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.

Sao Roque, Mae Stella & Olu Baje

Saturday, our first weekend on island, 23-Aug.

This first week had already been quite full and it was barely half over. In addition to our two tours, we had had a midweek visit from Orlan, a French performance artist the same generation as Yoko. She was famous or infamous for her Feminist manifestos and the body modifications she had had done to herself via plastic surgery. Orlan seemed to question western ideas of beauty and position of women in society. She had come for lunch with her young husband, documentor and translator and their liaison from the Alliance Francaise. On Thursday evening after our brief tour of the old city we went to hear her intone her theories at MAM, the Salvadoran modern art museum. Stopping for a fast dinner, and catching the last ferry to the island, our culture excursion ended at almost 2:00 AM.

Friday at lunch, Augusto informed us that he would be attending a festa to Sao Roque and a Olu Baje ceremony on Saturday at seven o'clock in the evening. San Roque, St. Lazarus in English was a French saint who saved his community from the plague. The Olu Baje is the public ceremony centered on the ritual meal in honor of Omulu, the Orixa who was depicted with a head to toe straw covering. The legend is that he was born with open wounds and pustules which left him horribly ugly, his skin pocked and scarred. He was the Orixa of the poor, he governs disease, pestilence and healing. Augusto was willing to escort anyone interested in joining him. He explained that the this was an opportunity to witness the synchretic nature of Catholicism and Candomble. These two ceremonies back to back would illustrate how much the dialogue went back and forth between each discipline. I was game. Most of us were. I stayed close to home Friday night, but was struck with insomnia, so sleep was fruitless. I was summoned to the phone at 8:15 Saturday morning, just after I had come out in search of coffee, attempting to reverse the effects of my sleepless night. Augusto happened to drop by the terreiro where the Olu Baje, and Mae Stella their Mae de Santo was willing to allow me interview her and observe her prepare the Comida de Santo to accompany the evening service. He had just arranged one of the motor-taxis to pick me up. They would be arriving at Sacatar within 10 minutes. "Could I be ready?"

--"Yes. But shit, I was whumped." I thought, This is what I came for. Two minutes later he called again. "You must wear all white, and long pants." I knew that already. I made sure that I had my camera battery and a pad, grabbed coffee a banana and headed for the front gate.

Ten minutes later I was led into the terreiro where Simon, an attractive young woman in a pink shift introduced me to her Mae; Stella, two other Mae's who had come to help and various other congregants. All of the women were dressed in white dresses with white wrappers over their clothing.I parked myself in the corner pulled out my pad and began to take notes. Augusto was gone. Two minutes into the interview, Mae Stella suggested that I take pictures if I had a camera. Damn-straight. Another coup. We were off and running. I struggled to comprehend her Portuguese, it was not as polished as Augusto's or Luis's. Mae Stella rattled off her method while pureeing shaved coconut, peanuts, cashews and dried smoked shrimp for the Vatapa.

A middle aged woman, still shapely and attractive though missing most of her front teeth on both top and bottom of her mouth. She worked quickly, with a long agenda of tasks to complete before nightfall. She indicated that she had been working for two weeks to prepare for the Olu Baje. Olu Baje is the I learned that this was a typical pattern for all of the ceremonies. She said that before she had access to a blender it took her even longer, crushing all of the ingredients in the tall mortar and pestles that typified plantation life. We laughed at the reality of grinding all of the ingredients by hand. Still she had had to smoke and dry the shrimp, find animals for sacrifice, and fulfill many other duties. The two goat skins were drying just outside her kitchen window. Hours later, I found the entrails of a recently killed duck and chicken suspended behind a beam out back. In the same backyard two of the women were cooking beans over charcoal braziers, fejioe fradginho, branco e preto-black-eyed peas, white and black beans. There was Caruru to make. Chicken to cook, plus abarra, bolhinos de milho, acaraje, salad, rice and goat. Production of Bolhinos de Aipim were already in process. Linens had to be pressed. Popcorn popped. The few tasks given to males were to whittle pitanga branches for drumsticks, gather three types of leaves, one of which would serve as plates for the food service, and Palm fronds for decor. She barked orders left and right, tasted every single item that was cooked, and made a variety of offerings to the Orixa throughout the day; an Executive Chef and Spiritual Leader rolled into one.

Their ceremonial room more closely mirrored Ligia's in Cachoeira. Concrete, set a few feet below the foundation of the main house. The main house had two bedrooms both furnished with two single beds. A cozy sitting room, small bathroom and a sizeable, yet simple kitchen. A room to Oxumare, their spiritual head was off of the kitchen. A cement counter ran along the length of the wall that the ceremonial room shared with the main house. The fundamento sat in the opposite corner and her throne was set in a niche on the wall catty corner to the fundamento. At either end of the wall shared with the house, there were narrow doorways which ultimately led out to the street. The backyard was a decent sized rectangle, possibly eight feet wide by fifteen long. There was a cistern in the corner filled with water for washing. There was another Orixa house in one corner, two covered sheds, A sacrificial fire pit and a covered drain leading to the town's sewer system. The central square in the ceremonial room had a three foot diameter ring of popcorn, three inches high. At one of the side doorways there were offerings to the Orixa, and a young woman sat on her haunches in the opposite corner scraping tendons and sinew from freshly boiled goat heads and feet. A few young neighborhood children ran in and out, observing the activity. Two young girls, possibly ten years old, also dressed in white quietly observed their elders at work. The next generation to be inducted into the terreiro. The next day, Mae Stella told me that the girls entered into service between 14-15 years of age. One of the older Mae's continued to wink at me, shooting me goo goo eyes like a teenager while she worked.

By eleven AM I was parched and starved. She saw my hung dog look and asked if I wanted coffee. Hesitating at first, I felt that I should not be indulged while they were so fast at work. Mae Stella asked again. This time, I jumped at the offer. A small silver tray was brought to me, with freshly brewed coffee an elegant dainty demitasse, docantes of Stevia and a small spoon. This brought a welcome reprieve until midday. In the meantime I walked between the kitchen activity, the careful processing of the goat and the preparation and cooking centers out back. Each woman completed their task deftly with a great sense of economy of motion and use of materials. Occasionally, the younger woman would take a break to gossip, giggle and rest. These moments were brief since Stella seemed to have eyes in every room. The only things consumed by anyone were cigarettes and coffee. Periodically a young comely boy ran up to me looked deeply into my eyes or at my camera and then ran quickly out of sight. This was Lucas, recently adopted by Mae Stella. A little bit of a hellion, but generally a harmless young boy. By about 1:30, he had been whining for food for at least ninety minutes. Finally Stella consented and one of the women offered him a dish of stewed chicken and rice. Seeing him eat made me want to keel over. They must have sensed my hunger. Within about twenty minutes, I had a place at the table and my own bowl of lunch. The chicken had a russet colored sauce or Molho, slightly vinegary with a flash of garlic and palm oil. The rice, cooked plain without salt, took to the rich sauce and the combination gave me back some vigor.

All of the women would complete a project and carefully clean all of their implements, sweep, mop and prepare for their next duty. Finally by 3:30, the cooking frenzy was winding down. One by one the women began to take individual plates of chicken and rice, while Mae Stella continued to intone orders to her charges. She continued at her fast clip for another ninety minutes before she too stopped for a bite of lunch. Now all of the counters were cleared and a variety of simple ceramic bowls were brought out to hold each prepared ritual dish. She debated with herself which vessel would best show off each dish, changing her mind several times, before commiting to the final arrangement. Their was a dish for each Orixa. Once her decisions had been finalized, most of the women began filling the various ceramic containers, while my goo goo eyed friend finished ironing lace. A large stack of freshly folded lace was brought into the room. Each dish was wrapped in lace, Mae Stella again stopped to decide which swatch was appropriate for which dish and corresponding Orixa. Next a large platter was brought out and she spent forty five minutes, laying on lace, tying bows at each end and then summoning my admirer to fill her platter with freshly popped corn and shards of coconut. Once it was full, she took thread and basted the lace to seal the popcorn and coconut tightly in this container until the ceremony. At this point, she suggested that I take a break, go home, rest and return around 7:30 PM. that evening. Glad for the reprieve, and tired of having to constantly recharge my nearly dead camera battery for the next, "money shot", I was glad to walk home to Sacatar, shower, rest and ready myself for the service. I could tell that it would be a long night.

Gantois

Sunday evening 17-Aug

Stepping off of the bus that Mario had directed me to as it arrived at Porto da Barra, my old stomping grounds with Michele, I walked quickly to the loja da Costeira, or dressmaker's shop where I had left some mending earlier in the week. I was doubtful that she was still open, if she worked at allon Sundays. As I guessed, the shop was tightly shuttered. I walked through the neighborhood to the Citibank ATM to withdraw cash for the next few days. After that I would have time for dinner before heading to Terreiro Gantois, the house that Zeno officiated at. Zeno was the grandson of Mae Menininha, one of most important Mae de Santos of the twentieth century, and a dear old friend of my mentor, Danny.

Most of the restaurants were closing early or opening late, depending upon whether their clientle were locals or tourist based. Against my gut, I went to the large beachside restaurant that sat under a large tent on a hill just above the sand.

Non-smoking was on a lower level and breeze according to the Maitre'D. I put on my jacket, sat down and realized that I had to anchor everything on my table, including the cloth against the strong seawinds. I had a simple dish of Corvina Grelhada com Molho Brasiliero, Grilled Corvina with a creamy, pinkish sauce of Hearts of Palm and Shrimp; rice, farofa and pirao. My waiter directed me to the bus I would need to Engenho Federacao neighborhood and the Terreiro Gantois. Again, I recalled that the word, Engenho signified the site of a Sugar Plantation. An appropriate site for one of the three most important terreiros in Salvador.

The wind whipped at all of us waiting for the bus. Thirty minutes and my bus was still not there. I walked past the lighthouse towards Ondina to stay warm and decided to take a cab in front of a large Hotel Condo complex. I was anxious. Since I was not able to pickup my trousers I knew that I would have difficulty at the service tonight. I had learned in Cachoeira, that men needed white or light colored shirts and long pants. They had let me slide at the Lira Terreiro, i knew that Gantois would be more strict. I already knew that no photographs, recording or video equipment would be allowed.

Grinding the gears a bit as my driver shifted into second gear as we began to climb a steep hill. Earlier at lunch in Ana Claudia's home Roseangela had said that she thought Gantois sat on the site of an old Senzala, or Slave Quarters.Zeno, later disagreed with her assertion. I chuckled when we reached the top of the hill, Gantois shared the hill with the broadcast tower of the local CBS affiliate. I exited the cab at 8:15 PM, after paying the $17.00 fare. On either side of the slope were a few small cafe bars and a bodega. I saw that they earned their livelihood from the neighborhood and all of the international tourists who wanted to experience a Candomble ceremony. This arena was quite different to the local feeling I had witnessed in Cachoeira. While waiting for the doors to open, I bought a bottle of mineral water and some gum to guard against dozing. I walked to one of the windows and stood with the other tourists waiting for our cue to enter.

The well lit ceremonial room was a large square similar to the yesterday's in Cachoeira. Large rectangular windows were open on three sides of the terreiro. White streamers rained down from the ceiling like snow. Starburst icons of cane stalks with coconut centerpieces, painted with red, white and black designs decorated the walls. A raised platform framed on two sides sat in the center of the fourth wall, with two doors on either side of it. A large wooden throne sat in the center of this area with two smaller chairs on either side of it. Many sprays of tuberose and white carnations were set around this platform, in a beige mesh accented by coconut palm fronds. On the floor at the front of the platform is an arrangement of red flowers with a painted ceramic figure planted at their center. A large over saturated cibachrome photo collage hung above the throne. It seemed identical to the images created by my NY astrologer Carol's husband Aris. Curious. Several photos of Mae Menininha hung at the far end of this wall. Lush potted tropicals were set around the perimeter of the space. A large scuptural represenation of Oxossi, the Orixa who is the spiritual head of the terreiro was hung near the entryway. Behind the bandstand were wide wooden panels like venetian blinds with dried painted Obobora Squash arranged in festive designs. Again the center of the room is demarcated, this time with three different rectangular tiles, below which sit part of the Fundamento. A jute hanging with mini dried gourds suspended in a web of cowries hangs above these tiles.

This terreiro segrated the men from the women with long benches on either side of the room. The doors leading to the preparation rooms and sanctuary areas were marked for each gender. The musicians and cantors were stationed on a small platform in the center of the men's area. They chatted and laughed together, killing time. Identical to any church there were half a dozen men dressed all in white functioning like ushers and deacons milling around the room. I heard at least four languages from the anxious crowd. Here colored skins constitued fifty percent of the crowd. From the conversations, I learned that some of the tourists had guides with them. A handsome black man approaches me, recognizing me from Cachoeira and last night. Greeting me in perfect British accent, with overtones of Portuguese, he immediately I.D.'s me as "the American." He was surprised that I had known of the Ligia terreiro. Was I connected to the Mae de Santo? No, I replied. My first time her in Brazil. Switching to Portuguese he wished me well and walked on. I had also noticed a few faces from last night's ceremony, including the two blonde Germans. Hmm. On the sidewalk I saw man I had found in three different locales hawking Orixa etchings. Beautifully bold monochromatic images which were badly printed and stained with ink. He claimed to have exhibition quality prints as well. Then the doors were opened and I walked around to the front of the building to find a seat. I was immediately denied entrance due to my exposed legs.

I quickly went back to the window I had been stationed at. I nudged inbetween the oversized bellies of two large Argentines dressed in white outfits, appropriate for a tennis match. Together we shifted positions, and craned our necks to see over the male congregants inside who had long pants on. The best view I could muster caused me to stand with my torso torqued, one hip jutting into the wall balanced on my left leg with my right knee stradling between the brick work. I could tell that I wouldn't be falling asleep tonight. Luckily, Zeno had informed me that their services were generally three hours long. A thick crowd gathered behind us, including one woman who spoke Haitian French and Portuguese. She was spotted and saluted by several of the ushers. I wondered why she did not go inside, since she had been identified as a known quantity. After 90 minutes, first one then the second Argentine split from our perch. I was able to stand in a more normal fashion, though still on my toes in hopes of a partial view. This woman now sharing the window with me kept sniping at the taller men inside who obscured our view to move off to the sides. Some obliged her entreaties, others ignored them.

In spirit the service mimiced that of Ligia, though it was much more grand and polished. The opening procession around the central icon was done by twenty to thirty women; black, white and brown all in traditional Baiana dress. They proceeded to become possessed and also introduce popcorn to the congregants, though in a much more subtle way. Everyone paid homage to the Mae de Santo on the throne and were more deliberate in all of their postures, dances and actions. Again we were greeted by Mae de Santos garbed as Orixa. I saw Omulu, the Orixa of disease, Iemenja, guardian of the Seas and Oxossi among others. All the while I watched as Zeno quietly observed the service standing just inside of the doors marked for men. He observed the scene very closely, as if insuring that all of the rituals, songs and procedures were appropriately observed. Again, I saw people led out of the hall for a meal. Yet there was no equivalent to the "bystander" in the street who changed the focal point of the activity and had appeared to herald the denouement of the service. This time, I had more time to observe the details of form and function within the ceremony. I was beginning to become accustomed to the visual tableau enacted by the possessed, these Baianas and Orixa figures. Still it was spellbinding and ethereal to behold.

As predicted, about 11:30, Zeno came out and found me, stating in English, "Let's Go! -It's just over now." The participants were still circling to the singing and drum beats, but I could tell that all would be done in a few moments. I guess he wanted to beat the traffic. We talked briefly about the service. Zeno was curious to see if I had enjoyed the experience. I briefly related my experiences in Cachoeira to him, including last night's Candomble. He asked me a few questions about what I had observed. I realized that I had begun to jumble my Orixas into one big muddle in my attempts to clarify and understand the ritual. I had too many naive and ignorant questions. I needed to ground my knowledge in some history and fact. We switched our conversation to discuss the details of Joao's fourth birthday that had occured yesterday. We made it home fairly quickly. I felt at home, and comforted in his house. There were references to his grandmother and to Iemanja throughout the house. We both worked on our computers for awhile before retiring for the evening. This time, I made sure to slather mosquito repellant on my legs. His house was so close to the beach, that many flying insects flew over the walls that surrounded his home and provided sanctuary from the street. Finally, I had a easy dreamy rest.