Physical history

It is Tuesday night at the Bell Arts Factory in Ventura, and capoeira student and instructor Michael Shuman is standing on his head. Against a backdrop of vivid murals celebrating Ventura County’s historical Tortilla Flats neighborhood and the thousands of Mexican, Asian and European residents displaced by the building of the 101 Freeway, 10 students stand in a roda, or circle, clapping and chanting in time to drums and tambourines. In the center, Shuman, still supporting his weight on his head, has leveraged both legs perpendicular to the floor to kick at his opponent. He fails to make contact. So Shuman rolls out of the headstand and into a tesoura, or scissor kick, propelling his body along the floor with both arms while his legs skim across the ground, finally trapping his opponent’s feet between his own. The other player trips, and Shuman calls the game. They stand up, shake hands and rejoin the circle.

Shuman and his students are practicing capoeira (pronounced cap-oh-ehr-uh), an Afro-Brazilian martial art that at first seems more akin to dance than self-defense. Originating in the blended tribal traditions of African slaves arriving in the port city of Salvador, Bahia, during the 17th century, capoeira merges African movement with Brazilian music and indigenous language. A “game” generally comprises two capoeiristas sparring inside a roda of singing onlookers, interspersing the lolling rhythm of ginga, the basic move, with feigned and genuine kicks and punches. What emerges is a loose, even playful, martial art that alternates slow-motion somersaults with the fantastic one-armed poses of break-dancing — by turns deceptively languorous and stunningly difficult.

The room is cold, so Shuman warms up the class by creating some heat. After popping in a CD of Brazilian music, he leads them in jumping jacks and a light run, jogging forward, backward and sideways before suddenly dropping to all fours with his hips in the air. The class follows his lead, looking something like a family of slow-moving primates as they struggle to accustom themselves to the strange movement. A moment later, Shuman has shifted direction again, this time moving backward over his arms, and the class again reacts. The unfamiliar routines appear to be only the beginning, the first step in grounding the students in bodies unaccustomed to assuming the various positions capoeira requires.

Virtually unknown in America 20 years ago, capoeira was outlawed by Brazilian authorities until the 20th century because of its supposed association with criminals and street people. For years it was performed on the waterfront among sailors and dock workers who compared the swinging motion of ginga to the rhythm of the waves.

Only through the efforts of Mestre Bimba, one of the great capoeira masters of the last century and founder of the branch known as Capoeira Regional, did the street sport transition from its underground status to become a respected part of Brazilian culture. Bimba founded a capoeira academy, codified the practice into a formal martial art with a system of belts, and legitimized it in the eyes of the aristocracy, eventually allowing it to become a national sport of Brazil. Mestre Pastinha, founder of the Capoeira Angola branch, later performed a similar function musically, adding the “ceremonial heritage” of Brazilian instruments to the capoeira tradition. Today, Shuman says, capoeira has preserved “all the things the society didn’t want to survive.”

Warm-up completed, the class practices cartwheels, followed by a sweeping hip-high kick called a meia lua, or “half moon.” As the students start stripping off layers, it is easy to see why some games go so slowly — capoeira is exhausting.

Shuman’s class is part of the larger Capoeira Batuque school based in Los Angeles, founded 25 years ago by Mestre Amen Santo. Santo, the fight choreographer for the 1993 film Only the Strong that introduced much of the world to capoeira, now oversees the school’s international branches. Shuman has been studying capoeira for five years and teaching for one. His teacher, Contra-Mestre Marcos Mariano Silva, runs the school in Santa Barbara. The yearly festival there now attracts participants from as far away as Mexico, Brazil, Africa and Japan, while the STAR after-school program in Oxnard provides capoeira classes to 90 kids per day.

The students move into staggered lines and practice falling to one side and crouching in a defensive posture, a maneuver known as esquiva, “to evade.” Nick Anderson, a senior at Buena High School in Ventura, moves more easily than many in the class — he is fairly flexible, with a kind of easy grace, possibly a dancer. Actually, he has only been doing capoeira five weeks, since meeting Shuman at a friend’s party. His previous background in karate and tae kw0n do have helped him adjust, he says, but then, capoeira is very different from other martial arts.

“It’s kind of a dance,” Anderson says. “It’s more free. Other styles are really rigid. Once you get the basics, you’re encouraged to interpret it. … You’re supposed to channel your own personality.” The creative implications of that philosophy excited Anderson. “I’m an artist and a writer and it kind of appealed to my artistic side, that freedom to express. It has all the different aspects: music, the language, the whole history behind it.”

Jose Zuniga, a student at Ventura College, arrives late, iPod earbuds still trailing from his pants pocket. A dynamo of enthusiasm, he salutes and high-fives Shuman, then starts vigorously running in place. Capoeira attracted him, he says, because “there’s discipline, but the discipline is to be free.” Zuniga started studying capoeira in January after watching his friends do it at track practice. “It just clicked with me, it felt part of me.” After joining them for a class, he realized, “I belong here.”

Though the free structure of capoeira often appeals to beginners, the playfulness can be deceptive. Ismael Alonso, who claims he was “kind of old” when he started studying capoeira at age 19 a couple years ago, learned the hard way that “if you don’t take care of yourself, someone can kick you in your face.” He broke his ankle during practice when his teacher kicked his leg out from under him.

Lorenzo Prieto, a student of Contra-Mestre Mariano for seven years, warns, “It is very lethal. It’s a martial art.” He is recovering from whiplash since getting knocked out during a class.

Still, Shuman insists no one has ever left his class injured — here, blows are mostly for effect, and not intended to make contact. The class breaks into pairs to practice the meia lua/esquiva combination. Katie Nelson, a senior at Foothill Technology High School in Ventura, practices dodging Anderson’s kicks and rolling aside, while 10-year-old Nancy Roque of Oxnard lunges at her father, Jose.

In the corner, Zuniga and Alonso have completed the drill and started fooling around, trading casual jabs. As they settle into a rhythm, their movements become tighter, sharper, more precise. They duck, pivot and pirouette, striking impossibly athletic poses. Suddenly, Alonso makes contact and Zuniga dances away, laughing and rubbing his thigh. Shuman calls time. The roda is about to begin.

The class gathers in a circle and Shuman sets the music. The sounds of a pandeiro (tambourine), atabaque (a type of conga drum) and berimbau (a stringed instrument resembling a bow with a gourd tied to one end) fill the room. The group begins clapping to a one-two-three, one-two-three beat as Zuniga and Roque move into the circle, clasping hands briefly to signal the beginning of the game. For a few moments they do the basic ginga, mirroring each others’ steps. Finally, Zuniga makes a teasing face, and Roque kicks at him with a stubborn glint in her eye, as if at an older brother. Everyone laughs. They shake hands and retreat to the circle, as Alonso and another student step forward.

Alonso’s opponent is lean and quick, with the jerky unpredictability of a basketball player. They quickly progress to advanced moves. Alonso twists into an incredible one-handed pose, balancing the full weight of his body in the air as his opponent circles him. Yet when Alonso accidentally strikes a blow, his hands extend in involuntary apology. The two jog in a circle for a minute so the opponent can recover before resuming. When they shake hands, both are panting.

Finally, Anderson and Zuniga enter the roda. Both are now drenched in sweat, fatigue making their moves less controlled than before but effective nonetheless. Anderson plants a kick in Zuniga’s ribs and Zuniga retaliates with a blow to Anderson’s shoulder. By the time Shuman calls the game, both look exhausted. They clap each other on the back, grinning.

Shuman winds down the class with a music lesson, giving everybody a chance to play the atabaque and the pandeiro. And though no one tonight is even remotely injured, Alonso says the injuries have a benefit — they teach you.

“If the other guy kicks you, that shows you that he’s a little bit better than you, so you have to keep training harder to get better. … Capoeira is a whole philosophy. One thing I never forget is you never fall. And if you fall, fall well. So it’s like life. If you’re going to fall down, you have to fall down really well [so you] don’t hurt yourself. And if you go down, you have to get up again.”

After almost 12 years of having to think on his feet while standing on his head, Prieto says capoeira has honed both his physical and mental energies. “I can do things with my body and my mind that 99 percent of the people out there can’t do, because I’ve tuned it. … [Capoeira] just gives us a whole different perspective to being alive.”

Ultimately, Shuman says, capoeira can educate and empower students while teaching them about a valuable part of Brazilian history.

“It’s about having grace,” he says. “It’s about having control of your body. It’s about empowerment … because it’s history through movement. The movements are the history.