonfim”, colourful cotton ribbons worn as an amulet, and a pretty creepy “room of miracles” with wax replicas of body parts that need Jesus’s help. Bonfim is Candomblé believers’ most important church because of the syncretization of Jesus Christ (Nosso Senhor do Bonfim) with Oxalá, the highest deity in Candomblé.

And I walked past the Casa de Yemanjá many times when I was staying in Ondina, occasionally bumping into Candomblé rituals—the “Mother of Waters” matters in Salvador.

Jesus isn’t COVID—you don’t catch faith just by looking at it.

I still don’t have an imaginary friend who lives up there in the sky.

However, in a way, Salvador, Brazil, and travelling in general, are giving me faith—faith in the world, faith in humanity. On this trip just like on many other trips before, I met hundreds of perfect strangers who kindly gave me tips, showed me the way, and taught me something. I saw amazing natural beauty and man-made creations. I observed how people from all kinds of backgrounds live their life—it’s not rocket science, it all comes down to meeting basic needs, loving and being loved, and finding meaning in life.

So I’m a believer too—in mankind.