Vaitimbora

Everything here seems shrouded in mist - sounds, images, the breath of the night. The forest lives its own life, where every rustle is a warning and every shadow could be an ancient spirit. There is magic and a slight fear in the air, the kind of fear children feel when they are scared but intrigued and cannot tear themselves away.

Brazilian myths emerge from the thicket to the rhythms of drums, birds converse with legends, and the name Boitatá sounds like a spell. The music seems to breathe on its own - with humid air, thick with life and whispers. Everything is a little wild, a little sacred, and definitely not urban. It's as if the night has decided to remember that it is older than man.