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

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.

Stepping into town..

This time, I had my MP3 charged and I made it through all those kilometers of cane fields, now mostly for Ethanol with my own vibe, a few photos and the bristliness of the chubblove gal on my left. Arriving back in town, Cachoeira it all seems low key. I distinctly remembered being here the first time in August and being immediately smitten. For no apparent reason, I was ready to kiss the cobbles in the street. Again, I feel like this could be my home base. Hmm, this New York city kid in small town Bahia. (?). Curious, this was once the capital and really the home of the first major Portuguese sugar plantations. Maybe, I sense the rootedness of Afro-Brazilian/Afro-Indian culture.

I casually walked through town from the Feira to the Irmandade. Two sisters were stationed there to receive tourists and devotees who may want to say prayers in their chapel. One was crocheting when I arrived. We talked briefly. I asked for Mae Zelita. They weren’t sure if she was in town. After a moment, they remembered me; or said that they did.

I learned quickly that they were not directly involved with the Catholic holiday that I had come back for; A Festa de São Cosme e São Damião. I would have to dig deeper. They suggested that I go to A Igreja Apostolica Brasiliera, behind A Igreja do Monte. I should ask fro Bispo Don Roque Cardoso Nonato. There or A Igreja Matriz, the Mother Church nearby. I left word for Mae Zelita. They advised me to drop by tomorrow around two o’clock, if she was in town they would have her meet me. I would also find Ana Claudia her niece and my recent acquaintance from my last visit. Ok, see ya later, ciao.

Leaving the Irmandade I walked around the corner to the town visitor center, in search of Francisca. I had asked the sisters about my colleague, Francisca Marques, the local ethnomusicologist. Last trip Francisca had offered me a room in her place. This time, just as the last time, funds were tight. I could use the the bed or floorspace and I wanted to discuss the possibility of a collaboration with Francisca too.

The woman at the desk of the center was not familiar with Francisca. Just as I was turning to leave, she called out to a young man who was in the street, walking past her door, “Jose! Jose, por favor pode venir aqui adentro?….Voce conhece uma Senhora? Moments later, Jose and I were walking to the small historical museum where he worked part time. He knew Francisca. Vaguely, I thought that I remembered him from Salvador. “Hmmm, maybe not?”

Jose, he preferred Joseph wanted to speak English. We walked to his job, because he had still had work to do and he could not leave. Standing by the entry desk was a middle aged man, Grizi (yuup, Greazie). Grizi was a musician. He played Samba de Prato, Samba of the Plate. This style of Samba originated in Santo Amaro 20 miles away. Most people used a spoon or implement to strike or rub the rim of a ceramic plate as their instrument for Samba. Santo Amaro is also the birthplace Negro Fugido, Caetano Veloso and his sister, Maria Bethania; more on that later.

Grizi and I walked through town to Francisca’s house. He asked in the clothing store next door to her front door, if they had seen her today. “Not for hours, but knock hard she works in the back of the apartment.” He rang the bell, knocked, called out, and tapped the door with his keys for thirty minutes in trying to raise her. I thanked him, and sent him on his way after he invited me to his concert the following evening in Muritiba. Cool.

After waiting around 20 minutes I decided to buy an organic cold remedy and wait until she returned. I got my stuff, found a café and sat there for nearly an hour without being asked to buy anything or leave. Small town realities… I went back to her spot, someone had come home; but not her.

I walked a few blocks to the Feira to buy a piece of fruit. I stopped to ask the time at the first barraca I found. By the riverbank they had a mobile cart serving beer, coffee and snacks. They also had a cage filled with two, no three Macaco monkeys, (about the size of a squirrel) they had found one injured, nursed it and made it a pet. She was pregnant. Her child impregnated her, so now there were three. The newborn was 24 hours old. Shot some images, bought some grilled meat on a stick and watched the day retire into dusk.

I thought enough time had passed to check back on Francisca. This time I found Jose again. He was now on his way home from work. We talked briefly. “Porque você está aqui agora?” “…Caruru e São Cosme e São Damião,” I replied. He offered to bring me to a friend’s house, she was making some Caruru. I could speak with her. Caruru is a dense Quiabo or Okra stew that makes okra become its most slimy self. It is served usually with Farofa Amarella, White Rice, Brown Beans, Chicken, Iame and generally White Corn Hominy.


We walked through the feira across town and up into one of the favelas. I checked myself to see how quickly I had allowed myself to accept and trust this stranger. Cross fingers. Walking up steep stone steps in the dark I didn’t know it but this would be my weekend base camp. Jose’s friend, was his Mae de Santo, Dona Analia da Paz. She is also one of the sisters of the Boa Morte, (the Good Death). We had met before. She has had more than twenty years membership in the sisterhood. Analia was warm and friendly, though you can tell by looking at her that you shouldn’t cross her. I believe she said that she was almost 70. We found her sitting in a low slingback chair by the front door. As we entered she was in deep conversation with one of her sons and her fraternal twin daughters. Joao, 2 ½ , one of her grand children was working on running out the front door. She carefully looked me up and down.

I reminded her of another American, Samuel from San Francisco. “No, wasn’t I the one who gave her $10 in Agosto? Hadn’t we talked at the sisterhood?” I confirmed her suspicions and now I was family. We arranged to meet in the morning. She also hadn’t seen Zelita.

“Could I give her some money now for the Caruru? If I wanted to see it, she needed money to buy ingredients. A skim coat of a scam, yet the ragged saida Baiana, cum housedress that she had pulled up above her more than ample bosom and tied just tight enough to stay, yet expose a healthy portion of one breast, told me that money was dear. I gave her a $20 and watched her roll it tightly and tie it to the end of the waist-string of her skirt/dress. The other end had a roll of one or two $5 notes.


Jose showed me the Terreiro de Caboclo on the corner, decorating the house for tomorrow’s ceremony. Maybe I wanted to go, he suggested. Ok, thanks. Further up the hill in the dark he took me to the church he called Igreja dos Pretos; I forget the official name. Similar to the “Blue Church” in Pelourinho, this was a church made by slaves for their own worship, after-work. A white stone building at the top of the hill, with almost a Quakeresque simplicity soaring high ceilings, a interior cemetery beside the sanctuary and a larger one just beyond the front door. Inside, a barrel voiced man was giving teenagers an English lesson. We listened for a bit, until he gave them a break. He wanted me to come to his church, he was Evangelical. He had many history books of Cachoeira. I was anxious not to hear propaganda….we made a tentative date for tomorrow after lunch before he resumed teaching.

Now, it was close to eight o’clock. I left Jose and went back down the hill to town. This time I found Francisca, she was on her corner, getting ready to leave. She had a crew with her, Germans. Ethnomusicology students on a research project with their Prof. who was also a Paulista like Francisca. He taught between São Paulo and three German universities, Hamburg, Leipzig and Bremen. He had done his masterwork on the roots of Samba. He was bringing the students to see what changes had occurred 20 years later. They invited me to the Samba performance they had arranged to tape. I put my stuff inside the house. Now I had arrived.

 

Ready for Roadwork.... on the bus to Cachoeira, [again]

F-i-f-t-y. All four of us hit it, this summer. Madonna got herself a ballplayer, Michael might be losing himself a mansion, and Prince is always getting into something fine. At a younger age they each were some point of reference; as pre-teens maybe the original Michael was a role model for a hot minute. Now; they are just peers in the age-game. For me, I am feeling like 19 at fifty. Free like those peeps that go to Europe backpacking after college is done.


“Hmmm. Yeah, I think that I could do it. I think about it some part of everyday. I need to make plans, arrangements; my girl, family-the blood & the chosen, revenue streams, possessions, etc. Going on the road for an extended period is all about creating the right bases. Cleaning the slate & lightening the load.


Brazil has been a kick for me, in too many ways. I need a comfortable place to sleep. Sounds simple, but if you know me you wouldn’t laugh. The insomniac values sleep like a sweet spliff. Something about here, Bahia makes me feel at ease. Could be lots of things, not quite sure which or what.


–Why did that woman, the chubblove one just jump into my stuff? Knock my book over, shift my shit, to get into the seat next to me. The bus ain’t that full. She coulda asked me to move. You know, riding an interstate bus can be a funky hairdo that won’t grow out quick enough……


I think that these thoughts are coming up now because I am headed back to Cachoeira. This was one of first destination after Michele split back to NY. Its all about nostalgia and going home again. I see the finish line, for the first time. Also, yesterday and Wednesday I was stuck up in Allen Woolf.


Allen came raining down hard into all of my thoughts. I was a bit paralyzed by the memories he stirred up. The Hindus and the Jews, probably most folks say that the spirit is present for thirty days after someone passes, takin’ care of business. They are tying loose ends, collecting memories and leaving their trace in the consciousness of the families that they created in life. It makes me think of the accelerated Technicolor flood of visceral re/memoried-images of my life with Sylvia that came randomly at all hours of the day in the first three months after she, Mom, passed.

Something still keeps churning up. Though now, I feel like it is more of a gentle touch, keeping me from getting burnt. As Kath says, “remembering to take the sweater that you were told to pack.” I usually wonder how do I get to where I find myself. My life is so much soup sometimes. This morning as I prepared to catch the moto-tax, to the Lancha boat, to a city bus, to the interstate bus I was already tired. Still nursing the remnants of a minor flu, I just wanted to putz. But, I wasn’t comfortable in my skin where I was that morning at Sacatar either. Please trust me, think twice before creating a Cancerian boy-child. Emotions and moods run deep.

Shit, Shower, Shave; then learning Caruru

After three days in a bed that was wanting for more comfort than thin slats and threadbare sheets a cold shower seems like spoonfuls of Caviar. Everywhere I look, even where I least expect it I am accosted by profundity. I had woken up slowly, drunken with images and lacking that blind deep sleep of simple dreams and rest. I wanted to savor the quiet and the sand in my eyes. Women singing, fireworks, church bells and a lame ring tone melody on one of the other border's cell phone brought me to full consciousness. An hour later, I got out of bed, in preparation to shit, shower and shave; then locate pao and cafe de manha. Something.

Last night a Babalow had come home with us from the ceremonio. He seemed to be from this community, though now was just passing through. My Dona da casa had offered him her bed, and she took the third love seat cum couch. Por causa que ele estive pra la, tinhamos cafe de manha feito na casa. Legal! Since he had stayed overnight she made us all a light breakfast. Coffee, Beiju, butter and bananas. I left at ten to go to the Irmandade. Immediately upon my arrival I found Mae Zelita and let her know that I would start taking pictures. She agreed and I walked outside to the terrace to capture the making of the broth and the washing of the okra for the Caruru. Today's meal, Caruru, is possibly the most overtly African dish in the festa. It is a unctuous stew of okra and smoked dried shrimp, garlic, peanuts, cashews and palm oil, all cooked to a pulpy mash.

Just after I began, the house managers ran towards me screaming and flailing their arms. "Nao. Nao pode. ni um foto pode tirar agora. Deve vai embora! Agora mesmo!"
They were refusing me the ability to shoot or even be present. Shocked, I stopped, frozen in motion. I let my camera drop to my side, and began looking for Mae Zelita. As I looked, I blurted in my broken Portuguese that she had sanctioned my presence. "Agora, NAO!. Hoje ela nao pode fazer nada. Nao tem poder ela!"--Powerless; what? As I grasped the fragments of their statements, today Mae Zelita was not in charge, someone else was. Hours later, Francisca Marques gave me the low down. Every year a commission is created amongst the sisterhood. A chief commissioner defines the arc of the week's activities including the food preparation, fund raising and processions. Sunday, the last official day of festivities was always given over to the commission elected for the following year. This allowed them to get their feet wet, and understand how to implement their duties. Thus, it was true. Mae Zelita had no jurisdiction today. Shit.

I heard someone call to me in a hoarse grunting voice, "Voce tinha cafe de manha, hoje?" Have you had breakfast this morning?-Mae Zelita to the rescue. Following her lead, I lied and said that no I had not eaten at all. "Perfeito." She responded and she ducked into the kitchen. Returning quickly with a cup of coffee and a dosante of stevia in one hand and a small plate which held a small roll of white bread stuffed with ham, another roll smeared with butter and a napkin. In her absence I had shuffled across the room to find a seat between two Mae's near the door. She brought me the "stall tactic" or breakfast and I began to eat, while my companions began to get setup for cutting okra. A few minutes later, Francisca entered, hugging various Mae's, and offering kind greetings to all. She was the same woman who I had been standing next two at last night's Samba de Roda, with the videocam. We had been jockeying for position, trying to document the various dancers and bands. I had come close to asking her to move several times when she blocked my camera angles. Being new in town, I had decided to let it go. Now, again she pulled out her camera and started filming the food production. Zelita seized the moment and began jeering at the kitchen managers. A volley of terse whispers and sniper glares came at me. Mae spat out, "Se ela pode tirar; entao, ele pode tambem!" -If she can, then......

The more vocal brown skinned woman with glasses marched towards me, and with a bitchy undertone she growled " Entao, voce pode deixar agora." -You can stay now. Disdainfully she added, "E sim, pode tirar fotos, tambem." Vanquished by me, the stranger she stormed off.

I surveyed the room, looking for a response, animosity or empathy from the sisters. Everyone present was quietly at their work. Some of the sisters had still not arrived. One of the cheerier women had brought in a censor which flooded the room with the smoke and fumes of frankincense and myrhh. Three times she walked around, anointing all of the women, the foods and implements for cooking in the room and on the terrace. This happened every morning, but I had not previously been privy to her procedure.

As anticipated, my memory card filled quickly, this being my last day in Cachoeira. I sat for a time, recharging my battery and dumping shots I felt that I could part with. Slowly, the women began to hum. First individually, then as a collective they began to sing together. I am not sure of the content, though the songs seemed light and praiseworthy. The incense vapors floated with their melodies. Their volume increased and a few women stopped cutting and began to add hand claps, punctuating the phrasing of their songs. Trancelike and ethereal they humbled the few onlookers like me who stood and sat in awe of their performance. Francisca told me that they were asking Yaya, or their Nossa Senhora for blessings, for support and especially for luck; going forward. I asked if they received any sign in response to their prayer songs? She continued, "Yaya would approve their wishes over the day today and over the next several months as they completed their annual rituals and began preparations for the coming year. Good luck in life, in prayer, especially in festas would be essential. The success of this festa and the following one next year would be proof; her acknowledgment."

Waiting for the next activity to begin, Francisca and I continued to discuss the sisterhood and her research in ethno-musicology. Francisca had been living in Cachoeira for eight years, documenting Samba de Roda and the Irmandade. In a few months she would be receiving her Phd; and she needed to move on. She was low on funds and short on patience. She had successfully trained a cadre of individuals and academics from teens to doctoral fellows in the manner for conducting proper field research in ethno-musicology and anthropology. Graciously, she filled in many of the gaps I had about the sisterhood and the community. She suggested some books to read and offered to give me a teaching brochure that she had created. The brochure had won her awards from UNESCO. She also offered me a bed in her home, when I returned to Cachoeira. As Francisca described her reality, I reflected on the nature of higher education here and in the USA.

"I want to ground my life. I want to teach and I need to make some money. I am now in my forties! Twice I have been selected to teach at University. Yes, here in Cachoeira. I would like to stay here. Both times I have passed my examinations and have been approved for hire. But, always at the last moment I have not been seated. I haven't paid off the right people. I deeply believe in free public education-Yet, I hate our system of corruption. Everything is corrupt here. How can you be qualified, pass the exams and not be seated; Twice?" Phew. That is a harsh reality.

Sitting in silence, digesting her story I wanted to cry, or hug on her. From behind us, came shuffling and high pitched voices in American English. Twenty or so mostly African American women all in white cottons entered the room following behind a middle aged man who defined the scene they were observing. Brazenly they took over the room, pulling out their cameras, and sitting with the sisters, embracing them for photo ops, as though they were the focal points and not the Irmandade. Disgusted and not really wanting the knowledge, I put my camera aside and asked them where they had come from. "Brooklyn."-came the chorus. "Oh...." "We are from the Simmons Museum of African American Art. Didn't I know it? Was I American too?" I responded, "Yes, Mount Morris Park-Harlem." I wasn't sure if I was disgusted more in their overt American-ness, dominant and self centered in nature; or in their inability to show respect and humility for this group of women who were holding up a tradition of solidarity for over 200 years. Turn off the TV and get real. Pausing, catching my breathe to contain it's fervor; silently I acknowledged that I too was an interloper, a voyeur here in Cachoeira. You cannot be too self righteous. Probably, they would pay for the privelege of the picture taking. The sisters lived from these contributions. In that way, they could help them. Possibly, someone who saw their pictures back in NY, could affect change or embrace their dedication as inspiration in their own work.

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.

Do Seminario do Dende a Cachoeira

You cannot ever be too cocksure in a new place. Anxious to absorb all that I could and hopeful that I could, would make relevant connections at the Seminario de Dende at Senac Cooking School in the Pelourinho, I had decided to stay on until the end. Or at least until the cocktail reception and book party at 6:30 PM, for Raul Lody's new book. He was the director of the seminario and a key anthropologist of Afro-Brazilian culture. I had introduced myself to him, he was gracious but we got nowhere. I was constrained because that same day I had plans to go to Cachoiera, (Cash-o-where-a) for A Festa Da Irmandade da Boa Morte. The Festival of the Sisterhood of the Good Death. More on that soon.

The first of the last two speakers of the day at the seminario was truly sawdust. I am sure she is a competent woman, and seemed quite intelligent. She is the chief administrator of Senac and is based in Sao Paulo. Senac appears to be a national vocational college with branches in Tourism, Cooking, ___________ & _____. She deals with food. I am sure she has great strengths as a CEO, she acknowledged that last week was her thirteenth anniversary in her position. But she must not have been hired for her elocution skills. She attempted to demystify the editorial and publication process for books on food and cooking. As relevant as it might have been, it could have been turned into a Powerpoint presentation or a printed brochure. I lost my taste for more speechifying and decided I would be better served to try and catch an earlier bus to Cachoeira. I wanted to be able to arrive at a more reasonable hour, navigate the town, find some dinner and get oriented with regards to the festival. Thus, I left the seminar 45 minutes early, 5:30 PM and made my way to the Lacera Elevator and out of the Pelourinho. The bus stop at the foot of the elevator was a major transit link for city buses. Fairly quickly I found one marked Rodoviaria Volta B-Brotas, (Ho-dough-Vee-ar-ee-ya: Bus Station). I hopped on, chilled down and made ready for my trip into the Bahian countryside. Heading east from town, we went through the tunnel cut into the same hillside that Pelouinho sits on top of. I had made this trip yesterday from Barra to buy my ticket in advance. Everyone said that the festival was breathtaking, and a major magnet for Brazilians, foreigners; in particular African Americans.

A Festa is said to be the first act of solidarity by black people for black people in honor and in struggle for the people who had died enslaved in Brazil. It has been held for over 200 years, initially begun in Salvador. The sisterhood of black women in a direct bloodine descendancy from slaves dedicate their lives to honoring the struggle of the ancestors, express real and metaphoric tears for the murder and subjugation of their elders and live a simple ascetic life, dressing traditionally, holding special vigils, prepare ritual meals and ceremonial rituals which culminate in this week long festa, which began on Monday. It was suggested that I also sample some regional dishes, Manicoba-a rich Afro-Indian meat stew thickened with manioc leaves, Caldo de Sururu-A mussel broth or soup, Fejoida com Feijao Preto-Fejoida with Black Beans, Licor da Cachoeira among other dishes. Taylor, one of the founders of Sacatar had tried to connected me with his friend, Edmilson, described as a flamboyant gay man who spoke French, Portuguese and no English; someone who had a good head for the festival, could be a general guide to Cachoeira and had room to put me up for a small fee. Unfortunately, he never responded to our emails. As a safeguard, I had found an internet site with some Pousadas listed, and made reservations at two to be safe.

Bus tickets sell quickly, so I was advised to purchase my ticket ahead of time. They printed my name and reservation time, 8:00 PM was printed on the ticket, like an airticket. I used that trip to a Rodoviaria to clock the travel time, so that I could be ready on the day of the seminar, forty five minutes. Therefore from the Pelourinho stop is should be approximately a 20-30 minute ride. My bus, a tortuga, appeared to stop at every corner in Engenho Velho de Brotas (Engenho Velho indicates the site of a form Sugarcane Plantation during the colonial period). I asked the moneytaker on the bus for an explanation of the route. "Vai ficar tempo", It takes time, was his response. It was now 6:50PM. I thought that at least I would make my scheduled bus. My phone rang a few times with calls from the States, which distracted me from the sluggish ride. When I finally saw the highway up ahead, the eastbound lanes we needed to taker were bumper to bumper and barely moving. As we mounted the on ramp we headed west towards the ocean. I was confused and distraught; my cool unraveled. I realized that our route required us to head west to some intersection where we would reverse direction and head east to the bus station; 5 km later.

The third time I spoke to the money taker, he was too through. When I asked how much longer? He came back with, "Um rato. Vai ficar tempo pra chegar pra la. Nao posso dizer cuanto tempo. Temos muita congestacao, trafico". Awhile. It takes time to get there. I can't say how long. There is a lot of congestion, traffic. Voce deve buscar Shopping Iguatemi. Look for the Iguatemi mall. Being pragmatic and crazed, I said, "But don't you do this everyday? The same route?"---Yes.

"Entao....How long, you must know the time it takes....?" "Vai ficar tempo. Nao sei." I cursed the lives of functionaries. There had to be a better answer, it was now 7:29. I wasn't sure if I would even be able to catch my scheduled bus. I considered trying to get out in traffic, flagging a cab, or what I wasn't sure. I didn't quite know where I was to make clear decisions. Then I saw Shopping Iguatemi, and thought that it all might work. I had had such good luck up until this point, I hoped that it didn't portend a bad scenario ahead in Cachoeira? I found my queue on the Santana bus line at 7:50. The only concern I had had, was that I was waiting on money from America and what I had was what I had, and there were not many reals or time alotted for dinner. Agua sem gas and a small bag of boiled peanuts were the realities for now.

The ride took about two and one half hours. None of the overhead lights worked, so my preparatory reading sat in my sack. Behind me two chatty Brazilian men flitted time with their chatter. Two young ample bosom women marked by revealing cleavage and hugging jeans got on, and the men had a target. I dozed off between my peanut splurges and their cat and mouse. While I was awake I appreciated the rolling hills in silhouette under a shadow of clouds. Closer to our destination an almost full moon rose as I anxiously watched one street towns and random roadside stops blink by. The larger villages caused this bus to function like a cityline, stopping five or six times on shuttered streets that reflected a stray bar or a streetside card game. I bolted awake as I came to consciousness in Cachoeira. Overstimulated by my day and ride, anxious for the weekend and underfed, I had slept deeply for 20-30 minutes. I realized that I had no idea where I was going, and that this town would have several stops. Inquiring with the moneytaker, (all the buses have one; I wonder if it is also a crime detererrent?), neither he nor the driver knew the street I named, even as repeated it with a new intonation. Rua Ana Nery. "Porque voce nao saia na Rodoviaria da Cachoeira? Sera melhor." As my feet touched the pavement street hawkers chanted at me and the passengers on the bus-cerveja, agua mineral, amendoine, refrescante-Aqui.

The bus made a U-turn and disappeared over a rusted steel suspension sitting over the river. Across the river there was also a town, more brightly lit. Should I be there? Is that were the commercial streets and Pousadas were? Giovanna had said that the bus might only stop in Sao Felix nearby. Maybe that was Sao Felix. I walked to the riverfront and saw lights ahead, deciding that at least at the lighted place I could ask. The crowded bar sat adjacent to a playground, soccer field and town park. At the street corner one group was split between three people at table and two in their car, doors flung open beer sheening all of their lips. Walk away from the river, (into darkened streets), direito ate ...Two blocks later, I found two men selling churrascinhos on a main drag. I stopped to ask again, and decided to buy one. I watched them cook over a hibachi with a small two speed electric fan hotwired into the street lamp to stoke the coals. They had just run out of beef, so I was given sausages, chicken and squash with a crown of raw onions and sliced cucumbers oozing vinegar. The meats were rolled in farofa just before he handed it to me with the next set of directions. A few blocks later, nest to a large church, I asked a guarda, and realized I was looking at the Pousada across the street from his station. I had found a website with Ana Bea's help. I couldn't get a Skype signal, so I used my cell and probably would pay tweny American for my calls. In front of their doorway was a chipped silver wrought iron gate, removable, like a toddler barrier. Almost one meter tall. I saw no bell, so I called out in a low voice. A woman, teenager turned in the dark hallway telling me to come in. I lifted the gate, replacing it as walked int their home. She led me into a squareish room dominated by a heavy wooden dining table and too many chairs. Grandma in a housedress and a headscarf sat on a sagging sofa. A dark skinned man, the girl who brought me in and two young children sat around the room glued to a telenovela.

A woman dressed like gram was in the kitchen in profile to us. She held a chubby sausage with her left hand, hacking slices in the air with her right. A stairway was in the corner and the roof was partially open to the sky. Moonlight spilled in adding to the TV glow. She motioned me into the kitchen, took me in as she sliced; asking what I wanted? The pot behind her sizzled with onions and garlic as I requested the room I had reserved. You called? Yes....She looked into my eyes, then she surveyed my frame. "Voce vai assentar com minha mae". Go and sit on the sofa next to my mother. Grandma creamy coffee colored, breasts long past firm as they sagged to her mid chest under her garmets pulled up a seat next to the sofa and motioned to me. I sat. The man, not Dad, in a sleeveless black V neck tennis sweater with white trim, black dress shorts and a black apple jack hat muttered something at me that I didn't follow. I was exhausted, and now had no room, nor did I know where the other possiblity was; it was late. I needed my wits now, all of my cognitive skills to follow this conversation in a lazier dialect than that of Salvador. I quickly became the focus of the conversation, though they spoke about me, not too me. Until Grandma turned , smiled and whispered, " Voce nao e globo?" I repeated, "Globo?" (does that mean globe?). "Voce parece globo." I answered, "Nao, nao sou globo, mais obrigado." No, I am not globo, but thanks. She continued muttering and looking at me with a sultry gaze. Where was I? Was she senile? A woman called out and came in beer gut leaking over her pants. She asked for coffee and the teen girl whipped out cafezinhos for everyone. She sat on the sofa and immediately began to speak to me in English, telling me that there was housing for men only down the street two blocks. I wasn't sure I wanted that. I just imagined trashed guys, loud late at night. Our hostess stepped from the kitchen and quickly told the man to leave and ask at one of the neighbor's homes for a room. He left and returned quickly empty handed. She looked at me again, and said to the room more than someone, "Mas ele me ligou." But he called me. Maybe I can do something for you, but I am waiting for someone from Sao Paulo. Grandma kept on about globo as I finished my coffee. Now the dona addressed the man, mentioning someone's name. He stood to leave and they all looked to me. He wanted me to follow.

Around the corner, and up the block, a smallish woman with thick wavy brown hair cracked her door and I listened to him discuss my situation. She opened the door for me and he left. The room was in shadows, she led me down a short hallway speaking as she walked. I made out a a ceramic roof high above this railroad flat, kitchen at the back, TV in the backround. None of the rooms had cielings, so true privacy would be at a minimum. Out of the shadows, a young girl came from the farthest room as we talked. A measured cadence of snores emanated from the door behind me. Dad? I was shown a room, sky blue walls, double bed covered with a mossy satin spread and matching quilted velvetine headboard. A square of lace appliqued to the middle of the spread. A carved wooden armoire with sliding doors, two of them broken stood along the far wall. A picture of the young girl I had seen at an earlier age, praying was framed adjacent to a reproduction of female nude charcoal drawing. We stepped out of this room and she asked, "How many people? How long?" "Just me. Until Sunday." Immediately she whispered to the young girl. It depends upon the price, doesn't it? How much will you..." They looked at each other again. $80? I repeated the figure. "Yes, ok; $80. I asked for a toilet as they whispered on. Returning, I set my things on the bed and asked about food. The girl volunteered the leftovers and a drink. I looked up, and accepted a glass of water, as her mother'e eyes nixed the food. What did I want-dinner? It was too late, I just wanted a snack. They sent me to the central square a few blocks away. In the street again, now hereing cicadas, I stopped to photograph the church when I heard the daughter whistling and jogging up to me. "Chaves. Voce precisa um chave." A key-duh.

The praca was three streets long with a center island, grassy and studded with plastic chairs and street food carts. Several full bars, cafes and restaurants opened onto the square. Brazilian rock, countryish blared from loudspeakers mounted on street lamps.Noisy people sat, chatting under strings of small white light bulbs strung in the trees above the square, watching the itinerant souvenir sellers set up camp and tents. I chose one, sat, ordered a beer and negotiated a bowl of Caldo Bacalhau with the owner from among the ten or soups she had written on the plywood menu. Unctous and satisfying with a taste of roux or starch, it did its job. I got up to pay and split, watching to men thrust their tongues into each others mouths. Was one of them Ed? Too late. When I got back to my digs, mom and daughter were still whispering incessantly. Thankfully, they had locked my door. They showed me how to work the lock. I am too trusting. I unpacked and hung up the few things I brought, grabbed my toothbrush and went the toilet again. Now a young boy half awake was watching the TV. Mom called to me in her choppy, poorly constructed Portuguese, "I had missed the invocation and the first procession. I needed to be at the Irmandade by 10:00 AM to see tomorrow's procession. Go early." I thanked her and crawled into bed. As I turned out the light I spied a pair of sequined slippers peeking out from under the bed. I think that I had taken her daughter's bedroom. It was almost midnight and fell asleep quickly. Drifting in and out of random dreams, I heard music faintly.

Abruptly, several hours later before dawn, I was shocked into wakefulness first by three rounds of fireworks, then the peal of church bells and finally an hour's cacophony of roosters. The fireworks had shocked them too. Starting individually, they united into a crowing chorus, like strays dogs howling until daybreak. By seven I was up and out walking the streets to see where I had come to. I stopped in the church, watching devout parishioner's pray momentarily. I walked against traffic, paralleling the river as townspeople hurried to work or to prepare for the festa. Side streets and alleys carried me past massive colonial buildings, some intact, many crumbling. Waling away from the town center, all of the residential neighborhoods had small one or two story brick homes covered in plaster with the same arrangement of small iron gates creating a buffer with the street. The interior rooms of almost every home was fully visible. Outside of every other house, people hung their bird cages with all manner of birds from Budgies to Parrots, singing in the day. I could see that this town had been rich 300 years ago, now it was holding on, appearing solidly working class; with exotic birds in cages, satelitte dishes and a donkey here and there. I came to an edge of town, the east side I think, and found a playground along the river. Happily I did a Tai Chi set, as morning fishermen cast their nets from narrow pirouges. I heard a distant drum, then faint singing coming from across the river. I isolated three long, low buildings as origin of the music. Thinking it might be the parade band or an early gathering of festivants, I decided to walk over the metal bridge and find the musicmakers.

Approaching the Rodoviaria in daylight the Rodoviaria it was impressive sitting at one foot of the bridge adjacent to the Ferroviaria (train station). I crossed the battered span barely wide enough for two lanes of traffic to find Sao Felix, a cathedral and a farmers market at other foot. Hungry now, I bought some bananas, found a cafe with full of men glued to the Brazilian women's Olympic soccer team final's. I ordered a Banana Real or Banana Turnover and coffee. Across the way a man ate a full plate of fried potatoes and scrambled eggs. I ordered that too. Shortly afterwards a plate arrived with only poorly scrambled eggs. I asked after the potatoes. They had run out. Hmm...Bread? He returned with a puffy roll. I made an egg sandwich, the game finished and I left. I never found the music. Possibly, my ears had been playing tricks or eating breakfast upset the timing. Returning to Cachoeira, I found signs leading me to the Irmandade/Sisterhood. The streets choked with people talking loudly in anticipation of the procession, briefly became quiet as a tuba bleeted in the distance. I saw the procession of women coming down a steep hill with a marching band at the rear.The tune could have been written in New Orleans.

Looking around, looking for camera angles and positioning, someone called my name. Big (pronounced Biggie), from the Pelourinho. We embraced, laughed and checked in with each other. He was playing private tour guide to a black actor and his wife from L.A. I recognized his face, but couldn't name him. Adroitly, he began to I.D. key players in the crowd, local politicians, historians, the minister of culture. People he thought I should know, based on my research topic. I exhanged cards and handshakes with all of them, including the govenernor of Bahia. Is Big an Exu at the crossroads? Next, he introduced me to a group of Black American journalists and a tourism executive. We bantered back and forth. One of the women, chatty, flaunted her book, Black History for Dummies. I decided that the church service held more intrigue, and pressed myself into the throng. It took forty minutes of jostling to get to the front of the aisle between the pews where the Irmandade were seated. Periodically, people got up and left from the heat inside the sanctuary overcrowded with locals, other Brazilians, international tourists, a visiting French bishop and many black Americans. Having been raised Episcopal I can always navigate a Catholic Mass, even in a new language. I studied the faces and dress of the sisterhood. Today they were dressed in a variation of the Baina costume. They had full circle boldly printed hooped skirts, lace under trousers, a white blouse cut like a priests supplice, red satin shawls with black lining, thick ropes of beaded Orisha necklaces and silver chains and lace headwraps. I took communion in honor of my mother and marveled at their sense of faith and solidarity as their leaders shared the altar with the priests.

Back in the street, other marching bands, Samba de Roda troupes, dancers in Afro-Indian tribal costume enjoined the nascent procession. The street thicker with flesh pressing flesh feverishly waited for the women and their idol, VIRGEN______to exit the chapel. Finally an hour later we returned to the chapel and people crowded inside in anticipation of the next round of activities. I followed, looking for a copy of the historical brochure for reference and notes. I chose the right person to ask about the brochure and the culinary traditions of these women. She directed me to one of the director's who was heading our way. The man next to me, Luja, heard my questions and suggested that I follow him to see the food being prepared. His aunt was the chief commissioner this year, she could answer all of my questions and probably provide recipes. Wow. He grabbed me by the hand and ten minutes later I was upstairs in the refectory behind locked doors open only to the sisterhood, important officials and family members. I talked with Luja's aunt, Mae Joselita, or Mae Zelita to family and friends.His Mae was directing traffic in the kitchen to finish the Fejioada, Carne de Boi (Bull, Black Bean and Pork Stew) that had been started early that morning. The sisterhood was always served first, then their families and finally the general public. They had enough food to serve several hundred people. Mae Zelita asked what I was doing here, when I responded she turned to her family and asked for a translation. I guess Portuguese needs more work. She then offered me a plate and advised me that tomorrow we could sit and share recipes. I could not be in the kitchen, but I was free to photograph. The beans were perfectly cooked with a nice bite to the tooth. I navigated through a reddish sausage, a leathery strip of well done beef, (maybe Carne do Sol), a braise-shoulder (?), rice and farofa. It could have been Monday evening in New Orleans with a plate of Red Beans and Rice. The dishes ran right together. I shot some photos until my battery was spent, then negotiated the door to search for my charger. On my way out, Luja introduced me to his cousin, Anaclaudia. She insisted that I needed to experience everyday food and should come for a drink and a snack at 5:30 to her home in Sao Felix. She quickly gave me directions and I left.

I was later told the order of all the traditional dishes prepared for the festival. I had missed the first day with the symbolic distribution of black beans and corn in exchange for alms and the second day's famous White Meal of Bread, a Fridgeira da Bacalhau, a cool deep dish savory pie of salt cod and vegetables with an eggy top crust, White Wine and Seafood. Tommorrow's meal would be Cozido. This dish sounded similar to a classic Latin Caribbean dish of braised meats cooked with whole root vegetables and then served separately with the vegetables cut into hefty chunks. There's would have Beef and Goat. The last meal would be Caruru, a very African dish of stewed okra, camarao or smoked dried shrimp in the shell, herbs and Dende oil. Every meal ended with performances of Samba de Roda, and frenetic dancing.