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.

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.

 

Uh, what do you think about women in the kitchen?

Lucky for me that I love to eat fish and shellfish. Three quarters of the food in class is made with a broth or base of smoked dried shrimp and then often has fish, shellfish or chicken as the featured protein. I always seem to be in heaven by lunchtime. Everyday I try to think of some way to get Cliff to come and join me. He would love the abundance of fresh fish. And, to give you a sense of reality, a kilo of freshly shucked crabmeat is about $12.00 reals or about eight bucks. Shucked mussels, clams and oysters are usually less. Pristine shrimp in the shell, Squid, Skate, Red Snapper, Corvina, Oily fish like Sardines and Mackerel, even Salmon. I have seen three types of Crab, and there is Spiny Lobster too.

Well in the last few classes I have had a few culinary ephiphanies. Last week was Cozido, and today we made Caruru. I previously described Cozido from my trip to the Festa de Boa Morte. I may have mentioned Caruru at that point as well. In any case both dishes are emblematic recipes passed on from slavery days, as a reminder and reinforcement of the African and Indentured heritage that goes with being Brazilian, black or otherwise. In the terreiro's both of these dishes, among others are foods for the Orixa. It is quite informative to watch them being produced in a terreiro to feed an Orixa and a crowd, and compare it with the precise culinary technique employed by Chef Josuenilton, (Joe-sway-nil-Ton) at Senac. Chef is a sweet and passionate young man, probably twenty nine to thirty one years old, and a father of two children under eight. It sounds as though he left the restaurant and hotel scene to raise a family and have normal hours as a culinary professor. He is a linear, no nonsense, not one spot on his white's kinda guy. Good hearted and politically conservative.

You should know that my folks chose my first name, and Craig my brother's because they were clear and simple. They do not necessarily lend themselves to diminution, i.e.; Margaret, Meg, Peg, Peggy, Maggie, etc. Well, every time I leave the country, no one can pronounce my first name. The dipthong throws them. The only way they can achieve it is if I become Scotchy. You see where that is going. I have even had people give me the drinking sign, and a side glance suggesting that this must be a nickname based on my predilections, No? Well, Chef Josuenilton, you can call him Chef Jonilton, for short, refers to me as Chef, once he learned of my background.

Friday, one of the more strident young women in class wanted to engage him and our classmates on the role of women in food. My class is made up of about fifteen people, of mixed backgrounds; almost all Baianos. A few seem to be matriculating as culinary students with the restaurant aspirations. Some folks just want to cook better; or learn their native recipes properly. Nobody is sitting on fat cash or living as a housewife/husband. Well, this gutsy young woman thought that women could and should aspire to culinary careers including management or Executive Chef status. Chef Jonilton, tried his best to be diplomatic. He hemmed around the idea of difference, you know the stock pot analogy...so much lifting and physical labor involved with cooking. The raucous nature of working, "The Line" on a Friday night. If you know the biz, the usual jive suspects. He began with the anatomy and physical limitations of women, and then moved onto discipline and leadership. You know that drill, when it comes to the bottom line, can she be an asshole drill sergeant and get the food out. At this point, even the working class women with no apparent feminist leanings or culinary aspirations began to take issue with him. Do you see what stop the train is headed for?

"Entao, Chef, (Scotchy), que pensa voce sobre a ideia a ter molheres dentro da cozinha, ou pra ter cozinheres-chefas? {What did I think about the idea of women in the kitchen, and or women as chefs?}-Hmmm? Lead balloon in my lap. Do I side with the women in a scenario that is not at all analogous to where we are at based on my culinary experiences, stick with the dude on a position of gender or professionalism; or pretened not to understand his Portuguese and deflect the question? I thought for a moment and said, in Portuguese, "I have worked for women chefs before." The room quieted. "Entao, que pas......? "In my experience women bring a different energy into the kitchen that I appreciate. A different sensitivity to food, team building and authority or manageme..." Before I could truly finish my thoughts of how many women ignited the farm to table movement, have fought for fair wages for all folks in the culinary food chain, and though they are not exempt from being jerks; just don't automatically just put on the "I am a big f-ing a-hole and you are going to redo all of that mis en place-NOW game-face" and ruin your life; Chef Jonilton started discussing better ways to create a smooth blend in your Fundo Misto, (equal mixture of ground dried shrimp, cashews and peanuts). I was off the hook of sorts.

Then today, he rolled a simple conversation of what I did for my weekend, with details of a family dinner in an outdoor restaurant complete with ocean views into a diatribe of conservative political ideology. I made sure that this time, I was busy snapping photos of the food in preparation to be cooked, so that I would be seemingly caught unawares if called upon. I guess he felt that local politics was out of my purview. I had followed his argument, silently questioning his agenda and the appropriateness of presenting his views in a forum where we all have to answer to him. Ugh, the demands of Petty power. Picture that we have to ask to be excused at the end of class.

Please don't get me wrong either, I like the guy. He is sweet, informative, a good cook and an careful teacher. He just needs to find that consciousness group or Biofeedback session. The Moqueca de Mariscos (squid, clams, mussels, shrimp, oysters and clams) Kicked Butt. I think that his Caruru, might have been my favorite so far. The comparisons are awkward since in ways the Comida de Santo at times can tend to run to excess in favor of a given ingredient that is seen as desirable by a sought after Orixa. One of my culinary connections, Urania told me last week that when her grandmother taught her to cook, she began by saying, "Neta, voce deve por atencao a sua comida. Pode fazer amor o matar com sua culinaria." *

{*Grandaughter, pay attention to your cooking. You can seduce someone or kill them with your cooking}. Nuff said.

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.