The beginning of Goodbyes

Time tough. In a recent email, Danny suggested that I had the pre-Saudade Saudade in reference to a statement I had made regarding my displeasure over my imminent departure. Yeas, a deep, and moanful blue(s). Melancholia nervosa. I have many, many thoughts of this place I have begun to know, Baia do Todos Santos; Cachoeira, Itaparica & Salvador. I feel like my feet have sprouted interstitial root hairs, looking for a place to take hold, grow and come into flower.

It is by no means perfect. The poverty is omnipresent. But the culture and the manera de ser of the people is transcendent. As almas da gente da aqui, têm um sol reflechindo ao mundo. Que beleza; beleza. The soul of the people holds a sunshine reflecting out to the world. How beautiful; beauty.

Coming and leaving. I have looked up several times randomly and realize that I have found myself in places where I had began this journey. First, it was coming back to Rua Doutor João Ponde e Edificio: Paul Cezanne with Kathy and Tracy. The same apartment that Michele and I had rented in July and August.

Originally, I had planned to take a trip and travel to another region to see a new view and gather information from another point of reference. I am glad I stayed local. More things became evident as I became more and more familiar with Salvador. It may be a street corner that comes up out of nowhere, or a concerted effort to reconnect and say goodbye to a new colleague or budding friendship.

I had asked Danny what if anything did he need to be brought back to NYC? All he wanted as Valdina’s Pemba. A special chalkish powder. She harvests it once a year in late May or early June. It is dried and ground fine. Then it is used as an aspect of ritual practice.

I had decided to try and nail down all of the stuffs that I needed to bring home before I left for Cachoeira on Friday morning. I also thought that it would be a good idea to go to Tanuri Junçara, Valdina’s Terreiro. We had never managed to coordinate my visit during my residency. The Terreiro was close to her house in Engenho Velho de Federacao. Wednesday’s and Thursday’s they were open to the public.

I had had a full morning already running between Dois de Julho for an interview, Liberdade, Sao Joaquim and Mercado Modelo before coming to Federacao. I got the wrong cabbie from the Mercado. When I told him where I thought it was, he acknowledged that he knew where to go. To insure success, I borrowed his cell to call Tracy. He was able to give me the exact address that I had in my computer, Rua Apolinário Santana, #146. I looked down to check my notebook for something and then I saw that he went into the wrong part of the neighborhood. We had previously discussed where to enter this large district. At the next traffic jam, I jumped out and threw 10 reals in his lap, discounting money for his mistake.

Walking down the main avenue I passed a Manicure-Terreiro combo business. I guess you have to know that you can pay the rent. I asked a few blocks later and was asked which one of the three major Terreiros’ just ahead did I want? This group of women was not familiar with the name I had given, or my pronunciation of it. Then, one woman stepped forward from the group I had stopped and she said she had an idea. She pointed, explaining the location and landmarks to me before I continued on down the hill.

At the first doorway, she appeared again, and dissuaded me from ringing the bell. Let’s try the next one, she said. Suddenly, I had a partner. I knew already that the third one was Bodum, Urania’s Terreiro, so I was confident that middle choice would be Tanuri.

The heavy wooden door opened up to a large courtyard and driveway with a large, old tree in the middle of it, (memories of my Norwalk home). A carved, wooden plaque, was painted in primary colors: Terreiro Tanuri Junçara. The yard was ringed by a few two story houses and the Barracão or ceremonial room. A boy was folding clothes just inside the open second floor window on my right. I asked him for help and his mother appeared. She said that Valdina was probably at home, but I was free to look around, “Fica vontage a ver o que voce quer.”

I stepped into the dark, squarish room, stacked with chairs and other stored items which suggested that they were in between ceremonies. A large image of Yemanja was the only décor. As I walked back into the bright midday sun, a thin, jet colored man appeared to greet me. He had a halting Portuguese that I had to work on to comprehend. He led me to each offertory shrine, and each house of Orixa, explaining who was being honored. Since I had never been to a ceremony here, I had not realized that it was Angola or Fon Terreiro, until he explained that if I was Ketu, I would call it this name in Ioruba and if I was Nago-Jeje I would call it that. The layers and interconnections run thick and deep. I took one picture and left to find Valdina.

Ten minutes later, I walked through the back door of the ad hoc thrift shop into the yard that her house shared with half a dozen others. She was home and just as I had found her, at her computer. Her head wrapped in a beautiful coil of fabric. She had a long short sleeved cotton shift, decorated with a bit of lace. Funny she said, after we embraced. I had just returned your email, when you walked in.

We talked for a bit about my research, and she invited me to a Palestra, she called an Abara. I guessed that they borrowed the name of the steamed amalgam of ground black-eyed peas, ginger, Dende and grated onion wrapped and cooked in a banana leaf as a metaphor of the joining of ideas involved with culture, politics and food. Unfortunately, it would occur while I as in Cachoeira.

I sensed in this conversation how she was renewing her invitation of welcome to her community and culture. We laughed together when I asked for the Pemba. She told me that everyone who comes from NY to Salvador is required to bring back Pemba for Danny. He’s gotta have it. Shrewd dog. She wished me well and we both looked forward to my return.

This time I found a cab who knew how to get to where I was going. When I walked up the ramp to the driveway of Paul Cezanne at 3:00 PM, Henrique, Tracy and Kathy were anxiously waiting for me. I ran up, grabbed my things, shut down my computer and said goodbye to this oasis. Henrique dropped me and my stuff at Zeno’s and took Kathy to the airport. I had to switch gears and go back downtown to São Joaquim and meet the TVE crew for my interview on connections between African-American and Afro-Baian foods. Time was tight.

not Sinatra

As a point of reference for excellent writing that is thorough, well constructed and engaging I brought along a book of essays by Gay Talese. The most famous selection being, "Frank Sinatra Has Caught a Cold." I just finished re-reading it this week. I enjoyed it for many reasons, though at times the intimacy he has with his subject matter, Sinatra is almost too much.

My first thoughts were that Talese's children, if they exist, must have had to live a completely honest youth. His ability to succinctly and clinically investigate and analyze a situation or a person is quite unique. I imagined all of the fibs and half truths that children try to pawn off on their parents being quickly flushed in anticipation of the actual sequence of events; the honest truth.

Coincidentally, reading about Frank made me consider a seemingly unrelated detail, his iconic blue eyes. Talese acknowledged them, but didn’t subject them to inspection, or overwrite their position in his identity.

I need to read through the Bluest Eye, again, Toni Morrison's book. It has been many years since I read it. A kernel of that story surfaced here in Salvador for me.

Last week Urânia, my new acquaintance and I were discussing her interest in making film and video. One of her recent activities has been to ask black and brown children on the bus or the Lancha, what it is that they would want. On her way to Itaparica to visit with Augusto a young boy on the Lancha a boy told her, “Mamão, mamão, mamão, mamãomamãomamãomamãomamãomamãmammamão-Muito Mamão;”(-Papaya). He explained that he loves mamão, eats it all the time and it has many uses, including growing and selling it. He said it will keep him alive. I have been told by several people that the best mamão in Brazil comes from Itaparica.

On the bus, a young girl simply said, “Eu quero olhos azuis.” -“I want blue eyes." Nothing further.

We kept talking about blue eyes and their relationship to perceived economic, racial and cultural access in society. I mentioned the novel and the history I knew of Blue eyed Blacks. My understanding is that in addition to their eye color, they are/were fair skins-high yella, with good hair. People brought up with a notion that the blue eyed factor signified a greater percentage of white blood and resultant privileges to grow up the ladder of race. Atlanta is allegedly to be home to several membership societies and country clubs for blue eyed's.

My curiosity was piqued from day one in Salvador. The blue eyed's that I see here are darker people, from teakwood, bootblack or blue black. Often, their eyes appear aqueous and filmy, not fixed and piercing. I don't know if there is a change in a tonality similar to Russian blue eyed’s. I find the Russians striking in the contrast between their eyes, their pale skin and inky hair. The blue eyed Baianos are both subtle and arresting. The contrast between dusky skin and muted blue eyes is easy to overlook. Checking your gaze, your mind reviews the visual information hesitating momentarily. At close range suddenly they pop, ethereally.


Something in their countenance resonates with me. This may be a singular invention, but if I see them in the street I momentarily freeze. I feel drawn into their personal space. There isn't any snap or click of a real firing pin releasing the trigger and discharging a bullet. Another type of trigger, an emotional one fires inside of me. I am find the place of Saudade; yearning Delta blues, wounded and rough. Ring shouts, guttural jazz riffs. I am lost in the attack of a swooping Samba or Gospel song.

Sometimes I want the science class depicting the specific factors of dominant and recessive traits that manifest this genetic aberration. I am sure someone has created the graph defining the appropriate mix of “x” generations of Portuguese male seeds with “y” generations of African females and/or alternating with “z”, Indigenous females. So many categories and demarcations have already been created. Is there relevance in these externals ineffectively defining how we truly are who we are?

It seems clear that the juxtaposition talks story. It speaks rivers of time, of travel, subjugation and of melancholy. I read a thread of that story whenever I see these people often older men, dock workers, cabbies or wheelbarrow haulers. I want to sit and hear the story of their eyes. They consistently suggest more questions than answers.

I have to re-remember to check my reverie. …..The cabdriver needs to move on. A peanut or a Picolit vendor has dropped the coins, my change into my open palm. My hand has been marking time between the purchase and this closure, which had created the subterfuge for closer observation.

Irrespective of my bias, these eyes reveal an irrevocable truth of domination of one people over another. What is left is a mark, beautifully blue in the wake.