Seeing Analia: Vivaldo redux--Lion in a kettle

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

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

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

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

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

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.

 

The Cocoa Tree and Exu, or not.

3.
Over the next several days after class at Senac, I attempted to gain access to Nossa Senhora, the Blue Church. For one reason or another, usually the staff lunch hour, I usually found the front door locked. Finally, on Friday we were released before noon, so I scurried downstairs to make another attempt. The side door was unlocked. I paid my $2 reals and went on in. I had not captured a good photo of São Benedito and I wanted to explore more of the facility.


Again, I looked at the cocoa tree, admiring the six or so large pale green fruits that hung from its spindly branches. When I inquired about the tree and its story, the attendant could not tell me anything more than it was here when I arrived; 18 years ago. We went to the Irmandade Office, where the Sister in charge said the same thing, adding a few more years for herself. In the end, they went to the rear to ask one of the older Sisters. She conveyed that it was 28 years old, and was recently identified as the best species of Cacao in the country. Quite rare, and no one knows how it got there…

Through two doorways at the rear of the building was a small Sacristy that contained vitrines filled with various images of the black saints, a few portraits of previous pastors, key members of the Irmandade, a traditional lion’s head faunt and a signed photo from Pope Paul II’s visit.


Not being Catholic, I needed some tutorial on the saints. As I began photographing all of the icons a petite black woman amply built with a frosting of moles on her face brought in some golden and white carnations to fill the vases throughout the church. While she added water to each vessel, I introduced myself and began to ask questions. The Sister said that she was one of the 300 plus members of the Irmandade. They were dedicated to the church and community work, which included helping sister churches and the needy. All my questions were carefully answered in beautifully enunciated Portuguese. We hit it off well.


“E voce estava afora no jardim pra ver no cimiterio des escravos? E muito importante pra a Igreja; pra a comunidade.” I made sure that she understood that I would not miss the slave cemetery in the backyard, and kept on taking pictures as she filled the vases.


I am fascinated by the dialectic between belief systems. It has been suggested to me that São Benedito was a bone of incentive thrown to the slaves. If they saw one of their own in an ascendant role, it may have been an inspiration to adopt Christianity. Thus they may become faithful; and possibly more easily able to be dominated.


In contrast, the Africans arrived with a full complement of their own, “saints”. The Catholic cosmology provided a thin veil to drape over their belief systems, thus fostering the spread of Candomble, Santeria and other African spiritual cosmologies of the Americas. Now, so intertwined this fabric appears seamless. There are modern voices preaching for a cleaving of the Christianity from the Candomble; thereby arresting the synchronous connection. Mae Stella at Terreiro Ile Axé Opo Afonjá had all of the Christian references removed from her Terreiro in 1988.


It all becomes a trick-bag. Many of the metaphors in the synchronous experience reference slavery, keeping it fresh in our minds. Foods that we have eaten as slaves, and still consume in sacred and utilitarian cooking provide a through line to our history. This may suggest the possibility of an empathic experience. Hopefully, it does not foster a victim or martyr status. These deeply rooted retentions often seem essential as markers of the culture.


I suspend my internal dialogue, as she directs me to the vitrine along the far wall. I had noticed the sparse arrangement when I had entered this room. There were just three items inside, a painted ceramic sculpture, a weathered pencil drawing of a proud woman and a picture of Pope Paul II. Playing tour guide, she now turned toward the carved marble lion’s head faunt behind her. “Ate poco tempo estavamos utilizando este banho pra baptistas. Agora fazemos no sanctuario……” I think, “Ok, so the baptisms don’t happen here anymore, what about the vitrine. Nice, but..”
Switching between topics I continue, “Gosto muito a esculptura de Exu. Está bem feito”. -I very much like the Exu sculpture. It is well done. I had accepted his presence as another example of the bonding between faiths. “…..Oo. Este home, ele não é Exu. Eu posso ver porque voce esteve achando isso. Mais, não é ele.” I retorted, “Huh?” Essa esculptura é uma imagem da molher ao lado; dentro na desegno.Sim. Aquela.”


Now, I am truly stumped. Does she not want to reveal a truth set down as a construct hundreds of years ago? This likeness is so reminiscent of Ex..and No; it is not a feminized image. I sat on my thoughts and the images, wrestling with my logic and perceptions. Roaming the surfaces, my eyes continue to investigate and question the premise; while I look for some concordance. Her smiling face and the glint in her eye allowed me to insert a ray of doubt regarding her statement. The alleged door closed and we stopped discussing this piece, moving toward the hallway and the backyard.

The yard is nondescript, ordinary. Two reddish benches face each other. A large white planter is standing empty on top of the scrub grass. In the distance I see a partial view of Avenida des Sapateiras, made famous by Jorge Amado. The hallway door closes, revealing a long glass case mounted to the structural wall. Four large square concrete lids are set just below the ground’s surface. The covers of the communal crypts housing the slave remains from this neighborhood. Inside the case are plastic flowers and references to Escrava Anastacia, a famous local slave who faced and fought her captors. She has a power and place in history akin to Sojourner Truth. Her remains now reside in Rio. We stand quietly, staring at the contents of this display. I cry briefly, scattered tears, not a river. I thank her and walk towards the street.

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.