Creole Notes

Reading into the Tea Leaves

2010-01-28T14:47:00.000-08:00

The protocols of yumcha took a moment to decipher, and at one moment a woman probably Chinese American with her Caucasian husband walked over to clarify our confused looks. At the entrance to the dining room there had been a drop station for teapots and dishes in plain view, much like a fast food tray & trash disposal area. Adjacent to that was a semi circular counter where a woman constantly prepared pots of tea. Just to the left of the stairs was a food station where a woman stood arranging trays and carts with various plates and steamer baskets of dim sum, though the choices were limited to half a dozen options. I didn’t see it, but assumed that there was a dumb waiter in addition to the man who ferried a few assorted dishes and collected the spent remainders from the abandoned tables. Several people, servers and runners hustled through the space not talking much, while local customers chattered on, occasionally calling out requests in Cantonese. Behind us was a cashier counter with several abaci, stacks of coins and a butcher block off to the side with a man, the owner/butcher, dismembering chickens between making change. He carefully washed his hands between each activity.

One of the curious oddities of this excursion was the twist on how we were perceived by locals. Unlike most places we had previously been to, this moment in O Mercado Vermelho reeked of inside the identity of Macau, not peering into the fishbowl observations and skewed performed pseudo-realities. Unlike Union Square, this was a mom’s shoppers market. Yes, I did see 2 groups of the ubiquitous Japanese youthful tourists, (who pens their guide books, they are insanely local and micro-focused); but otherwise everyone was getting food for dinner, and possibly a few things for the weeks larder. At this point it was second nature that I, we would receive a thumbs up for my dreads, customarily from post teens and wannabe hipsters. Here, it was the women fishmongers, the dried foods vendors and random laborers who were quick to clammer forward, announce their praise and initiate a collegial hug claiming fame by virtue of a shared digital snapshot; most often with my camera & not their own. A few sported perms thus claiming membership in the crazy for curls club that I must chair in their eyes. More importantly, when we engaged these people, mostly women in our truly broke Cantonese, clipped simple English and/or finally deadending Portuguese, we were proclaimed as Portuguese. I thought long about this after the third incident, and ceased using any Portuguese phrases in an attempt to see if that elicited a different judgement call. But, no; we were confirmed in our nation-status as Portuguese by all. I found this odd, since the people I had spoken to in restaurants and on the street who identified as Portuguese were clearly white, dark straight haired, blue or brown of eye and in no way tawny or colored of skin. Fascinating that difference, skin color, hair texture, dress code provoked this association. I considered looking for things like Bacalhau to see if possibly, the point was that the Portuguese also came here to find their favorite local and imported foods. That would befit the Macanese who were culture crossers, blurring the cultural and language divide in sound an flavor; but the Portuguese were pretty true to form, wanting heritage foods and wines. I never solved this enigmatic riddle, but enjoyed basking in the delight that we brought to the merchants as we watched shoppers select the most vibrant, wiggling fish, carefully observing their favorite butcher cut carefully leaving just enough meat onto the head for soup and leaving the liver and air bladder or maw attached fully inflated like a balloon, with a substantial piece of tail, bone in left for home filleting. Both ends still jumped and wriggled as they were gingerly placed in the plastic bags, then into the baskets and woven carry bags. Apparently, only the non local species were fully filleted, since they came rigor mortis. Similarly, the meat butchers, displayed oxygen rich livers and organs up front, dripping with glistening crimson blood to identify freshness and recent kills. It appeared that not one aspect of any product was wasted. Waiting for a sales, each vendor had a side project, cleaning fish, sorting beans, grading or sizing like products in anticipation of business and as a time suck. Nowhere we walked on the selling floors was there an odor, other than freshness, though a cloud of bleach perfumed the bathrooms, I guess that was an appropriate means of deterring cross contamination and maintaining hygiene standards.

Mercado Vermelho/Red Market

2010-01-21T03:17:00.000-08:00

Arriving at the remnants of the Cathedral after walking the old quarter was a good punctuation to the morning, a Kodak moment and our first exchange with a Portuguese speaking Macanese. He looked the part of the Euro-Asian, freely borrowing lovely bits from several cultures DNA; South Asian warm skin tones, fine features nearly an aquiline nose, a long drawn face, yet hair and eyes distinctly Cantonese. He recommended one of the parks mentioned in books as a Tai Chi practice and observation spot. We never made it there, just kept walking down hill towards the port and the temple. After our commune with the various gods, A-ma holds court to Buddhist, Confucianism and Daoist shrines while also being the prayer point or patron saint to fishermen, seafarers, gamblers and pawn shops. After lunch I smartly chose the wrong bus, ended up crosstown who knows where, slowly wended our way back home to crash before dinner.
After the aforementioned low profile New Years we took another bus-hike to the northeastern extreme of the city to check out Mercado Vermelho or the Red Market. The market itself is a four story brick building housing the major “wet market”, or wholesale produce, poultry, meat and fish purveyors. Additionally there was a small section of “ dry market”, think preserved, canned or jarred foods. Surrounding the building for maybe a 8 block radius was their variation of Orchard Street. Narrow alley streets had numerous stalls selling most anything, hardware, stockings, clothing, batteries, etc that you could need or wanted to haggle for. I, was overwhelmed by the volume so I didn’t shop but shot images. Michele found a baby outfit for a yet to be born future second niece. In between stalls we found a lovely old Yumcha, or drink tea boite; classic in styling and menu with tasty mostly pork or beef based dim sum for very little MOP or patacas, the money of Macau.

the beach at Colonane, policemen's holiday greetings and a favorite soup noodle toast joint

2010-01-21T03:11:00.000-08:00

New Year's, not really Ying Yeung; yum.

2010-01-21T03:01:00.000-08:00

New Years was almost a non event this time. I guess it could have gotten much more mileage had we walked into a casino. Not happening. We did venture in along the periphery, yet when money changers had guards on the sidewalk and metal detector screening devices were de rigueur for the low end mass quantity consumption of slots and simple card games, the glitz tarnished in my mind’s eye. After a good dinner among many local family celebrations and a pleasant walk home, I was crashed and needed a nudge to see the year change, for the second time that day. I had called and emailed various homeys at around lunchtime when midnight hit America. At that point the focus of my day and real celebration was walking the streets of Macau
The A-Ma temple, the street markets and deciphering the local definitions of Portuguese, Macanese while nibbling bits of the various Cantonese establishments, Dai Pai Dongs, noodle soup houses, cross cultural Leiteria’s, etc. In addition to the introduction of peanuts, bacalhau and Catholicism the Portuguese also brought dairy products with them back in the 16th century. Some things stuck. I read a historic tract that described elite Macanese families as having a young servant girl to beat eggs all day. During my interview at Riquexó, aka Rickshaw in English with 70 plus Teresina and her 94 year old mom who still comes in to supervise the cooking; this fact was not supported. Or at least not in mom’s memory of her youth. Needless to say the Portuguese love desserts, creamy and custardy among the lot. One of the reasons to stop into these mixed bag Milk or Dairy diners is for the double cooked milk custard. Either white as freshly fallen snow or loaded with yolks and brilliant yellow, these delicate custards make panna cotta seem rubberish. A few spots will add additional flavorings, ginger, coconut or coffee were a few we sucked down. Toast as a concept living between the most basic iteration of the Maillard reaction applied to crustless soft white bread to French Toast sans syrup, and embellishments such as griddled spam, fried eggs, breakfast meats, etc all perched on top of the warm, caramelized manna squeeze in next to macaroni or rice noodles with simmered meats, fish balls and simple sandwiches. Ying Yeung (prounced Ying Yurng) a new favorite beverage, think strong English Breakfast Tea, a pinch of sugar, Evaporated (or Condensed if you prefer) milk and Coffee all in a glass, hot and balanced to reveal each component and meld to a great hybrid hot jolt, washes down the cheap eats. The dining areas are stainless and tile, designed like a subway car not to hang out in. Suits, bohemians, working class and tourists drop in, eat and split like our old pre fab diner devotees. A good sidetrack or pitstop snackspot on the road to find my cuisine.

pasteis de nata, walking the streets, smelling the creole magic

2010-01-18T07:43:00.000-08:00

And on the fourth morning we split town.

2010-01-18T07:09:00.000-08:00

We had scheduled an early flight out of Beijing to maximize time in Macau. Little did I know that I could or would need several visits to understand that small, quixotic city of dreams, casinos, slums, Portuguese colonial heritage, Macanese cuisine and Patúa language. The first good news was the weather, though overcast the temperature jumped from -10°C to about 16°. The traveling was initially stressful and ultimately circuitous. We arranged a cab with the help of one of the assistant concierges, leaving according to their suggestion. At the airport we were passed between three different attendants each one drawing long faces as they viewed our itinerary, hurriedly talking with their colleagues in hush tones, but not with us. Ultimately, they informed us that in their minds we were late arrivals and sent us to one then a third kiosk for boarding passes. I didn’t understand why the first set of folks couldn’t have printed out the paperwork and send us more quickly on our way, I had forgotten that in reality we were leaving the country and had to go through customs. We were able to board without much difficulty, fly into Hong Kong and transfer through to a hydrofoil for Macau, passing through several manned temperature control checkpoints that attempt to contain contagious diseases with plastic pistol like thermometers that instantaneously measure your temp, before passing customs at the ferry terminal before locating our hotel shuttle van.
This hotel was a dowager with fresh makeup in what appeared to be an older urban district reminiscent of old Times Square Hotels like the Edison. The managers seemed South Asian, though the clerks were clearly Chinese. Half of the elevators were glass rising up towards the sunroof, above the lobby garden and terraced floors. This room was not as smart and modern as the one in the Crown in Beijing. Still functional though its one modern pizzazz was a large control box, or super sized remote control for lighting, media and temperature. Stumbling into the bathroom late at night without the aid of this device was not easy.
We set out to change money and get lunch after quickly unpacking. Using our new concierge as a guide we found a Macanese restaurant, that was better for people watching, than dining. The garlic shrimp were decent, though the bolinhos de bacalhau, or cod fritters were not nearly as rich as a bunch of Chinese fellas that could be Triad wannabees or rejects among the gambling families and travelers. I found the seafood rice, somewhere between fried rice and paella to be competent and satisfying though not memorable. I hoped that this was not an indication of tastes to come. At least every corner had great old overblown neon that was lit day and night.
My research project is grounded in Macau and its distinct culture. As the first point of contact between Europeans and Chinese in the 16th century, parts of the city were designated World Heritage sites. Now home to an ever expanding casino empire, monopolized by Stanley Ho for 40 years and now home to the largest global casino enterprises this city is poised o make Vegas look like a pinball game arcade, cloning the western excess ontop of Chinese glitz and uber-bling. The visually orgasmic result is as abhorrent as it is seductive attracting a largely middle and working class Asian edgy gambler. That mixed with a spate of Japanese Christian tour groups centering their visits on iconic Christian shrines and reliquaries that are symbolic and reverential of prior persecutions for Catholic Japanese that had included crucifixtions and torture. The Westerner’s have been late to the party, with Atelier Joel Robuchon leading the charge, setting up shop in Macau for his ultra French open kitchen concept in Macau before opening in Manhattan. Money talks.

After lunch and comparative exchange rates we walked over to the Leal Senado or Legal Senate and center of the old Portuguese district. All through this area were large bandstands set up for performance and decorated with oversized Technicolor plastic and vinyl Santas, elves and reindeer. We walked through the old quarter, happening upon an old urban mansion, a myriad of food shops with sidewalk salespeople passing out samples of cured meat pastes, fish maws, (air bladders), medicinal and tea shops, video, book and clothing stores almost all with signs in 3 languages; English, Cantonese and Portuguese. Yet, most everyone spoke only Cantonese except for bye bye and hello.
Finally, after exploring the ruins of the cathedral, restored and excavated we found an older 50ish tour guide who purported to speak 7 languages, one being the Portuguese of his youth. That day wound down by getting lost on the bus system, ending up at the A-Ma temple and eating wonderful Macanese food at Littoral, before crashing for a bit and coming out later for another lovely Macanese early dinner at Alorcha.

duck, duck no goose later on.

2010-01-18T06:49:00.000-08:00

Peking Duck

2010-01-18T06:18:00.000-08:00

Duck, Furs and Vitality

2010-01-17T23:27:00.000-08:00

I had previously mentioned this quirky tricked out mall of high and low consumer goods. Once we found it after several inquiries with help from passersby and hotel doormen, we located a way in and finally found the elevator off of the main artery of luxury boutiques. The way in and through was characteristic of almost every walk in every city; most so in Hong Kong. Aerial footbridges, subterranean walkways or tunnels, extended escalators, alternate points of egress and timed street crossings were the norm in these dense, tall city plans. Often once you knew where you were going, you had to look ahead to see how to get there, would an escalator a aerial bridge, two turns in the subwalkway to cross under a busy boulevard mindful of observing which designated exit opened up on your destination was as important as having an address. This mildly confusing moment was just a harbinger to routine.
The elevator opened up at the 5th floor onto a long carpeted mallway which led into a brightly lit white tile foyer with 3-4 women loudly greeting every guest from behind a low black lacquered podium. Liu Ye had said reservations weren’t necessary, though just as in NY there was that clutch moment where their shrewd eyes and pursed lips engaged mine implying, “No reservation. Huhmmm, doubtful let me see what I can do…,”though fairly quickly we were led to a side dining room that looked onto the duck chefs away from the large open main dining room with panoramic city views, and power banquettes.
I was enraptured being adjacent to an open kitchen, it was all good. The duck chef area was an octagonal raised gazebo with a decorative roof that hid the HVAC venting system. At three of the corners there were wood fired tiled ovens with a sortof white stucco exterior and thick iron doors. In the center a table with a variety of knives, sharpening stones, cutting boards and implements. Long hook poles and fire place tools stood in a tall canister off to one side. On the fourth corner stood low racks with leathery skinned dried ducks waiting for the fire. Approximately ten men were huddled around the center table apparently discussing tonight’s game plan. One of them seemed to be the head chef of the area. Once the games began they all donned the blue surgical masks that were commonly scene on the streets and buses. I learned that many restaurant workers across the country used these masks particularly when coming quite close to food or during service periods.
We ordered two vitality soups each geared to our respective genders, a stir-fry braise of fresh bamboo shoots and mushrooms, Peking duck, bottled water and Oolong tea. Before the food arrived, I was asked whether I wanted to choose our duck, which was easy money for me. I went up to the duck area and was introduced to one of the chefs. He opened his oven, revealing 30+ roasting ducks hanging in long rows at different states of doneness. I asked through my waitress what criteria they used for selection. Size and color were the key, light brown almost chestnut seemed to be optimum. We looked at a few before I selected ours from the front row. He used his hooked pole to pull it out, quickly closed the door and set it on his cutting board. I watched as he buffed the skin, I guessed to remove any fine hairs or ash. I returned to my seat to wait for our food.
The soups came in small covered porcelain dishes which can also double as teapots. Each soup was a mixture of various meats, herbs and odd bits. I remember that mine had deer heart, chicken, what looked like Goji berries and gingko. Michele’s also had chicken, but I think either offal or pork as well in addition to flower petals and herbs. The broths were clear but full flavorful, mine a bit oily on the lips though no slick of fat sat on its surface. I enjoyed mine, finishing it quickly. Michele, not so much. The bamboo was served cascading out of a piece of bamboo on an oversize rectangular white plate. It was simple, satisfying and redolent of ginger. In between bites the waitress rolled up a gueridon with a few plates, long fine chopsticks, a small bamboo steamer basket, and a covered round dish. Our chef appeared now masked carrying our duck on an aluminum baking tray. He set it on the gueridon’s cutting board and began to slice the skin off of the breasts. After he skinned the bird, he split it in half lengthwise and began slicing into the meat.
The waitress made all of our first tastes to initiate us. The first tastes were to be of just skin and coarse slightly brown raw sugar. This indicated the technical skill of hanging, marinating, drying, and flash poaching, blowing up the birds with straws to separate skin from flesh before roasting. The roasted skin had layers, not as numerous as millefeuille yet delicate levels of unctuousness and crispy; a serenade to fat’s glories. The sprinkled sugar iced it off. Next we were instructed on the other condiments in the small individual trays in front of us. Plum sauce, fine shreds of scallion and ginger, and a mild mustardy puree. The lid was pulled from the covered dish and the steamer, revealing the crepe-thin white pancakes and small, round, thin skinned sesame rolls hollowed and puffed like Indian Poori.
We were to choose either one and create either a little pancake package or open-faced affair inside the rolls of duck and condiments as the chef carved the breast meat for us. Ideally, we should save at least half of a sesame crisp for the roasted brain which would be served last. The pancakes were assembled and deftly rolled with our black lacquered chopsticks, never allowing our hands to dirty themselves if we were adept. This theory of eating was a key point in many meals. Our hands were free to pick up dry things like bao, or steamed buns; but little morsels of chicken, ribs or fish on the bone were all meant for chopstick manipulation, shifting the meat near the mouth and cradling the bone with our tools, until it could be discarded on our small plates. It was not always easy, but it paced your eating and possibly contained a portion of our gluttonous spirits.
After we had inhaled all of our duck, I more quickly than Michele, the chef placed the small brain halves on a tiny plate and disappeared with the carcass. Negotiating the meat’s richness was an agreement she needed to make with her belly. We observed our neighbors, many Chinese middle to upper middleclass often with signature designer clothes and furs to European travelers and businessfolk. Furs were big here; usually short coats mink and sable seemed to be the norm for both men and women. Much like the Russians it seemed normal for the culture and the cold, defining class but also history of hunting and trapping. Our conversation continued, reflecting on our day and the tomorrow plans as the chef suddenly reappeared with two small covered dishes on a silvered platter. Placed in front of each of us and simultaneously removed a milky broth was inside, steamy and heady of duck. To complete our service the carcass was put in a press to extract all of the juices. This oily broth was the finish. I gratefully drank mine, but by now, Michele’s insides were rebelling from the greasiness. She had a bout of queasy and nothing further back at the hotel, settling now for the platter of sliced melons and dragonfruit instead of the soup. We walked home and fell out, full and exhausted.

a few final forbidden shots & Tianamen

2010-01-17T23:20:00.001-08:00

a lil more Forbidden City....

2010-01-17T23:12:00.000-08:00

walking in the hutong

2010-01-17T20:20:00.000-08:00

tea and sweet potatoes

2010-01-17T20:10:00.000-08:00

Yumcha, [drink tea, actually snack and drink] or Teatime & a brief Temple view

2010-01-17T20:05:00.000-08:00

Making it down the mountain was much easier than climbing up since I was able to easily find the actual trail. The village seemed still and quiet as I walked its dirt lanes. I poked my head into the compound where we had used the family’s outhouse. Now up and preparing the food in the yard, I encountered the wife who had been sleeping. In gesture and my spastically with my limited vocab I got her attention such that she ran to get her husband, I think more out of concern than comprehension. Glad to see me again, I was able to convey my thanks at his graciousness before I walked on downhill to the car. Zhao was leaning on the hood, smoking and tapping his foot when I walked up; Michele was sitting in the car with the door ajar. He smiled broadly at me, crushed his cig under his other foot and we were off.
He made a few calls as we left the village, obviously now able to plan his next move upon our return to the city. Our level of trust and communication had dramatically increased between us. I was able to convey that we didn’t want to return to the hotel. I gave him the option of 798 the art district or the Lama Temple, the largest Tibetan shrine in town and one of the spots identified by Alan, Dalia’s friend back in NY. He chose the latter based upon the geography. In reality, 798 would have been more practical once we began to hit rush hour. Michele dozed, while Mr. Eveready, aka me, fixated on the buildings and vistas from the shotgun seat. Arriving at our next destination and a parting of the ways, Zhao shook both of our hands and then briefly embraced me, looking into my eyes as we both stumbled out thank yous and I realized the level of trust we had developed with each other.

Air pollution and dusk had begun to cloak the Lama Temple in another layer of mystery. Unfortunately, with the traffic we arrived moments before its closing hour. This was the only opportunity to experience it on this 3 day moment in Beijing. We walked around t compound and got a sense of the physical beauty of this shrine to the Tibetans, now excommunicated from the Chinese cosmology. The vibrant colors though weathered stood out in the half light with an ethereal glow. Stoic stone sentinels describing lions and dragons were as effective as the numerous military guards shepherding visitors towards the gate as they joked about their evening plans.
Back onto the street after just a tease of a visit, we crossed the boulevard to enter the hǔtong, vestigial alleyway communities, set on a oppositional axis as the street grid for better Feung Shui; a remnant of the TARTARS (?) existence/destruction of Beijing centuries earlier. The hǔtongs are an essential feature of Beijing’s architecture just as their cousins, lítongs characterize Shanghai’s. The dense single story rabbit warren network of homes, single item shops, teahouses, intermittent communal bathrooms, and home clusters reminded me of the Anastazi dwellings in New Mexico. Similar to those ancient Indigenous housing developments, these homes appeared to force residents to walk through each others’ rooms to arrive at their own. Being visual guests not invited ones; this conjecture cannot be confirmed without an architectural history guide. I saw a sign and asked Michele if she would like tea at the teahouse indicated in the crude sign. We entered deeper into the angular maze, volunteer Skinner subjects looking for our reward. Arriving at the brick framed doorway we knocked on the steel door. A young woman, possibly 16, slightly shy possibly due to my hair or our foreignness beckoned us in. My dreadlocks created instant admiration, wonder and eternal giggles with palms fighting to silence the betrayals of loose mouths. Pulling out my blue school notebook, I began to string together my limited vocabulary into a marginally coherent sentence. Crossing the threshold, I realized that this home must have been built for a higher class family. The doorway opened onto a central compound with many rooms and doorways opening up onto this yard. Some of the rooms had windows to view the activity in the yard. Even in this cold a clothesline was strung off to our right and a few garments hung in the dim light of dusk. Our hostess pointed to our left, and another open doorway. Through the windowless framed openings, I saw a woman sitting reading, no watching TV; probably the mother, and another young girl sitting quietly in the central room. There were three adjoining rooms. We were led into the farthest one, past an antique chiffrobe that was later described as Ming dynasty. Two love seat sized wooden sofas sat at angles to each other with one chair near the entryway. Pillows covered in a variety of traditional woven textiles, a few antiques and various draperies, a low wooden table, hangings and art objects decorated this salon. She indicated for us to take a seat, while she made ready for tea. She gathered the implements as we took turns in the bathroom, those indoor outhouses, with a ridged white porcelain square spot to squat and do your business, fully plumbed and thus not as primitive as the outdoor variety.
We were told her name, and that of her sister, but as with many exchanges in China, if I didn’t write down the names, and attempt a phonetic spelling all the data was forgotten. Our teen hostess had placed a carved wooden raised rectangular platter on the low table that sat between the love seats. On the platter she set a large ceramic tray with one inch high sides, a highball glass with an herb tea that Michele had requested after reading the menu. For my choice she brought out a Yi Ching pot, the regional ceramics from Southwestern China whose traditions and artistry dated to 500A.D. with myths and monks to add drama. A large bowl, a few cocktail sized napkins, two of the dollhouse like cups, a wooden cylindrical stand filled with half a dozen wooden implements and a crude funnel , all in the same wood as their container; a small tin of the Taiwanese Oolong I had requested and a small, clear glass pitcher. Her sister came in with an oversized kettle steaming straight off the brazier, whose fire smelled of coal.
First she poured boiling water into the bowl and placed her pitcher and our tea cups and saucers into the bowl, showing us how to gently spin them around on all sides, pseudo sterilizing them before placing them in front of us. Next she did the same with the teapot. Pulling out a 5 inch shovel-like tool from the wooden container, she dug into one of the two tea canisters to gather the leaves. The first batch went into Michele’s highball glass, and the second into the teapot. She filled the waiting pot, and then quickly poured water in it to fill it, immediately pouring the tea water into the bowl. This was the washing of the tea, blooming the leaves slightly and I assume pulling out any dust or unwanted sediment. She filled the pot again, replaced the lid and then poured boiling water overtop of the pot to heat it equally inside and out. She explained in simple sentences that this insured an even brew. Waiting just a moment for the steep before placing the wooden funnel over the glass canister she produced a metal screen filter that I hadn’t noticed and setting on top of the funnel. She poured the tea into the pitcher and took another wooden tool out to stir it gently, homogenizing or blending the yellow amber liqueur in the pitcher. She quickly removed her tools and poured the contents of the pitcher into our cups. There would be enough for a second cup. We were instructed to smell the aromas and drink tea. Her sister entered with a small tray of snacks, coconut teacakes, our first of many iterations of coconut confections, savory dumplings one set filled with sweet bean paste and the other with finely chopped vegetables. Giddily we ate and drank our yumcha. Michele alternated between her glassful of tea, and the tiny cups. The herb studded black tea had become slightly bitter, and after a few moments, she pushed it aside. This process was repeated five times. We were told that generally six was the maximum amount of brews from one pot. Looking into the pot before the second replenishment, we noticed that the unfurled leaves tightly filled the pot, insuring that the hot water bath would produce a quick full bodied brew. Each potful had slightly different taste profiles. She indicated that with this tea she best liked the third steep. I was torn between the first and second versions. I noticed that the liquor color changed with each successive brew,. She was careful to observe the color before the final pour into the pitcher. The steeps became longer in the later brews. The aromas and taste profiles morphed on the tongue, throat and gums, yielding sweetness and tannins in different places from each pitcher or potful. The girls’ mother had stopped her TV and what looked like accounting briefly to see that we were content. I chose that moment to stand and look around the compound. Michele said she had done the same as she had exited the bathroom, while standing at the sink and washing her hands in cool water. Unheated water flowed from the taps of our few home based experiences in Beijing.
Once we were done, we looked more closely at the furnishings, settled our bill, trying to accurately estimate the exchange rate and need to add a tip or not. The second sister I realized now was older, and that she was probably quite adept at managing this family cottage business. So, our hostess her kid-sister was being evaluated for her capabilities as a practitioner and hostess of tea. The two girls showed us pots and tea that they had for sale as well as describing a few of the antiques in simple phrases. The opportunity to practice their English with native speakers by their admission appeared to be a necessary and slightly uncommon event. We made our way out to the main lane, stopping for directions and ending up buying a/2 caddie or probably 4-6 oz of tea at a small dimly lit teashop before happening on a small museum-like antique store of sculpture, scrolls and carvings. Not wanting to dwell in one place we exited onto the side street that had been our way into the hǔtong from the exterior neighborhood. A young man, I guessed in his late teens manned a pushcart that looked like a tin or corroded steel file with cylindrical drawers. Pulling one open, I saw the fire that he used to roast the bright yellow or eggplant colored sweet potatoes that he sold by weight. I bought one for 7 yuan, about $1 dollar, and easily a pound in weight. He offered to put it back in its drawer to make it piping hot for me. Holding the tough skin helped my hands fight the chill I had forgotten existed during our teatime. I was in. Sweet potatoes and yams are a ‘go to’ mainstay snack for me. My memory fell right into Ralph Ellison’s Harlem sweet potato vendor story captured in Invisible Man and the recent excerpt I had read from Damian’s dissertation of a Mrs. ______, who had moved up north in the early Harlem Renaissance amassing a fortune off selling hot baked yams also in Harlem. Would this man realize some measure of success with his craft, or just eke by? As I walked and ate, I hoped that his entrepreneurship would be fruitful. For the next hour we walked in and out of several small shops which straddled the perimeter of the hǔtong and the main thoroughfare. These one room businesses sold simple foodstuffs, knickknacks, jade, incense, carved Buddahs, antiques, jewelry and New Year’s accoutrements; fireworks, red envelopes, posters and paper dragons. Each peddling a single item.
Trying to shoot a few shots in the half life, we were now quite exhausted and I descended onto the shoulder of the roadway, looking to signal a taxi in the bumper to bumper traffic making its way home, out or somewhere. Luckily, I had learned to always leave the hotel with a note in character detailing our destination. It took time to find a ride, but we made it home to rest before considering dinner. Life is good. I realized that the idea of going to the Peking Opera was a pipedream, and in fact Michele got home and crashed while I wrote, sauna-ed and ended up eating upscale Hainanese Chicken in the hotel restaurant. I learned that the night crew, menu options and service standards were much more limited than at breakfast.

Mah Jhong outside of the Lama Temple

2010-01-17T19:55:00.000-08:00

back in Beijing

2010-01-17T19:29:00.000-08:00

i just can't leave the countryside, at least in my mind

2010-01-17T19:00:00.000-08:00

leaving the village, with a goodbye from our helpful acquaintance., (the man who shared his outhouse)

2010-01-17T13:03:00.000-08:00

Streets of the City: What to say about the Forbidden, that Kodak hasn’t already…

2010-01-17T12:57:00.000-08:00

The following morning we took on the Forbidden City, hoping to see it within two hours and move on to 798, possibly the Summer Palace and who knows what. I did make reservations for a Peking duck dinner with Leo, Liu Ye and had inquired about Buddhist vegetarian restaurants for the following evening, our last. After much discussion I had convinced Leo that we could manage the subway. The New Yorker in me, needed to experience their mass transit system and Michele was of like mind. For some reason, he was reticent to send us down into that realm, preaching about confusion, getting lost, etc. I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, but it looked easy enough on the map even without good language skills.
We ate a little earlier this time and then took a cab to Tiananmen Square arriving on site at 8:20AM, to make good time. The Forbidden City is an awesome and foreboding monument, surrounded by high walls a moat like waterway and various gardens. Hawkers and stalls were plentiful as we made our way towards a side entrance. We elected not to purchase an audio guide, thinking that we could buy a good text later to fill in the unknown historical aspects. The city was a rite of passage for native Chinese, Chinese Americans on pilgrimage and every tourist to Beijing. As such I guess it mimics the Statue of Liberty or the Grand Canyon. Pleasantly the admission fees were quite low to make it accessible for everyone, I assume particularly locals. Though I had viewed pictures, had a sketch of the historical context and had seen films like ‘The Last Emperor’ the enormity and scale of this palatial city was nearly impossible to process. As a testament to imperial rule and class division the few equals it has I guess would be Versailles, the Pyramids, Chichen Itza, Machu Pichu, Timbuktu or the Taj Mahal; none of which I have seen. If you had the stamina you could spend a day or three there, focusing on different aspects of the grandeur, engineering, artifacts, design, landscaping, craftsmanship and use/abuse of power. Were we shooting film, Agfa, Kodak or would have made book. A variety of lenses would have proved helpful to try and capture the perspective and scope of the environment. I can barely begin to describe the scene and prefer to add a section of images to hint at the nature of this venue. Almost as engaging was the network of real, charlatan and in-between tour guides, promising city and Great Wall tours et alia for a very good price. Waves of tour bus groups from different cultures and various religions descended into the city with us, adding a stew of a dozen languages to the misty morning air; and anchoring the significance of this monument. Periodically we would have a brief exchange, be asked to have our pictures taken with strangers, again due to my hair. We had seen few black people so far, I had noticed one large family who appeared African, and a few random people in the street. Somehow random Chinese Art and Cultural educators were allowed to secure a few salons in the palace, tucked into the maze of rooms to exhibit student artwork, ostensibly for personal enjoyment; though actually a thinly veiled commercial enterprise.
By 12:30 I knew that the trajectory of our day was a crapshoot. We had stopped for tea in what had been a Starbucks and had fairly recently reverted to a more traditional quick service Chinese style tea café with snacks. Quickly moving through the scholars gardens we made our way to towards the southern exit before turning around to walk hurriedly back to the main entrance across from Tiananmen Square. Walking back through the outdoor/indoor palace city we realized that whole grids of other buildings and official galleries of artifacts had been skipped. Incentive for future explorations on our next trip.
The six or eight lane boulevard that separated the Forbidden City from the Square and its massive modern monuments Mao had built ‘to the people’ were most easily accessed via an underground walkway that also led into the subway system. We quickly learned that all who desired to enter the Square were required to go through metal detection devices, police profiling, and several sets of surveillance cameras. Walking up into the sunlight and open plan of the square felt like an achievement after that close observation. Looking back at the palace the massive painting of Mao, held credibility while standing in the square, though the juxtaposition of his image at the entry to the palace seemed out of context. The square and its surrounding buildings were his imperial city, now feeling wooden and hollow as Communism has evolved from his era. We noticed that every pole and lamppost had huge floodlights reminiscent of prison break film settings and a minimum of 12 video cameras mounted to capture the activity in each direction. Hawkers saw us a honey or a tidbit to ingest as they swarmed around us offering more historical tours, trinkets, translations and guides to the authentic Beijing. Viewed as bait for consumption or co-opting, just being with ourselves was quite hard to manage, particularly once we began shooting pictures. Though I desired a walk around and into Mao’s legacy of official buildings which visually defined his period I saw that getting out and entering the subway was the best medicine.
We immediately learned that the system seemed like a metaphor of the new China, massive underground spaces, brightly lit, quite clean and orderly. After exiting the first escalator we encountered various electronic fare card machines and manned info/sales booths much like our capital’s transit system. Everything wa visually charged with a saturation of commercial advertisements on every wall, inside the Lucite straps for hands to hold while riding, and on the tunnel walls to provide crude flip book of goods, foods and services available I assumed in the next district. Uniformed attendants were quite conspicuous and though their English was halting, they could offer guidance. Toilets were manned as well, with TP available on a roll by the sink to preclude waste I assumed. The cars themselves proved to not be as modern as those we would encounter in Hong Kong, but were quite modern and efficient with a double door system for containment and security. Schematic maps of the system were displayed everywhere with clear directional information to clarify where you were headed. Inside each car electronic versions of the maps lit up with arrows and color coding to identify the successive stops and which side doors would open in addition to the mechanized conductors’ Chinese language itinerary. Bloomberg and NY could take a page from this system; though it seemed evident that lower wage rates allowed all of these details to have a home here.
Our plan had been to go to 798 and then the Summer Palace based upon Leo’s instructions. The trip would take us to two opposite extremes of the edges of the city, with some switching between trains lines included. Now we were off our budgeted time scheme so we reversed the order thinking that we truly could see this second palace briefly and end up in 798 with more options for a late lunch. It was a short walk from the train to the palace, and this district was less dense and more residential. By the time we arrived at the gate it was around 2:30 and we were advised in pidgin English to purchase a ‘postcard view’, whose significance or parameters we didn’t understand. This home was smaller in its architectural presence, set into a hill that offered panoramic city views. Again there was a moat or waterway surrounding the building. Though this one had shallow gondola style boats in it, which were locked to the frozen ice crusted shore. Along its banks were numerous brightly colored pavilions, with banners and displays currently home to cafes and tchotcke stores, but which appeared to offer displays, snacks, puppetry and diversion to the various royals being ferried along the water. Footbridges were set above the water to lead guests to the palace. This palace was newer, seemed influenced by Tibetan architecture and color schemes, and rose up from a central square just over the bridge which had two massive stairways three stories tall. The building rose out of the rock as though it had arrived out of the land with an earthquake. There was a major temple to the Buddha with oversize deities in it at the top of the stair. As much as the Forbidden City was a testament to engineering, the Summer Palace was anchored in nature. Steps were carved out of the rock and seemed to just happen or appear. Pines and bushes jutted out from all sides, between the network of high stairs, rooms and temples with small garden tracts punctuating the landscape. Finally reaching the top of the hill and the end of the palace, you could look what seemed southeast for a great panoramic view or turn round to walk in a dense park whose northern parameter was defined by the river that the moat had dumped into. Suddenly, I understood, ‘the postcard view.’ You could walk the park, but below probably accessible by boat were a few islands all with structures, gazebos and or temples on them. If we had arrived earlier, that would have been an option.
Quickly exhausted by all of this history, we did make short work of this palace and tried to locate one of the numerous restaurants that Leo said we would find there. Other than a few pushcarts of the ubiquitous candied chestnuts on a stick and a souvenir map cart we found nothing. I spied a cafeteria, now closed and we realized that we had to move forward or go back for our late lunch. Retracing our path to the last train change we got off at the site of another hǔtong, assuming it to offer greater selection. We did have several choices, and decided on a large one room restaurant with high ceilings and a roomful of women who seemed working class and possibly many of whom could have been employed by the same business, factory or mall-store. The waitress owner a polite, attractive woman in her late fifties spoke no English presented a menu for tourists with photos and Chinese character. We pointed and picked a few items, and didn’t realize until we started eating that we had found a wonderful little Sichuan spot. The spicy shrimp were divine. For the first time I understood the concept of ‘Ma’, that is the cornerstone of Sichuan cuisine. I had often read that the cooking has Ma Hla, or numbing heat from the combination of Sichuan peppercorns and chilies; while its sister province Hunan, is characterized by just the Hla or spiciness. The glow on my lips and tongue tip was electric and endorphin, staying with me for nearly thirty minutes.
This feeling of numbness, satiation and serendipity conjured memories. From the village of my surrogate parents, and early food and culture mentors, I imagined eating here with Perry Sloane. He was one of my Dad’s oldest and best friends; now an ancestor. His daughter, is a soul-mate and sister. I felt that Perry would have voraciously and hedonistically taken in this food and the Sichuanese Maitresse’d, owner. Quite possibly he would have snapped her portrait and flirted just a bit, while Neddie his wife, keen eyed quietly observed smiling.
Shopping sorta
Getting out of the district was another story. Tired, too whipped to try and move across town onto 798, we elected to briefly explore this hǔtong and surrounding neighborhood before heading home to get ready for our duck dinner. This time, we skirted the alley enclave observing the numerous food shops and small restaurants. I needed a sense of relative economic value for local consumer goods and suggested we look into the mall across the avenue. America should be proud, or maybe it’s the other way round…anyway malls more dense and intricate leading in and out of mass transit, underground walkways, in transit terminals and landfills were ubiquitous everywhere we went in China. This happened to be our first. In retrospect, one of the most tame. The stores were varied, generally working class goods, though the first four floors of eight were dedicated to bridal wear. In the streets, and in advertising I had seen a mix of no name brands, clones & knockoffs, premier western brands, (now made locally) and super luxury, all often juxtaposed together. On another occasion think of going to a mall with Gucci clothes, fine Swiss watches, Bottega Veneta fine Italian leather, haute cuisine and Subway shops all in a row. Today this mall market largely had knockoffs and wannabees, vaguely implying standard brands at fairly reasonable prices; although I hadn’t a clue of wage rates. Think, utilitarian shoes in coarse leather for $19-28 U.S. with women’s dress heels at around $35.
Afterwards we were too through and still far from our lodgings. The train seemed to dense and at the six way intersections, cabs were hard to come by. Like all cities at rush-hour the client base increase in direct inverse to the number of cabs on duty. Mounting a NY mindset, I hustled and got us on our way after 10 minutes of haranguing in some derivation of a bastardization of Mandarin.
We checked in Leo, who I now only referred to as Liu Ye, to verify our dinner reservation and travel plan before showering, decompressing briefly and heading off on foot. I should mention that navigating the city and negotiating the cold were key factors in every decision. When we had flown to a bright cold evening, walking after dinner and quickly realizing that Beijing’s was a dry, low humidity cold and thus deceptive. Within moments of stepping outside, the rawness would cut through you at a different rate then the wet cold of NYC. The temperature appeared significantly cooler, though the daytime sun lulled me into believing it was tolerable. Our decision to walk to dinner was therefore either foolish, based in punch-drunk logic, or due to that slight warming trend urban areas experience post sunset when the buildings give back heat to the streets. The walk was pleasant and offered more context to the vitality of the city, people, street food vendor performances and pushcarts peddling anything from cured meats, analogues to Veg-a-matic slicers, cheap sox and such.

2010-01-09T08:17:00.000-08:00

closer

2010-01-09T07:53:00.000-08:00

the way to the wall

2010-01-09T07:17:00.000-08:00

Zhao and the approach

2010-01-07T14:32:00.000-08:00

on the way to the Wall

2010-01-07T14:28:00.000-08:00

Finding Zhao, scaling the Wall

2010-01-07T07:29:00.000-08:00

We walked briskly towards the hotel to meet Zhao, the driver we had secured via Alan, cum Sheila, cum Eos before the bitter cold and the timing caught up with us. The dry cold of Beijing was quite deceiving through our NY lens. Intermittent filtered sunshine and generally moderate winds belied a tolerable environment until you stood outside for three minutes. The chill seeped to the bone through all of clothing layers by severity of degree not the damp we were used to. Taxis made money from our shivers.
Michele ran upstairs to grab something from the room, when I spotted Zhao, pacing in his parka between the host stand and the lounge. I went to greet him, with Yusi’s notes in hand to navigate hello when Eo appeared to smooth the intros. Handsome and animated, I guessed early twenties; I could see that he was a bit nervous. We collected Michele and jumped into his Nissan; yes it did appear quite new. We navigated the few phrases that I could muster, occasionally repeating them for better tonality. Yusi, the student I had traded Mandarin for Spanish classes with at the end of the term had instructed me to wave my arm in the direction of the tonal sounds as a reminder. This would probably have been comical to Zhao, but more effective than my vocal butchering of his language. Needless to say we were off, in a car on a highway, passing tracts of middle then working class high rises, factories and the Northeastern corner of the city on our way to see the Great Wall. I, we specifically didn’t want to go to a viewing area like Badaling, fully renovated replete with T shirt stalls and tchochkes. This is the closest location and homing point for most tour groups. We wanted to find a country-spot, to see the landscape a glimpse of village life and a rustic view of the Wall; or in our sense of cultural capital a more unspoiled, “authentic” vista.
As we neared the toll booth, I realized that though Michele and I had discussed our desires, and tried to effectively share them with Eo in the pidgin conversations we had shared I wasn’t clear what she had relayed to Zhao. As we sat waiting for our turn to pay the toll, I took out the guide book and my notes and tried to clarify our goals. Boy did that end poorly. He looked at me aghast, paid the toll, pulled through the booth and pulled up the parking brake and stopped the car 10 yards into an eight lane highway. No pulling into the shoulder, popping on the flashers, N-a-d-a. I hopped from back to front seat while Michele quietly whispered that at least we both had health insurance. After 10 minutes of un productive conversation I telephoned Leo (Liu Ye), the concierge from the hotel. We passed the phone back and forth a few times trying to arrive at an understanding. At this point I learned that Zhao, like many people I would meet in these next few days was not from Beijing but had come to study and make a better living. Coming from Anhui he knew very little of the geography of the city. He was uncertain of where to go, how to get there and whether we could get there from here. That is why he had decided to just stop the car…Yikes. As we took turns on the cell, Leo told us both, that it was not difficult to find, just further out than Zhao had envisioned. Immediately, he wanted 100 yuan more, which I agreed to in sign language and word, via Leo. He looked into my face, realizing that this brief ride had more legs than he had planned; pursed his lips, brightened his face and started the car. We drove to the first exit and he pulled to the shoulder, got out his map/guidebook of Beijing and walked to the exit toll booth, pocketing his keys.
Seven or so minutes later, he was walking towards us, and then disappeared. Michele looked at me quizzically. “He’s probably pissing,” I said. Stepping from behind a pine tree hiking his pants and rebuttoning his coat, he jogged to the car, obviously colder. We were off. He now had ideas of which summit to drive towards. We haggled, now having some weird shared common gibberal Chinese-sign system in place. He rejected one of my suggestions and we agreed to Huanghuateng, my second choice; based on a guide book gloss. Hoping to rebuild our spirit, I pointed to the radio. He smiled and switched on his CD player. Hearing his selection, I recalled the ‘80’s working as a journeyman cook at the Odeon with virtually an entire crew and sous chef from Foochow in Canton or Guangdong province. They loved prepping to this satellite radio stations from Hong Kong; nothing but love songs it seemed by the syrup and smiles. Sometimes I heard current American pop presumably translated or literated into Cantonese; though commonly twangy simple melodies and high register harmonies. I was back in current roster of that playlist. All of a sudden, my fog cleared and I turned to Zhao and repeated the refrain, once then again to be sure I had it right. He burst into a shit eating grin. Turning from the road and looking straight into my eyes, we laughed like homeys and chanted, “w̌o ai nǐ, w̌o ai nǐ: I love you, I love you.”
Paying closer attention, I realized that it was all wrapped up in unrequited love, she loved him and he wasn’t noticing her. Hmm, patriarchal gendered romantic politics are global and again reductive towards women. I hoped that his glee was like mine based in shared understanding and not complicity with the lyrical theme. No matter, I was never going to be able to convey those ideas, gotta keep it all in the moment.
Our day continued with stops and starts, asking directions, stopping at toll booths and flagging down cabdrivers as we made our way from the highway into the countryside. By this time, every stall yielded a wondrous gaze or photo-opt chilling us out as Zhao attempted to understand our geography. 50-60 minutes later, after passing through many small villages we began to climb. Careening around switchbacks glimpses of the wall peeked through the clouds and distant hillsides, Zhao switched to a decent jazz disc; life was good. I was premature in believing that we were moments from our destination. We still had several foothill villages to traverse. As the mountains rose on either side of the car, I saw how accurate the many hanging scrolls I had seen in museums and art history courses were to the landscape. Striped terraces of either low stone walls or earth poked through the mist and marked the terrain. Anxiety mounted as we curved and climbed since Zhao would switch lanes as the rise steepened. Thankfully the downward oncoming vehicles never got to too close. Suddenly, we nosed down a steep grade ending up at a country lane intersection. To our right was a stream and half a dozen middle aged men hovered on a small footbridge, smoking, holding a few farm tools and talking. An empty store or school sat on the opposite corner with a semicircular porch and red iron grillwork. The road ahead turned to dirt, as had many before. This one led to a housing district. The hard right seemed to follow the stream and tail off. The street signs did not appear to clue Zhao in, so he stopped the car and looked at me bewildered. Using my book of notes and characters I stitched together, then blurted a sentence, loosely, “Why not ask those men?” Again he took the keys with him as he crossed to the huddled group. Returning quickly, turning to me as he settled into his seat, his eyes brightened and he exclaimed, “huanghuanteng. Here, we are. Huanghuanteng, now.” We almost headbutted each other we laughed so hard. No wall in sight too low for any view of anything, yikes this may have been a mistake… after a moment we elected to continue down the road to the right along the stream. Another village appeared at a fork in the road just a few km ahead. Zhao pulled over by what seemed to be a store or trading center with a porch full of neatly stacked dried corn. From there we could make out the wall on top of a nearby ridge. He got out and lit a cigarette, while Michele and I got ready to hike.
The village was defined by narrow dirt lanes set into the foothills below the wall, stacks of bundled branches, kindling I assumed, freshly made bricks, millstones and piles of drying chestnuts in prickly hulls. Every low brick and rough hewn beam home had a small yard or compound punctuated by low walls and slightly corroded iron doors. A few seemed larger or more prominent than the others. There were stairs cut in between some of the homes to climb deeper Around the base of Phoenix on top of a six foot concrete slab disc two winnowing baskets held drying persimmons and freshly harvested red dates. More corn and kindling were drying in an open garage door just to the side. Uh-oh, M told me she needed to pee. I looked around and saw nothing available, until just up the way I saw a parted iron gate. I walked up and knocked lightly, the metal twanged back breaking the morning calm. A late middleaged man, cutting wood turned with a warm smile, bright eyed with long teeth many random or jutting out at odd angles grinned and greeted me. In sign and word I asked to use his outhouse. Beckoning Michele she, then I found relief. He had disappeared behind a thick swatch of fabric covering the door to his house across the yard. When I had finished I heard his voice from behind the curtain, speaking loudly with a voice muffled by the fabric. His hands motioned to us before he poked out his head. One hand parted the curtain to reveal a large steaming pot of water on a wood stove. Rubbing his palms together he mimicked hand washing, then pointed to a large bar of soap, that recalled lye versions meant for scrubbing clothing. Upon entering into the large, dark living area, I heard the lowing noise of someone sleeping behind the curtain in the adjacent room. I washed quickly and left to find Michele who had walked back out to the street.
Within two city blocks the village proper fell away as the grade increased. Persimmons and dates drying on trees were the only remnants of the local community. As the brush became prickly and more unmanageable, Michele began to fall back, even the few birds seemed to still their song. Trudging forward obsessively, wanting, coveting the wall, my stimuli were the view ahead, the slight crunch of brush and a strong pungency of the clayey red soil. Later that evening in the hotel, when I re-examined the icon by the bathroom faucet to confirm that it implied, not potable as I ran the water to prep my shower, I realized that the hot spray had the same aroma of red earth. Washing myself that evening, I fell back into the summit I had struggled climbing that afternoon.
Obviously impetuous, I scampered as best I could up the hill, while Michele cheered me on as she descended back to the car. Blinded by the goal, I lost the trail and mistakenly continued climbing old rainwater courses that had interrupted the terraced furrows and hillocks. Shortly after, I was a hot mess of bramble, skittish stones that often implied stability but yielded to gentle pressure and tumbled into the brush. I grasped at roots and boughs for support, more crawling than standing. I just kept my focus of the summit and the prize of communion with this relic; punctuation, ancient boundary or lineal drawing in stone. Now sweaty after nearly 30 minutes of effort I had to rest a moment, swallow a few shallow gulps of water and go on. Soon after, I was able to right myself and continue in a more upright fashion still grasping for supports until I reached the top 10 or so minutes later. The final ascent involved wedging toes into ruts between the ever larger stones, skinning my palm once or twice and then pulling myself up to a weathered ruin of a former guard tower. My reason for choosing this locale to access the wall was to see an unrestored portion, and with that quirky marriage of the historical and the postmodern I craved the perceived ‘original’; the more pure-whatever that suggested or implied to each seeker. Now on top it made sense. I called out, laughed belly deep and sang a bit. Praised my family, departed mothers mine and others who guided me to through to these spaces and moments of my experience. Gave thanks to Cliff, my Dad and tried to observe this scene closely to better share a story of it with him back at home upon my return. Wanting to skip and dance, I calmed down a bit and just took it all in. turning to follow the undulating ridge decorated with this earthwork rise, fall, disappear and return miles in the distance. I counted one dozen sentry towers within view of my bifocaled eyes. Some more robust and unchanged than crumbling neighbors. I walked between two and considered for a moment climbing higher to reach two others. In the valley behind the village a few lone tall evergreens, all trunk for days with an ostrich plume hat thick with green needles brought a whisper of color to a fairly monochromatic ochre landscape. I heard nothing but wind in the lower trees, no villages sounds, trucks or signs of humanity. For a moment I felt like I held some magic that I wanted to retain at least in memory. Wistfully pc I considered a doing a Tai Chi set, and realized that I had probably been meditating here for an hour. I needed to wrap it up and get back with my crew. I walked along both sides of the wall, taking in the view from all directions, entered the first crumbling guard tower once more and made my way to the actual trail which was obviously easier to use for my descent. The beginning was still a little tricky to navigate but I got down fairly quickly within about 8 minutes. Walking back through the village, I stopped at the house who had shared their outhouse to say goodbye. This time his wife was working in the yard, apparently gathering ingredients together for the midafternoon meal. I tried to signal her to call her husband since I had no idea if she knew anything of our experience with him. As she raised questions to me in Chinese, he heard them from inside the house and came out grinning. We shook hands, and I snapped a quick shot before I waved goodbye. Back at the car, Michele had been people watching, shooting photos, creating her own communication method with Zhao while watching him smoke cigs at the front bumper. According to her, he had been anxious to understand my whereabouts and timing long before I returned. I think he had intended plans back in town. When I walked up he crushed a butt under his foot, smiled my way, jumped in and started the car. We left quickly, finding our way into town faster than we had our village, passing the Qing Tombs on the way in. unfortunately, traffic caught up with us on the highway, faulting my agenda to see the Lama Temple, the Drum & Bell Tower neighborhood and hǔtong alley districts before sundown, and the closing of the temple and local retail businesses. We were able to have a glimmer of a view of the compound just before the gates were locked. Wandering the hǔtong at dusk we found cramped living quarters, a gallery of antique sculpture and religious artifacts, bodegas, tea vendors and a lovely home cut into a small compound bounded by a walled yard with a tea house at the center. Two young teen girls prepared a classical Chinese Tea service while their mother quietly oversaw their work under the guise of reading, doing her bills and glazing over in front of a small late model tv. We walked back to the main street to look for a means home around 6 or 7ish, grabbing a freshly roasted yam from the neighborhood vendor. I ate my golden yam, walking and window shopping past stall and store after another full of golden Buddahs, incense and ethnic jewelry.

from the Crown Plaza to Zhao

2010-01-06T07:45:00.000-08:00

Congee or Croissants?

2010-01-06T07:42:00.000-08:00

Waking up a bit disoriented from the hotel, but more from strange early morning smells; first floral, possibly lily like, and then the strong fermented smells similar to Tianjin cabbage in a crock. Michele, when she lifted her head, smelt nothing. I knew that I wasn’t off, but I couldn’t pin down the source, until we got up for breakfast. Last night with Gary’s help we had chosen the breakfast package for an additional fee, which provided free internet access.
The wraparound lounge off of the lobby opened onto a restaurant with buffet stations. We were initially greeted and seated by the hostess, again in sort of bizarre garb for 7 AM; long dresses sort of Suzie Wong like with a slit up on side to the midthigh, with little golden ties at the top, matching bolero jackets slightly asymmetric with a square paneled Asian motif on one side, too high heels for food service and the prototypical nametag of corporate food and hotel workers.
Coffee and tea were served as we rose to investigate the buffet. In many ways, I had never seen such a multiculti arrangement. The juice bar also had mineral water available since the bathroom water wasn’t potable; this was endemic to every hotel we stayed in. Additionally, kiwi, watermelon and honeydew juice were served alongside the usual suspects. Chefs manned the congee, soup noodle bars stocked with assorted pickles, tea eggs, shiitakes and greens, the western breakfast, (French toast, fried eggs, omelette station, and attendant meats), displays of pan fried noodles, lackluster renditions of Italian seeming pastas, tonkatsu style chicken cutlets, roasted vegetables with a predominance of lettuce, sumptuous pastry displays that though visually spot on, on the palate the mimicry was a bit wan. Miso soup stations, a salad bar with four choices, none of which really melded into a cohesive salad and no dressing, oil or vinegar in sight. Adjacent to the frisee there was some marinated red cabbage whose juices I assumed were meant to function as sauce. A western cereal bar with a toaster and white bread set up, milk, pourable yogurt and fruits. A dynamic fruit display of many western fruits, and longan, stewed prunes, local citrus with their leaves attached, loquat, canned litchi and ……large lozenges of maki sushi, with the fluorescent yellow pickles, surimi, and mixed vegetables, and a smoked fish designed for a Russian: sable, peppered mackerel, sturgeon, salmon and a few cured or smoked meats; yet no bagel, cream cheese or even bread to put them on. All for sixty Yuan per day, or about ten bucks.
In a way this was some kind of modern Jetsonian living. I would make passes, dipping into a country or culture with each new plate full of food. Midway through our meal we discussed the trajectory of our day.
Working from list I received indirectly from Alan, I had emailed Michael the night before. He was alleged to speak passable English and be pleasant. A few of the folks who Alan had emailed had proffered suggestions for drivers based on car quality and age, English skills, and general disposition. We never heard back from Michael. I wondered if reading English was not within his ken. Making my way down the remaining names, I tried Zhao first, largely because he was quoted as having a newer model car and a recent license. Somewhere I saw us breaking down in the countryside with a stranger, no common language, tools or short term hope. The assistant dining manager, Esi Oi telephoned Zhao for us and negotiated an arrangement. In a certain way, were he a suspicious quantity this might not have been the best modus for success. Initially he was occupied, and hesitated to commit; though when we agreed to his rate of $500 Yuan minimum, the cash won out. He was going to run an errand and be at the front door within 2 hours, by 10:15-10:30. With that info we decided to dress quickly and took a cab to Tiananmen Square for our first look-see. Our goal was to better locate ourselves and walk back the 20-30 blocks for a glimpse of the morning city life. Walking towards the square, we saw many people sporting a variety of surgical masks, some quasi fashionable with their quilted color patterns.
Perched like a cat about to pounce the façade of the Forbidden City sits studying the vast Square full of milling people, police vehicles, hucksters, tour guides and foreigners. Conveniently a major eight lane boulevard separates these two iconic locales controlling any undesired cross fertilization between people and ideologies. Though quite cold the air pollution was ever present somewhat staved off by the winter chill; allowing filtered sunlight to warm our faces. L.A. pales by comparison. Unfortunately, the reeking odors of sulphur and coal burning followed us everywhere we went in the city. By the look of the cheap external fans or antiquated AC systems in most windows even of the most rundown buildings, I surmised that summer was brutal and the pollution quite fierce. This first dose was both awesome and forbidding all in a moment of what appeared to be just post-teenage soldiers in classic Communist military long coats, brown fur hats and a level of attentiveness to their post which appeared to suggest complicity with either party politic or naïve love of authority and sense of purpose.

2010-01-06T02:15:00.000-08:00

A brief Sojurn

2010-01-06T02:11:00.000-08:00

A brief sojourn, full of capitals, capitalism and vestiges of Mao. Arriving into the main terminal, we found a few domestic passengers waiting for pending flights. Still too few people for such a grand terminal. There were no shuttle busses into town. The light rail proved more expensive for two passengers than a taxi. I guessed this was the post Olympic, nouveau Communist normal. I have always enjoyed arriving in strange new places under cover of darkness, revealing brief snippets of nuance until daylight removes mysteries.
Here, now though just seven PM the city was as still and quiet as the airport had been vacant. Neon, and globular paper lanterns mostly red bathed every street. I had read that like D.C. Beijing was a city radiating from a central monument, in this case the Forbidden City the oldest preserved palace of Imperial Chinese dynasty. A few stray people were on bikes, some collecting garbage, carrying cottage products for sale, or just pedaling in the dark. The city was defined by a series of six concentric boulevards named rings. Directions were defined by one’s position to each ring and the cardinal directions. Cross streets intersected this ring, and within various neighborhoods, hùtongs, rabbit warrens of housing, business stalls and sanctuaries remaining from the _______ brought flavor and local color. Our hotel and room was much grander than my normal M.O., 5 stars, concierge and spa services. Generally I administer these types of properties, yet don’t tend to inhabit them. Befitting the new China, more American in strategy than Soviet, every juncture we crossed was met with a surcharge. Unknown airport fees, additional unforeseen room charges. So much for the proletariat, let’s get a pay to play mentality as fuel for this commercial enterprise.
In the moment, the luxe touches, even out of budget were welcome after the last three months and the reality of a world with little communication potential. Gary Jiang the front desk clerk had managed to effectively express the fundamental new guest information without incident in slightly British inflected English, until, the unexpected question arose and his security manager assistant, more fluent than he had stepped away from his post.
Our question, concerning specifics of Wife and internet access were fielded by the concierge in a particular tuxedo with golden cummerbund, cutaway jacket, starched winged collar, thin bow tie, hip glasses, and asymmetrical haircut. His manner as his garments affected both ease and sophistication. With little hesitation he consistently answered all of our inquiries, pausing briefly in his halting English, still searching periodically for previous references or phrases to utilize or test on us. Later on he had explained that he had had 4 years of high school, with English language instruction in the curriculum. The six years he had worked at the hotel had provided on the job training to improve his language skills. He shared that only his friends and families who interfaced with the westerners took English names, thus Liu Ye, begat Leo.
With our first questions answered and reservations made for dinner, and a slip of hotel notepaper with character and English name of the restaurant Leo had chosen we went to change and settle into our room for a moment, before heading out. Craig, my older brother had shared that when he had led a group of architecture students to China several years ago he had opted for taxis instead of subways or buses. The subway wasn’t hard to learn, but if you negotiated the right price the cabs were quick and direct. I assume that since the 2008 Olympics the cab industry has been regulated. There was no sense of a negotiated or haggled pricing structure. Everything ran on a strict metering system. Our cab drove through vacant dimly lit streets whizzing past a sea of neon character averts. we arrived at a three story mall-like building where he pointed for us to get out. Blue cylindrical modern looking Christmas lighting adorned the ent4rance. Two women in white long gowns and complimentary white ski jackets opened the double doors, beckoned us in, through a long foyer, decorated as many interiors and exteriors were with 4x6 foot C print photos of mostly modern and occasionally historic scenes or objects lined the walls. We climbed a dark carmine lacquered and wooden stairway and entered a long stone anteroom lined with fish tanks along one wall filled with live fish and shellfish, a cashier and a fish butcher. The gowned women deposited us in the hands of suited gentleman who led us to our table. Quickly, I learned that particularly on the mainland, red was the ubiquitous color in décor, ornament and furnishings. Oversized menus arrived with beautiful photos of various crabs and shrimp with names written in Chinese and English; each offered in two or three different culinary preparations. Our server spoke enough English to identify the names and weights of most of the crabs. It seemed obvious with 7 different crabs to choose from, that this was what we should eat. Michele wanted some vegetables and chose a picture that looked appetizing to her.
Just after thanksgiving I had begun a trade of Mandarin for Spanish classes with a Chinese national in Linguistics, Gao Yusi. With Yusi’s help I had several pages of notes in English and character, some of which he had taught me to write myself. Though repeating them was not a reality. He had told me that if I could gather 100-200 words I could speak the language fairly easily based upon the structure, but reading and writing would take 5-6 years. Nuf said. I carefully pronounced one of my key phrases, “she doesn’t eat meat: “.A snippet of language can bridge culture and initiate simple bonds. The key is to try and listen for what is implied in the patois and not spoken.
A small lacquered red and black bowl arrived first, chilled. Beautiful batons of Asian cucumber and freshly roasted young peanuts with a light glass of chili oil and vinegar. Refreshingly crunchy and clean. I recalled that our server had asked twice, without the beef? I said to Michele, these are your veggies, not a little pre-appetizer. Ooops. The scallion pancake she had chosen was an exquisite rendition of a classic starter. Deftly fried, chewy, crispy and spongy at the center, with no trace of oil on the doily. My crab, I had chosen Dungeness, she felt it was sweetest. It had been brought over in the same small plastic bag that every bodega uses for purchases; quite lively and frisky. I was informed that it weighed one kilo. I had chosen ginger-scallion sauce and it was perfect. Plump and meaty crab scattered with tender julienned threads of ginger and matchsticks of scallions cooked to yield to the tooth, still revealing an oniony bite at the core. I lorded over the crab for nearly thirty minutes, using all of the tricks Cliff had taught me for eating shellfish to the last sinew. Jasmine tea and a shared local beer finished this late light meal. The cab took us back to the hotel, and we decided to take in a bit of the hood, braving the bitter cold, -10°C we had been told. We made it about four blocks, before the wind and chill took its toll. Slipping into a subterranean bar, more rathskellar reminiscent of what a Chinese Beat or folk club might feel like, albeit with a computer drum machine and synthesizer to enhance any solo guitarist or singer. Some scruffy Europeans, possibly Aussies came in soon after us. They seemed straight out of freshman year backpacking on school holiday. There was no music, and we decided to head home instead of hanging out. We made it home quickly, and were in bed snoring soon afterwards.

NYC, Between food shopping and dinner, Christmas Eve

2010-01-06T02:07:00.000-08:00

Between shopping for dinner, paying last minute bills and tying up lose ends from school and grading I squeezed in a longish phone call to Dalia’s former band mate, Alan Wong. A Chinese photojournalist, who like many seems to have hunkered back into his cultural roots. Alan has made many trips back and forth to China in the last few years. It sounds like he has successfully married mining his history with some freelance work. Standing in the village near Seventh Avenue So. I was given a quick drill on the geography of Beijing, the merits of the different spots to view the Great Wall, the vibe of the Forbidden City, the Lama Temple and certain key neighborhoods to explore over the Summer Palace, 798-the art district and working class life in the capital. Alan was able to synthesize and define a Beijing that reflected a view of the cultural monuments, advances in government housing and urban development, streetlife and hip locales to check into. Our chat finished with a promise to share some local contacts for drivers to show us at least some ideal spots to view the Wall. I feel like had I had more time and sense of it all, I could have created a crash for us. The official literature had seemed so foreboding in terms of the government’s desire to know your whereabouts, that couch surfing wasn’t in my consciousness. In the end, Alan’s contacts would prove quite useful. Recounting our exploits will be fun upon our return home.

happy landing on the way to dinner

2010-01-06T02:03:00.001-08:00

Roads Through China

2010-01-06T01:46:00.000-08:00

Notes, thoughts, images and lingering tastes from my intersession trip to Beijing, Macau and Hong Kong with the NYU Media Cultural Communications and Food Studies Program

--Before liftoff.

2010-01-06T01:43:00.000-08:00

L from the travel group and I had gone back and forth for months looking for best case scenario ticket prices and lodging. Something was awry, I travel often for work, consulting restaurants, a bit of pleasure and now for my education. This time it was too protracted. I was engulfed in my first semester back in school, a PhD program in Food Studies, 29 years since my last endeavor. We had delayed getting visas for no truly good reason other than conflicting schedule demands. I had looked up from my final papers and realized that time was tight. Twelve days ago, we got up early, trained and bussed to 42nd and 12th Avenue. Harsh winds snapped at our skin and garments. By 8:25 there was already a considerable line in the street in front of the Chinese Consulate. I wondered why it was stuck way over here, until I observed the Falung Gong group across the street, swaddled in thick layers, practicing Qi Gong behind banners asking for self determination from state authority. Like the Cubans before them, I guess the Chinese needed space. A West Indian guard greeted us at the corner, asking for I.D. One by one people were allowed inside, removing outer clothing and walking through metal detection. We kidded with the guard that he needed a booth to fight the winds and subzero temps. He explained that above our heads was one of several closed circuit cameras. “once you get inside, everywhere you go, you will be watched. Even in the toilet, trust me, even there. My boss is watching us now, from his office sipping his coffee. We can wave to him now. I have to smile.” Continuing, he shared that he was informed that 15 people are waiting for his position, if he is not satisfied with the terms.
“Do you get breaks,” I asked. “Not enough to handle this cold.” Welcome to a bad economy and a powerful player in it.
I have come to observe that an aspect of the consular experience indicates a flavor of the country. Superficial assessment at best, but telling nonetheless. Once seated in the second row of chairs, a dozen or so people ahead of us, we waited until the nine AM opening of functionaries windows. The room was gray, fluorescently lit and nondescript. No exotic images of China, The Wall or Forbidden City; unlike the walls of the Brazilian embassy last year. Once the windows opened, we were called forth one by one, and each successive applicant was instructed to move up one seat, an adult duck-duck-duck-duck-goose, snaking slowly forward. We elected to return in six days, Wednesday the 23rd, which was the cheapest price available. The following week, timing was off, and we missed the scheduled hours. Luckily I was able to obtain our passports on Christmas Eve morning, on a slightly warmer early morning.
That day, I happened to, visit the consulate, the D.A.’s office, the Hall of Records, former home of the City Clerk, the City Court and finally the current Office of the City Clerk. Too many detection devices in too short a time. I met Michele midway through my morning, and we walked to Baxter street in search of fresh Ho Fun noodles for my Christmas Eve Pho.
I had planned to reproduce the feast of seven fishes with a global menu, Bolas de Bacalhau Pimenton Aioli, Griddled Octopus, Black-eyed Peas and Spinach Coulis, Jill’s Vodka-Dill scented Gravlax with Buckwheat Blini and Farmer Cream Cheese, Poached Shrimp from Dad and Stews. Slow Roasted Swordfish with Dukka spiced Eggplant Relish, Couscous and Artichokes, my Herbaceous, Veggie laced Maine Red Shrimp and Maryland Crab Pho and Cointreau Flan. We ended up being 10 at table with the welcome, late addition of Faith and Neal. Everything took a bit too long, based on too little prep time, yet the results were delicious and savored by all. Possibly the best result was that time delay. Everyone present in their own way took a piece of the puzzle, looking for a tablecloth, ironing it, discovering silver, rarely unwrapped since Sylvia, my mother had died five years earlier this same week. We agreed during dinner that the sequence had brought Sylvia back into all of our consciousness and to this dinner. We laughed for hours, spelling my Dad’s bouts of loneliness in the now quiet house. Joy and laughter are great medicines. Unfortunately cleanup and laundry in preparation to travel took forever. The following afternoon we left for New York and Jersey. Dropping Michele and the clean clothing at home, and ending up in Madison at Susan, my brother Craig’s sister in law’s house. Dinner was simple and beautifully executed. Just six of us with her brother and sons. Doug, her husband had passed a few years prior. I left soon after dinner, to pack say a few goodbyes and finish a Literature Review for the Hong Kong trip, grading of final papers and general household cleaning. I have to do Too much, too little time; please Mr. Migraine I don’t need you now.

Looking for an egungun?

2008-12-12T07:27:00.001-08:00

Danny

2008-11-20T17:35:00.001-08:00

Dinner with Danny

2008-11-17T22:27:00.000-08:00

Tag you’re it. No you missed me. Danny, generous as always had tried to include me in his birthday celebration. Not quite up to my NYC or Blackberry speed, I hadn’t keyed in at the right time. Cut to me, being me, I ran downtown to learn that the message I was responding to that had no time/date stamp was for the party yesterday. Oh, well. As a do-over, Danny suggested that we go out for some African food together. I wanted it to happen quickly since I had gifts for him, and his birthday was now. We had a simple, sweet dinner grilled fish and a cous cous like yucca dish, replete with reminiscences of times spent in Brazil and life here in NY. He seems like the global daddy, nurturing just about everyone who crosses his path. What a wonderful present I got this year, 50, having him come into my life. Thanks.

Out of Work

2008-11-17T22:26:00.000-08:00

Out of work

I chilled out, unloaded my stuff, ate some cooked food that Michele had kindly left in the fridge for me, and felt my way back into my house and my NY life over the next eight hours. I was too anxious to rest and it was too cold to go out. It was wonderful to hug Michele again, and know that this part of the journey was done. Seeing Cliff would be next. Once that was done, I could move on. Even split again. Later that evening, I began to sort through the GRE materials. I had about thirty six hours until my exam.

I awoke early the next morning, opened the books and struggled through the materials. I crammed, I read, I did sample tests and fretted a great deal about my capabilities in Math. The test came up fairly quickly, and I felt marginally prepared. The center was cool and the other folks seemed far from my reality. The proctors were all grounded, kind yet unyielding black women. Twice I was told that my Identification and locker key were not visible and could be grounds for disqualification. I had come too far and paid too much to lose it that stupidly.

I finished in a sweat, knowing that the essays had not come together to my satisfaction. In this techy era you can view your multiple choice scores immediately after you complete the test. Neither my Verbal nor Math scores were great. I felt like crap. To complete the picture I had scheduled a meeting with Ram directly after the exam. I took the bus north on Third Avenue from the GCT neighborhood and walked into Kidville in the middle of their Halloween party. Shazaam that was a culture shock!

I had a calm discussion with Rammy, talking shop, profit and loss, learning the foibles of the new Maryland store, and other blather before he finally told me that my job was toast. Layoffs had occurred the previous week. When I heard the names of the others, I realized that as bad as it was they were all ancillary employees, janitors, coatcheck a front desk secretary or stock person. Not anyone in management really. Quietly I raged, but I had seen it coming. The room outside of his office was awash with costumed kids and Dads, usually the Dad’s were more done than their children. To fit the model, the Mom’s had the requisite fashion statement status ensemble goin on. A few looked appropriately homey. Everyone was glad to see me, and I wanted to puke. I walked over to Madison, took the bus home and had a drink.

the friendly skies

2008-11-17T22:21:00.000-08:00

heading home

2008-11-17T22:15:00.000-08:00

Heart tears on the way back into NYC

2008-11-17T22:02:00.000-08:00

I had cried as I drove away from Vivaldo’s. Looking back through the rear window, I saw that he was doing the same. How did I make such a strong connection through culture and language, age and race so quickly?

All in all the flight was uneventful. Getting through to the flight was the rub. Henrique was right on time to pick me up at Rua Calzans Neto, Zeno’s place. We drove through Stela Mares on the way to the airport. I settled all accounts with him, and he gave me a hug goodbye. My NY cabbies like me, but don't hug back. At check-in they charged me extra for one of my bags which was a bitch, and I realized that I could have concealed it and kept the money for myself..oh well.

When I changed planes in São Paulo a few hours later, I was told at security I would have to forfeit my Jurabeba. I freaked, inside. There was significance to this bottle, that had nothing to do with its claims for sexual potency. I was forced to back out of security and look for a cheap bag to pack it into. That was a fairly easy and inexpensive equation to solve.

Back through security now, I had to be scanned and frisked, why I wasn’t clear. Bitch. I moved to the passport check and learned that Nicé at Brazilian Travel in NY had counted wrong. Instead of just being at 90 days for my length of stay, I was at 92 and now in violation. Shit.

Not knowing that my flight was about to be delayed I sweated the next ten minutes that this holdup would cost me my seat. Politely I half complained and half joked to the young Customs Official. He quickly said that if I missed my flight, he knew a Brazilian who would put me up, him. How odd, sweet and genuine. He had truly meant it. This is why I didn’t want to go. People embraced me here. I don’t know what my Juju, fairy dust or aura looked like, but something was operative.

His superior came over approved my passage after I signed an affidavit and was informed that I had to present a copy of it with my visa at my next entry into Brazil. Marked. I told them that I loved their country. I could have been singled out for worse offenses. Whew. I checked out Duty Free, had a final shot of Cachaça, bought a CD, and went to the lounge to wait out the new delay. On the plane, I found an extra leg room seat, my dream. Watched the Will Smith, down and out superhero movie, got a bit maudlin over all the goodbyes and drank cheap Argentinean wine all the way to NYC.

The late start meant that I missed Michele when we touched down. Instead of arriving at dawn it was close to eight by the time I got through customs. P.S. with no hassles at all. I had no U.S. dollars, so I was a bit jammed up initially. I found Jill at home, which was essential because I realized that I had no keys to my house. She offered to meet me in Harlem and let me in. I found a cash machine just outside of Baggage Claim, waited another hour for Super Shuttle and made it out in the chill, brutal winter wind to the van and began the final leg back home.

Vivaldo, Joao and the Atlantic

2008-11-17T21:56:00.000-08:00

Finding and leaving Vivaldo (bus-cab-scream-breathe)

2008-11-17T21:34:00.000-08:00

I had been anxious walking with Big as he cruised his neighborhood, acknowledged all the right folk and bartered for better prices on concrete, nails and lathe. I wanted to be in Pituba on time. I didn’t quite understand which bus or stop was the right one for me. I hoped that it would all become self evident along the way.

As it worked, the bus was much slower than I had imagined. My phone was inoperable, so calling Henrique was a non reality. By the time we hit Avenida João VI, which I knew began the beginning of the hamlet, it was a few minutes shy of nine. I hoped that it would fall into place as we drove on. I asked the driver and he was somewhat clueless. Other passengers interjected their thoughts, but it was a blur to everyone. I kept going thinking that I would see a landmark, just ahead. In my stress, I had botched the name of the cul-de-sac that Vivaldo lived on.

Finally at 9:05 with nothing quite adding up, I jumped off the bus, flagged a cab and asked for help. He was local to the area, a bit spacey and had no idea what I was talking about. After we circled a few blocks he agreed to let me use his cell. He dialed the number and started to talk to one of the housekeepers when Vivaldo obviously grabbed the phone on the other end and barked directions at him. His neck hairs tensed and we sped off. It took him some time after we came into the hood. The guard at the gate recognized me and we drove down the block. It was almost 9:30. I heard the dogs barking behind the gate when we drove up.

Vivaldo was already at the curb looking out for us. Immediately he had decided that I had found one of those merciless cabs who had just taken me for a ride. He ripped a new asshole and gave him a colon cleanse for my driver, who initially was apologetic, then defensive, and finally brutally hostile. The Latins' were in session, and it wasn’t pretty. I worried for this man, who rightfully bitched of failing health. I thought this was not the catalyst for an episode or a bad memory of Scott that needed to be the denouement of my morning or my new acquaintanceship. I just wanted the cab to drive away.

One of the housekeepers pulled on Vivaldo’s arm, as the cab cursed, took the three point turn too quickly and sped off. Immediately Vivaldo was protective and apologetic of me. Later, he demanded specifics. He told me that I had already missed lunch. “Lunch?” I asked. It seems that even though I had shared my schedule with him, he had planned a luncheon last Saturday with two eminent Anthropologists he thought I should meet, but I never telephoned. “Oy vey, here we go….” So when we went back to the cab incident, I was honest and anxious as I shared the details. He told me that I needed to learn the city; No… “I needed to stay here with him, read, study and ask questions. That was it!

--When did I have to go to NY?”
“Today.”

“: Today, no that wouldn’t work. Couldn’t I stay on?” “Boy, did I wish….” Well, he decided we just had to get to work, time was passing quickly. We sat down and were served juice and coffee before I went upstairs to the library and he retired to his office. Before we split he finally explained the relationship he had to the comely middle aged Blonde who had been and still was ever present. I had thought that she was a cousin, sister or some relation. No, she was the widow of his cousin’s friend up from São Paulo. He had thought that her mourning should happen somewhere else to clear her head. She had spent two months with him, and would leave in a few days.

I got lost in my studies upstairs, candy all around me. It was true, we both saw books the way most men see porn. I was beside myself and barely knew where to start. Especially since most everything was written in Portuguese, then French, with a small minority of titles in English. Hours later he called up to me with a restless throaty yell. He was hungry, wasn’t I? “Come down so we can discuss lunch.” I shut the books, closed the sliding glass doors and locked up before I climbed down the stairs. As I expected a double Scotch neat and a few beefy snacks were waiting us in the sitting room. He asked if I had any special dining requests? “We eat simply here, whatever they fix is fine, it is always a surprise.” I thought that a bit curious since he was a Culinary Anthropologist, but I stayed quiet and went with it.

We were four for lunch, his cousin, the widow, Vivaldo and me. We had a simple meal of a macaroni salad, some simply cooked vegetables, grilled chicken, rice, Farofa, and some stewed fish. He opened a round Argentinean Cab for he and I, while his cousin drank coke. In the end, the widow joined us in the Cab. After lunch he told me of his family’s business, Jurabeba Leão do Norte. I acknowledged that I was familiar with the history. Consequently he felt that I needed a bottle to remember him by. We sipped this bitter that was alleged to aid and strengthen my member whenever needed. Whatever. Then he had them bring us some Nocello and coffee with the sorvete we had for dessert.

It wasn’t three o’clock and I was swimming in the sauce, trying to keep my tenses straight and not make a bigger ass of myself. We decided that it was better to end our session here. He sketched out his summer, our winter and we made tentative plans to get together in May or June. His driver picked me up, and we drove north along the coast to Zeno’s to get my bags, say goodbye to Zeno, João, Itapúa, and actually Brazil.

Biggie and his hood

2008-11-17T20:53:00.000-08:00

Cookin’ it up with Dada, hanging with Big, his mom and his Spliffs…

2008-11-17T20:45:00.000-08:00

Monday late afternoon, when I got off the Lancha, I headed up the Lacerda to Big’s (pronounced Biggie) store. He had wanted me to buy/bring an Orixá painting to Danny for his birthday. I knew that at minimum I needed to buy something from him as a thank you for the people he had introduced me to. From the day I had met him, I knew that his friendship came at some kind of price. No matter, he had been sweet and generous with his time, his family and his contacts. And the mini canvases were cheap enough.

When I got there, he let me know that he was hurt that I had never taken him up on his offer to have a meal or stay for a week at his house. We talked for a bit, and we decided that I would spend the night with him. He told me that he had no food in the house, so why didn’t I go get some chow. I walked up to the cash machine, nosed around for some grub, and decided to try once more to suss out Dada at her Pelourinho spot, Sorriso de Dada. When I walked in the door, I saw her on the phone. I grabbed a table in the back, ordered a Moqueca de Polvo, Agua de Coco, a Caipirinha and an audience with Dada.

She sashayed over, deep cleavage revealed an ample bosom in her strapless satiny gown. Silky whitecloth wrapped tightly round her head obscured her hair. She was quick to hug and talk shop. I explained my previous attempts to share a TV slot with her. She apologized, and we got down to business sharing stories, laughing and revealing some trump cards. She was on the heels of a Norwegian excursion, she had been contracted to teach them Bahian Bacalhau recipes. The Norwegian Fisheries Commission had contracted her to write a small cookbook. In the best way she was bawdy, colored and full of fun, and little modesty. Dada was the Brazilian Emerald or Bobby Flay with her empire and kingdom. She was the ambassador of Bahian cuisine, and had been the darling and a character inspiration to Jorge Amado. Dada was gap tooth girl (a traveler) with an agenda. We had so much good laugh time that I almost missed Big.

He asked me to pay for a cab, so that we could get home faster. Like many people in retail, when it was over he was too through. Done and extra crispy. He wanted to get home, chill roll a fatty and forget. One of his salesgirls came with us as we walked down to Baixa dos Sapateiros to find a cab. Big precisely directed the taxi through the city only offering the driver a few blocks worth of information at any moment. This is the real way to travel in town. I have seen too many cabs take the scenic route to build the meter check.

His house was a crazy conflagration of shack, DYI and mansão. He had bought a double lot, and just kept adding floors as he had money and construction materials. Obviously he had sold many, many little canvases and building codes were probably a fiction. The ground floor façade was non-descript to fit in with the working class homes of his neighbors on his lane in Sete Portas. He had cleverly constructed the entrance with an ante room to prevent an onlooker to see over his shoulder when he turned the key and see what booty was inside the house. Like Danny he was an Ogun, and he had an ofrendo in the anteroom. He took no chances. I quickly learned as I had guessed that he was some kind of made man. He told me that he grew up on the streets to learn how to live. He had been with gangsters, and was not a gangster. He had been with drug dealers and was not a dealer or a user. He knew everyone, but stayed clean. After I set down my things, I went back to the street to make some calls, solidify my agreement with Henrique to drive me to the airport, confirm tomorrow’s meeting with Vivaldo and say a few quick goodbyes.

Back in the house, he called down to me to head up to the roof. There he sat with his co-worker and his mother, her parrots and parakeets rolling spliffs for all takers. The top floor was half open to the sky. He told me he was making a suite for people like me to come and stay in. He and his mom who was quite attractive, petite (as was he) and café au lait to his deep ebony skin, told me that I had a room for Carnaval, just confirm my flight and I was all set.

I took several pictures of his expressive face in the half light of the moonrise. For whatever reason, Big had cottoned to me. He cooked up the idea that we should collaborate on a book. It seems that Oprah had been one of the many black Americans who had traipsed through his tchoctke gallery.

Allegedly before he knew quite who she was he had invited her home for lunch. His story goes that she loved her meal so much she came back two days later and wanted more. When she went to pay for the meal, he insisted that this was his home not a restaurant, he would be insulted to accept money. “But I am….”-she trailed off. “It doesn’t matter who you are, you are my guest,” he asserted. Out came the card and the invitation to Chicago. “Come be on the show, tell me how I can help you, whenever you need it.”

So now he wanted to cash in. Did I think that she would cover the U.S. book publication and publicity fees? He had a source for the Brazilian side. We could make it work, together he assured me. Wow…some sleepover. I said that I needed to think on it. What a possibility, Vivaldo all day, and Big all night. I foresaw two sides to Salvador, two books and very little sleep. Hmm. I needed to take some notes, straighten up my stuff for traveling and prep myself for my day with Vivaldo. I went downstairs, showered, charged all my technology and crashed.

In the morning, his mom made coffee while we fed the birds and Big got his blunts together. He told me that he would walk me to the Pituba bus on his way to Pelourinho. Every person who crossed his path he either knew, or they owed him a favor or needed a hand. I guessed that I should be calling him Don Big. The specter of working together took on deeper resonance. He bought some building materials for a some L.A. black friends reno' job he was supervising and dropped me at the bus stop. All along the way I was shooting pics, probably to the consternation of my made man. We parted with a full embrace, and I agreed to send him copies of my pictures and a response to his request. Whew that was a great deal to experience before eight A. M.

The last lancha ride for awhile. Davis dropped me off, just like always

2008-11-17T08:38:00.001-08:00

Junior, aka Arroz or Rice

2008-11-17T07:38:00.001-08:00

Cenoura, Bodogi, China & Feijoes-(Carrots, Bulldog, Chinese & Beans)

2008-11-17T07:30:00.000-08:00

boys to men

2008-11-17T06:51:00.000-08:00

Men never lose their boyish nature in gesture or in heart. Horsing and slappin’ backs; yet rarely embracing. Emotions are often held at a distance, stored in a jar.
Boys wanting to be men learn distancing quickly emulating fathers and men they see in their lives. Stony smiles barely slip through bloodless pursed lips.

Here, Itaparica in the Brazil I have met the boys/young I have come to know do embrace. They came into my life to share their love of Capoeira. Historically it had been outlawed by the state. To begin to practice, play or joga your master baptizes you with a name, possibly silly or indicative of your nature. Ultimately a foil, or subterfuge if questioned by the police.

Being around these young me, I saw their hearts peak out; shining winning grins on cue. They really do live inside their skins and their innocence. They revealed their emotions. Nurturing each other befitted their nature more than tough bluffing and swelled chests which trap more air than passion.

Each one: Feijões, Cenoura, China, Bodogi and Correia were not sure how to gather a net for Junior after his mother died suddenly. They were as confused as all young men are who are not ready to understand death. Through the initial period, they remained attentive and patient; not shut down or vacant. Their presence swaddled the love they had of their homey like a downy feather bed.

I am not sure if time heals, or if it just softens the reality of the pain. That day back at Sacatar; Monday, na segunda 27-October I saw flashings, molten metal emotions hot for a moment then rising as fog burned off by morning sun. These buddies who joga Capoeira together were silently, invisibly hugging Junior, (aka Arroz), guiding him like a true posse on his road forward.

and along came Meri

2008-11-16T13:19:00.000-08:00

leaving Itapua

2008-11-16T13:12:00.001-08:00

Gantois, uma vez mais…festaramos Iroko, Iewa, Ossain e Oxumare

2008-11-16T12:41:00.000-08:00

Sleeping at E’s. October 23
Thursday evening after the opening, Tracy and I shared a friend’s apartment. She was on a short trip out of town. Her life was, is in flux as she begins a period of redefinition. This new spot, a sublet was serene and tender a perfect refuge for someone in between experiences.

I found enough of her other existence in evidence to create the appropriate snuggle up cozy feeling. Tracy took the bed, and I the sofa cum floor. The sofa was a little too tight and the latter a bit hard, but I could freely toss and thrash about. As usual in a new sleeping space I slept poorly and awoke early. We had an abbreviated breakfast and I set out for the bus to Cachoeira. I made my connections without a hitch, and you know the rest since this entry is a flashback from previous entries. FAST FORWARD….

I ran into several Yield signs this time in Cachoeira, including the fact that I did not have my own keys to Francisca’s apartment. After missing a connection with the bus let me back off at the Rodoviaria, Sunday evening. I made my way to the Engenho Velho/Federação bus to attend my final ceremony at Gantois. I had left an email with Zeno, so I was not sure that we would connect this time. I had to be mindful that I might need to find a room at midnight if there were any glitches.

I grabbed a seat on the crowded bleachers to park myself and my gear. I reflected on how much had happened over these last couple of months, since my first ceremony in August. I had altered my sense of the environment and my relationship to it. I had enough sense to decode aspects of what was occurring before me. Once more I felt comfortably alien as the service began. The repetitive and meditatory nature of the Bainas gathering energy and spirits in their Reza de Roda, intoning praises to each Orixá, choreographing the essence of each deity was now familiar in the way it both lulled my conscious mind and incited my spirit. Often the ceremonies are dedicated to one major Orixá, though each one always gets their due and honorifics. Ancillary Orixá, Nana the mother of Omulu may be fêted on his day to strengthen the power and presence of Omulu in the Terreiro.

Tonight Iroko, Iewa, Ossain and Oxumare were being engaged.

Iroko- A major figure in the Candomblé of Salvador, represented by the tree of the same name, alternatively the Strangler Fig or Ceiba. The seeds of the Iroko take flight and alight in the boughs of their hosts, strangling them to begin their own life. Often they leave a sacred room where the host had once been. Iroko is the tree that grows from heaven into the earth, in opposition to the cycle of every other tree. An archetype of time, symbolic of a person who is rigorous, malicious, and open in their views, imbued with graciousness and an empathic heart.

Iewa-Is synonomous with Iemanja. She is that manifestation of Iemanja that lives in the foam of the rushing breakers. She is effervescent, connoting change and flux.

Ossain-is the divinity of leaves, medicines and the liturgy. He brings power through the leaves, sun and rain to heal and share with those who understand his gifts.

Oxumaré-Father to both Nanã e Obaluaiye,(or Omulu),the spirit of mobility and activities, the one who directs movement.

Ossain and Oxumare were presented in several of their manifestations. They had golden, green, brilliant hued costumes, staffs, crowns and powerful. The mounted and costumed celebrants filled the room with more than fifteen Orixá giving praise, humbling themselves and dancing in tempo to the Atabaque. The food I saw was simple, some sweets and fruit. I did not stay through to the end of the ceremony. Late in the evening I looked out the window and saw Zeno heading up the hill towards his car. I called to him, and we went home together. We had our final discussion of place and spirit. He related to me some of the details of the ceremony at Castro Alves last week that had honored the tenth anniversary of his mother, Mae Cleusa. We discussed my work, and his attempts to arrange an interview with the woman who is the Chef of Gantois. That would have to happen on my next visit. The spiritual season was in full swing, so he was overloaded and spirited.

I slept in, a little too late. By the time we left the house in the morning it was nearly eleven. I watched João ham it up for my camera as I ate my café da manha while Zeno showered. He had found a tender spot in my heart. I knew that in all likelihood based upon his age, I would be a stranger upon my return to his world. Youth and aging have so many parallels.

Zeno dropped me off at a Federação bus stop on his way to the Terreiro. I missed both of the ferries I was shooting for. I had made arrangements to have lunch at Sacatar and meet the new fellows. The twelve thirty Lancha arrived at Mar Grande close to one forty and I encountered my first female moto tax driver, Mery. It seemed appropriate that one of the last trips would be unique. She was careful and quick. I felt comfortable enough to shoot some pics from my perch in the rear. I made sure that Luis took her name and number, she could be a good contact for some of the fellows, especially this new crop of women fellows.

Hivebee

I was immediately swarmed and information was drained like a Vulcan Mind Meld. This time there were six fellows and one had a collaborator who was staying in Salvador. Film, photography and writing were the disciplines. I was quite impressed with the group. They appeared to have created some strong primary bonds from the jump. I was glad to share what knowledge I had. They were all curious about the Eguns. It seems that Halloween, Day of the Dead has resonance for them as well. Within 20 minutes I was exhausted and famished. Slowly they went to their studios and left me in the courtyard, hungry. Something was off in this scene. Michelle the writer and journalist had continued to engage me after the others had departed. Out of the corner of my consciousness I saw and felt the presence of the team from Capoeira União. Good. One of my main reasons for coming back to Sacatar was to officially say goodbye to Augusto and Luis, but mainly to try and connect to Junior. He really had my heart and my second attention. Now as I write this, two weeks later he still is in my mind several times a day. I want so much for him to find a way through the loss of his mom and what could be a poor, working class existence. He has so much to offer.I hope that he can keep moving on; move forward or in place until he can find himself.

Flashback: Farol da Barra

2008-11-16T10:51:00.000-08:00

I arrived at the bar after Tracy did. He was fully engaged with my homeys when I arrived from the TVE –São Joaquim interview. My last night with Bia and Giovana seemed as fun and fresh as our first meeting months ago. We all met, Tracy too at the 24/7 seaside bar next to Barraca de Dinha in Rio Vermelho for cocktails and Acarajé. Boiled Peanut, roasted cashew and grilled cheese on a stick vendors happened by in addition to some panhandlers all looking for our Reals. Giovana bought a Pu-Pu platter of Abarrá and Acarajé to share.

Bia wanted to take us to an opening, of one of their dear friends. I cannot recall her name right now, but the show was engaging. Not what I expected and that’s a good thing. The gallery was inside the Colonial lighthouse of Porto da Barra. I had passed it many times, meandering through the neighborhood. Though I had never had had the desire to climb the stair and check into the nautical museum. After I had scoped out the show, which was a fascinating statement on waste, I went to find a toilet. The bathrooms shared the floor with the observation deck. The sentries needn’t have left their posts for long.

I was mesmerized nestled myself just inside one of the turrets. Time was elastic standing under a slit of a moon, with beachfront floods casting sterile, white shadows on surf & sand, as the flickering fistfuls of light beams splashed across the murky waves. I vacillated between centuries, free associating myself as a colonial sentry, a landscape oil-painter, a 21st century Coast Guardsman, tourist, dignitary or photographer. Pre-Edison I knew that the Portuguese or the Brazilians must have had mirrors and torches where we are so electric. I was all of them, all of those time periods for a flicker of time.

Returning to the gallery, I dug a bit deeper into the show. The artist had made a discipline of walking, swimming and diving along the coast, scavenging the detritus, forgotten and rejected by other people. She had packaged every piece of garbage in plastic with a label as if it a consumer good for sale in Wal-Mart or the local mall. Everything was plastic, brilliant primary colors, mangled or worn. She later said that everything here represented floaters. She dove for the things that sink, metal, glass, certain woods and furniture. The beach had always been an inspiration for her. Prior to this chapter she said that she had absorbed the landscape, the elements, birds, fish and sounds in a more traditional way. Now she reacted to it, in deference to responding to it.

Carrosa to the other side of town.

2008-10-27T12:44:00.000-07:00

On Friday at the Irmandade, Valmi had suggested that I come back Saturday at ten to go with him to Mae Filinha’s house to see the cooking process. Everyone in Salvador had said that they were sure they would be serving Caruru. Valmi told me that she requested Feijoada. There was said to be no significance or metaphor in the choice of Feijoada, they did not have to feed Orixa, just honor Filinha’s wishes for her 105th birthday.

When I arrived just past ten the next morning Reunis was the Sister on duty. She came in while we were talking, Valmi, two of his four daughters and me. She changed into a lovely saia of red lace with a typical white lace blouse and head wrap. She has a wide, round face and tender eyes. Her gaze always suggests a tolerance and empathy for all of those people who cross her path. She greeted me, by saying,” Se chama uma pessoa atençao. Cada feo tem sua simpatico e cada bom tem sua elegante.” Attentive people see that we each have an ugly side that asks for sympathy and a good side that exudes elegance. A morning thought that would, or should have helped me later.

Valmi left me with Reunis and he went to get the carrosa or mule driven wagon. They intended to transport a refrigerator over to Filinha’s to store overflow food and drink for the party. He came back shortly, and suggested that I get a cab or motor scooter taxi to follow him. “Não podemos ir comjunto?" I asked. I wanted to ride in the cart. He loved that side of me. Twice he jumped off the cart, grabbed my camera and jogged ahead or stayed behind to make a photo-op with me as the focus. We fall in well together.

We probably could have ruptured our bladders riding in the cart over the cobblestones across town, but it was good, honest fun. Valmi introduced me to one Filinha’s daughters and sons and left to help with the Caravana da Musica e Deportes that was coming to town with Daniela Mercury. I took a seat in the open air Terreiro and began observing how unique and beautiful it was. Three middle aged black women were already sitting alongside me on the same bench . One of them had been introduced to me in the street just outside of the house. She had a kind face and elephantine calves. A pretty powder blue headwrap and matching dress, fitted at the bust and ample below to keep her hips under cover.

The other two started speaking at me in hushed tones, immediately. They were probing me to see how much Portuguese I spoke and understood. They wanted to converse about me, in front of my face. Not very pretty. What they did share were their names, Ayesha and Eunidis. They were both from the area near Feiras de Santana. Allegedly a powerful community with interesting terreiros, some of which were administered Gays and Bi’s. They were neither.

They had a vengeful look that worked its way into my skin like a slow cigarette burn to the groin. They needed to know if I had been made. “Está feito, voce? Acho que nao. Pois, estava vendo suas contas, e são mau feito pra voce. Quem jogou pra voce? I see your beads, they were not well chosen for you, who threw the cowries for you?"

Ele deve ser Iansa. Sim, estou do acordo. Iansa e Ogum, não pode ser Xango, e tampoco Iemanja. Sinto que não estava quebrada de cabesa.” Sim, de verdade. Tem razão. I wasn’t sure if I should answer their entreaties or play dumb. What can these folks see, really?" I put 2 and 7 together and realized that they must both be Mae’s de Santo. I didn’t conclude then that they were also Senhoras do Boa Morte. The conversation continued on like root canal without anasthesthia.

They were from the Casa Nago Viuduese, (no Jeje) . They both had Iansa. One carried Iemanja, and the other Ogum. The third woman , dressed in blue had been quiet up to now. She interjected that she also had Iemanja and Oxum. Sparks flew between them, in what seemed like a clinical vivisection of Scott.

Maruzia, Caol, Igor and TVE

2008-10-27T12:36:00.000-07:00

Quinta Feira, 16:30 and counting.......

Luis had let me know that TVE was interested in interviewing me regarding my work on Afro-Baiano Cuisine back in mid September. He had thought that the connection would be a good one for me. Now it is nearly the end of October. Every week we play phone & e-tag with a new round of dates. How many times will we change the date? Some of the dates they have suggested are for after my departure. Mosaico was anal with details, and scripts. These folks just need me to be available. First we planned to be in a restaurant, just as before. Again I chose Feijão de Alaide, in the Pelourinho.

I spoke to one of Alaide’s cooks and tentatively set it up. Nope. That won’t do, we want to shoot at São Joaquim. Another cancelled date with Alaide, burn that bridge.

We are working without a script or outline. If I have a question, they suggest I email them. I like improv…yet, I also like a thread of substance too. I chose a final date, last Friday that wasn’t at an ideal time. I could live with it. Thursday evening I planned to meet Tracy, Ana Bia and Giovana for drinks at the bar next to Acarjé de Dinha in Rio Vermelho. Then Wednesday, they want to change to Thursday, even though it conflicts with my schedule. Bia & Giovana said that it was important and I should do it, we could rearrange our meeting.

I sent jpegs to each of them and to Tracy so that they could identify each other. I arrived at Sao Joaquim in a fast cab and proceeded to wait for nearly an hour. Caught in a NY neurotic spasm, I am not quite Baiano I guess.

Seeing Analia: Vivaldo redux--Lion in a kettle

2008-10-27T12:31:00.000-07:00

Arriving back to Cachoeira Friday afternoon, I kept finding broken phone booths. On a whim, I walked to Francisca’s apartment/studio and Itamaraci was home waiting for me. I dropped my things and walked over to the Irmandade. I found Mae Analia & Valmi, the glue or maybe Ops director there. Valmi was the fulcrum in the education project that Francisca and I had discussed. We laughed a bit, catching up on all of our escapades.

I remembered to give Analia greetings from Luis Antonio and Vivaldo. She smiled and thanked me. Immediately she went into a personal Vivaldo reverie. “Ele e profundo e essential!--He taught me what I am singing. I know the songs, I learned the words when I was young. Listen, can you sing it?”…….She sang a few sacred songs and then told me how he shared that this song brought Xango into the room, or summoned Ogum to come listen to their requests. You will find what you are seeking with him.
Everyone has a story about Vivaldo. Now that I have met him, it is as if another door has opened. His power and knowledge are revered and his contributions to the culture are invaluable according to all. Analia said it is hard to keep knowledge inside your head, especially details. He has it all.

One colleague mentioned a spat over a parking space that endured longer than they thought it should have. Mistakes happen. Though, strong willed people can boil quickly. Another echoed previous sentiments of how much of a touchstone he is. I was in good hands.

He had been surprised how quickly I had found Analia e Filinha. You Americans he intoned……

Back in the Irmandade, Analia hit me up for some money for dinner. I guess this will pay for ingredients for the dish she promised to make when I come over Sunday morning. She wasn’t sure if she would be at the birthday party for Mae Filinha, maybe. I have sensed that like any club or group there are allegiances and petty jealousies. She hugged me and left to shop for dinner.

Cookin’ at Ilê Ayé-

2008-10-27T12:30:00.000-07:00

I was not sure what the nature of their Culinary Program was like. Last month during my interview with Vovo, the director of Ilê Ayé, he had suggested that I come observe it. I packed that away with my things to do when I am staying in Salvador. I guessed that it might be a vocationally based program, training the prep crew and ancillary employees as opposed to developing a cadre of cooks and chefs. Other than the fact that it was community based for Liberdade residents, how did it compare with the intensive program at Senac? I had been impressed with how comprehensive and affordable Senac’s program was.

Recently, several people including Beto at Pariaso had spoken well of it. I decided to do it before I left for Cachoeira. There were two sessions per day, 8:00-12:00 and 1:00-5:00. I decided to go on Tuesday after my morning errands. I would shoot to get there as close to one o’clock as possible. I arrived at 1:30 PM and asked for Gelson, one of Vovo’s assistants. He informed me that the teacher needed more warning, even if I was just observing. And he needed to reconfirm my authority to observe with Vovo. “How about tomorrow? 9:30?” “Sim, está bom, Escotch.” “Então, até amanha!” Kind of a bummer, but ok.

I was mixed into Gelton’s Welcome to Ilê Ayé Tour Group, until the culinary administrator, Elizete; Vovo’s Sister in Law could be located. The culinary classroom was appropriately clinical, all white tile and stainless steel, white smocks and hairnets. I learned that in addition to a Culinary Teacher they also had a Nutritionist on site.

Students first learned some general history of the development of man as a species, leading up to his alimentation. The course covered all aspects of cooking, not just Baian foods. Decoration and visual display of prepared foods was also stressed. I heard that aesthetics were important to, since we eat with our eyes. I knew that banquet service was an integral aspect of both home and professional kitchens. I guessed that banquet work was probably a key avenue to employment.

The term was twenty weeks, twenty hours per week, no more than 20 students per class, between 17-24 years old. Students were selected from the community, bright young lights, recommended by teachers, church leaders and community organizations. Tuition was free if you were accepted. During my brief orientation to the program, Elizete said, that If three students stick with it, graduate and find work, then she is happy. We agreed that regardless of the outcome, the discipline, continuity, effort and knowledge involved with culinary education would inform their lives and career choices.
Today’s class prepared a whole baked fish, Amarella. It was accompanied by Rice, Molho de Pimenta, Farofa and salad. I guessed that the Nutritionist tried to inject some healthy alternatives to the popular fried foods and rich meats inherent in the local cuisine. While the fish was cooking part of the class began to prep tomorrow’s lesson. They simmered a whole octopus and cleaned shrimp for the seafood Mariscada and cut okra for Caruru.

The gender ratio of the group was 2 young men: 17 young women. I asked Elizete about this skew, since I already knew that women had a real glass ceiling in the local food scene. Truthfully, one boy was a pretty boy and scared of his shadow, while the other might not have been breathing.

She acknowledged that finding employment was tough for women, really hard for all students. But, the boys would find work. The girls often worked for small Mom & Pop operations, started their own cottage businesses or became better home cooks. I asked her if she was familiar with the Incubator project in the center of the state that gave intensive and comprehensive training to women in Candy Making with local fruits, allowing them to come away with a home based business. She knew of it, but it was one dimensional. She trained for all phases of culinary work.
I shut my mouth, gratefully took the plate I was offered and sat down at her desk to have lunch with her. The meal was good. Elizete asked me to say a few words to the students regarding what I had observed. I thanked them, asked briefly about their motivations to study cooking and applauded their efforts.

Quarta Feira da amanha-Cross town traffic

2008-10-27T12:18:00.000-07:00

Long distance running. Filling in the blanks, holes in my agenda, tourist shopping and one interview were my goals. I keep asking myself, “Why can’t I lose weight from all of this walking on cobbled streets?”

I left home just after nine on Wednesday morning to finally talk with Professor Jefferson Bacelas at CEAO, (Centro Estudios Afro Orientais, http://www.ceao.ufba.br) We had previously arranged to meet last Friday, until I had received the call about Junior’s mom.

The week before I had sought him out, after Claudio, the film Professor had recommended that I speak to him. He shared an office with two people, a Baiana and an American, who administered an international exchange program for college students to CEAO. Matt, the American, seemed like the perfect subject for Molly’s book project that I am trying to help with. It could mean some lucrative freelance work and good contacts for back home. She needs recipe development with particular themes and demographics.

Jefferson was also a colleague of Vivaldo. Vivaldo had helped found CEAO as well as IPAC, ( ).We hit it off well. Selfishly he seemed to revel in the ability to talk shop with someone who basically knew the score. We sparred briefly, comparing and haggling over relative strengths of academic research and historical materials available in our respective countries. He felt that we were far superior in the scope of documented materials detailing the Colonial history of Slavery: our own and the general global scene.

I asked if part of this could be a result of climatic deterioration of original source materials. He thought it was a more about our culture of inclusion. We agreed to stay in touch. He was curious as to how I was making out with Vivaldo. I was content. I asked if he had many students focusing on History via Food Studies. Very few. It was always just an aspect of a larger work. He seemed like another person who was not quite in the right fit, if that existed for him at all. Teaching history was enjoyable, but his focus was food, and he stressed not Food Journalism and Home Décor.

I left close to noon and grabbed some lunch just off of the Largo. I went back to a place Urania had tried to take me to, one Saturday morning. It turned out to be an old haunt of Amado’s, Porto Moreira. The walls were plastered with old and new clippings, celebrity citings; writers, film makers and folk musicians, not Hollywood types. The Galinha com Molho Pardo was excellent. The unctuous sauce had a great napping consistency and a tangy vinegary finish. As always prices were ridiculously cheap.

My next goal was to stop in at Fundação Gregorio Mattos for some research materials if they had them, São Joaquim for some of Viterino’s hand painted unglazed tiles, (Eneida’s recommendation), Liberdade for Ilê Ayé’s culinary program, Cabula to pick up a Oxum doll at Ilê Axé and stop in at Paraiso Tropical to see the garden/or just thank Jorelma for her help. Ready?- go!

I peaked down into the valley of Barroquina and the “leather church” Tracy had enjoyed photographing. The nickname comes from all of the artesan leather goods people who line the steps down to the church. Shortly thereafter I had a few snapshots, two pairs of slippers and pony sandals. Yes, pony. All for $45 reals. The Fundação yielded no fruit. They suggested Casa do Benin. I sidetracked there, and amidst the beautiful African art, I found a good book for Mossa, but not what I was looking for.

Regrouping a bit, I hiked up the Ladeira do Carmo, and asked in at a few Pousadas in preparation for next week with no roof. I found rustic charm, quiet streets and a great view for a higher price than I wanted to pay. I took the Carro Inclinado down to Calçada and a bus to São Joaquim.

Viterino and his tiles were a great find. He and his spouse were playing something like Bridge or Bid Whisk on an old piece of wooden paneling straddling their knees. Viterino’s head was down concentrating on his cards. He looked like his eyesight was poor from all of the repetitive fine brush work. Another fellow, middle aged and swarthy attended to me. Every time I wanted to see another design motif, they had to lift their makeshift table, one of them had to stand up to find and pull out a carton of samples. The space was littered with ceramics waiting to be sold.

When it came to pricing my booty, suddenly Viterino perked up and observed me. “How I had found him? Was I an architect? Another architect had taken many designs already.” I wondered, did I get a better price if I passed the grade? We bartered a bit, and when we made our deal, his wife-partner interjected flashing few teeth but a keen savy for numbers. She questioned his pricing for me. Then he brought out the catalogs identifying him as a local treasure. In the end, I got my price.

I asked for a small bowl for cooking Moqueca , and she brought out a beautiful one that was 28 inches across not including the fish head and tail on it. I said it was great and thoroughly impractical for international travel. As she went to put it back the tail came off in her hand. Oops. She needed more revenue from me. “How about this, and….?” I agreed on a small Moqueca bowl and my tiles, 24 total for $50 reals. Their assistant wrapped them in newspaper, boxed them and created a carry handle with twine. I was done.

I was walking to the Carro Inclinado up to Liberdade when I saw a great Xango figurine three feet tall. I stopped to photograph it, at the Casa de Yemanja and picked up some contas as gifts. The owner moved my box from a stool to his counter as he climbed up to pull the contas down from their display. The box was poorly positioned and crashed to the ground. I cursed under my breath. He assured me it would be fine, unwrap them at home, and let him know. Now anxious, I left quickly, got up to Liberdade bussing and walking to Ilê Ayé, only to be turned away until tomorrow.

The steep hill down from Rua Curuzu intersected with several bus lines. I made it to Ilê Axé just after four. Today, Wednesday was Xango’s day. I already knew that the store and museum were consistently open on Wednesday’s, and sporadic on other days of the week. Since they were having a ceremony today, the woman who ran the museum had Obligacões, and had only worked for a few hous in the morning. I could come back next Wednesday, or Thursday. No. I can’t,….hmmm. That went nowhere. I decided to just go home, skipping Paraiso altogether.

I walked in the door, one hour later, close to 5:30, the time we had agreed on to leave for the ceremony at Ilê Axé. I chugged a beer, pulled my box up onto Kathy’s bed to go through the tiles with her. 75% were broken. F ck. She extracted four and I now had to navigate my next steps. I put everything together, separating out the remaining intact pieces, changed my shirt and got ready to go with Tracy and Kathy to the Terreiro. It would be Kathy’s first ceremony.

o farol

2008-10-27T12:15:00.000-07:00

Bia, Giovana more goodbyes

2008-10-27T12:14:00.000-07:00

I was continuing the beginning of Goodbyes- Immediately with these two women I want to be laughing, and then I am, we all are. I have a buoyancy around them. Peanuts, acarajé, beer, coke and abarrá we littered the table and filled our bellies at dusk in Rio Vermelho, perto de Barraca da Dinha. This time too many itinerant snack sellers and beggars came looking for resources, a handout or a point of sale. The only thing missing was Paulo, another designer and Bia’s colleague. He couldn’t get a babysitter. We ended up leaving to see an opening of their friend, a former Sacatar fellow inside the Farol de Barra.

Their friend’s work was focused on the sea environment, garbage and recycling. She swam, dove and collected waste left behind. The dives yielded glass, wood and metal. Swimming and scavenging brought the plastic detritus that she had carefully packaged and labeled as if it were a consumer item for sale. The name of each item was the same {Dev} olvido do mar. Simply and effectively executed, the juxtaposition of saturated rainbow colors and consumerist packaging targeted our disposable culture and our lack of reverence for the sea ; a resource and home to Orixa.

Looking for a spot for xixi , I found the terrace or I guess cannon battery that overooked the corner of the Bay, (Baia do Todos Santos) and the Atlantic. The imposing Farol light pulsed red and white beams into the water and the four turrets, now chained must have been former lookout or sniper spots. I made some murky pictures in this inky night occasionally interrupted by floodlights highlighting the lighthouse as an icon.

Getting out of the Jeep at Eneida’s where we were crashing to say goodbye back in Rio V. wasn’t difficult, but it tugged at me. In that moment of transition these two women had made themselves available to Michele and me. Bia and Michele sketched dreams of future collaborations. We all quickly learned to have fun together, enjoying each other despite a lack of shared language.

Quarta Feira-Back to Opo Ofonja:

2008-10-27T11:56:00.000-07:00

Luckily for me at this point in my day, Tracy suggested that we take a cab and not the sixty minute bus ride back to Ilê Axé. Tonight’s ceremony was for Iansa. She was senuous almost hedonistic. Suffered degradation from her abusive father, fell in passionately in love with Ogum and controlled the winds.

The hilltop Terreiro is spacious, simple and rustic. There is little attempt to disguise the concrete slab building materials. Today’s decorations are reminiscent of Junior High School class art projects, all glitter and glam. There is a beautiful life size image of a Musk Ox behind the thrones at the head of the space. One of Iansa’s iconic images is this animal. As we enter the barracão a portly black man bumps into us, and quickly says Hi, in English. So much for Tracy’s thought of our blending in. He turns out to be John Mason, a colleague of both Danny and Robert Thompson. We talk briefly of his research into Yoruba roots, and mine in Culinary. A Brooklyn native, he is in town for the full cycle of ceremonies. We exchange info and he gets escorted to a VIP area.

Against type the ceremony is delayed. This Terreiro generally runs on time. We watch as several large kettles and stew pots are carried in by muscular men. A group of tweens in oversized hot pink T-shirts walk In and climb to a stand above the Atabaques. They have a youth chorus to sing the Yoruban songs. The service began about 45 minutes behind schedule.

After the initial prayers to Orixa, several people begin to trance in the center of the circular procession. They seem buffeted by the ring of hands and bodies. This group seems to be shaken or thrown into their trance, a metaphor of Iansa? A few young people under seven trance too. One young girl, becomes a major focal point in her ecstatic mounted dance.

At the break, I see Raul Lody who had directed the Dende seminar. Glad to see me again, we talk briefly about my work. He offers to stay in touch and inform me when the book from the seminar will be published. I keep making more goodbyes with the people I first met here.

I step outside to find my smoking friend. Kathy is taken by the power of the ceremony, the rootedness of Africa in Baia. She gets it, as I knew she would. Kathy also saw why I have become so intrigued by this culture. Why I am so intent on learning more, and more. Tracy appears to have come to terms with the practice, but it is not his schtick.

Food is being served. I retrieve a plate to share, but they want two. Passing out food to the several hundred people in attendance is a feat. We all eat some and then head back inside. The ceremony resumes with the dancing of many Iansa’s dressed in pink and red gowns. There were a few shirtless Ogums, with fabric wrappers tied across their chests.

We have all just about lost our seats in the crush of new arrivals. Kathy had said that her stamina was limited. I looked at the time, and knew that Henrique should be in the yard. I found him dozing in his car, and promised that we would be done shortly. Driving home, I shared jabs with Henrique. We laughed about Augusto’s devotion to his church, MacDonald’s. And Henrique told me how his grandmother had been a Mae de Santo when he was growing up. He had helped her with her duties, but nobody, not his mom or siblings had ever taken up the call. It was a great last evening for Kathy.

2008-10-27T11:37:00.001-07:00

The beginning of Goodbyes

2008-10-27T11:33:00.000-07:00

Time tough. In a recent email, Danny suggested that I had the pre-Saudade Saudade in reference to a statement I had made regarding my displeasure over my imminent departure. Yeas, a deep, and moanful blue(s). Melancholia nervosa. I have many, many thoughts of this place I have begun to know, Baia do Todos Santos; Cachoeira, Itaparica & Salvador. I feel like my feet have sprouted interstitial root hairs, looking for a place to take hold, grow and come into flower.

It is by no means perfect. The poverty is omnipresent. But the culture and the manera de ser of the people is transcendent. As almas da gente da aqui, têm um sol reflechindo ao mundo. Que beleza; beleza. The soul of the people holds a sunshine reflecting out to the world. How beautiful; beauty.

Coming and leaving. I have looked up several times randomly and realize that I have found myself in places where I had began this journey. First, it was coming back to Rua Doutor João Ponde e Edificio: Paul Cezanne with Kathy and Tracy. The same apartment that Michele and I had rented in July and August.

Originally, I had planned to take a trip and travel to another region to see a new view and gather information from another point of reference. I am glad I stayed local. More things became evident as I became more and more familiar with Salvador. It may be a street corner that comes up out of nowhere, or a concerted effort to reconnect and say goodbye to a new colleague or budding friendship.

I had asked Danny what if anything did he need to be brought back to NYC? All he wanted as Valdina’s Pemba. A special chalkish powder. She harvests it once a year in late May or early June. It is dried and ground fine. Then it is used as an aspect of ritual practice.

I had decided to try and nail down all of the stuffs that I needed to bring home before I left for Cachoeira on Friday morning. I also thought that it would be a good idea to go to Tanuri Junçara, Valdina’s Terreiro. We had never managed to coordinate my visit during my residency. The Terreiro was close to her house in Engenho Velho de Federacao. Wednesday’s and Thursday’s they were open to the public.

I had had a full morning already running between Dois de Julho for an interview, Liberdade, Sao Joaquim and Mercado Modelo before coming to Federacao. I got the wrong cabbie from the Mercado. When I told him where I thought it was, he acknowledged that he knew where to go. To insure success, I borrowed his cell to call Tracy. He was able to give me the exact address that I had in my computer, Rua Apolinário Santana, #146. I looked down to check my notebook for something and then I saw that he went into the wrong part of the neighborhood. We had previously discussed where to enter this large district. At the next traffic jam, I jumped out and threw 10 reals in his lap, discounting money for his mistake.

Walking down the main avenue I passed a Manicure-Terreiro combo business. I guess you have to know that you can pay the rent. I asked a few blocks later and was asked which one of the three major Terreiros’ just ahead did I want? This group of women was not familiar with the name I had given, or my pronunciation of it. Then, one woman stepped forward from the group I had stopped and she said she had an idea. She pointed, explaining the location and landmarks to me before I continued on down the hill.

At the first doorway, she appeared again, and dissuaded me from ringing the bell. Let’s try the next one, she said. Suddenly, I had a partner. I knew already that the third one was Bodum, Urania’s Terreiro, so I was confident that middle choice would be Tanuri.

The heavy wooden door opened up to a large courtyard and driveway with a large, old tree in the middle of it, (memories of my Norwalk home). A carved, wooden plaque, was painted in primary colors: Terreiro Tanuri Junçara. The yard was ringed by a few two story houses and the Barracão or ceremonial room. A boy was folding clothes just inside the open second floor window on my right. I asked him for help and his mother appeared. She said that Valdina was probably at home, but I was free to look around, “Fica vontage a ver o que voce quer.”

I stepped into the dark, squarish room, stacked with chairs and other stored items which suggested that they were in between ceremonies. A large image of Yemanja was the only décor. As I walked back into the bright midday sun, a thin, jet colored man appeared to greet me. He had a halting Portuguese that I had to work on to comprehend. He led me to each offertory shrine, and each house of Orixa, explaining who was being honored. Since I had never been to a ceremony here, I had not realized that it was Angola or Fon Terreiro, until he explained that if I was Ketu, I would call it this name in Ioruba and if I was Nago-Jeje I would call it that. The layers and interconnections run thick and deep. I took one picture and left to find Valdina.

Ten minutes later, I walked through the back door of the ad hoc thrift shop into the yard that her house shared with half a dozen others. She was home and just as I had found her, at her computer. Her head wrapped in a beautiful coil of fabric. She had a long short sleeved cotton shift, decorated with a bit of lace. Funny she said, after we embraced. I had just returned your email, when you walked in.

We talked for a bit about my research, and she invited me to a Palestra, she called an Abara. I guessed that they borrowed the name of the steamed amalgam of ground black-eyed peas, ginger, Dende and grated onion wrapped and cooked in a banana leaf as a metaphor of the joining of ideas involved with culture, politics and food. Unfortunately, it would occur while I as in Cachoeira.

I sensed in this conversation how she was renewing her invitation of welcome to her community and culture. We laughed together when I asked for the Pemba. She told me that everyone who comes from NY to Salvador is required to bring back Pemba for Danny. He’s gotta have it. Shrewd dog. She wished me well and we both looked forward to my return.

This time I found a cab who knew how to get to where I was going. When I walked up the ramp to the driveway of Paul Cezanne at 3:00 PM, Henrique, Tracy and Kathy were anxiously waiting for me. I ran up, grabbed my things, shut down my computer and said goodbye to this oasis. Henrique dropped me and my stuff at Zeno’s and took Kathy to the airport. I had to switch gears and go back downtown to São Joaquim and meet the TVE crew for my interview on connections between African-American and Afro-Baian foods. Time was tight.

can i get a witness

2008-10-21T11:43:00.000-07:00

I will soon be back in the States. Truthfully other than voting, seeing my girlfriend Michele, my Dad, my Godfather who is doing poorly and a few assorted dear dear friends, I am not interested in being back. Timing is everything, so here I come. I need all of your juju, white light and hidden magic. 48 hours after I get in I am scheduled to take the GRE's. I have been reviewing data that I learned first 30 years ago, and learning new stuff I have never seen before. Yeah, its a trip. I am hoping for good scores in verbal, writing, etc. Math is a crap shoot. So, cross fingers, toes and spaghetti for me. thanks Scott

last one.

2008-10-21T02:28:00.000-07:00

any body tuned in?

2008-10-21T02:06:00.000-07:00

a little morning marketing pitch.....Ana Claudia's mom makes these spreads, bags, pillows etc. They seem to think that accessing the American market through me will turn the tide and increase her sales. If, you like these and want one for your own, email me asap and I will negotiate to bring it home with me. I will be seeing them this weekend.ciao. S

fck

2008-10-20T17:48:00.000-07:00

Francisca just mailed me. The tech says her Hard Drive is irretrievable. It fell when Florian and I were working at the same time one Sunday morning in her tech room. I chose to sit there for company more than anything else. I am nauseas at the idea of eight years of her students work stuck in a corrupted sector. Everybody back up now. I wish I had a good or effective way to grab the data and preserve it. I am sure she is fighting demons trying to cope. Her doctoral defenses are in December. This is the guts of her dissertation. Shit.

stuff

2008-10-20T16:43:00.000-07:00

remake remodel

2008-10-20T16:23:00.000-07:00

Today I had some time with V. We had arranged a day in his library situated on the second floor above his house. Henrique drove me to the house in his cab. The traffic was light, possibly due to the bank workers strike and little money in the street. We got there early, just after 8:30. Henrique split and I sat on a low cement wall reading my GRE book for thirty minutes waiting for nine A.M.

I was lead into the living room, greeted Mrs. and given some cool water to drink. He came in shortly afterwords and we spoke briefly. He shared the Sunday food section with me and then he probed me for details. “Did I realize that I would need to have an adequate bibliography of Brazilian Culinary Books to begin my work with? I could supplement it with titles of similar significance from Portugal or Africa.”
He cautioned me about the delicacy of his health and stamina. “Now we can begin.”

We discussed regionality in Brazilian cooking and I made the error of paraphrasing a previous statement, substituting “typical” for regional. I quickly learned the etymology of typical, type, to typos from the Greek. I also realized how tiptoeing through word mine fields might become a necessity. Tread lightly, but with assurance.

We ran between an old fashioned apprenticeship, light banter, questions of intent, rootedness and jazz. He adored Chet Baker, among others. We both had a strong taste for Opera, Blues and African music. Some of that would unfold later.

The library was accessed by an external wrap around stair. There were windows on two sides. Full bookcases, mostly the gunmetal painted steel jobs seen in supply offices and medical equipment closets filled every wall. More books were stacked across three wooden tables. Within in moments of putting down his cane, he was picking up book after book and detailing key aspects of the story offered in each.

I was bringing my chair closer to his, looking over titles from Senegal to Goa. New stacks were growing. I wished then that I had taped this time. He moved so quickly for someone who truly did not seem as well as he could be, so animated, in the zone that I was taken aback when he stood up and suddenly seemed wounded.

I checked myself for a moment, had I miss stepped, spoken out of turn…?.Hmm. No. Now he barked about medicine and pain. I needed to have more empathy, for him in his situation. He got me with a low blow. I could be accused of being so high from the previous moments that I had pushed his limits. I was quite anxious now, since I really did not know him more than a few hours. As he turned in the doorway, I called out that I could understand, my father was his age. I didn’t speak of my mom.

It might be the vagaries of ego, too. We all need to be stroked. And as most elders and wise people I have met, academic or otherwise it can be a thorny vine to navigate egos and agendas. Pull it back a little. “Desce!”He called me to descend, and I didn’t want to. It seemed like going downstairs now, might set me into a characterization that was not mine. I asked if I could stay a bit, before I finished he told me, “Fica vontage se voce quiser, eu vou pra meus remedios agora.” Ok, I agreed to stay.

Alone I began to feel guilty. I understood the concept, but I did not truly know the nature or extent of his pain. Thinking that this might be the first and only time with these books, I decided to write notes for ten minutes and leave. Writing,now scribbling scrawl, fast, faster. My eyes darted up and down shelves to locate the gems he had referred to moments earlier. I think I retrieved most of them. I had some remorse. I put down my pad, went to the doorway and found that he had left his cane. I grabbed it and went downstairs.

He didn’t want the cane now. Male patterning; gotta do it myself-I’m ok, I don’t need any help. He reiterated that I could stay alone upstairs. I returned and took a little more time to recount which books required notation. I found him in his library 15 minutes later. He was studying quietly.

He motioned for me to sit, and then handed me an open book. Read this, if you can. It was a well written overview of Afro-Brazilian food written by him years earlier. It put things in order nicely. Once I had finished he told me that soon he would be leaving to run errands and see the doctor. Now is when he described his medical issues in depth. When he finished, I asked if I could call Henrique to come get me.

He thought that I was foolish to take a cab. I concurred and added that I had wanted to make sure that I was prompt for the meetings. I also needed to find where the bus stop was and which buses came closest to his home. He agreed to take me. I said that if he didn’t mind, I could get out at the bus stop. He insisted on driving me home. And also that at our next meeting, I should stay for lunch, planning to work into the afternoon. He gave me a slim volume with a concise history of the cuisine to take home. He also suggested that he could Xerox some articles that were no longer in print for me to keep.

We got up and went into the sitting room. I swear he had transplanted Perry & Nedie Sloane juju all over his sitting room. The art, color schemes, the same coziness, all of it. Just with a Brazilian flair, no Waterbury here. We discussed music in greater depth and we looked through some of the African ethno-musical series he had been an advisor for.

Barbara came in to ask if we needed a drink. I said that I was fine, and he stared at me from the bottom of his glasses. “Pois, se voce quis…-” I trailed off. Yes, he was thirsty. How do I like my Scotch? The eleven A. M. drink should always be neat so you really see right away where you are going. He apologized for not offering me Bourbon. I truly did prefer Scotch. I was happy, considering. Our talk became more jocular and rambly. The bell rang but he wasn’t ready to leave. We did have our Scotches, and he was showing me some of his music. The driver waited outside until we were through several minutes later.

We dropped him at a shopping center to run his errands. I was ferried home by Edger. I learned that he had two eight year olds, Junior and Matilda. “Ibeji; -twins I asked?” He mentioned a word I didn’t know. I looked puzzled. He explained that they were two months apart born from different mothers. “Oh..did they know, that you had to bellies pregnant at the same time in 2000?” “Nao, mais tarde. Eu ses disse mais tarde. E agora sim elas falam. Todo e tranquilo.” It was all good now. “Whew that’s a load to bear. But, I guess you know that you are fertile” I said. He smiled, as I opened the car door to leave. We had arrived in front of our building on Joao Ponde.

Diogo, Antonio, me & Jorge/Georges. Michael

2008-10-20T10:41:00.000-07:00

Jorge's Mom, drying Cacao Beans, Big's son Adrian

2008-10-20T10:19:00.000-07:00

where's Lurch?

2008-10-20T10:14:00.000-07:00

Once inside the yard the gate was closed, locked and chained behind us. A warning, or a hint? We entered the house which was also faced in stone tiles drab and grayish. I felt like we had entered the crypt. Things were cast about like a Tennessee Williams set, pure Brazilian Gothic.

We were led through the living and sitting rooms to a cluttered dining room inhabited by a large polished stone table a small wrought iron altar and Jorge’s aunt. I never got her name, though she was quite charming and her first words to us were spoken in English, with perfect diction she said, “Good Afternoon, How do you do?”

She sat stooped with a hump back her head on her chest, gorgeous spit curls in alternating ringlets of gray, white and auburn. She wore a beautiful dress in a gold and royal blue diamond pattern. The design mimicked the Joker's costume on Hoyle playing cards. She was quite articulate and engaging in both English and Portuguese. She said her vision was going, glaucoma and the arthritis had her beat.

They had set mom up in the kitchen away from all of the activity, by herself. Don’t ask. Jorge was still ashamed that we hadn’t had Feijoada, so he openly contemplated cooking for us. At least let me make you some fresh suco and a dessert, he stated in French. Michael clued me into the fact that the minute we crossed the threshold all of the interpersonal dynamics shifted. Instead of a convivial group, suddenly Jorge/ George talked down to Diogo like an old rejected lover or abused spouse. Diogo had to fulfill all of Jorge’s wishes, now.

The bell rang again before I could process this development. A portly woman came in embracing everyone but ending up next to mom in the kitchen. Michael said she reminded him of Divine. When she met Michael she was sure that she had the same eyes of her dead husband. Mom, looked and concurred, motioning for Michael to come closer to validate her assessment. Here we go.

Michael kept checking his watch and got more anxious by the moment. We still had plenty of time to make our connections, but he hadn’t any idea of how to find his way. Jorge and Diogo were still arguing our fate when a woman came in with plates of sliced ripe mango and papaya. Jorge supplemented it with stale Brazil nuts enrobed in chocolate, hot pink shirts for Carnaval 2009 and little boxes of sweets for us to take home. We needed gifts. We also needed to understand that he thought that we should stay over to really feel what life was like living with a Brazilian family. Michael shot me a killing gaze.

Jorge decided that Michael, who was now receiving all of his attentions needed to understand the cultural identity of Salvador and Reconcavo. He looked around the stacks of papers and detritus until he found the disc. He slipped a Beth Caravalho DVD into his player so that we could take a musical tour of Bahia with her. I kept promising him that I would work it out.

In the middle of the tape, Jorge jumped a few inches off the ground and told us that we had to be leaving, we would be late and miss our connections. The mood shifted again. He and Diogo were still at odds as to how we would get to our destination. Ultimately, they decided that we would be escorted out of Brotas by them. The final decisions about Bonfim could be discussed enroute.

The walk was pleasant enough. We ran into a few of their neighbors along the way, one who was on his way to the house for the alleged Feijoada. Of course, now Jorge decided that he would make it after all, “Vous no pouvait rentre a chez moi, Sam-e-di prochene?” I said I would email him before Friday.

We crossed over the highway on the footbridge and left them waving at the bus stop. Michael said he was too full and a little at odds to get to the Lancha to risk a quick trip to Bonfim. We ran through the particulars of the afternoon and he said he would pump Augusto for more backstories.

We arrived at the terminal at 5:10, and hour before his designated out time. I called Davis to arrange a moto-tax pickup at Mar Grande. As I prepared to say good bye and look for my bus, I heard Florian and Gunnar call my name. They were German ethnomusicological students I had spent time with in Cachoeira. I felt that Florian was as culpable as I was in the crash that broke Francisca’s hard drive. They were returning from a hiking & chill-out trip to Morro de São Paulo on the southern coast. I decided to stop in the Pelourinho to see Big before going home. I gave Michael a hug goodbye and tried to negotiate a settlement with the Germans as he boarded the boat.

Armadillos, Antonio, Jorge /Georges & Diogo

2008-10-20T09:47:00.000-07:00

Jorge, Georges.

2008-10-20T09:33:00.000-07:00

The Ribeira bus hit the park road, the park with the Orixa sculptures in the lake and came to a crawl. Shit. I was just this side of late already. New York is coming closer and time is less openended. Neither of us had a phone so hopefully Michael would just tough it and wait if he beat me to the Lancha dock. I was taking him to Jorge Bandeira’s house for a Feijoada lunch. We had met in front of Big’s this week. He has an official title as a cultural director for ABCMI, a theatre and arts organization.

The park was overloaded with people. Many of them seemed to be online to get into the stadium, others were on Sunday promenade. I heard an auto race in front of me. Sweat bullets were cascading down my back.

I couldn’t pick up the GRE book in this state. I shot some street scenes and snapshots from the bus to kill time. It was about noon when we came through the tunnel just below São Joaquim. I had thought we would have turned in earlier and come up past the Marina. Another right wrong bus. I got out near the Gondola at Calçada/Liberdade and took a bus towards Comercio. I saw Michael right away and we walked around the Mercado Modelo to find a Brotas bus. Nothing, nothing, nothing; then thirty minutes later two came together. Urban transit is the same wherever you are.

Jorge’s directions were straight forward. We found his landmarks and jumped off the bus to look for his street. The dusky bar on the corner with TV sports blaring and slit eyed men drinking away the day clarified the way to his street. We quickly found rua Engenheiro Jose Muccini #9. The two story house behind a high wall was covered in matte green stone, Adams Familyish and all locked up. I didn’t see a bell, so I went to the neighbors door.

I rang twice before someone opened the door. They didn’t know about their neighbors was the reply. Hmm. I went back and still didn’t find the bell. They had suggested that I clap hands. I did and it worked. A craggy female voice called out that she was coming. "Vai, vai. vai." Jorge’s mother. She wheezed like an old smoker with each slow step. Her shock of white hair set off her wrinkled brown face. Clutching at her house dress and the iron gate she told me to knock across the street on the wooden door. Ok.

A Portuguese speaking Japanese man, answered the door and led us inside. Everyone was clustered in the kitchen. A stewpot sat at the center of the table, flanked by bowls of farinha, yellow rice and feijões fradinho. I saw slices of calabresa sausage and some large cuts of meat on the bone and white shell in the broth. Beer and cachaça was flowing and we were handed plates and hands to shake. Just then I remembered that Michael was a fish eater, but predominately ate veggies. Antonio, our host and Jorge’s neighbor encouraged us to dig in.

When I explained Michael’s situation, he said that that was fine. We could both eat from the stew. Michael was hesitant and had already refused alcohol. I mentioned the calabresa and he said it was just a bit for flavor. I turned Michael into a religious zealot to make them understand. Quickly Antonio’s wife heated up some Mariscada, more beans, rice and Caruru. She also cut some lettuce and tomatoes for him. Meanwhile I was fed from the stew pot. I didn’t understand the bone structure, the meat was separated by what seemed like cartilage or the thin bones that make up a fish head. It was too rich for fish, white fleshed but more porcine. I started to ask about the stew, when Jorge began apologizing profusely for the lack of Feijoada.

The curious side to Jorge was that even though we had talked in the street for close to an hour his email directions and his conversation right now were all in French. Michael appeared to have a vague memory of First Form French grammar, but nothing to really work with. His accent sucked and his grammar was elementary. He smiled and looked down his nose at me, without cessation even if I responded in Portuguese.

Michael was sitting quietly, taking it in and becoming slightly unhinged. Augusto knew Jorge and had thought it would be a good idea for me to bring Michael. Curiously, only Antonio’s daughter in her early twenties spoke English. Michael felt free to ask me any questions or make comments without fear of being understood. We had a unique position in this curious environment.

Antonio kept pouring himself drinks from a dark green bottle that I took for Cachaça. In the end it was a liqueur mistura de vinho branco, cidra maça, guarana, cauba e uma outra coisa. It had an oxidized and raisinated quality like Madeira with a sweetness of Port. I forget the name. He offered me some. As I began to drink it, he began to discuss my meal.

Tatu. I wasn’t sure what that meant. He had said earlier that it wasn’t meat. Michael took it for snake. Antonio, his daughter and I struggled with for a translation or description. Suddenly I got it; Armadillo. That was it. Now I saw the shell was really that armor I remember from grade school. I have to say that I loved the taste. Unctous and sweet yet not as fatty as pork. Michael cringed. Since I enjoyed that, Antonio’s wife brought out the Bode, or goat that she had cooked next.

We moved the party out to the terrace, so that they could show me the other Armadillos & Goats that they had in the freezer. For a hobby, Antonio has a 150 goat dairy in the countryside. He makes milk, cheese and yogurt; but eats no dairy products himself. The goat I had eaten was a three year old nanny of his. He told me that the Armadillos are hard to come by, but country people catch and kill them for people like him who have a taste for them and come seeking them out on the backroads.

As we discussed his farm and the game he liked to seek out, he moved the conversation forward to his devotion to Kardecism. I was vaguely aware of Allen Kardec, but I wasn’t hip to the tenets of the religion. It seemed to derive aspects of spiritual power from Candomblé, be heavily grounded in right livelihood and reincarnation up to and including vampirism.

Note: the vampire part had to do with spirits or para-spirits who were not willing to acknowledge that they had to give up the body of their former self. You do that math. It began a heady discussion of faith, the third eye, ancestral guidance looking over your shoulder, etc. When your consciousness was elevated you didn’t require as much help from the para-spirits.

Initially they, the para-spirits decided what you should do, by adopting the activity first, say eating then given you the incentive of hunger and literally lifting your hand to mouth and feeding you until you were sated, another decision determined by them.

I had walked into this party telling Michael that we should do one touristic thing together since he was leaving for Rio and São Paulo the next morning. I had suggested Igreja Bonfim. He liked that idea, as did everyone at the party. It was an essential Salvadoran site in their eyes. Good, I would use its significance as a way out of this escalating ontological discussion.

It was agreed that we leave together, but then an argument ensued between Jorge, should I call him Georges?, Diogo who had hereto fore been fairly silent and Antonio. Should we be escorted to the bus stop, driven to Bonfim, should we be taken to Jorge/Georges house, was their truly time to take in Bonfim, properly, did we need to be fed more, (were we being fattened for a kill)?

It is truly intriguing to hear yourself discussed in the third person when your hosts don’t believe you understand their language and then do the same with your colleague right back at them. I got to the door first and started to turn the knob. Jorge/Georges shrieked and Diogo froze. I looked at them in wonder. Michael began to laugh. Jorge/Georges explained that if someone other than the owner of the house turns the knob to leave that person and potentially everyone else in their group will never or can never return to the home that they are leaving. Only Antonio could open the door. At which point, Antonio declaimed that he had let himself out of Jorge’s house several times. “Ça c’est une chose different. Tout de different!” shouted Georges/Jorge.

We walked across the street in mass. Antonio waited to greet Jorge/George’s mae before going back home. Diogo had a key to the gate, but Jorge rang the bell anyway. He wanted to see his mother out of doors. Again she wheezed and walked sluggishly. “Quarant ans comme tabac, vous pouvait ver?” As Diogo let us into the gate to embrace Jorge’s mom, she looked us up and down and said that we had met before. She knew us already. Of course Antonio reiterated the power of reincarnation, she could see from her previous life.

still on the bus.

2008-10-20T08:40:00.000-07:00

another kind of breakfast and scenes from the bus

2008-10-20T02:57:00.000-07:00

military discharge

2008-10-20T02:53:00.000-07:00

Sunday close to 11:30AM, before I ran off and hopped on the bus Edson (Eddiesony) wanted me to see his military papers, I am not quite sure why. Pride? He had told me that he had stopped in at the barracks and the rec center at the base across the street. I learned that he had given them three years. I felt like his adult guardian. I hadn’t needed any proof. I guess I am in his fabric.

Earlier that morning Tracy, Kathy and me had had an abbreviated breakfast near Porta de Barra enroute to Itapua. The plan: to meet Eneida along the bus route. She would hop on in Rio Vermelho and we would make it a beach day, I would go to the beach briefly, but I had a brunch date in Brotas. Time got tight. I would have to switch buses and pick up Michael Avatar at the Lancha. He was a sweet Brit and visiting artist to Sacatar who spoke little to no Portuguese.

I had gotten us onto the right wrong Mussurunga bus. It was going to the Praia Itapua. To meet Eneida along the way we needed a bus that stayed on Avenida Oceanico, following the Atlantic. We switched in Ondina and I signaled Eneida from the front of the bus as we approached Companhia de Pizza. Once she got on, I got out and headed back towards Comercio.

Waiting for another bus in Amaralina, close to Escola Mario Gusmão, site of our workshop I heard whistling. Someone was unrelenting. Finally I turned to locate the source and saw that it was Edson, the cook from Hotel Villa Mar where we had stayed. One night, back then we had talked for over an hour about life, faith, personal philosophies and national pride. He had recognized me, but couldn’t remember my name. He told me that he had decided to quit his job. No future, shit pay and empty promises. He was putting faith in his open heart. The strength of the Orixas would guide him to better work. “A luta continua, sempre continua a luta,” was his refrain. When I came up, he had been Bs-ing with an old friend from teen years who now ran the newsstand that we were standing in front of. Life is small, or I am melding into the landscape here? You decide.

Beto falando com o cozinheiro

2008-10-20T01:56:00.001-07:00

A comida de Pariaso Tropical

2008-10-19T19:38:00.000-07:00

Back in Brotas, then with Beto

2008-10-19T19:30:00.000-07:00

Saturday came in the window shining. We got out close to ten, grabbed a light bite and a cab to Brotas. We had a date to see the house Eneida had built and hang for awhile. I had the map she had created for me in August. Brotas is a large neighborhood, a former colonial sugar plantation, and a large hill with various means of egress into the hood. Learning a new hood, requires knowing which Ladeira-or hill is the right one to get into the area of the neighborhood that you will need to access.

We started out fine. Better than when Michele and I had taken a cab and given the map to the driver. This man, Luis with a sunny smile and raspy voice had knowledge of the hood, and the streets enumerated on my map. Great/Otimo. Well, that fell away on the third circuit of up and down hill and valley. By chance he stopped a passerby who ended up being his friend, they hashed it out and resolved nothing.
A phone call to Eneida got us there.

Set a severe dip in the road, this home seems like it was planted in the forest. Magic starts the minute you open the door. The house breathes with the simple elegance that characterizes Eneida’s work as an architect. This time Giba Conceição, her former partner and pandeiro, is home preparing for a meeting with colleagues involved in a rural music education initiative, “Caravan of Music.” They educate music educators in rural Brazil on creative way to teach and make instruments and music; giving new seeds to the those who are seed planters.

We laughed, giggled, we all shot pictures. Tracy and Giba, then Eneida, then one of Giba’s homey’s: Ocimar played on a few of the many percussive instruments laying about. Bliss. Hours went by, and I kept seeing both Tracy and Kathy with those wide dimply grins on. By the time we made a studio visit, Tracy was planted, roots twining towards the stream below.

We split up in mid afternoon to pursue various goals. Mine was to return to Paraiso Tropical, ( rua Edgar Loureiro, 98-B, Cabula. Tel. 71 3384-7464) and spend some time with chef, Beto Pimentel. He and his restaurant are quite unique.

Do I tell you of his first careers as agronomist, nutritionist and clothing manufacturer in São Paulo? Or his dedication to cooking artisanal products and not industrial ones? Hmm, the 23 kids and four wives? His cuisine inspired by the African culinary influences, local produce and healthful eating. The youthful vigor and spunk that keeps him refining his game moment to moment? The fifty acre tropical farm, wild habitat with a small cadre of free range chickens on the hillside behind the restaurant;—where he can pick the bulk of his produce as it ripens. I think he said more than 3,000 fruits, vegetables, edible and decorative flowers. Or his Farm in Reconcavo where he can grow whatever is not available in sufficient quantity in Cabula? Ready for dinner?

I watched Jorelma, one of his children and Chef de Cuisine lead her cooks through lunch service. The food is anchored in tradition, but constructed spontaneously building layers of flavors savory, sour and sweet. A moqueca created by Beto will begin with a light fumet like broth, fish bones, smoked-dried shrimp and a few veggies. Coconut water blended with Coco Verde, the jelly like soft fruity stage of coconut’s life comes in to create the emulsion. Kerplunk of Octopus, Shrimp, Crab, the core flavor you chose comes next. Pitanga, acerola, jaca, a panoply of herbs, green cashews or fresh Palm fruit become the coda. A of drizzled freshly pressed Po or Dende oil, Liquid Butter or Virgin Olive oil infused with Urucum seeds (for a red color) if you have an allergy to Palm get added at appropriate moments.

They have worked it out. Beto says it took him six months to create the dish grilled fish and grilled fruits. The day I came back to visit that ended up being my dinner. Before that time I alternated between watching Jorelma from their pass and taking pictures. Or, sitting with Beto watching Futbol on a large bulky set placed in the outdoor café area. He’s a chain smoker who can’t sit still. TV seemed to provide a momentary pacifier.

After the first hour he invited me to look at his garden before it got dark. One of the gardener’s walked me through pointing out various fruits unknown to me, some veggies and many budding flowers some edible, some not. It sounded like they have a litter of some animal like a tapir or one of the other oversized rodent-ish mammals native to the area. I don’t think that I saw a quarter of the property before the light faded.

Coming back to my perch between TV & kitchen, I realized that I still hadn’t eaten, since the cod pastry this morning. Beto got up and split somewhere. I asked Jorelma for a small appetizer or something easy. I got crispy fried Adulignha with a biri-biri pepper relish and a tropical fruit vinaigrette. I told her that I would be going soon. She was too. Shopping for a few missing bits to cook with. It was nearly six o’clock, I wanted to leave at 6, catch a bus, shower, change, meet Kath & Tracy and hike up to Castro Alves for the Pina Bausch protégé’s dance concert.

Beto returned, deciding that I needed to have the grilled fish. I begged off, and he wasn’t having it. I went back to the kitchen and observed for a while. I tried the route home in my head, and thought I could make it work in a cab, if I left by 6:45. Coming out of the toilet, I looked up at the crestfallen face of the one male cook in designer whites and matching cap. The kitchen has a large window in it, keeping everyone inside on display. I couldn’t hear it all, but it sounds like he burned the fish or the grilling fruit. I caught enough to bring it to Beto’s attention.

Returning from the kitchen, he said, “It’s a good dish, but it takes time.” I tried to chill. Forty five minutes later I had decided that I didn’t need to shower or go home. If I could just get this fish, then a cab and be on my way; I’d be fine.

Jorelma came in with a young man pushing a small grocery cart, her supplies. I had told both he and his daughter that I had a compromiso with Eneida, they knew her. He checked in the kitchen; a little while longer. He called a cab from his cell. I was pacing now. By returning to review his wall of fame, eyeing the many snapshots and awards, validated my activity.

Thirty minutes later it arrived on an elliptical marble platter, compartmentalized to segregate each type of fruit. Fourteen in total. He hand fed me with a fork. Just, stop. After the pear and lime, he realized that the fruit was too sticky. He started poking around my plate after he fed me a large piece of succulent fish. He put the fork down and stalked off into the kitchen. He was disappointed and pissed. As he turned around he mumbled how this guy was new, not one week on the job. “Eu tinha O Exposição Culinaria Baiana. Devia dormir alguns dias depois dos eventos. Não entendiu bem, ele.”

If the cab would come I could go. It seemed like thirty minutes had gone by since called them. After he finished his rant, I asked the waiter-runner if he knew. He checked with Beto, now in the kitchen counseling the cook in technique. He had called three cabs. One was busy, and the rest hadn’t showed, so he decided to call his friend Jo.

Twenty minutes later I was saying goodnight just before I got into the cab. Jo promised to get me there within 14 minutes. “Most folks take 22,” he said. “I need to live through this” was my rejoinder. “I have four filhos, don’t worry.” Banking the curves tightly as he drove, I hid my anxiety, and vented the last three and a half hours to Jo and nobody. He promised to arrive more quickly. I basically said, “Don’t worry, I’m fucked.”

He tried to assuage my guilt by talking about himself. If he ran late he just told his wife after he had had some stiff drinks. Coming out of the car drunk and weaving all his wife could say was, “Take a shower and sleep it off.” He hadn’t any cares. I tried to show how that wouldn’t work for me, even if my friend agreed to the behaviors. We were at a stalemate, and I am not really Baiano.

He took a few more shortcuts and got me there just after 8:15. The guard told me that the gates had been locked at 8:10. There was no intermission, nor egress. No one was coming in or out until it was finished. I walked back across Campo Grande and waited in the wrong place for the bus by accident. When I sorted it out and was home fifteen minutes later. Here at the same glass and chrome dining table writing when they came home. I had just sent an e-apology to Eneida.

No one was cussing but they weren’t happy either. Post industrial mechanical music, with excellent, beautiful dancers who didn’t move. Well didn’t move enough. It played something like that. They chuckled when I said, “It sounds Germanic.” I had had the best evening, according to them. I coulda skipped the stress, the thirty dollar cab-ride for nothing, and bitchy attitude that I had had in Jo’s cab. Again, nobody got hurt. It isn’t that hard.

em Brotas

2008-10-18T19:26:00.000-07:00

Big’s new crew: Jorge, Antonio, Elena e Maria da Peina

2008-10-18T04:40:00.000-07:00

Wrasslin’ several times with SENAC over a minor refund for the cancelled class, Doces Regionais, I finally resolved the issue and received my $57 from the director of admissions. Order got in the way of Progress forward toward my goal. I decided to stop by Big’s store on my way to Dr. Matoches for some needling. I had not seen Big (pronounced Biggie) in weeks. He was happy to see me.

We talked briefly of our respective exploits. Just then a man walking by took a cell call and sat on the bench in front of the store. Big pointed him out, saying there is an important man you should meet. He works with theatre. Please wait, we must speak with him. Two minutes became ten and I was anxious to move on, as always. Eneida had one extra ticket to the memorial for Zeno’s mom scheduled for two PM at Castro Alves. If the links came together I could meet her. I was doubtful.

I stepped outside. I think Big sensed my anxiousness. He tapped the gentleman on the shoulder. I thought, “Oh, great-this guy is really going to want to meet me….” Jorge Bandeira appeared to be a theatrical impressario and bon vivant. Affable and keen eyed he hugged me right away, his salt peppery hair and bristley mustache scratched against my cheek. Quick to decide who I should meet and foods I needed to try, he began to tell me his version of favorite local foods.

In an instant two other men had come up beside us. One, nattily dressed was obviously a dear friend, Antonio Luis. He identified himself as the Ogan of Casa Branca. He completed Jorge’s sentences adding historical perspectives and ruminating over various remembered tastes and memorable meals. We stood in the street for more than a half hour. I was beginning to swim in the glut of information.

The third man, darker not appearing to be of Portugese descent like the others, motioned to his watch. The decision was made to take me to the Museo dos Instrumentos. Emiliana,the Directora could help me find my way. Jorge included an invitation to his house for Feijoada, Sunday for brunch. We passed contact info and he deposited me at the small museum. I never fully caught her name, but the directo informed me that she could burn water.

She called out to a woman passing her doorway, “Voce está indo a sua casa?” Are you headed home? Sim, came the response. This is how I met Maria da Peina, a smart looking woman with enough years com santo to be a Mae, she told me. But she did not want to adopt that role. We talked briefly until we arrived in Elena her sister in law’s living room. TV blaring bad daytime drek, two chubby fellas shirtless pacing back and forth, through and doorway, I saw a woman cleaning and smelled something cooking.

For a moment I thought that I was in the back half of Alaide’s restaurant. Alaide had been the chef I had wanted to interview for the Mosaico TV spot. Elena came through the opening between the rooms, inquisitive about this man Maria had brought in. One of the men motioned for me to sit at the formal dining table, the chairs were still covered in their storeskin of plastic. Elena’s face was totemic and fleshy. She looked to be nearly six feet tall and quite ample. Large inviting eyes and an equally warm smile greeted me as she sat down across from me.

In no time she began rattling off recipes in the same fashion as Mae Analia had done. No proportions, little procedural data, but it would yield good dishes. Plate after plate was deconstructed for me. Of course my mini tape recorder batteries were dead. I could not begin to write at the pace she spoke at. I resorted to listening and shooting some headshots. When I asked a few questions about temperos and correspondences with Candomble meals, she called Maria in from the curb. She had been watching something in the street. Now it was her turn to share her litany, just as dense and quickly.

After 30 minutes, I thanked them and asked if I could return another day. They cheerfully agreed, that I was always welcome. Maria invited me to a local Terreiro up the street for Monday’s ceremony. By the time I left, I knew that the Castro Alves concept was dead in the water. But, once again, I had had a precious moment here in town. Someone has my number, and my turn keeps coming up.

gettin' ready

2008-10-18T04:22:00.000-07:00

Running on empty, swimming free.

2008-10-18T04:18:00.000-07:00

I have to laugh at how much I internalize myself and my thoughts. The second week of Sacatar we had one on one interviews to discuss the trajectory of our residency or art making. Later over lunch we shared those aspects of our plans and hopes with the other fellows. I had clearly identified the work I had brought with, projects for editing and shaping. I suggested a Salvador based food project, still nascent in my mind. Finally, I hinted at a object or offering that I wanted to make. The last idea was still tender, raw inside me. I needed some time to unravel the elements and inspirations.

I came here acutely tuned into the two anniversaries heralding the end of the Atlantic Slave Trade. This year marked the 120th anniversary for Brazil and 200 years for the United States. Brazil had celebrated theirs on May 3. Ours would be celebrated in early October, on the tenth. I came here thinking about my mother. Whenever I travel, I know that she calls out to come with. She had truly wanted to see the world. I brought a few of her ashes that I still had left.

Giving a form to these thoughts was still in question. Shortly afterwards Augusto suggested that I discuss it with Mae Stella. I had first thought that for forty days I should make a daily meditation in reference to the average length of time of the slave ship’s journey. I also wanted to give something to the sea. One gift would be gift of Sylvia, giving her a spirit home in Baia. I wanted another gift to the people who did not survive the voyage or suffered the life of enslavement. I did not feel centered yet to discuss the particulars.

When I read about the foods brought on board, I learned that it the right trade winds were not found or the seas rough, the journey could take four to five months. In preparation for the journey, some of the captive slaves penned in on coastal concentration camps were raising grain for the voyage. Several thousand pounds of cereal or grain was needed to keep the slaves alive. Rice, yams, beans and millet were often the first choices. Corn and mandioca brought back from the New World, grew quickly. Manioc needed to be milled into flour to make its inclusion worthwhile.

Like the early churches shipped pre-fab from Portugal to Baia, complete with assembly instructions stone by stone, the grains added ballast needed by the ships. Ballast for the return journey was made up of harvested loaf sugar, molasses, rum or grains for trading or the next voyage. I was finding threads.

I kept putting the project aside trying to feel my way through the form of it. I needed down time apart from the research and the writing I had brought with me. I also knew that I had not made a physical piece of plastic art in years. My work was constructed of the ephemera of fruits, vegetables, meats and fishes. I ran a bit scared on the how to part.

After some thought, I decided to solicit help from the fellows. I had started to shoot the water and waves rushing and swirling on my Lancha rides. I asked Lauri for some advice on constructing a simple video with marginal edits and sound. She suggested some free software, and said that she could help if need be. I thought that back in NY I could finalize the elements into a cohesive whole. I solicited a promise from Rahul. He didn’t know the form or nature of my goal, but wanted to help.

We decided to leave it for the final weekend. I was past spent, but I had promised myself and secured Rahul’s time. When I described the project to him, he was fully committed to my realizing this goal. He identified how much it mirrored the Hindu practice of honoring the dead.

For the gifts, I had arrived at a mixture of Orixa foods and slave rations. My raft would be made of sugar cane. I had first thought that like the offerings to Iemanja on February 2nd, I wanted my boat to float out to sea, metaphorically back towards Africa. No. It needed to sink like a stone sweetening the charnel house at the bottom of the bay. This voyage enacted for global dominance and sugar business would be anchored in the sugar boat. The ingredients would be placed in halved baby cabaças. Let them float as far as needed.

Not including the ashes there would be about one dozen gifts, Dende, Feijões Fradinho, Preto e Branco, Arroz, Cana, Tobaco, Sementes de Cabaça, Pipoca, Coco Ralhada, Quiabo entero pra Xango, Cortada pra Iansa e Cachaça for Exu; (Palm Oil, Blackeyed Peas, Black and White Beans, Rice, Sugarcane, Tobacco, Calabash seeds, Popcorn, Coconut, Okra for Xango and Iansa , finally Cachaça for Exu). Together, we had drilled one calabaça and carefully filled it with Sylvia’s ashes. The makeshift cork would be one piece of popcorn.

Rahul helped lash the canes together with fronds from the Dende palm. Lauri shot some video of me walking into the bay to deposit the gifts. In retrospect I wish I could have trusted myself to have had a camera. There was a personal view that was anchored in the release that lives in my memory.

I walked out nearly one quarter mile as the tide was coming in. The tobacco spilled as I walked, a reminder of the toll it took in her life. As anticipated the raft sank like shoes of concrete. Gracefully the popcorn drifted in mass surrounding the cabaças. Most of them headed toward the shoreline where the largest mansions in town were located. All of a sudden, the bobbing cabaça split away from the group and headed southeast as if looking for open water. I watched for nearly twenty minutes, until I could no longer see it on the horizon popping up and drifting away. I was flooded with a warmth and optimism of the possible. For me, this gift was truly emblematic of Sylvia’s spirit willing to fight any adversary, push the edge of her rainbow and believe that she and we could.

Eneida

2008-10-18T03:08:00.000-07:00

>http://eneidasanches.blogspot.com/

E.

2008-10-18T03:07:00.000-07:00

Eneida. Danny’s soul-mate. I am glad to have met and then re-met Eneida. She is a curious. Like a water sprite darting through our lives, Eneida has been generous with laughter and her opening heart. I met her right away, bringing her news and some necessities from Danny. Her life was challenged then. I did not want to push, she seemed stretched thin. We, Michele, she and me enjoyed a few brief meetings, at ACBEU, the gallery she runs in Vitoria, at her home and out socially. A tree in the Sacatar garden, her support has carried the foundation forward. I sense that she has helped them find many people in their community of Salvadoran friends.

As though it was scripted Eneida bowed off to the side and Giovana and Bia Simon stepped in. They offered a hand, that gentle tug softening our entry into Salvador. Three friends. Colleagues. All strong women. Beautiful artists. They have each been there at right moments, thoughtful, joyous and nurturing.
Now Eneida has come back in with a spark and a bang. This is the woman I had glimpses of at our first meeting. This time at my behest Tracy brought Eneida things via Danny.

I had hopes of a good camaraderie between the four of us, Eneida, Tracy, Kathy and me. It has quickly been honey sweet and sticky good. Kathy and Eneida are constantly looking for each other in that sisterly, home-girl way. You want the people you care for to see into and get the other people you love. Sometimes anxiously I hope that they can see each other “through my eyes”. Seeing, sensing that ephipanial click of eyes and hearts coming into synch is sweet magic.

Within their brief visit Eneida has tried to welcome them into her world and another level of Salvador. Piquant as molho de pimenta our time has been rich and poignant, all in a minute. We are laughing all the way through this shared journey.

Arroz aka Junior

2008-10-17T21:26:00.000-07:00