Tres vistas of the Blue Church, A Igreja de Nossa Senhora do Rosário dos Pretos

Our Lady of the Rosary of the Blacks was built by slaves for their own religious observance. Construction was begun in1704. The slaves built the church, “after work”. Their masters sanctioned this extra-curricular activity since they saw church as a worthy activity, bringing God and salvation into the lives of the slaves. The church was finally completed in 1765. It is characterized by a Roccoco façade, painted a soft larkspur blue. Beautiful twin towers punctuate the exterior. Inside the walls are adorned with Portuguese Azuelo blue tiles depicting various biblical scenes, Neo Classic Altars, a ceiling fresco, three sculptural images of black saints- of Our Lady of the Rosary, São Antônio de Cartegerona e São Benedito. Coptic style miniatures also illustrate scenes from the Bible. Finally, an ancient slave cemetery is set in the garden at the rear of the church property.

1.
Two weeks ago, Lauri had suggested that we stay in town for the Tuesday night street party in the Pelourinho. I agreed as long as we did not sleep over, or take the 11:30 PM Ferry Boat. The Ferry accommodates vehicles and has a one hour trip time. The Kombi ride from Bom Despacho Terminal can be forty minutes. I did not want to get in at one in the morning. The Lancha, much quicker stops running at 7:30 PM. Lauri concurred with my ideas.


We both had full days planned in Salvador. We decided to meet at Terreiro de Jesus in the center of the Pelourinho historic district, around 6:15. Nothing was going on. We considered snacking on street food, but couldn’t come to terms with the best options. I began to suggest the blistered cheese on a stick with honey or oregano garnishes. The cheese sellers walk around town and on the beach with small cast iron crocks filled with red hot coals and a cache of skewered firm cheese. The cheese is set directly on top of the hot coals until it chars and softens. Great Gooey Goodness.


Just as I began to call the cheese man, two American princess tourists started arguing with him over pricing. I had heard his rate, and it was fair for the area. They were trying to score with their Portu-Spang-lish smug haggling and save probably $0.40. It ended up disgusting me, and I lost my appetite.
I began to walk towards the first Igreja São Francisco, there are three. This one is famous for its excessive décor; Baroque design on crack and acid. Consistent with its décor, it creates of heaven as a party yacht with champagne gurgling up from each faucet. The gold inside could sustain a small nation.


The story goes that the slaves were so angry at the excesses of the church and the demands required to complete work that they wrecked havoc on some of the interior images. Sure enough, some of the cherubs were pregnant, others had engorged penises, their nasty smirks or sniggers looked down at us from every vantage point.


We walked into the end of their midweek service, and were told that the doors about to close. I need to return to properly photograph the church. They do not allow flash photography and I had quickly shot some video; which needs help. Back on the street we headed down the hill to the Praça do Pelourinho, towards the Ladeira (or hill) do Carmo.


We quickly came up to the “Blue Church,” a synchronized offering Catholic Mass with African traditions and praise songs. The services added steroids to our North American 60’s Folk Mass format. I have never felt like church was a dance party. It seemed as if the walls were whispering, “Let’s get God, and then get drunk.” The sanctuary had a full house; a perfect Brazilian mixture of: congregants, community elders, tourists, after-work crowds still in their tight outfits, Gays and Straights, Blacks, Whites and us.


After some hesitation I decided to take the communion that was being initiated. My mother would have appreciated it. Their communion consisted of a cottony Pão de Milho, and instead of a sip of wine as a metaphor of the blood of Christ; a dousing of holy water. This “baptism” was in keeping with Africanist/Candomble sensibilities. The priest wielded a bouquet of special leaves that he dipped into a bucket of holy water then shook it saturating the backs of the willing. The man carrying the bucket of water had been lurking in the Cachoeira Boa Morte church and various bars in that town. I had taken several images of him. Eerily, the cross references here is always just around the corner.

We exited the church buoyed by the festive mood that the service had bestowed on all of us. I noticed a delicate cacao tree in the hallway of the church, its spindly bows full of pale green fruit. Spilling into the street we followed new amplified rhythms up the steep hill of Ladeira to the next churchyard several hundred meters away. Geronimo, a local Brazilian Rock-Reggae legend was starting a hepped up set.


The street vibe was good, though the overflow crowd hemmed us into a corner by the church gate. If you wanted to climb the steps and sit inside the yard, looking down on the crowd, you had to suffer a full body search by Guarda Civil. We toughed it out where we were, laughing as compact cars bucked the crowd to scatter allowing them to climb the too narrow cobbles to Carmo. I bought a Skol tall boy and called it dinner as we gyrated in our little nook.


I reiterated that we needed to plan our exit within the next 30-45 minutes. Before the set was complete we begrudgingly trudged down and up the hill towards the Terreiro de Jesus. We stumbled into a 20 piece youthful Bloco practicing their Afoxe with drums and horns. One more boogie before splitting.


Lauri decided to grab an acarajé, for the road. We trudged past the taxi stands, to take the Lacerda elevator to the Cidade Baixa, the lower city. We had elected to stick to the main drags and walk to the São Joaquim Ferry Terminal. By 9:15 I had not seen the topical graffiti that marked the beginning of the São Joaquim district. Now nervous, we crossed the wide boulevard to an open gas station. The attendant looked ashen and dismayed when I indicated our goal. “Não é longue, mais, não tem taxi perto e este barrio é muito peregroso! Cuidado.” -It isn't far but there aren't any taxis and this neighborhood is dangerous. Careful.

We f-d; I heard the rumble of the bus. We bolted back across the street jumping on the moving bus, only to exit a few stops later at the Terminal with eight minutes to spare.


I immediately fell asleep on the boat, happily missing the over indulgent tele-novelas that had everyone titillated. Fortuitously at Bom Despacho the first Kombi Van filled up before we got to it. We hopped on the second one. It turned out, that there were only two other passengers on board. We made it home within fifteen minutes. Early and under budget. Whew.

Aqua Potavel

7-8 Sept; Festa Sao Bento

Working through the technology in a new place, once again, I had to be told in class that it was my cell phone ringing; “Maybe I had better answer it or turn it off.” My NY friends would be rolling on the floor, me not run to a cell or Blackberry; huh?

Jumping up, I ran towards the door to the amphitheatre. It was Augusto. “Doing, now? My class, Yes. Til noon. I had some plans, errands to run, and writing on the weekend. What, no.? Ok, I will come right back to the island after class. Ate logo, ciao.” He was gone. I shut my phone down and walked back in.

I went to change some money after class. It took three banks to beat the Friday-I-Just-Got-Payed Line of people cashing checks. Put some money on my cell and just caught the one o’clock Lancha. After a circuitous Kombi ride, I was in the office by 2:20PM.

Augusto handed me the latest, Agenda Cultural, opened to the page, “Tradição”. He pointed to a citation, Comemoração-Ritual e samba de caboclos na ilha; at Agua Potável. I read the Portuguese and listened to his description, head prostate. He mentioned the Samba de Roda on Sunday, and I looked up. “Sim. Tenho interesse!” He chided me, “Oh, you only want to dance, what about your research; didn’t you listen?”

I had, but I had not pieced it all together. A Festa de São Bento was a jumble to me. A 130 year old Irmandade, (sisterhood), offered a ritual of Caboclo, the unique Brazilian hybrid of Indigenous and Candomble spiritualism, Samba and a Catholic Procession, with appropriate traditional foods. Augusto added that the festa was also dedicated to Iroko, a magical tree.The Iroko, Ceiba or Strangler Fig is a hemiepiphytic tree. Its seeds airborne, take root in the canopy of other trees. They ultimately strangle them, often leaving a hollowed out area where the host tree had existed. In Candomble cosmology, it is seen as the only tree that grows down from heaven to earth and not from earth towards heaven. A gift from the Orixas.

“It has your name all over it. I have already arranged it. You will spend the weekend there. Get yourself ready. Davis will pick you up early; I think at eight. I want you to be careful. I don’t know about this people. I realize that you will need to take your camera. I cleared that already. Your contact will be Celeste, (Celest-chee). But don’t take anything else with you. Just take a little money. No cards, nothing extra. White clothing and mosquito repellant and sox.”

I asked, “ok; but why socks?” Clicking his tongue with incredulity; “To protect you from mosquitos!. Think about it. But, you need to be interested in more than just the Samba. I will ask the others if they want to go see the procession or Samba on Sunday. If they go, you can ride home with them. Otherwise you are on your own. It’s a long ride. It will cost you, ask Davis for a price. Now, go-get ready.” I thanked him and left.

Davis arrived on his motorcycle promptly at eight. I was nursing a slight bout of fatigue from the trajectory of my week. My sleep had been disjointed, more anxious internal dialogue and insomnia than snoozin’. I had turned a lot, lingering in bed longer than usual. I misgauged the morning light and was one hour off schedule. Marcia called to me twice to get up.

I tried to dress quickly, grab coffee and a snack. Taylor, was outside at the table eating breakfast. He encouraged me to sit and take breakfast. I was not comfortable keeping someone waiting. I wolfed a roll with cheese, some Echineaca, vitamins and juice. Slurping coffee I stood up, and walked out the door. Santos, the gardener always cheerful had a sense of this area. He directed us to a curve in the road at least 40 minutes south of us, near Pesgue-Pague and Club Med; loose directions. I looped my camera around my neck and shot quirky pictures from the bike.

We stopped and started asking directions several times just after we passed Pesgue-Pague and the PetroBras rural Compound. Everyone had a vague notion of Agua Potável, had heard about it, gave us a suspicious air, but no real answers. Thirty minutes into our search, we elected to call the Terreiro directly. Celeste gave Davis new coordinates and we pulled out. Moments later we went around a barrier and up a dirt road, climbing and spinning stones from underneath the tires. On the hill we found a few buildings, a house and a caged pipeline with a large valve. Wrong again. Another call, and down the hill again. We had missed a fork in the road. The new dirt path ran about ¼ mile. At the halfway point was a primitive locked wire gate. A man was approaching dressed in white with a beanie, clamdiggers, a tunic and white Havanas. Kind faced, he opened the gate with saying a word, and gestured us to continue down the hill. I later found out that he was the Babayalorisha or Pai de Santo, and probably the first line of defence; in case we were undesirables.

Parking the bike outside of the large entrance gate, we waited for the Pai. Just inside we could see a large gold colored eagle, a cross, some iron power figures, houses to various Orixa, a house and a temple. The compound took up several acres.

Pai walked up, we entered together and immediately a few of the other members of the Terreiro, greeted us. Davis said ciao and split. I was quickly introduced to the Mae de Santo, a full figured, middle aged woman with extensions and a gentle caring face. Next a stern, linebacker of a man identified as the Ogan, the bridge between the terreiro and the outside world. I was told that he was an English speaker, if I needed help. I was immediately wary of him, and thought that I would not be comfortable using him as a translator or counselor. Finally, Celeste appeared, dressed in white like all of the others, she was affable and petite with a measured gaze and a head for business. She immediately extended her hand as my caregiver. Here, I would not be allowed to do anything other than bathing as an independent. Everything would be prepared for me. Now, it begins.

Celeste showed me to my room, attached to the main house. She presented me with a key, and then began moving each of the single beds inside, sweeping the floor and checking for cobwebs.” I could shower if I needed it,” she said before closing the door. She left me to myself, explaining that I could photograph, but not everything. I was exhausted, and felt sickly. No turning back now.

I wanted water more than a shower. Later, I learned that I should have bathed, purified myself and rid the Terreiro of my street vibes. I walked back through the living room to the kitchen, open on all sides with partial walls for support on two. Rough hewn shelves held all the cooking equipment, platters and bowls. These shelves framed the back wall and opened up to the forest behind. A few small sinks pumped well water. The cooking area was nicely tiled, two ovens, and a cast iron flat-topped stove, all wood fired. Other than the simple electric bulbs, this could be the nineteenth century. Several people, mostly women were fast at work cooking, chopping, shucking beans, etc.

Beyond the kitchen area was a large dining area with several long wooden tables and benches. The one wall had paintings of Caboclo Indians in full regalia. I realized that breakfast was being brought to the table. Each person was responsible for one aspect of the meal. Soft white rolls, marble swirled with chocolate appeared store bought. Everything else was made by hand; steamed roots: manioc, ahime, aipim, batata doce, roasted banana de terra in its skin, bolo de milho, manteiga, coffee and chá, or tea.

Everyone gathered around the central table where the Mae sat, arranging platters and directing traffic. She began to shake a rhythm with her Agogo (bell), which was mirrored in everyone’s handclapping. Heads bowed, soon they began chanting songs of grace and praise in sweet, sultry rounds. A group of young women processed towards the table in step to the melody. They removed their head wraps and lowered themselves to the floor.

A wiry middle aged man with a deliberate countenance hunched forward emitting the now familiar guttural yelp more animal than human. He clasped his palms together behind his back and began to rock back and forth. Later, I discovered that he was “mounted” by Omulu. As his eyes glazed, an older woman came forward. She wrapped his chest in white cloth and arranged his contas like a bandolier slung over from his right shoulder to his left hip to prevent them from falling.

Within minutes his “mounting” was followed by all of the prostrated women. They were also cared for appropriately and allowed to move and dance as they needed. After thirty minutes or so, they came back into themselves, the food was served and we ate quietly.

After breakfast, I explored their campus, still timid as to what I should photograph, or even look at. Quickly realizing that someone always had me in view, I was directed by the Pai de Santo to take a photo of a painting of Xango outside of “his” house. It was beautiful, adorning the exterior wall. In the corner a large multi-colored shield and a three foot mortar and pestle. I shot pictures of the houses of Oxala (who held the head of the Terreiro. Omulu, Nana and Oxumare. I observed the brick painted white altar reserved for ritual offerings of food, and animal sacrifice, before breaking to take a short nap.

Reduced to Light and Sweet

Today, 8-Septembro, began the second week of my first series of formal culinary classes at Senac in "Comida Tipica Baianao"। For a moment, I almost did not continue for the second session. Not because I have not been enjoying it, but just to have more time in my budget. The class is in the heart of the Pelourinho (Pillory in English). It is at the site of the former Slave whipping post. The school is housed in three restored buildings, including a good snapshot museum of the Afro Brazilian Culinary Culture and the effects of the Portuguese Colonial Agricultural System, an amphitheatre, auditorium and a restaurant/bar offering reasonably priced classic foods of Bahia. During each class we see and can help prepare three to four classic provincial dishes. Of course at 11:40, we get to eat all the food that was made, and it does make a perfect lunch.

The issues are that the class runs from eight AM to noon, Tuesday through Friday। That requires me to wake up around 5:15 on the island, and be picked up by my favorite Moto-Tax driver, Davis, (pronounced Gay-vees) at 6:30 AM to make the 7:00 o'clock ferry at Mar Grande headed for Salvador. Seven reals for the motorcycle ride, and three for the Lancha boat. If we are lucky and the seas are not too rough we generally make it to dock in about 38 minutes; or just enough time for a second cup of coffee and some street snax....a piece of fruit or two, Banana Real, Pound Cake, Chicken Snacks, etc. I eat my snack on the gondola ride up to Cidade Encima, and walk through the Praca to the Pelourinho and Senac. Bottom line, by the time I get to class, I am ready for a nap.

So, here's the kicker। Every classroom is smartly equipped with a candy stove type commercial gas burner, a two burner induction cook top, two compartment commercial sink, Refrig and Freezer, Microwave, Filtered Water dispenser, Pitched Mirror to view the activity and a thermos of Freshly Brewed Coffee. If, I-F I am lucky its just sugared black coffee. That happened once. Generally, its light and sweet. Now, those of you who know me know that on ocassion I will put cream in my coffee. Generally, only if I am sharing a cup with someone who takes cream, if my stomach is upset, or if the coffee is atrocious. With the first scenario we usually negotiate a few sips of black coffee before adulteration. But, there is never discussion of a sweetener. I cannot understand Light and Sweet. It isn't coffee, its candy. None of the rich tones, no slightly bitter and toasty notes. Just something that should be poured over cereal. Ugh. And, though this is a coffee culture, and I can find coffee anywhere, about 95% of the coffee on the street, and in cafes is brewed and sweetened. Thus, I have found my cafe near the gondola, who makes black coffee, and it is still not enough to get me through. Life is so rough, right?

How about another direction? So, again for those who really know me, y'all know that this body should never, ever be driving a two wheeled motorized vehicle. No Way. Mopeds included. So, my vicarious thrill now, is to get picked up and driven by these Moto-Taxi motorcycle services. I guess the trip is about 10-12 miles to the Lancha. Two thirds of which is countryside highway. I get through my commute, looking forward to my cycle ride, the Palms and Banana trees, the ocassional horse or man taking his caged bird for a morning stroll, the bay views and fresh air. Subway got nuttin, on it. I might consider Staten Island just to keep riding a ferry everyday. Of course, I have my spots there too.

Unfortunately, last week the sea was quite turbid and of course I was reading as the boat heaved and pitched। Suffice to say I close enough to have been able to have put my tongue in the mouth of the man whose lap I landed on after being thrown across the aisle by the lurching boat. At least we laughed about it. The next day, one of the twins across from me, puked on the floor at my feet. If I ride with the crowd, I like to be in the fully covered cabin near the gangplank to get off when we come to port. I often use that time to snap some candids of fellow passengers or the changing landscape and water views.

But, given my choice, I ride in the bow near the anchor and the landing ropes। My companions are usually itinerant fisherman who have a bucket full of fresh caught octopus or shrimp, some older man ferrying furniture across the bay, or the salty older men and burly young studs. In the morning I watch the sun rise above the city as we come into Salvador, and am able to be one of the first two to three people on the dock. On the way back to Itaparica, if it is not too late, I can take off my shirt and catch some rays. At either end and onboard, someone is selling, beer, freshly toasted cashews/peanuts, corn porridge in the morning, sweet crispy cocadas, filled empadas or sorvetes for a few reals. Its a no-brainer. Even if it rains, it doesn't usually last but for a five minutes or so.

In the afternoon, the trip between the class and the boat traverses plenty of options for supplies, shopping or photo opts. If I am not in a rush, if I am traveling with another fellow, or I don't have the seven reals for the Moto-Tax, I will take the Kombi. Let me say, it has taken over an hour on the Kombi, in the worst case. It is the ultimate local train. It stops where you never expected a stop could be. They will go way out of their way to make a stop, and gain a few extra bucks. But for the $2.30, (probably $1.49), I shouldnt complain. They always have great local color for people watching. Occassionally, it will be a twenty minute ride, slightly longer than the cycle ride. But, you can never tell.

O Camino a Carmo

Tuesday evening, at dinner I discussed the possibility of a brief sojurn to Salvador. First Hannah and Rahul and I were going to go. We planned to to to the neighborhood of Vitoria to see an opening at Acbeu, an exhibit at o Museo Costa Pinto entitled; Herança Africana no Universo Baiano – Um Filá de Liberdade, African Heritage in the Bahian Universe, a Line of Liberty. As an adjunct to the exhibit my new friend Ana Bea Simon was presenting her research on the history of slave jewelry traditions; and their was an animated film from Senegal I thought that Hannah should see for inspiration. We discussed shopping for art supplies, Sim cards and books, taking a bag lunch and returning home by eight o'clock. By morning, everyone had a reason to go. I realized that we had left a little late while we were walking the quarter mile to the Kombi (VW van shuttle) stop near the hardware store. I flagged down an approaching Kombi, who took us to Mar Grande to the Lancha, or wooden ferry boat into Salvador. We had a minor dispute over the fare, alleged to be 2 reals and 30 cents. Later I realized that he had decided not to pick up any other passengers intending us to foot the equivalent bill for a full van. Coming home later in the week after another excursion, I learned that this van with seating for eight to nine people, carried fifteen people plus a driver and a moneytaker at rush hours. Gotta pay the rent!.

The boat ride over was sweet and uneventful. The sun was already high in the sky at 11:15, the current was steady but calm and the hawkers were out in full force with ice cream, beer, cocadas, pastries and boiled peanuts. Landing in Salvador approximately 35 minutes later, we tried navigating the Sim card situation. I footed the bill because everyone else had not brought their ID. In the end, my phone was the only one that would not accept the "semi-legal" switch. Our plan was to put local Sim cards in our cellphones. This would give us a local Salvadoran number and we could buy a pay as you go plan to enable our phones to make local calls. My snappy Blackberry screen, immediately told I had an illegal Sim Card implanted in my phone. I new that this would lead to some kind of god-awful roaming charges or something. I am still negotiating with one of my fellows to buy my new Sim card from me at the going rate. Oh, well. We grabbed a quick bite at a Churrasco restaurant that I had found with Michele before going to the upper city.

We took the gondola to the upper city with our list of errands to accomplish before descending to catch a bus to Vitoria a short ride away. I had an address and directions to Mestre Moraes Capoeira studio. Rahul's main errand was to purchase a Berimbau; a professional model, not a lame tourist version. We walked in clumps, Rahul and I in front leading the way, and the others just behind in sharing conversations and photo ops. We walked across the main square towards the former site of the actual Pelourinho to find, "Ladeira do Carmo"-The Hill of Carmo; another neighborhood just west of the historic district. I asked twice to make sure I was on the correct path as we descended down from the Pelourinho and up the steep hill towards Carmo. Halfway up the hill we came to a worn but beautiful church on our left with a long stone stair and two towers. Up ahead their was another church and the Office for Historic Preservation of the district.

Rahul was getting anxious, and kept at me to see if we were on the right path. I assured him that we were set. He told me of how he likes to collect traditional folkloric instruments when he travels, learning to play them and including them in his recordings. On fellowship near Osaka, Japan a few years previous, he went in search of a artisan made Shakuhachi flute. He was directed to the wrong train track and rode 300 miles out of his way. I now understood the root of his anxiety. To placate him, I walked into the courtyard of the Convent-Pousada-Museum at the top of the hill. A weird triumvirate, but the right place to ask directions. We were on track.

I turned around to signal the group, assuming that they too were anxious. I realized that we were alone. They were nowhere in sight. I had been so focused on our path, I had not checked on their status. Behind us, the hill had two forks. If they were following us, they would eventually track us down; but I felt that they were long gone. I laughed, since I had my prominent mop of hair and a fire engine red shirt on, Rahul was the only Indian subcontinent type for miles and he also was wearing striking colors. Oh, shit. I am the one who knew the way. I reflected that Lauri had been to Salvador before, and that this might be a wonderful opportunity for Hannah and Nathan to try out their nascent Portuguese. And away we went.

I began to fall in love with the worn seedy quality of these narrow streets and buildings. The neighborhood was relatively quiet with few pedestrians in sight. Here and there we spotted a pickup card game around a folding table in a shady spot, or a grandmotherly type wistfully staring out of her second floor window at nothing in particular. The buildings were full of character and in general need of repair. The urchin boys actually looked gaunt as opposed to some of those who frequented the Pelourinho. And we kept trudging forward. We came to a rotary with a 20 foot tiled tower, shaped like Big Ben, with glass and no clock embedded at the apex. I mused to Rahul, "Hmm-Had it been gaslit, was it an old watchtower? But, there was no apparent way to get inside of it." this was an odd sliver of a neighborhood. Many signs for Rooms to Let, funked out Pousadas, seamstresses, junk shops or Delicatessens.

The road coursed uphill again, as we passed another gondola I had not known about. I sensed that this is how Pelourinho had seemed twenty years ago. As long as I assured Rahul that we were on the right path, he stayed calm. I could see that the road was heading toward a cul de sac. I was anxious that in fact we had missed a turn. On our left was a majestic view of the bay froma vantage point I had not previously seen. I began to realize that this must have been the neighborhood that I had tried to locate with Michele. The neighborhood that was home to some of the contacts that I had been given back in NYC. Particularly two key Capoeira masters and a historian. Reaching the circle, we found a street vendor running a sausage cart with her husband and young son. I asked again, and she pointed across the way to a chalk white fortress shrouded in palms. At the center of the circle was a crop of trees shading half a dozen pre-teen street boys, who looked like they could be trouble after dark. At six o'clock position of the circle, there was an esplanade to fully engage the view, and a partially completed nineteenth century Cathedral at high noon. I had read that if the colonial Portuguese community did not complete a church or public building they did not have to pay taxes to the crown. I guessed that this had been the reality for this church.

We walked up to the fort and found a long stone archway behind a half open thick wooden door. The archway opened up into a central square, where an attractive young woman had a folding table and some brochures. A few lanky security guards in red and black uniforms stood nonchalantly nearby. All of the buildings were built of white stone with white walls two feet thick, and red ceramic roofs. This former colonial fortress had been turned into a major Capoeira studio and performance space, by Mestre Moraes; one of the Capoeristas I had been told to look up. We were pointed to the far building on our right, and walked in out of the bright sun to hopefully find Rahul's instrument. The room was cool, sweet smelling, with filtered natural light accented by one or two piercing beams of bright sunlight from the window facing south. In the corner were two teenage boys, one round and brown and squat with afro and a tambourine. The other gangly with rattan colored skin and coarse short hair. He was strumming a Berimbau. A auburn haired woman with a gymnasts frame was opposite them, assembling more instruments when we entered. Periodically, she corrected their notes and rhythms.

I translated for Rahul, and then went over to listen to the boys play while she picked out a Berimbau for him to look at. He called me back after a few moments when they expended the few bridge words that they could share. A Berimbau is a one stringed instrument made from a bowed pole of wood, (traditionally from the Beriba tree), a calabash and taught wire string. It is strummed with a whittled wooden stick identical to those used in Candomble ceremonies and a black stone positioned like the frets of a guitar. The player moves the instrument against and away from their chests to change the resonance of the notes, while strumming the string. I had previously known that the Berimbau a drummer and some percussionists accompanied the Capoeiraistas during training and performances, or Rodas (Ho-Dahs). What I hadn't known is that there were always three Berimbau played together, A Gunga or Bass, A Berra-Boi, Medio or Tenor and a Viola or Soprano. It is thought to have been developed by 19th century Afro-Brazilian slaves.

The woman, who was also the assistant master of the school had pulled out a Medio for Rahul. She was teaching him how to armar, or assemble and disassemble it. He was ready to pull out his money, when he overheard the two boys playing across the room. He asked them to come closer to him. Suddenly, he changed his tone, and told me that possibly she was selling him an inferior instrument, or at least one different than theirs. That was the moment that I realized that they were playing a Gunga and he had a Medio. She decided that he needed a lesson. First she played a Medio, then she had the young teen play his Gunga, with his pal on tambourine.

Then they joined forces, playing and singing together. It was worth the price of uphill trek. I was completely sated. Rahul vacillated between the tonal variations of the calabash. I suggested that since you can put them together, or disassemble them within ten minutes, that he buy both. In the end, he agreed. He joined their group, learning the simple fingering; which alternated two strokes below and three above the stone, while moving the resonating calabash onto or away from your chest. She told him to wait for awhile before he tried to add voice to the rhythm. It is not as simple to play as it looks. He ended up buying a carrying case, the two calabash, the beriba pole, two strings, two different strumming sticks of different woods one high pitched and the other low, and a woven straw caxixe rattle for $68.00 reals. A steal!

We thanked them and reversed our steps, hoping to encounter our homeys along the way. I bought the two books I needed for research and we headed for the gondola, the art store and the ferry home. We had lost our window of opportunity to check out the museum. Now winded, I needed a pickmeup. We stopped for a Beiju or Manioc Crepe in the Praca da Se . Mine had coconut and white cheese, his Coconut and sugar. I took pictures of Conceca, "Mais, voce pode chamar-me Ceca." As we wolfed them down, I told Rahul that this snack might have cost us our art supply shopping time.

We jogged to the gondola and got to the alley of art supply stores as all of the gates were being pulled closed when the New Yorker in me wormed inside one of the accordion gates as it slid down its track. The man operating the chain from the street looked disgruntled, but the cashier told me that if I was quick she would serve me. Rahul needed some special art paper. Lost in translation, it turned out I had misunderstood his English. He did need paper, but they type he needed was not available here. Shit. I needed typing paper, though not right now. I decided I had to to buy my paper, since they had accommodated us. We walked the five blocks to the ferry, and found our friends boarding the same boat. They had split up, after we separated, with Lauri going off on her own to catch some of the photo exhibits up for the August spotlight on photography around town. She was already on the island, waiting at the dock for our boat to arrive. I was shooting random experimental images while the others talked over their exploits. Just as we came to port a kind faced middle aged man asked me if we were going to Quinta Pitanga, the original name of the former girl's school, before Sacatar took it over. Having noticed our art supplies and motley nature, he suggested that he could drop us off in his cab, parked near the dock. It was both fortuitous and comical. He seemed to have acquired a selection of CD's appropriate for all types of locals and tourists, reflecting the music of their homelands. Aussie Nathan got the Bee Gees, and Rahul hummed to himself while the Americans echoed the chorus of I Will Survive, among other disco hits. It had all worked out.