Morning haunts.

Though still groggy, I woke up just before 7:30. I splashed my face awake and looked for coffee or something in the kitchen. Gunnert and Florian, the sound engineers from the Hamburg contingent had constructed a breakfast of tropical fruit and a jerry rigged muesli from Soy Milk, store-bought granola, whole grain flaked cereal, bird seed and nuts. I applauded and giggled at their combination of ingenuity and cultural retention. I shared part of it their booty while we discussed our various agendas for the day.

I left just after 8:30 and walked to the eastern edge of town up a steep hill through a grove of banana trees and another favela to find A Igreja de São Cosme e São Damião. Beautifully cut into a hillside, it was a grayish stone with a huge woven banner of the twins, Cosme e Damiao. These twins and their holiday on September 27, are another curious fusion in the synchronized culture.

The twin saints are alleged to have been Syrian circa 300 A.D., though whether or not they were Christian is still a question. Several stories/myths exist regarding their origin and demise. Some versions have them murdered by Romans three or more times (thrown from cliffs, drowning, stoning and burning) before dying as martyrs. The West African Yoruban culture, one of the cornerstones of the Baian- Afro cosmology, sees “Ibejis” or twins as major power figures. They materialize when needed to help children suffering from violence. These twin saints/friends of children (Cosme aka “the Florid” e Damião aka “the Popular”) have the ability to expedite any requests made of them in exchange for sweets and candy. Rappadura or molasses rich chunks of raw cane sugar were the first sweets made in offering to these twin saints. Platters of rappadura are now placed alongside drippingly sweet cakes, and bonbons. Today Cosme e Damião are the patron saints of Pharmacy, Barbers and Hairdressing; go figure.

At different times that day, bags of candy were thrown from trucks at people, into stores and house windows. I was struck in the back of my head with a small bag while buying some paper Saturday morning. Children, adults and seniors scream and scamper to grab the treasure or blessing for these twin saints.
Parishioner’s had gathered early to get a good seat for the 9:30 mass. Kids were running up and down the backstairs into the choir loft, giggling and cutting up. I checked out the scene, and asked when they would be serving their Caruru. After I shot some photos, I walked down through town to get to the stairs into Mae Analia’s favela.


She was sitting in her same child’s slingback chair by the door with a drawn look on her face. She had been having some renovation done to her bathroom and they had burst a waterline. She had not had water for hours. They could not start cooking until they had fresh water. They had been ferrying water from neighbor’s homes to flush toilets and boil some water for essential needs. We agreed that I would return at 2:00 PM.

I decided to walk across the river to Ana Claudia’s house. I could visit with her, and find out where her aunt, Mae Zelita was. She shrieked with glee when she saw me walking up the stairs from her porch. Her mother, two cousins a sister in law and her mother's two other sisters were making party favors for the party. It was her daughter, Ana Julia’s 3rd and her baby brother, Joao Victor’s 2nd birthday. They were riffing on a Disney theme complete with matching red and white polka dot cotton pique outfits and mouse ear headgear. Kidville would have been proud.

They had rented the abandoned train station, where a couple of guys had a cottage industry making a sweet aperitif liqueur, and decorated it with Disneyland scenes, 15 foot spiral clusters of rainbow balloons, card tables and videos. I had to laugh that here this family that was so tied to the roots of the culture and legacy of slavery was zooming into the proto-typical upper middle class toddler b’day trope. Shouldn’t they have played and danced samba for kids? Everyone was cute and all of the mom’s were way too anxious. The guy who was making hors’ doeuvres and frying them was an hour late. The kids had fun laughing and playing, being kids in this vacuous space; until Dad, Joao turned on the formulaic kid’s party dance videos. The children, obsessed with the images of happy kids on the screen stopped creating their own games and adopted the derivative option on screen. How many generations before this magic culture in Cachoeira is going, going;-gone? Yikes.

I had been the first to arrive. Everyone was 90 minutes late. I had stayed too long, brought the wrong gift, (a traditional children's natural lavender bath oil) and pissed off Ana Claudia because I did not stay longer or agree to sleep over. Her Aunt Mae Zelita hadn’t shown by the time I left at six. I had told Mae Analia that I would be back to see how to make the Caruru at 5:30. It was a twenty minute walk back to Cachoeira across the suspension bridge.


Back at Analia’s I put two and three together and realized that in a way she had not wanted me to see her process, just the result. Cooks are quirky about “their” culinary secrets. Luckily, as I walked into the house full of people, there were still a few steps to finish all of the dishes. After showing me what she had made, Analia called me into the living room to hear the traditional songs that honor the day.

The ritual for all Catholics is to place seven whole uncut pieces of okra in the stewpot for luck. The seven youngest children who can eat by themselves are sat together in a circle each having a full plate of Caruru in front of them. The crowd serenades them with good luck prayers and a Go-Fight-Eat cheer for their food to be chowed down. Once the seven children eat, the remaining young adults are fed, and then the adults.

Since Analia is a Filha de Iansan, she cannot leave okra uncut. All of the okra has to be cut in to four pieces, or in the sign of the cross for Male deities and for luck. The tradition suggests that in every neighborhood several mothers will make this meal for their families and the neighbors, so that everyone gets fed. Once the meal is eaten by everyone the devout will create a Latin prayer sing-out. The evening ends with an acapella Samba de Roda with a handclapped accompaniment.

Everywhere I go there is lunch

I left the Irmandade soon afterwards, around twelve thirty, still agitated by my fellow New Yorkers. They seemed to signal an end to my audience, or at least the quiet reverie that I had glimpsed this morning. I was tired from last night's ceremony. I was not going to be able to stay for the evening meal and closing of the festival. My memory card was full, Ana Claudia had suggested that I stop by for lunch or at least to say goodbye. Her friend, Dosete had also implied that I might be able to get a ride to Salvador with she and her boyfriend, Mario. I walked home, arranged my things, paid my way and sat down to update my journal with today's notes. Gito's mom, the Dona da casa, asked me to stay for lunch. At breakfast she had showed me her market purchases and related her plans for a celebratory meal as her end to the festa. The house was redolent of her cooking; feijoes, boiling veggies for a cooked macedoine salad, garlic, ginger sizzling in palm oil; the start of her moqueca de siri. A bucket next to the stove was filled with carangueijos, meaty blue crabs; still muddy and squirming. I thanked her, but explained that I intended to stop in Sao Felix to say goodbye to Ana Claudia and her family. Again she asked me to take Gito along. This time he seemed genuinely excited to come.

I decided to ask about Gito's sister, or her absence. "Oh, -she had gone to Salvador the morning after my arrival." My suspicions about freeing up bedspace were probably true. It had also been almost a day since I had seen that lithe, handsome chestnut man always shirtless who had been in and out all weekend. He had not seemed to be father or lover, and yet not quite border either. I guessed that "Mom" took in folks for various reasons as a means to survive. He might be one of us. She benefitted from her neighbors, a little more savy than she. At least savy enough to be able to obtain an internet listing. As she spoke to me, I looked at her as a woman. I had noticed her for the first time when she had been combing out her curls last night. She was tawny and sallow, her hair wavy and thick. Looking more deeply, I guessed that she was Criuolo. Her children were much darker than she. Well, no matter their heritage, they had opened up their simple home and their lives to me. She seemed to have judged me worthy enough. I was a safe bet to pair with her son. Practically speaking, she had fostered a certain osmosis between us. Gito and I had shared a few vocabulary words and brief conversations in English and Portuguese. We had shared our world's with each other.

So, on the way to Sao Felix I decided to stop in at the Pousada Ana Nery, the location of my botched reservation. Twice over the weekend, I had run into Grandma on the street, always in that same housedress. I wanted some closure, and I need to be thankful. As Gito and I walked around the corner, we found Grandma lifting the iron gate, ubiquitous in Cachoeira; (they kept out strays and kept in toddlers and pets). We followed her inside, surprising the family who were seated for lunch. Just as this Dona da casa approached me to offer another lunch invitation, I explained our visit; hoping to clarify my purpose. She asked Gito to confirm my intentions. She seemed surprised that I had come of my own volition, and had not been sent by his Mom. Finally, we came to one mind. She offered me blessings, God's kindness and safe travel. She was tickled and beaming when I related that I had observed Candomble, adentro dum terreiro. "Qual era o terreiro?" She asked me. "De Lira, atrais da Igreja do Monte," I responded. "O. Sim. Que bom. Que Bom! E bom pra voce."

Listening to her speak, I watched hummingbirds descend through the open roof, seeking nectar from the carnations and gladiolus on the dining table. The living room opened onto a stairway that led to the bedrooms on the second floor. The stair wrapped around a small stone patio at the core of the house that was open to the sky. First one, then two more hummingbirds came and went, fluttering at high speeds up to the clouds. Every room was graced with natural light, fresh breezes and probably a little rain. This magical moment at once breathtaking and so simple, also suggested a cue to journey on; savoring the memory of these birds inside the house. We said goodbye and walked towards the rusty bridge that linked the twin towns.

In the park at the foot of the bridge, Mario saw us and whistled for us. I was totally unaccustomed to be sought out in this town, in this country and in this new language. Gito pointed him out. Smiling up at us from a bench, they both quickly told me how happy they were to have met me, and now more formally offered me a lift to Salvador. I asked when they were leaving, and related my plan to see Ana Claudia briefly. They said that they thought they would drop by too. They would call her if they changed their plans. Now, with the possibility of a lift to town, I told Gito that I wanted to stop at the Rodoviaria and try to exchange my ticket. Pipedream.

Ana opened her door thinking that we were Rosangela and Julio back from morning stroll, a passeio. She was pleased to see me, and surprised by Gito's presence. Was this my son?--she inquired. I chuckled, explaining our relationship and thinking how different we lived. Wouldn't she have met him sooner, if I was a stranger alone in her town? Ushering us inside, she asked him specifics about where he lived and went to school, seeming to calculate his class and economics. Food arrived immediately after we were seated, yesterday's Manicoba (improved with age), a cool Frigideira, a dense meat pie with diced vegetables and an eggy crust. ( A bacalhau frigideira had been served by the Irmandade on the day of the White Meal.), the ever present Suco Maracuja, fresh passionfruit juice, and as she called it in broken English, "P-pI, Pie." Her pie had a crumb crust, ripe cooked peaches, possibly canned sat on top of a condensed milk custard and were bathed in a gelatinous probably tapioca thickened glaze. Oh, a drippingly sweet, sweet-yummy. Finally; the cafezinhos. By this time, Ana Claudia's Dad had arrived with Roseangela and Julio. They sat and ate with us. We broke into a discussion of grammar and tonality of Latin languages, discussing and disagreeing each point closely. Ana Claudia, Roseangela and Dosete had all been students of English and Portuguese studies at university together.

We stood up to leave and walked across a concrete patio to Ana's parents home. I said goodbye to her parents and her uncle and her other two aunts. Dosete and Mario had arrived. They cut some herbs from the garden, we loaded all the cars, and left Sao Felix, dropping Gito at home on our way out of town. Dosete stopped for a photo op at the golden archway heralding Cachoeira, to create a bookend for her weekend photos, before we got onto the highway.

Just like rural France and Spain, the larger towns forced you to drive down their mainstreets and see the few sites they had. The highway had speedbumps near some of these junctures, jarring me and containing hotrodders. Most of the towns we drove through seemed quite poor and destitute in comparison with Cachoeira, especially Santo Amaro; the home of Caetano Veloso and his sister Maria Bethania. I had been told that though poor the cultural heritage was also quite strong there.

The landscape was fertile and verdant studded with farms of cane, corn, stands of palm, banana and goiaba. I watched Macao monkeys scamper across phone lines, initially mistaking them for squirrels. Hawks circled above, and for the first time in years I spotted a bald eagle in flight.I had come to see why this was winter in Brazil. The air had been chilly the last few days and frequent soaking rains had characterized most days. Everything was new since I had arrived under cover of darkness. Back in Salvador, I was dropped at a major bus transfer point on the edge of town. Mario waited to make sure that I found the bus to Barra. I did some banking, ate a meal overlooking the beach and made my way to Zeno's terreiro, the former home of Mae Menininha; Gantois.

Cachoeira: Walking with Gito & Cozido

I woke up early again, from the combination of the strange setting, someone's ringing cell, the snoring next door and the now accustomed fireworks and roosters. Dressing in the dark, I left walking in the opposite direction looking for another simple cafe, to eat and write in. I found a nice place near the bridge and had coffee and a bacon, pepper and egg pie baked in a crust, though not quiche. Exiting into the bright sunlight, I realized that I was at the edge of the town market. The market here was eight to ten times the size of that across the river. I spent a few hours walking the stalls that were centered around a Praca and two buildings, one larger for meat and grains, and the other for fish. If you couldn't afford those stalls you sold in the street with some folks displaying their wares on the cobblestones. sides of meat, cured meats and sausages, organs, heads, eyes, salted fish, tuberoses, herbs, fresh fish & shellfish, live poultry, honey, cheese, pickled peppers fruit and vegetables five blocks square. Wherever I could, I talked to the vendors and farmers about their products, shooting portraits, taking names, buying a piece of fruit or snack to taste. This was a better experience for me in many ways than the market at Sao Joaquim. I could navigate and negotiate the scale and the crowds much more easily than in Salvador. I was engaged with the softball sized pressed spheres of pounded manioc leaves ready to be boiled in several changes of water for Manicoba, the local beanless Afro-Indian style Fejioada. Passionfruit or Marcuja as large as grapefruits, air fragrant with aromatic flowers, manyof which I later learned were raised for Candomble ceremonies. Well cooked Figado de Boi, cooked and pressed into a pate-like rectangle. Fuma de corde, oily, thick coiled black rope that truly was a cheap form of tobacco, cut in sections for smoking. Salted and sundried meats, pieces of smoked pork belly skin, glistening with a fat layer if you couldn't afford a true piece of meat in your stew. Intestines ready to be cooked like chitterlings, honeycomb tripe, oxtails, live whole muddy blue crabs or cooked picked meat for $20/kilo. Herbs dried and fresh for cooking, home cures and spiritual practice. According to Lucia and Joselito I could flavor my dinner, treat diabetes, asthma, bronchitis, sore throats, ease the birthing process, get a laxative or cure a flu. I was impressed with the patience of some of the vendors with my Portuguese and diverse questions. Joselito the medicinal herb seller told me how much he like to communicate, share remedies, and accept that today's inquiry could be tomorrow's regular customer. Too many people were too rude with customers for him. People need help and advice and he prided himself on his honesty and hearfelt desire to teach. His daughter worked alongside him, I assume one day she would carry on his trade.

I returned home around 10:30 to set down some of my purchases and recharge my camera. I had to charge it in the hallway close to the door to the street, so I tried to charge it and rest since anyone could walk by reach in and take the device since the exterior door was never locked. As I walked in the home, Gito's mom told me that she had decided that I needed a good view of the city for a panoramic photo op. Gito would show me now if I was ready. Gito and I had had little to do with each other up to that point. I had spoken to him in passing briefly. As most kids do, he was typically fixated on the television when I was in their house. Quite a small boy for the 9 years he admitted to, I had wondered if he was fibbing, or just hadn't hit a preadolescent growth spurt. We eyed each other closely as she rattled on about the view and the hill. "Ok, I agreed; I will need a few minutes to charge my camera and eat a snack."

Walking uphill in an alley between the houses that I had not previously seen for approximately 500 meters lrevealed a nice view of the city. I turned fully around to take a shot and Gito waved me off. A fork in the road came and we took the upper roadway into the favela. (approp. in small cities?). A steep cobblestone street pitched such that I could not stand straight up, indicated a major visa further on. Almost two kilometers later, sweating and breathy the road became earth and mud. The houses had given way to fazendas, (farms). The first, on the eastern slope had a high iron gate and modern wire fencing. I asked, but Gito did not know what they raised or who the farmer's were. Higher still on the western slope was a massive cornfield, loosely terraced following the contours of the land. Everywhere we looked, even before the farms had begun there were large stands of banana trees. An occasional man with a machete, or a donkey laden with produce crossed our path; otherwise we were quite alone. I tried speaking to him, but for a long while he seemed put upon, as if I was another chore. Once I began to shoot some pictures he began to relax. I tried to include him in some of the shots and he initially refused, possibly trying to be courteous or self conscious. Finally, I asked him if I could put him in my frame and he suddenly began to warm up. We jumped from an exchange of random words or questions, "What is the name of that bird?," to a fuller, albeit choppy conversation, about Cachoeira, his interests, his studies in English, Italian and Capoeira.

The unpaved road was flatter and I could see some other streets up ahead. "Tinhamos passado a Porta do Belem". -We have crossed the townline, we are on the edge of Belem. "Is that is why it is a dirt road?" "Sim." He continued telling me how we could walk through part of the city and head south entering Cachoeira across town from where he lived. Matter of factly he said that it would be a long walk. I looked back, thought about my appointment to watch the preparation of the Cozido, and the distance we had traversed already. I quickly responded, "Nao. Obrigado pra sua sugestao, mais vamos voltar agora." No, thanks for your suggestion, let's turn around here. Descending the way we came, I shot a few more pictures of random people and lthe andscape. I did not notice that close to town he chose a different fork that put us close to the praca. Now fully engaged he showed me the prison cum museum built first to house and punish slaves, a plaque identifying Cachoeira as the site of the first independence movement against Portugual and a sweet cafe and shop of local artisans. I asked him if he knew of a tour of the sugar mills and Dende plantations that I had read about? He took me to the tourist office and then to a neighbor's home who did Jeep tours. Neither option gave fruit. I suggested that he come with me to see the women, so we continued uphill towards the Irmandade, now quite familar and comfortable with each other.

We entered the refectory and some of the sisters were sitting, chatting; waiting for the remainder to arrive. The refectory consisted of two rooms and a bathroom. The first room had a large sitting room, dining area an open kitchen at the back and a stair to the sanctuary. The other room was a large flagstone patio which had two iron burners with propane tanks large enough to accomodate forty and fifty gallon pots. The kitchen was defined by a half wall with a countertop, above which hung an accordion steel gate that could be folded tight to the wall or expanded and locked to protect their equipment. Mae Zelita brought me to meet the women who began the food preparation each day. Since the sisters had not all arrived, I was allowed into the kitchen with my camera. Ana Christina, a stout round face woman with a cheerful grin pointed out all of the vegetables that they had cooked and were prepping to cook, the various meats and the rich stock that had come from braising everything together. The pattern was that the women in conjunction with the commissioner of the Irmandade, (this year it was Mae Zelita), prepared the ritual meal for the sisterhood, and then did it again in massive quantities for the townsfolk. By that time the sisters had all arrived and Mae Zelita returned to finish their food. I began to shoot her as she grabbed a 3 foot wooden spoon to stir and season the broth, when she raised her voice and told me never to take her picture, or at least not when she cooked. I never found out why, I couldn't do this; but I heeded her command and left the kitchen.

Walking across the floor, one of the sisters beckoned to me to sit next to her near the exit door. Mae Analia was a large woman, with a body suited for hard work. She had a warm face and she volunteered some details about the history of the sisterhood and the week's festivities to clarify questions that I had. I was appreciative of her help, though I learned that any sister who you engaged wanted tribute money. The sisterhood lives off of the sale of handmade candles representing each of the Orishas and whatever donations they receive from the town and the tourists. I cannot truly blame them for their methods. I venerated the sisters, with a high degree of esteem, respect and humility. But it still felt odd to have a pleasent discussion and then be asked to pay for it.

At this moment, Anaclaudia entered with her family a college friend Rosangela and her husband Julio, from Salvador. Rosangela had brought me a book written by a European in English about the foods of Bahia. Somewhat dated, yet quite informative, I was quite appreciative that a stranger hearing of my research gave of themselves to help me with my work. She went on to tell me that if I desired a home in the area, she wanted to sell the beach house she and her husband had built when their kids were small in the fishing village west of Itaparica in Barra da Paraguacu. She would send Jpegs and we could discuss it. Maybe I had a friend...?

Lunch was served now that the immediate families of the sisters arrived. The cozido was delicious and the veggies sublime. Gito refused the meal. I am not sure why. One of the Mae's brought a basket filled with Banana Reais-Banana Fritters. I gave mine to Gito, who beamed as he ate the warm sweet filling. We decided to leave when a few of the sisters called me over. I was wearing my t-shirt depicting a Vampire George Bush sucking the blood from a dying Statue of Liberty. The sister seemed quite disturbed by the image. I wasn't sure if she knew the characters. I explained the image and the symbolism to her. One of her companions added to my description to make sure that she understood the theme. At that moment the three of them burst out in bawdy laughter and I joined in.

I found Mae Zelita to thank her for her generosity and to ask about the nature of the specific dishes chosen for these meals. She stood between Ana Claudia and me facing her relations as she told me that this dish, Cozido, had to do with the fact that the slaves always kept a small garden to supplement the meager rations that they received from the masters. This dish, all of the dishes helped us remember the reality of the slave life and their diet, relative to their workload. She looked closely at me for a sense of comprehension. I said nothing, but had followed her story. Most of her extended family was lost in their own conversation. All of a sudden, as though she was a teen girl, she looked around the room furtively and said we make this food to show what the NEGROES ate and grabbed Ana Claudia's arm who is many, many shades darker than her aunt. Holding her forearm, Zelita pointed to her skin color to make sure I understood what she was describing, cackled boldly and ran away. She had grabbed everyone's attention except Ana and Rosangela. We all burst out laughing uncontrollably while Ana stood bewildered looking at the arm that her aunt had just relinquished. Having seen the tristeza and solidarity of the sisterhood, it was great to see this expression of pluck and good humor.

I thanked the sisters and cooks who had helped me today, found Gito and got ready to leave. At the door a tiny sister, made huge by the volume of lace garments that she wore, made me think of the B boys in NYC who wear clothing several sizes too big creating a similar visual statement of grandness. She sat by herself, head down in thought or meditation. I said hello, she looked up and I saw her cheeks and forehead speckled with moles like my mother had had. I shared this memory with her, telling how as a young boy I always thought that any black woman I saw with moles like my Mom suggested a safe harbor, friend or maybe relation. Her eyes sparkled spreading light between us. Nearly teary, I left with Gito.

He had one more stop he thought we should make together. He thought that his neighbor might be in his boat which was tied up on the river near the praca. Arriving at the water the boat was gone, but their was a Capoeira demonstration and graduation ceremony for the young recruits of the Mulekietu school. Children from four to about sixteen were sparring with their masters and being awarded their first belts for their efforts. Some of Gito's friends were in the demo, so he was all up in this scene. Half an hour later, I walked on, leaving him there reveling in his friend's successes; free from the care of the American.