Samba da Irmandade e Sara a Diusa Cigana

I walked to old City Hall, but they weren’t there. Then I remembered they should be on the hill behind the Irmandade. There I found Nita, Francisca and Andrea (the one student from Leipzig) at the Municipality watching Wolfgang and Gina (the director and his assistant) set up while they waited for the troupe. Everyone was late.

Fifteen minutes or so later, at the bottom of the hill, I saw the billowing skirts of their Baiana costumes and then heard the melding of women’s voices singing as the strolling musicians played. They had come upon each other enroute to the Municipality and had broken into song. Striding up the hill they went into full tilt boogie. At the top, Gina counted 19 instead of thirty. She was pissed. She harangued Francisca in English to translate how much this wasn’t going to work. Rightfully, they were also anxious for their rented equipment fees.

Everything began to devolve into petty rivalries, jealousies, lack of commitment and organization, (relative to western, German, studio timing). Welcome to stalemate. It seems that some of the sisters thought that the others were putting on airs. Were they getting compensated? More than the others..blah, bla. The second whiff I got was how important it was for these Cachoeiranos to be elevated by the benevolent (sic) Europeans including them on their public TV time. “Hey, I have some mirrors and shiny rocks I could trade for your land dude……”

To complicate it the TV people wanted a level of professionalism that precluded the improvisatory nature of their art form. Kinda, Jazz is. And that’s it. Back and forth with idea, argument, discussion, translation. I felt for Francisca. She was betwixt and between. She saw the merits in elevating the stature and cultural significance of the performers. She had their hearts and trust. She had an obligation to the German crew. She wanted them to reflect the essential soul of the culture. The gun was loaded and misfiring. The difference between the students and the professionals was astounding. Later I found out that as an anthropologist Gina had decided to make film to strengthen her message.

Back at the ranch, the Sambistas and Senhoras had started to do the dozens with each other. You know, “Well when I twirl, and tap on my woodblocks, I can do two full turns in 1 measure.” No you can’t; prove it!” In less than three minutes the women had started knocking out rhythms on their blocks, singing and clicking their heels on the stone street. The men caught their fever and rocked on their instruments. An hour later, they had performed without break. Yet, Andrea, Nita and I were the only ones shooting film.

For me this was the shit. They had created something marvelous out of nothing. This was the core of their culture. Like jazz, they built exponentially on the simple rhythms and steps that had initiated everyone to perform. My chest welled with joy. I vacillated between dancing and taking pictures. I grinned so wide I could have begun to drool. The movie cameras had all been put away.

Finally, it was decided to have them repeat their entrance. Possibly, it could be an intro piece. Another shoot was set for Tuesday. The crew was understandably concerned with lighting, but also {sanitized} locales. Nothing had seemed good or authentic enough. “Oh, -and could you smile a little bit more when you perform, please?” To insure success after the shoot, everyone marched to Dona Alva’s house to crowd around her TV while Gina played the other segments of the six part series that had been previously completed.


I assumed that we would see a few clips to get a feeling for the theme and visual impact of the work to date. Two hours later she was still intoning her agit-prop for Francisca to translate. Some of the folks in this tight hallway of a room, where nodding out. Dona Alva had felt obliged to feed us, as is the nature of Brazilian hospitality. She had some snacks left from last night’s Candomble ceremony and sent one of the guys out for soda. Thus the people with the least money were caring for those with the most.

I shot some stills to distract me from my frustration and anger at the situation, the condescension and the squirreled position that Francisca was in. Nita and I wanted to leave to check on the procession. I had been told that the Caruru would be served at midday. I could not leave the house without walking in front of the TV and interrupting the sermonizing. “Nita, porque nós não saimos da janela? Não é? –We could step on the chair and go out the window. Her eyes told me that I really was doidinho, crazy. When it finally ended we discussed our next move. Francisca thought that we had missed the Caruru and should check out the Caboclo.

Of course the house that I had passed all weekend walking through the favela to get to Analia’s had been the Terreiro in question. I had seen many crimson cakes and favors carried inside in all my forays to Analia’s. It was one and one half blocks from Analia’s. I had known about the one that was across the street from her. They had had ceremony last night. This one, Terreiro Caboclo e Guarany e Oxossi was having an afternoon gig. We walked in and a woman in a screaming yellow blouse was tranced out, danced a bawdy seduction trying to entice eligible men to take her fruit. This was no simple Orixa story. Before I knew it, she was done. I left my camera to charge and followed my group.


Everyone was invited downstairs to the garden to eat lunch and wait for the second round. The terraces and garden were all festooned with bloody crimson fabric, flowers, veils, dyed foods and decorations. All of the congregants wore red shirts, blouses or skirts and bandanas. The backyard garden was cut into the favela’s hill I had climbed all weekend. Roosters and chickens flew about. A twenty foot table was adorned with red clothes, red cakes, Cava sparkling wines and fruits.

This was a festa for Exu, (or Eleggba) Orixa of the crossroads and somewhat of a devil. Acarajé was being fried. Banana leaf wrapped Abará was being passed around. Beer, soda and nevadas (a frozen Daiquiri like drink made with Caçhaça) were overflowing all the tables. Streams of people began to arrive just as the DJ kicked into a deep Flamenco groove. When I asked why, I was told that for Exu’s festa, Sara, A Diusa Cigana, (our Gypsy Goddess), would be manifested, dancing for our licentious pleasures.


We were served Vatapá, Acarajé, Arroz, Xinxim de Bofe and more Abarrá. The food was full flavored and rich. We laughed, joked and drank in the sun. I used this moment to speak to Francisca about my work and my desire to return to Cachoeira to follow up on my research.


I walked around to her side of the table and bent down on one knee. “Funny”, she said. “ I had wanted to discuss collaborating. The sisterhood wants to expand their community education program and begin to teach the local children cooking.” Since we-all knew that all of the Sisters were also Mae’s de Santo that would imply a combination of regional cooking and Comida de Santo. “Would I like help work on the program and document it with her?” “…..Shit yeah.!”

I began to stand up, she said…”Yi-what timing.?” I wasn’t sure what she meant. Behind me was standing a handsome guy, the DJ. Well, he was also the spearhead behind the culinary program. So this is where we living. We agreed to discuss the scope of the project before I left for America and Francisca split to find the TV crew. She had made sure that Andrea would be positioned to document Sara before she left.


I went upstairs to piss and check the camera. I thought that it was time to climb the other hill to the Igreja. I was about to open the door, when our host grabbed it and told me that I could not leave. I had to see Sara. She would change my life. I needed to be in the presence of their Diusa Cigana. Hmmm.


Ten minutes later, I was summoned to come downstairs. At the landing a small crowd had gathered. The man who had filmed the ceremony at Terreiro Mucumbi had his video hook up dialed in. The members of the Terreiro were adjusting their costumes and a woman in the corner was tossing rosary in the air chanting an unintelligible prayer or song. The volume and beat of the music swelled and then I saw a golden cigarette holder protrude from the second landing. Then a high heeled leg with stockings emerged from underneath a golden spangled filmy black skirt. As she sashayed down the stairs a stud on either arm and a platter full of Antherium in her left hand she flipped back her long wavy hair to release a deep guttural laugh. Sara.

Morning haunts.

Though still groggy, I woke up just before 7:30. I splashed my face awake and looked for coffee or something in the kitchen. Gunnert and Florian, the sound engineers from the Hamburg contingent had constructed a breakfast of tropical fruit and a jerry rigged muesli from Soy Milk, store-bought granola, whole grain flaked cereal, bird seed and nuts. I applauded and giggled at their combination of ingenuity and cultural retention. I shared part of it their booty while we discussed our various agendas for the day.

I left just after 8:30 and walked to the eastern edge of town up a steep hill through a grove of banana trees and another favela to find A Igreja de São Cosme e São Damião. Beautifully cut into a hillside, it was a grayish stone with a huge woven banner of the twins, Cosme e Damiao. These twins and their holiday on September 27, are another curious fusion in the synchronized culture.

The twin saints are alleged to have been Syrian circa 300 A.D., though whether or not they were Christian is still a question. Several stories/myths exist regarding their origin and demise. Some versions have them murdered by Romans three or more times (thrown from cliffs, drowning, stoning and burning) before dying as martyrs. The West African Yoruban culture, one of the cornerstones of the Baian- Afro cosmology, sees “Ibejis” or twins as major power figures. They materialize when needed to help children suffering from violence. These twin saints/friends of children (Cosme aka “the Florid” e Damião aka “the Popular”) have the ability to expedite any requests made of them in exchange for sweets and candy. Rappadura or molasses rich chunks of raw cane sugar were the first sweets made in offering to these twin saints. Platters of rappadura are now placed alongside drippingly sweet cakes, and bonbons. Today Cosme e Damião are the patron saints of Pharmacy, Barbers and Hairdressing; go figure.

At different times that day, bags of candy were thrown from trucks at people, into stores and house windows. I was struck in the back of my head with a small bag while buying some paper Saturday morning. Children, adults and seniors scream and scamper to grab the treasure or blessing for these twin saints.
Parishioner’s had gathered early to get a good seat for the 9:30 mass. Kids were running up and down the backstairs into the choir loft, giggling and cutting up. I checked out the scene, and asked when they would be serving their Caruru. After I shot some photos, I walked down through town to get to the stairs into Mae Analia’s favela.


She was sitting in her same child’s slingback chair by the door with a drawn look on her face. She had been having some renovation done to her bathroom and they had burst a waterline. She had not had water for hours. They could not start cooking until they had fresh water. They had been ferrying water from neighbor’s homes to flush toilets and boil some water for essential needs. We agreed that I would return at 2:00 PM.

I decided to walk across the river to Ana Claudia’s house. I could visit with her, and find out where her aunt, Mae Zelita was. She shrieked with glee when she saw me walking up the stairs from her porch. Her mother, two cousins a sister in law and her mother's two other sisters were making party favors for the party. It was her daughter, Ana Julia’s 3rd and her baby brother, Joao Victor’s 2nd birthday. They were riffing on a Disney theme complete with matching red and white polka dot cotton pique outfits and mouse ear headgear. Kidville would have been proud.

They had rented the abandoned train station, where a couple of guys had a cottage industry making a sweet aperitif liqueur, and decorated it with Disneyland scenes, 15 foot spiral clusters of rainbow balloons, card tables and videos. I had to laugh that here this family that was so tied to the roots of the culture and legacy of slavery was zooming into the proto-typical upper middle class toddler b’day trope. Shouldn’t they have played and danced samba for kids? Everyone was cute and all of the mom’s were way too anxious. The guy who was making hors’ doeuvres and frying them was an hour late. The kids had fun laughing and playing, being kids in this vacuous space; until Dad, Joao turned on the formulaic kid’s party dance videos. The children, obsessed with the images of happy kids on the screen stopped creating their own games and adopted the derivative option on screen. How many generations before this magic culture in Cachoeira is going, going;-gone? Yikes.

I had been the first to arrive. Everyone was 90 minutes late. I had stayed too long, brought the wrong gift, (a traditional children's natural lavender bath oil) and pissed off Ana Claudia because I did not stay longer or agree to sleep over. Her Aunt Mae Zelita hadn’t shown by the time I left at six. I had told Mae Analia that I would be back to see how to make the Caruru at 5:30. It was a twenty minute walk back to Cachoeira across the suspension bridge.


Back at Analia’s I put two and three together and realized that in a way she had not wanted me to see her process, just the result. Cooks are quirky about “their” culinary secrets. Luckily, as I walked into the house full of people, there were still a few steps to finish all of the dishes. After showing me what she had made, Analia called me into the living room to hear the traditional songs that honor the day.

The ritual for all Catholics is to place seven whole uncut pieces of okra in the stewpot for luck. The seven youngest children who can eat by themselves are sat together in a circle each having a full plate of Caruru in front of them. The crowd serenades them with good luck prayers and a Go-Fight-Eat cheer for their food to be chowed down. Once the seven children eat, the remaining young adults are fed, and then the adults.

Since Analia is a Filha de Iansan, she cannot leave okra uncut. All of the okra has to be cut in to four pieces, or in the sign of the cross for Male deities and for luck. The tradition suggests that in every neighborhood several mothers will make this meal for their families and the neighbors, so that everyone gets fed. Once the meal is eaten by everyone the devout will create a Latin prayer sing-out. The evening ends with an acapella Samba de Roda with a handclapped accompaniment.

Cachoeira: Walking with Gito & Cozido

I woke up early again, from the combination of the strange setting, someone's ringing cell, the snoring next door and the now accustomed fireworks and roosters. Dressing in the dark, I left walking in the opposite direction looking for another simple cafe, to eat and write in. I found a nice place near the bridge and had coffee and a bacon, pepper and egg pie baked in a crust, though not quiche. Exiting into the bright sunlight, I realized that I was at the edge of the town market. The market here was eight to ten times the size of that across the river. I spent a few hours walking the stalls that were centered around a Praca and two buildings, one larger for meat and grains, and the other for fish. If you couldn't afford those stalls you sold in the street with some folks displaying their wares on the cobblestones. sides of meat, cured meats and sausages, organs, heads, eyes, salted fish, tuberoses, herbs, fresh fish & shellfish, live poultry, honey, cheese, pickled peppers fruit and vegetables five blocks square. Wherever I could, I talked to the vendors and farmers about their products, shooting portraits, taking names, buying a piece of fruit or snack to taste. This was a better experience for me in many ways than the market at Sao Joaquim. I could navigate and negotiate the scale and the crowds much more easily than in Salvador. I was engaged with the softball sized pressed spheres of pounded manioc leaves ready to be boiled in several changes of water for Manicoba, the local beanless Afro-Indian style Fejioada. Passionfruit or Marcuja as large as grapefruits, air fragrant with aromatic flowers, manyof which I later learned were raised for Candomble ceremonies. Well cooked Figado de Boi, cooked and pressed into a pate-like rectangle. Fuma de corde, oily, thick coiled black rope that truly was a cheap form of tobacco, cut in sections for smoking. Salted and sundried meats, pieces of smoked pork belly skin, glistening with a fat layer if you couldn't afford a true piece of meat in your stew. Intestines ready to be cooked like chitterlings, honeycomb tripe, oxtails, live whole muddy blue crabs or cooked picked meat for $20/kilo. Herbs dried and fresh for cooking, home cures and spiritual practice. According to Lucia and Joselito I could flavor my dinner, treat diabetes, asthma, bronchitis, sore throats, ease the birthing process, get a laxative or cure a flu. I was impressed with the patience of some of the vendors with my Portuguese and diverse questions. Joselito the medicinal herb seller told me how much he like to communicate, share remedies, and accept that today's inquiry could be tomorrow's regular customer. Too many people were too rude with customers for him. People need help and advice and he prided himself on his honesty and hearfelt desire to teach. His daughter worked alongside him, I assume one day she would carry on his trade.

I returned home around 10:30 to set down some of my purchases and recharge my camera. I had to charge it in the hallway close to the door to the street, so I tried to charge it and rest since anyone could walk by reach in and take the device since the exterior door was never locked. As I walked in the home, Gito's mom told me that she had decided that I needed a good view of the city for a panoramic photo op. Gito would show me now if I was ready. Gito and I had had little to do with each other up to that point. I had spoken to him in passing briefly. As most kids do, he was typically fixated on the television when I was in their house. Quite a small boy for the 9 years he admitted to, I had wondered if he was fibbing, or just hadn't hit a preadolescent growth spurt. We eyed each other closely as she rattled on about the view and the hill. "Ok, I agreed; I will need a few minutes to charge my camera and eat a snack."

Walking uphill in an alley between the houses that I had not previously seen for approximately 500 meters lrevealed a nice view of the city. I turned fully around to take a shot and Gito waved me off. A fork in the road came and we took the upper roadway into the favela. (approp. in small cities?). A steep cobblestone street pitched such that I could not stand straight up, indicated a major visa further on. Almost two kilometers later, sweating and breathy the road became earth and mud. The houses had given way to fazendas, (farms). The first, on the eastern slope had a high iron gate and modern wire fencing. I asked, but Gito did not know what they raised or who the farmer's were. Higher still on the western slope was a massive cornfield, loosely terraced following the contours of the land. Everywhere we looked, even before the farms had begun there were large stands of banana trees. An occasional man with a machete, or a donkey laden with produce crossed our path; otherwise we were quite alone. I tried speaking to him, but for a long while he seemed put upon, as if I was another chore. Once I began to shoot some pictures he began to relax. I tried to include him in some of the shots and he initially refused, possibly trying to be courteous or self conscious. Finally, I asked him if I could put him in my frame and he suddenly began to warm up. We jumped from an exchange of random words or questions, "What is the name of that bird?," to a fuller, albeit choppy conversation, about Cachoeira, his interests, his studies in English, Italian and Capoeira.

The unpaved road was flatter and I could see some other streets up ahead. "Tinhamos passado a Porta do Belem". -We have crossed the townline, we are on the edge of Belem. "Is that is why it is a dirt road?" "Sim." He continued telling me how we could walk through part of the city and head south entering Cachoeira across town from where he lived. Matter of factly he said that it would be a long walk. I looked back, thought about my appointment to watch the preparation of the Cozido, and the distance we had traversed already. I quickly responded, "Nao. Obrigado pra sua sugestao, mais vamos voltar agora." No, thanks for your suggestion, let's turn around here. Descending the way we came, I shot a few more pictures of random people and lthe andscape. I did not notice that close to town he chose a different fork that put us close to the praca. Now fully engaged he showed me the prison cum museum built first to house and punish slaves, a plaque identifying Cachoeira as the site of the first independence movement against Portugual and a sweet cafe and shop of local artisans. I asked him if he knew of a tour of the sugar mills and Dende plantations that I had read about? He took me to the tourist office and then to a neighbor's home who did Jeep tours. Neither option gave fruit. I suggested that he come with me to see the women, so we continued uphill towards the Irmandade, now quite familar and comfortable with each other.

We entered the refectory and some of the sisters were sitting, chatting; waiting for the remainder to arrive. The refectory consisted of two rooms and a bathroom. The first room had a large sitting room, dining area an open kitchen at the back and a stair to the sanctuary. The other room was a large flagstone patio which had two iron burners with propane tanks large enough to accomodate forty and fifty gallon pots. The kitchen was defined by a half wall with a countertop, above which hung an accordion steel gate that could be folded tight to the wall or expanded and locked to protect their equipment. Mae Zelita brought me to meet the women who began the food preparation each day. Since the sisters had not all arrived, I was allowed into the kitchen with my camera. Ana Christina, a stout round face woman with a cheerful grin pointed out all of the vegetables that they had cooked and were prepping to cook, the various meats and the rich stock that had come from braising everything together. The pattern was that the women in conjunction with the commissioner of the Irmandade, (this year it was Mae Zelita), prepared the ritual meal for the sisterhood, and then did it again in massive quantities for the townsfolk. By that time the sisters had all arrived and Mae Zelita returned to finish their food. I began to shoot her as she grabbed a 3 foot wooden spoon to stir and season the broth, when she raised her voice and told me never to take her picture, or at least not when she cooked. I never found out why, I couldn't do this; but I heeded her command and left the kitchen.

Walking across the floor, one of the sisters beckoned to me to sit next to her near the exit door. Mae Analia was a large woman, with a body suited for hard work. She had a warm face and she volunteered some details about the history of the sisterhood and the week's festivities to clarify questions that I had. I was appreciative of her help, though I learned that any sister who you engaged wanted tribute money. The sisterhood lives off of the sale of handmade candles representing each of the Orishas and whatever donations they receive from the town and the tourists. I cannot truly blame them for their methods. I venerated the sisters, with a high degree of esteem, respect and humility. But it still felt odd to have a pleasent discussion and then be asked to pay for it.

At this moment, Anaclaudia entered with her family a college friend Rosangela and her husband Julio, from Salvador. Rosangela had brought me a book written by a European in English about the foods of Bahia. Somewhat dated, yet quite informative, I was quite appreciative that a stranger hearing of my research gave of themselves to help me with my work. She went on to tell me that if I desired a home in the area, she wanted to sell the beach house she and her husband had built when their kids were small in the fishing village west of Itaparica in Barra da Paraguacu. She would send Jpegs and we could discuss it. Maybe I had a friend...?

Lunch was served now that the immediate families of the sisters arrived. The cozido was delicious and the veggies sublime. Gito refused the meal. I am not sure why. One of the Mae's brought a basket filled with Banana Reais-Banana Fritters. I gave mine to Gito, who beamed as he ate the warm sweet filling. We decided to leave when a few of the sisters called me over. I was wearing my t-shirt depicting a Vampire George Bush sucking the blood from a dying Statue of Liberty. The sister seemed quite disturbed by the image. I wasn't sure if she knew the characters. I explained the image and the symbolism to her. One of her companions added to my description to make sure that she understood the theme. At that moment the three of them burst out in bawdy laughter and I joined in.

I found Mae Zelita to thank her for her generosity and to ask about the nature of the specific dishes chosen for these meals. She stood between Ana Claudia and me facing her relations as she told me that this dish, Cozido, had to do with the fact that the slaves always kept a small garden to supplement the meager rations that they received from the masters. This dish, all of the dishes helped us remember the reality of the slave life and their diet, relative to their workload. She looked closely at me for a sense of comprehension. I said nothing, but had followed her story. Most of her extended family was lost in their own conversation. All of a sudden, as though she was a teen girl, she looked around the room furtively and said we make this food to show what the NEGROES ate and grabbed Ana Claudia's arm who is many, many shades darker than her aunt. Holding her forearm, Zelita pointed to her skin color to make sure I understood what she was describing, cackled boldly and ran away. She had grabbed everyone's attention except Ana and Rosangela. We all burst out laughing uncontrollably while Ana stood bewildered looking at the arm that her aunt had just relinquished. Having seen the tristeza and solidarity of the sisterhood, it was great to see this expression of pluck and good humor.

I thanked the sisters and cooks who had helped me today, found Gito and got ready to leave. At the door a tiny sister, made huge by the volume of lace garments that she wore, made me think of the B boys in NYC who wear clothing several sizes too big creating a similar visual statement of grandness. She sat by herself, head down in thought or meditation. I said hello, she looked up and I saw her cheeks and forehead speckled with moles like my mother had had. I shared this memory with her, telling how as a young boy I always thought that any black woman I saw with moles like my Mom suggested a safe harbor, friend or maybe relation. Her eyes sparkled spreading light between us. Nearly teary, I left with Gito.

He had one more stop he thought we should make together. He thought that his neighbor might be in his boat which was tied up on the river near the praca. Arriving at the water the boat was gone, but their was a Capoeira demonstration and graduation ceremony for the young recruits of the Mulekietu school. Children from four to about sixteen were sparring with their masters and being awarded their first belts for their efforts. Some of Gito's friends were in the demo, so he was all up in this scene. Half an hour later, I walked on, leaving him there reveling in his friend's successes; free from the care of the American.