Pataxó has no direct translation in English: it is the sound of water against stone as it travels to meet the sea.

Once, the Pataxó people of coastal Brazil lived freely in the forests, river lands, and tropical shorelines of southern Bahia and northern Minas Gerais. But more than 500 years ago, Portuguese settlers invaded the region, leaving legacies of trauma, violence, and environmental destruction which linger today.

The Pataxó’s ancestral territory—as well as the cosmologies and practices that root them to it—have been under continuous threat ever since. Only recently have community-led reclamation efforts of these traditional lands and lifeways been reignited.

“Our people were reborn from the ashes,” explained Txatxu Pataxó, a young leader from the coastal village of Barra Velha.

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On the first day of the 2024 Smithsonian Folklife Festival, featuring the program Indigenous Voices of the Americas, Txatxu and Andwara Pataxó (chief of the village Aldeia Velha) spoke to audiences about the revival of a vital custom. Far more than a decorative art, the Pataxó body adornment tradition has tethered their people to their ancestral land and heritage for countless generations.

Layers of beaded necklaces, bracelets, and anklets rattled gently as Txatxu and Andwara took to the stage before a quiet audience. Txatxu, a respected artist in his community, sat tall as he made his introductions. A red line of paint traced a path down the center of his face.

“Who am I to speak when my ancestors have already spoken for me?” he said in Portuguese, his steady voice carrying across the expectant silence.

For the Pataxó people, body painting reflects the lived constellations of past and present and of human and more-than-human worlds. Along with other arts passed down carefully across generations—wood carving, jewelry making, featherwork, among them—this enduring tradition acts as a protective layer around the heart of Pataxó culture, guarding it from forces of erasure.

Some of the designs serve practical purposes, like indicating a person’s civil status. Others are reminders of collective cultural memory. “Red is used to protect us from harm,” Txatxu said, gesturing to the line on his face. “For my people, red is a symbol of resistance, resurgence, and our struggle against colonial oppression.”

“Nowadays, we make a point of using strong black in many of our designs as a sign of mourning for relatives who have been killed,” Andwara added, referencing intensifying patterns of violence toward the Pataxó and other Indigenous communities in Brazil. She wore a traditional feathered cocar headdress, and the faded outline of a black snake coiled around her right calf.

Each of the paints used for traditional body painting are made using natural ingredients native to Pataxó land: black is sourced from genipap fruit, red from the seed of the urucum or achiote plant, and yellow from a clay known locally as tawá. 

“All of the pigments we use come from nature, but we intentionally harvest them in a conscious and sustainable way,” Andwara noted.

As part of the contemporary resurgence of Pataxó tradition, all members of the community learn how to make the paints, as well as the meanings of each pattern. This transmission starts at a young age. For the first nine years of their education, Pataxó children attend specialized schools within their villages, established in the 1990s as part of broader efforts to revitalize their culture. Alongside these schools arose initiatives to reconstruct and reclaim the traditional Patxôha language, which was all but lost during the era of colonial oppression.

“We learn all of our traditions in school: how to make the necklaces, the skirts, the food,” Andwara explained to the audience gathered around the Narrative Stage. “This is what keeps our culture strong.”

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A few mornings later, I sat down with Txatxu on the National Mall as he and Andwara set up for a day of art demonstrations. A selection of items from their villages filled their table: medicinal oils and tinctures, elaborate jewelry crafted from seeds, rapé (a ceremonial snuff made from tobacco and native plant species), and tepi and kuripe snuff pipes. An assortment of paints, paired with thin sticks used to achieve the distinct geometric linework of Pataxó designs, rested to one side.

Painting is at the heart of Txatxu’s daily life as one of the leading artists in his village, Barra Velha. While body art is used to celebrate special occasions like festivities, weddings, and rituals, he explained, the tradition is also a part of the everyday rhythms of Pataxó communities. “I began painting at eight years old,” he said. “My cousin was an artist, and he passed the tradition onto me.”

Each of Txatxu’s designs is an intimate expression of the unique essence he observes in an individual. “I paint a person according to the energy I see in them,” he shared of his practice. “This always brings learning—it has taught me a lot about spirit.”

Many of the motifs found in the Pataxó body painting tradition are inspired by native wildlife. Abstract interpretations of butterflies, jaguars, birds, beetles, and fish honor and acknowledge neighboring species and are said to invoke the protection of the animals they depict.

It’s common for community members to feel connected to a specific animal, akin to the idea of a power or spirit animal. “My power animal is the jaguar,” Txatxu reflected. “Whenever I paint the jaguar’s spots on my skin, I feel myself become stronger. The jaguar is an animal of great strength. It resists, just like our people.”

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The Pataxó are one of the few Indigenous communities in Brazil that openly share their customs and ceremonies with non-Indigenous visitors. By doing so, they seek to communicate their history and living heritage directly with the outside world. This dedication to opening pathways of meaningful cultural exchange is what led them to the Folklife Festival.

“It’s an honor for me to be here and share the art of my people,” Txatxu expressed. “Art is connection, and art is life. It’s a beautiful opportunity to connect with people and express a relationship with Mother Nature through my work.”

At the core of the Pataxó’s message is the responsibility of human beings to the land and, in turn, a deeply integrated relationship with Earth and its member-beings. “The Pataxó live in constant contact with nature, because without her we are nothing,” Txatxu said. He closed his eyes in thought, folding his hands together on the table between us.

“Mother Earth gives us the air we breathe, the water we drink, and the food that sustains us. In return, it is our responsibility to take care of her.”

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To the Pataxó—and countless other Indigenous communities around the world—the survival of their cultural vision is inseparable from the wellbeing of their ancestral lands. Today, struggles for both are rooted in one crucial issue: land demarcation.

It’s a battle the Pataxó have been fighting for a long time. When Portuguese colonizers first arrived in Brazil in 1500, thirsty for gold and other natural resources, the Pataxó were among the first Indigenous peoples they encountered. Since then, Pataxó land has been under constant threat. In contemporary Brazil, land demarcation is the process through which Indigenous territories are officially recognized and helps to ensure protection against outside encroachment from agribusiness, mining, and other commercial interests.

This process has been slow and fraught with challenges. Of the original 53,000 acres of territory claimed by the Pataxó, only 8,627 are legally recognized today. Much of the rest has been converted into private farms and industrial agriculture that devastate the land and its native ecosystems.

Disputes have subjected Pataxó villages to hostility from neighboring farmers and agricultural companies, disrupting traditional lifeways and leaving entire communities vulnerable to displacement and marginalization. In the last several years alone, abuses have ranged from threats and intimidation to coordinated armed attacks and the destruction of Pataxó homes and property.

Andwara expressed the gravity of this ongoing fight for survival and recognition as she addressed audiences on the National Mall.

“We have lost many men, women, elders, and children,” she stressed, her voice heavy with memory. “We have suffered many massacres. We still suffer. But we must struggle to prevent the destruction of our environment and our culture.

“That’s why I’m here today,” Andwara declared. “Indigenous people around the world need to have our voices heard in order to protect our land and continue our lifeways. I want to see my children and grandchildren playing in the forest and climbing the trees,” she continued. “I want them to carry their heritage, songs, and dances with pride.” She motioned toward the vivid blues, greens, and reds of her feathered headdress, a symbol of ancestral pride and power that existed long before the intrusion of foreign empire.

“We must remember. Before Brazil of the crown, it was Brazil of the cocar.”

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Whether through art, music, or dance, Pataxó creative traditions spring from a profound honor and gratitude for the ancestral roots of their people. As body adornment and customs like it are revitalized, this innate connection to land and spirit is reawakened, fueling and strengthening Pataxó resistance.

“We are here today because our ancestors struggled,” Txatxu emphasized. “In my community, I try to talk to our elders all the time.” As key wisdom keepers in a culture upheld by oral tradition, integrating the knowledge and experience of these older generations is essential in sustaining Pataxó cultural practices in a way that honors both past and present.

“When we lose our elders, it’s like losing a library,” Txatxu explained, echoing a proverb shared by Indigenous communities around the world.

The presence of elders in a community doesn’t necessarily mean their voices will be valued, however. Family structures are increasingly disrupted by modernization and migration to urban centers, eroding channels for intergenerational learning. “Nowadays, many people around the world don’t speak to their parents or their grandparents,” Txatxu acknowledged.

Dialogue, whether between generations or across cultures, is a powerful tool in the fight against social fragmentation. As both Txatxu and Andwara expressed, creating spaces for conversation both within and outside of their local communities has helped the Pataxó in challenging colonial narratives, replacing them with more inclusive, mutually enriching storylines. “We must learn how to speak to each other,” Txatxu said. “A badly spoken word hurts more than a slap in the face.”

“Many people hear about us through a book, but never come to see how we really live.” He paused, offering an elusive smile. “If you really want to know more about us, come to our village. We’ll greet you with open arms and an open heart—just like we greeted the Portuguese when they arrived.”

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Back at the Narrative Stage, Andwara and Txatxu asked for the audience’s permission to close their conversation with a song.

“It’s a song of our people,” Andwara prefaced, “of what we were and what we are.”

She closed her eyes, shifting inward. A stillness stretched across the audience. Beside her, Txatxu’s maraka began a steady rhythm—softly at first, and then insistently, like a river’s current gathering speed.

Their voices danced together in Patxôha and carried across the crowd. Sirens sounded faintly in the distance, layering the moment in contrasting realities. It felt strangely fitting.

Somehow, the song’s lyrics needed no translation. Its message flowed beyond language: a testament to the enduring strength of their identity.

Tia Merotto is a former intern at the Center for Folklife and Cultural Heritage. Her writing explores intersections of ecology, culture, and spirituality.

The Pataxó participation in the 2024 Smithsonian Folklife Festival was supported by the Inter-American Foundation.