…I disappear…. I start to walk, then… I keep walking...
Sitting for hours, still alone... I arrive in a bar… I wait until someone comes in… There is music playing on the radio… It smells like time doesn’t exist here… My coffee is cold in front of me… I can’t see the watermelon fields from here.
Would I catch a slight glimpse of a lie? ….wondering what my reflection would say about me…
I listen to what they say, then I understand what I need to do…
like in a dream... I place myself in front of me...
So I decided to play a game of truth or false with myself. I wait until I start to move to play…
I am not sure where my attention is these days.

When the daughters of saints dance, singing and clapping, they compose a colourful circle, to the beat of the drums. Suddenly, one daughter-of-saint wobbles, closes her eyes, puts her hands on her head, trembles, almost falls. They all rush, take off their slippers and undo their hair. So the Orixá that is performing starts to dance, spreading Axé, the divine essence of life.

The trance, as an essential element for the religious experience, is the vehicle that transforms the son-of-saint into the other, in his orixá, revealing the double inscribed in his essence, to integrate both, the human and the Orixá, into a single person.

Nanã, the goddess of the earth, yearned to have a son with Oxalá, the greatest God. Her first son, Omolu, was a distressing revelation, and she got rid of him. The God of destiny revealed that she would then have a beautiful son, as beautiful as the rainbow, but that he would never be with her, and would live roaming around the world non-stop.

Because he belongs to both heaven and earth, water and light, Oxumaré is a binary God, a strange god who expresses the union of opposites. For the first six months, he lives on the land, his nature is masculine, he is a great python that rules the forests. We have already seen how he destroyed Odé the hunter, who dared to treat him as easy prey. Like all the great mythical snakes, Oxumaré is immortal. Despite having been cut into several pieces by Odé, he was soon reborn to assert his power.

In the remaining six months, he metamorphoses into a beautiful girl, Bessém, a nymph who lives in rivers and lakes.

Even in its historical origin, Oxumaré is a binary: the Yoruba god of the rainbow that revolves around the earth, sharing the cosmic energy. His symbol is the rainbow and a large snake that coils around the earth and the sky, ensuring the unity of the world and its perennial renewal. Son of the earth, he extracts from her the water that he takes to the sky so that it falls again in the form of fertile rains. Just like the colours of the rainbow he/she/they symbolise the infinite virtualities of the world.
STORY 1 I should stand here
I’d better listen…
At this point I am not convinced that I know me.

That person in front of me is now someone else trying to tell me stories.

Do the facts match up with the stories? I don’t know.
When I hear stories spoken out loud,

I am not totally convinced they actually happened.

Then suddenly they start to repeat the same action... and another story....

This is Savio’s case. Even in understanding that all of the Orixás of the sacred mythological Pantheon of African Gods coexist in his being, his case leaves no room for doubt. 

The Gods are experienced as external forces, impose their will on his personality and all instances of Savio’s life. 

But, from the moment he accepts to manifest Oxum, he becomes the goddess, the great benevolent Mother, who is known for imposing herself through a smiling softness. 

Savio conveys the impression of total integration between the mythical model and the individual personality. When Oxum manifests herself, Savio becomes even more gracious, even more maternal. 

When others see her, they shout, cheering:
‘Ora iê iê ô!’
(Salutations, benevolent mother)

There was beauty in the incantations that preceded the appearance of the magical deity, and much more magical when my father used to leave the saints’ room to dance to the drums, in the middle of the salon. He was a thin man, shorter than my mother, and with a lighter skin tone than ours. He was not a young man and carried the features of his age on his face. Deep wrinkles, valleys in his skin eroded by the sun and the wind, which he still faced every day to farm and be entitled to his family’s address on the farm.

At that time, Zeca Chapéu Grande already looked like an elder, but still, he was a guide for the people of Água Negra and the surrounding areas, a reference for all types of subjects, from divergence at work to health problems.

Zeca Chapéu Grande used to be ashamed of having to exchange his trousers, which esteemed his leadership position on the farm, for skirts, lending his body to a woman. He did it because it was his obligation, a commitment he had made when he was cured of madness and was made in the saint’s name at João do Lajedo’s house, in Andaraí.

He was ashamed because the audience was made up of his colleagues, associates and neighbours, who often embodied the task force of the farm.

From there, from the warm saints’ room that radiated sweat and lavender, Zeca, who now embodied Santa Bárbara, wore a red and white dress, starched with all care by Dona Tonha, and with her face covered under the glossy ornamented red beads. She came out wielding the wooden sword made by himself. The small sword cut through the air with its nimble movements. ‘Ê, Santa Bárbara!’ the virgin with light hair, she comes down with her golden sword!, the audience clapped and sang in chorus, following the drums player. As the men accelerate their pulse, Santa Barbara stirs in her steps and turns.
STORY 3 I should stand here
Collapsed in sunbeams. Stretched out open to beauty however brief or violent…
We're all learning to trust our bodies
Making peace with our own distortions

You shouldn't be afraid to cry in front of me in moments
No human is illegal
Stay queer!

Visibility is trap
Gender is a Journey, Not a Destination
Jealousy is all the fun you think they had.
Twist your knickers
This is how everything dies.
I think sometimes there is a gap in between what people say and what they actually experience
Things can get a bit trippy in Watermelon Sugar.
Sometimes I think it can be a bit dreamy... we never know what is real and what is imagination... if this happened in the past or in the present, or future... or if it actually is a matter of truth or lies...

If the stories of the person next to me are different...

Then I look out the window and I see a phrase written on the wall…

How do you know we are not in Kansas anymore?

I hate people who litter.
I hate people in positions of power that seem to have lost any sense of what it means to be human. I hate politicians that propagate nationalist ideas that have never experienced any cultural exchange or diversity, smugly sitting there in their suits.

I hate when they call me dramatic, when I just have intense feelings. 
I hate when my heart, even though it sometimes is egotistic, is guarded by life.
I hate when I fall down, even though I always get up, no matter how many beers I drink.
People may assume I have an eating disorder, and I hate it when they are right.
I hate people that assume I’m straight, because of how I look or dress.
I want to be physically close with people but usually I hate their cologne.

I hate women who believe they have to act like men to be successful.
I hate people who think there is only one way to be a woman or a man!
I hate LGBTQ people who think a sissy man is a second-class homosexual.
My family hated when I dressed ‘like a male’.

I hate Donald Trump and anyone similar to him.
I hate Melania Trump just because I do.
I hate the lady at the bus stop who would rather have everyone behind her stand in the pouring rain than give up (her position in) the queue.
I hate Apple, who always make computers that treat you like an idiot.

I hate feeling that I don’t belong to anything, but I hate belonging to Scotland.
I hate feeling like it is the end of the fucking world.
I hate the voices inside my earphones that have become much too loud. 

I hate everyone who owns pets but feasts on a burger every day.
I hate ignorant people that don’t feel the urge to educate themselves.
I hate some people that constantly victimise themselves.
And yet, I struggle to really hate anyone…

What's the ending? You have a few minutes to add your suggestions for how to end story in Watermelon Sugar ended
Latest Message: 4 hours, 34 minutes ago
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  • guest_1025 : I love Go West
  • guest_352 : Dance
  • guest_9642 : Blow up the wall
  • guest_352 : There can longer be humans around
  • guest_352 : earth is patched
  • guest_352 : Rain has turned red
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  • guest_4127 : Dog dies
  • guest_4127 : Dog dies
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  • guest_352 : Everyone joins hand
  • guest_3845 : They think of an ending
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  • guest_1563 : We all agree to leave social media
  • guest_6242 : It never ends, starts over and over again
  • guest_352 : There is love everywhere
  • guest_1492 : Putin and Trump fall in love
  • guest_6810 : women get rights
  • guest_7324 : A bit of hope would be nice....
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  • guest_102 : We all join in!
  • guest_2545 : Trump walks in and smashes down the wall
  • guest_6276 : The weld is saved from global catastrophe
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  • guest_1403 : Everyone dies
  • guest_1563 : Everybody RAVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
  • guest_102 : Trump dies!
  • guest_7324 : Trump is imprisoned and politicians believe in global warming
  • guest_2627 : Silence
  • guest_6341 : Everyone continues to live for the next 30-70 years, dies, the show finishes, applause, return to this room and leave
  • guest_7324 : Free drinks?
  • guest_2627 : The audience turn into the actors and everyone falls to the ground
  • guest_2252 : They all pained each other red blue and ocher
  • guest_6341 : A big ol’ Hug for everyone please
  • guest_272 : The fire alarm goes off and the sprinkler system is activated
  • guest_7324 : They found a cure and dogs took over
  • guest_7393 : Everyone having a go with spray paint
  • Madz : Group dance
  • guest_7735 : Knock the wall over
  • guest_8320 : The giant toad ate them all
  • guest_3357 : Someone died
  • guest_8778 : After a mysterious interaction, there is one lone body left on stage
  • guest_9247 : They have a picnic
  • Sam : The baddie gets the girl, the hero dies
  • guest_5779 : Everyone sings a song
  • guest_5779 : Quickly
  • guest_9261 : Everyone backed
  • Disruptive Narratives : I am sorry to announce that for tonight’s show,  we don’t have an ending… Which of these creatures here can help us find an ending for this show? We are accepting anything… really… anything…. even a boring 'they lived happily ever after…' would do….
'Listen out for the sound. When you hear it,
playing in the room, click on the link below
The rest is on instagram... like us ? #viniciussalles Info Also In Watermelon Sugar Conception & Choreography

Vinicius Salles


Kris Davies,
Chante Seide,
Felicity Bray

Visial Artist

Mark Golby

Light design by

Matthew Carnazza

Fictional and non-fictional fragments by:

Vinicius Salles
Richard Brautigan
Monique Augrau

Some texts were collected by Vinicius Salles from people he worked with are found in the news. They are real stories by real people.

Translation by Vinicius Salles and Charlotte Price

Produced by Err(ə)nt

Design Milk Films Cafe