Do Seminario do Dende a Cachoeira

You cannot ever be too cocksure in a new place. Anxious to absorb all that I could and hopeful that I could, would make relevant connections at the Seminario de Dende at Senac Cooking School in the Pelourinho, I had decided to stay on until the end. Or at least until the cocktail reception and book party at 6:30 PM, for Raul Lody's new book. He was the director of the seminario and a key anthropologist of Afro-Brazilian culture. I had introduced myself to him, he was gracious but we got nowhere. I was constrained because that same day I had plans to go to Cachoiera, (Cash-o-where-a) for A Festa Da Irmandade da Boa Morte. The Festival of the Sisterhood of the Good Death. More on that soon.

The first of the last two speakers of the day at the seminario was truly sawdust. I am sure she is a competent woman, and seemed quite intelligent. She is the chief administrator of Senac and is based in Sao Paulo. Senac appears to be a national vocational college with branches in Tourism, Cooking, ___________ & _____. She deals with food. I am sure she has great strengths as a CEO, she acknowledged that last week was her thirteenth anniversary in her position. But she must not have been hired for her elocution skills. She attempted to demystify the editorial and publication process for books on food and cooking. As relevant as it might have been, it could have been turned into a Powerpoint presentation or a printed brochure. I lost my taste for more speechifying and decided I would be better served to try and catch an earlier bus to Cachoeira. I wanted to be able to arrive at a more reasonable hour, navigate the town, find some dinner and get oriented with regards to the festival. Thus, I left the seminar 45 minutes early, 5:30 PM and made my way to the Lacera Elevator and out of the Pelourinho. The bus stop at the foot of the elevator was a major transit link for city buses. Fairly quickly I found one marked Rodoviaria Volta B-Brotas, (Ho-dough-Vee-ar-ee-ya: Bus Station). I hopped on, chilled down and made ready for my trip into the Bahian countryside. Heading east from town, we went through the tunnel cut into the same hillside that Pelouinho sits on top of. I had made this trip yesterday from Barra to buy my ticket in advance. Everyone said that the festival was breathtaking, and a major magnet for Brazilians, foreigners; in particular African Americans.

A Festa is said to be the first act of solidarity by black people for black people in honor and in struggle for the people who had died enslaved in Brazil. It has been held for over 200 years, initially begun in Salvador. The sisterhood of black women in a direct bloodine descendancy from slaves dedicate their lives to honoring the struggle of the ancestors, express real and metaphoric tears for the murder and subjugation of their elders and live a simple ascetic life, dressing traditionally, holding special vigils, prepare ritual meals and ceremonial rituals which culminate in this week long festa, which began on Monday. It was suggested that I also sample some regional dishes, Manicoba-a rich Afro-Indian meat stew thickened with manioc leaves, Caldo de Sururu-A mussel broth or soup, Fejoida com Feijao Preto-Fejoida with Black Beans, Licor da Cachoeira among other dishes. Taylor, one of the founders of Sacatar had tried to connected me with his friend, Edmilson, described as a flamboyant gay man who spoke French, Portuguese and no English; someone who had a good head for the festival, could be a general guide to Cachoeira and had room to put me up for a small fee. Unfortunately, he never responded to our emails. As a safeguard, I had found an internet site with some Pousadas listed, and made reservations at two to be safe.

Bus tickets sell quickly, so I was advised to purchase my ticket ahead of time. They printed my name and reservation time, 8:00 PM was printed on the ticket, like an airticket. I used that trip to a Rodoviaria to clock the travel time, so that I could be ready on the day of the seminar, forty five minutes. Therefore from the Pelourinho stop is should be approximately a 20-30 minute ride. My bus, a tortuga, appeared to stop at every corner in Engenho Velho de Brotas (Engenho Velho indicates the site of a form Sugarcane Plantation during the colonial period). I asked the moneytaker on the bus for an explanation of the route. "Vai ficar tempo", It takes time, was his response. It was now 6:50PM. I thought that at least I would make my scheduled bus. My phone rang a few times with calls from the States, which distracted me from the sluggish ride. When I finally saw the highway up ahead, the eastbound lanes we needed to taker were bumper to bumper and barely moving. As we mounted the on ramp we headed west towards the ocean. I was confused and distraught; my cool unraveled. I realized that our route required us to head west to some intersection where we would reverse direction and head east to the bus station; 5 km later.

The third time I spoke to the money taker, he was too through. When I asked how much longer? He came back with, "Um rato. Vai ficar tempo pra chegar pra la. Nao posso dizer cuanto tempo. Temos muita congestacao, trafico". Awhile. It takes time to get there. I can't say how long. There is a lot of congestion, traffic. Voce deve buscar Shopping Iguatemi. Look for the Iguatemi mall. Being pragmatic and crazed, I said, "But don't you do this everyday? The same route?"---Yes.

"Entao....How long, you must know the time it takes....?" "Vai ficar tempo. Nao sei." I cursed the lives of functionaries. There had to be a better answer, it was now 7:29. I wasn't sure if I would even be able to catch my scheduled bus. I considered trying to get out in traffic, flagging a cab, or what I wasn't sure. I didn't quite know where I was to make clear decisions. Then I saw Shopping Iguatemi, and thought that it all might work. I had had such good luck up until this point, I hoped that it didn't portend a bad scenario ahead in Cachoeira? I found my queue on the Santana bus line at 7:50. The only concern I had had, was that I was waiting on money from America and what I had was what I had, and there were not many reals or time alotted for dinner. Agua sem gas and a small bag of boiled peanuts were the realities for now.

The ride took about two and one half hours. None of the overhead lights worked, so my preparatory reading sat in my sack. Behind me two chatty Brazilian men flitted time with their chatter. Two young ample bosom women marked by revealing cleavage and hugging jeans got on, and the men had a target. I dozed off between my peanut splurges and their cat and mouse. While I was awake I appreciated the rolling hills in silhouette under a shadow of clouds. Closer to our destination an almost full moon rose as I anxiously watched one street towns and random roadside stops blink by. The larger villages caused this bus to function like a cityline, stopping five or six times on shuttered streets that reflected a stray bar or a streetside card game. I bolted awake as I came to consciousness in Cachoeira. Overstimulated by my day and ride, anxious for the weekend and underfed, I had slept deeply for 20-30 minutes. I realized that I had no idea where I was going, and that this town would have several stops. Inquiring with the moneytaker, (all the buses have one; I wonder if it is also a crime detererrent?), neither he nor the driver knew the street I named, even as repeated it with a new intonation. Rua Ana Nery. "Porque voce nao saia na Rodoviaria da Cachoeira? Sera melhor." As my feet touched the pavement street hawkers chanted at me and the passengers on the bus-cerveja, agua mineral, amendoine, refrescante-Aqui.

The bus made a U-turn and disappeared over a rusted steel suspension sitting over the river. Across the river there was also a town, more brightly lit. Should I be there? Is that were the commercial streets and Pousadas were? Giovanna had said that the bus might only stop in Sao Felix nearby. Maybe that was Sao Felix. I walked to the riverfront and saw lights ahead, deciding that at least at the lighted place I could ask. The crowded bar sat adjacent to a playground, soccer field and town park. At the street corner one group was split between three people at table and two in their car, doors flung open beer sheening all of their lips. Walk away from the river, (into darkened streets), direito ate ...Two blocks later, I found two men selling churrascinhos on a main drag. I stopped to ask again, and decided to buy one. I watched them cook over a hibachi with a small two speed electric fan hotwired into the street lamp to stoke the coals. They had just run out of beef, so I was given sausages, chicken and squash with a crown of raw onions and sliced cucumbers oozing vinegar. The meats were rolled in farofa just before he handed it to me with the next set of directions. A few blocks later, nest to a large church, I asked a guarda, and realized I was looking at the Pousada across the street from his station. I had found a website with Ana Bea's help. I couldn't get a Skype signal, so I used my cell and probably would pay tweny American for my calls. In front of their doorway was a chipped silver wrought iron gate, removable, like a toddler barrier. Almost one meter tall. I saw no bell, so I called out in a low voice. A woman, teenager turned in the dark hallway telling me to come in. I lifted the gate, replacing it as walked int their home. She led me into a squareish room dominated by a heavy wooden dining table and too many chairs. Grandma in a housedress and a headscarf sat on a sagging sofa. A dark skinned man, the girl who brought me in and two young children sat around the room glued to a telenovela.

A woman dressed like gram was in the kitchen in profile to us. She held a chubby sausage with her left hand, hacking slices in the air with her right. A stairway was in the corner and the roof was partially open to the sky. Moonlight spilled in adding to the TV glow. She motioned me into the kitchen, took me in as she sliced; asking what I wanted? The pot behind her sizzled with onions and garlic as I requested the room I had reserved. You called? Yes....She looked into my eyes, then she surveyed my frame. "Voce vai assentar com minha mae". Go and sit on the sofa next to my mother. Grandma creamy coffee colored, breasts long past firm as they sagged to her mid chest under her garmets pulled up a seat next to the sofa and motioned to me. I sat. The man, not Dad, in a sleeveless black V neck tennis sweater with white trim, black dress shorts and a black apple jack hat muttered something at me that I didn't follow. I was exhausted, and now had no room, nor did I know where the other possiblity was; it was late. I needed my wits now, all of my cognitive skills to follow this conversation in a lazier dialect than that of Salvador. I quickly became the focus of the conversation, though they spoke about me, not too me. Until Grandma turned , smiled and whispered, " Voce nao e globo?" I repeated, "Globo?" (does that mean globe?). "Voce parece globo." I answered, "Nao, nao sou globo, mais obrigado." No, I am not globo, but thanks. She continued muttering and looking at me with a sultry gaze. Where was I? Was she senile? A woman called out and came in beer gut leaking over her pants. She asked for coffee and the teen girl whipped out cafezinhos for everyone. She sat on the sofa and immediately began to speak to me in English, telling me that there was housing for men only down the street two blocks. I wasn't sure I wanted that. I just imagined trashed guys, loud late at night. Our hostess stepped from the kitchen and quickly told the man to leave and ask at one of the neighbor's homes for a room. He left and returned quickly empty handed. She looked at me again, and said to the room more than someone, "Mas ele me ligou." But he called me. Maybe I can do something for you, but I am waiting for someone from Sao Paulo. Grandma kept on about globo as I finished my coffee. Now the dona addressed the man, mentioning someone's name. He stood to leave and they all looked to me. He wanted me to follow.

Around the corner, and up the block, a smallish woman with thick wavy brown hair cracked her door and I listened to him discuss my situation. She opened the door for me and he left. The room was in shadows, she led me down a short hallway speaking as she walked. I made out a a ceramic roof high above this railroad flat, kitchen at the back, TV in the backround. None of the rooms had cielings, so true privacy would be at a minimum. Out of the shadows, a young girl came from the farthest room as we talked. A measured cadence of snores emanated from the door behind me. Dad? I was shown a room, sky blue walls, double bed covered with a mossy satin spread and matching quilted velvetine headboard. A square of lace appliqued to the middle of the spread. A carved wooden armoire with sliding doors, two of them broken stood along the far wall. A picture of the young girl I had seen at an earlier age, praying was framed adjacent to a reproduction of female nude charcoal drawing. We stepped out of this room and she asked, "How many people? How long?" "Just me. Until Sunday." Immediately she whispered to the young girl. It depends upon the price, doesn't it? How much will you..." They looked at each other again. $80? I repeated the figure. "Yes, ok; $80. I asked for a toilet as they whispered on. Returning, I set my things on the bed and asked about food. The girl volunteered the leftovers and a drink. I looked up, and accepted a glass of water, as her mother'e eyes nixed the food. What did I want-dinner? It was too late, I just wanted a snack. They sent me to the central square a few blocks away. In the street again, now hereing cicadas, I stopped to photograph the church when I heard the daughter whistling and jogging up to me. "Chaves. Voce precisa um chave." A key-duh.

The praca was three streets long with a center island, grassy and studded with plastic chairs and street food carts. Several full bars, cafes and restaurants opened onto the square. Brazilian rock, countryish blared from loudspeakers mounted on street lamps.Noisy people sat, chatting under strings of small white light bulbs strung in the trees above the square, watching the itinerant souvenir sellers set up camp and tents. I chose one, sat, ordered a beer and negotiated a bowl of Caldo Bacalhau with the owner from among the ten or soups she had written on the plywood menu. Unctous and satisfying with a taste of roux or starch, it did its job. I got up to pay and split, watching to men thrust their tongues into each others mouths. Was one of them Ed? Too late. When I got back to my digs, mom and daughter were still whispering incessantly. Thankfully, they had locked my door. They showed me how to work the lock. I am too trusting. I unpacked and hung up the few things I brought, grabbed my toothbrush and went the toilet again. Now a young boy half awake was watching the TV. Mom called to me in her choppy, poorly constructed Portuguese, "I had missed the invocation and the first procession. I needed to be at the Irmandade by 10:00 AM to see tomorrow's procession. Go early." I thanked her and crawled into bed. As I turned out the light I spied a pair of sequined slippers peeking out from under the bed. I think that I had taken her daughter's bedroom. It was almost midnight and fell asleep quickly. Drifting in and out of random dreams, I heard music faintly.

Abruptly, several hours later before dawn, I was shocked into wakefulness first by three rounds of fireworks, then the peal of church bells and finally an hour's cacophony of roosters. The fireworks had shocked them too. Starting individually, they united into a crowing chorus, like strays dogs howling until daybreak. By seven I was up and out walking the streets to see where I had come to. I stopped in the church, watching devout parishioner's pray momentarily. I walked against traffic, paralleling the river as townspeople hurried to work or to prepare for the festa. Side streets and alleys carried me past massive colonial buildings, some intact, many crumbling. Waling away from the town center, all of the residential neighborhoods had small one or two story brick homes covered in plaster with the same arrangement of small iron gates creating a buffer with the street. The interior rooms of almost every home was fully visible. Outside of every other house, people hung their bird cages with all manner of birds from Budgies to Parrots, singing in the day. I could see that this town had been rich 300 years ago, now it was holding on, appearing solidly working class; with exotic birds in cages, satelitte dishes and a donkey here and there. I came to an edge of town, the east side I think, and found a playground along the river. Happily I did a Tai Chi set, as morning fishermen cast their nets from narrow pirouges. I heard a distant drum, then faint singing coming from across the river. I isolated three long, low buildings as origin of the music. Thinking it might be the parade band or an early gathering of festivants, I decided to walk over the metal bridge and find the musicmakers.

Approaching the Rodoviaria in daylight the Rodoviaria it was impressive sitting at one foot of the bridge adjacent to the Ferroviaria (train station). I crossed the battered span barely wide enough for two lanes of traffic to find Sao Felix, a cathedral and a farmers market at other foot. Hungry now, I bought some bananas, found a cafe with full of men glued to the Brazilian women's Olympic soccer team final's. I ordered a Banana Real or Banana Turnover and coffee. Across the way a man ate a full plate of fried potatoes and scrambled eggs. I ordered that too. Shortly afterwards a plate arrived with only poorly scrambled eggs. I asked after the potatoes. They had run out. Hmm...Bread? He returned with a puffy roll. I made an egg sandwich, the game finished and I left. I never found the music. Possibly, my ears had been playing tricks or eating breakfast upset the timing. Returning to Cachoeira, I found signs leading me to the Irmandade/Sisterhood. The streets choked with people talking loudly in anticipation of the procession, briefly became quiet as a tuba bleeted in the distance. I saw the procession of women coming down a steep hill with a marching band at the rear.The tune could have been written in New Orleans.

Looking around, looking for camera angles and positioning, someone called my name. Big (pronounced Biggie), from the Pelourinho. We embraced, laughed and checked in with each other. He was playing private tour guide to a black actor and his wife from L.A. I recognized his face, but couldn't name him. Adroitly, he began to I.D. key players in the crowd, local politicians, historians, the minister of culture. People he thought I should know, based on my research topic. I exhanged cards and handshakes with all of them, including the govenernor of Bahia. Is Big an Exu at the crossroads? Next, he introduced me to a group of Black American journalists and a tourism executive. We bantered back and forth. One of the women, chatty, flaunted her book, Black History for Dummies. I decided that the church service held more intrigue, and pressed myself into the throng. It took forty minutes of jostling to get to the front of the aisle between the pews where the Irmandade were seated. Periodically, people got up and left from the heat inside the sanctuary overcrowded with locals, other Brazilians, international tourists, a visiting French bishop and many black Americans. Having been raised Episcopal I can always navigate a Catholic Mass, even in a new language. I studied the faces and dress of the sisterhood. Today they were dressed in a variation of the Baina costume. They had full circle boldly printed hooped skirts, lace under trousers, a white blouse cut like a priests supplice, red satin shawls with black lining, thick ropes of beaded Orisha necklaces and silver chains and lace headwraps. I took communion in honor of my mother and marveled at their sense of faith and solidarity as their leaders shared the altar with the priests.

Back in the street, other marching bands, Samba de Roda troupes, dancers in Afro-Indian tribal costume enjoined the nascent procession. The street thicker with flesh pressing flesh feverishly waited for the women and their idol, VIRGEN______to exit the chapel. Finally an hour later we returned to the chapel and people crowded inside in anticipation of the next round of activities. I followed, looking for a copy of the historical brochure for reference and notes. I chose the right person to ask about the brochure and the culinary traditions of these women. She directed me to one of the director's who was heading our way. The man next to me, Luja, heard my questions and suggested that I follow him to see the food being prepared. His aunt was the chief commissioner this year, she could answer all of my questions and probably provide recipes. Wow. He grabbed me by the hand and ten minutes later I was upstairs in the refectory behind locked doors open only to the sisterhood, important officials and family members. I talked with Luja's aunt, Mae Joselita, or Mae Zelita to family and friends.His Mae was directing traffic in the kitchen to finish the Fejioada, Carne de Boi (Bull, Black Bean and Pork Stew) that had been started early that morning. The sisterhood was always served first, then their families and finally the general public. They had enough food to serve several hundred people. Mae Zelita asked what I was doing here, when I responded she turned to her family and asked for a translation. I guess Portuguese needs more work. She then offered me a plate and advised me that tomorrow we could sit and share recipes. I could not be in the kitchen, but I was free to photograph. The beans were perfectly cooked with a nice bite to the tooth. I navigated through a reddish sausage, a leathery strip of well done beef, (maybe Carne do Sol), a braise-shoulder (?), rice and farofa. It could have been Monday evening in New Orleans with a plate of Red Beans and Rice. The dishes ran right together. I shot some photos until my battery was spent, then negotiated the door to search for my charger. On my way out, Luja introduced me to his cousin, Anaclaudia. She insisted that I needed to experience everyday food and should come for a drink and a snack at 5:30 to her home in Sao Felix. She quickly gave me directions and I left.

I was later told the order of all the traditional dishes prepared for the festival. I had missed the first day with the symbolic distribution of black beans and corn in exchange for alms and the second day's famous White Meal of Bread, a Fridgeira da Bacalhau, a cool deep dish savory pie of salt cod and vegetables with an eggy top crust, White Wine and Seafood. Tommorrow's meal would be Cozido. This dish sounded similar to a classic Latin Caribbean dish of braised meats cooked with whole root vegetables and then served separately with the vegetables cut into hefty chunks. There's would have Beef and Goat. The last meal would be Caruru, a very African dish of stewed okra, camarao or smoked dried shrimp in the shell, herbs and Dende oil. Every meal ended with performances of Samba de Roda, and frenetic dancing.

First Days on my own.

Is it a guy thing or what? I woke up with that headache, just where it had been when I had dozed off before I rolled over on the volume control and blasted myself into wakefulness the night before. Now I tried espresso, aspirin and One a Day PC Vegetarian Vitamins for Men to quell the pain. After an hour I was on my feet. I realized that I needed to stay in Salvador for too many reasons if I intended to go to Boa Morte, so I called my friend Zeno and asked if at least, "Could I leave my bags with him, while I found a place for a night or two?" He suggested that I stay with him. The night before I had left a message with Alain the house manager to see if he had a room in his portfolio.

At 10:00 AM fast talking Alain with the snake in his grass, called to ask if I wanted to seem some apartments. Kenny the full figured boisterous man we had seen in the lobby. You know the one, cannot hide their Americanness, and probably don't want to really. We had seen him on one of our beach walks in the company of a more zaftig fellow, I believe also from Brooklyn. They seemed to be on a flesh hunt, possibly just eye-fucking, but anyway--you got it. The three of us jumped into Alain's brand new Ford Focus and looked at a couple three apartments. One was right on the beach with great views and a wonderful pool deck if you wanted to avoid the crowds. He said he gets $6000 Reals a night during Carnaval. It is right on the parade route, so you could have a boffo party but it would not be about sleeping at all. I got the lay of the land, was glad for the view. Told them al that I would think on it, and jumped a bus for Itapua. An hour later I had dropped my bags, got an acaraje from one of my favorite stands, yeah it gets like that. Maybe I should break it down.

Soak some black eyed peas until you can shuck the skins off. Mash them to a pulp. Whip them a bit. Then shape them into cakes. Heat some palm oil in a deep casserole. Add an unpeeled onion to the simmering oil for flavor. Fry the cakes until tawny russet brown. Drain them, slice them laterally and begin to fill them. The hot sauce has the smoked dried shrimp, palm oil, onions and chilies. There is a simple salsa like condiment, not spicy at all. Vatapa- the bomb! A blend of ground peanuts, cashews, the aforementioned shrimp, breadcrumbs, coconut milk, ginger, malagueta peppers and palm oil. Throw in 8-10 shrimp and your off; all for $3.50. Reals that is. Maybe two bucks. And it is light and fluffy. The fried bean cake is fluffy like a light biscuit. I found a busstop close to Zeno's house, but it took forever for a bus that I could use to get there.

An hour later I got back to Barra, went home, worked on some computer stuff, tried to secure a spot to sleep in Cachoeira and tie up loose ends. Paid Ana the housekeeper her tip and left to drop some clothes at the seamstress. I needed some hemming and light repair done. I also asked about having a zipper fixed. They told me that they would have to replace it. I said, "yeah, ouch-how much?" Eight Reals, maybe $5.25. That works. From there I went to Citibank to get cash. Looked at my accounts and realized that the party is over for now. Not good. Boys and budgeting...nuf said. Found a bus toward Iguatemi to get me to the Rodoviaria, (major bus station for out of town excursions). From where I was I had to go by the historic district almost all the way up to Bonfim to a tunnel in the hillside, a long stretch of highway to be dumped by the side of a major highway under an overpass. A few yards behind the stop there were three major caged in stairways that could carry folks across the highway in either direction. On the northside was a large bus station, where I bought my passage for Cachoeira. You have to register with your name, no I.D. You receive a receipt, or proof of purchase and a little mini plastic card analogous to the savings cards we receive at supermarkets. This is what you need to swipe on the bus. Everyone said that this festa is so popular, especially with Black Americans that I needed to buy my tickets in advance. From that stop, I took another bus back to Itapua over highways, past the airport and back to the lovely beach that makes it so sweet. Another 90 minutes travel. The second bus was so crowded that in true Salvadorian fashion a woman sitting down offered to hold my carry bag and mochilla (backpack). Once space opened up, I grabbed a seat and relieved her of my burden.

I decided to keep it simple, so as I got off the bus I stopped at the street vendors. I will never forget my visit to my G.P. eight weeks ago for two reasons. First the man who came in behind me on recommendation from his hotel, looked greenish, and proceeded to look worse as we sat waiting to be seen. Twice he got up to ask how long for his turn to come up. Whenever he sat back down he would begin to writhe with pain. Needless to say, it was the first time I saw an ambulance squad come to a doctor's office. I hope it worked out for him. My larger point is that, when the doctor pulled out the recommendations from CDC for Brazil and I realized after a deep gulp that this was going to be possibly a $500 visit, I started questioning the need for all of the innoculation cocktail. When we got to the Hepatitis A & B series, the information brochure asked, "Check yes or no to the following questions: Are you and I.V. drug user? Do you engage in male homosexual sex, including anal penetration? Are you an adventurous eater?" See where I am going. I was like yeah, I am all about C. We wouldn't be even considering not chowing on acaraje et alia. So, off the bus, I decided to try this fresh corn roasted over a hibachi like grill. I had memories of summer 'cues, la la. Well I felt like a hungry sow being fed burnt, leathery weathered warm corn. Yum. I thought, how can they have so many delectable fruits and whenever I go to buy them the sellers specifically ask how soon I will eat each piece so that they can pick for perfect ripeness. And now this? I wanted to throw, no spit it out, but I was hungry. I moved on. Two blocks later, I saw this stand I had walked by many times before. Batata and Sundried Beef snacks. I sidled over and read his menu. He had these oversized croquettes made with a base of either potato or mandioca (cassava) puree. In the center you could get cheese, cheese and roast chicken, sun-dried salted beef, beef and cheese, ham, etc. I went for Frango e Queijo (cheese and chicken) It was truly superlative. Miles above my corn. To seal the deal I walked two more blocks to my acaraje buddy, Sira. But instead I went to the Tapioca e Beiju stand. I got a coconut, butter and cassava beiju or griddled crepe. Another winner. I was done. When I got to Zeno's house I decided to sit outside for a moment. I found a hip pocket park on the corner with a nice stone sculpture to Yemanja. I took a few pics, caught my breathe and then went in.

Immediately upon entering Joao hid under the arm of the sofa next to where I was sitting. He is Zeno's 3yr old grandson. In short time he was in my lap, talking rapfire, (for a 3 yr old) stories of his superman, aranaja homen (spiderman) and G.I. Joe like soldier figures. He conjured discussions, faux massacres, full tilt right brain shenanigans. I downloaded my pictures and we looked at them together. We laughed, he played hide and go seek with me as the secret witness of where he hid out, and then we traded vocabulary words and phrases. Kids are great at grounding you when you are new to a language. Out of the blue Zeno called me to dinner. I was touched. We had an interesting and simple meal of: coffee with options to make it cappuccino, fresh maracuja juice (passion fruit), fresh baked bread with butter, sliced cheese and roast beef and fruit if we needed it. We spoke of my research and my impressions of the city. I shared today's pictures with him. He smiled. I settled in for some writing, emails back and forth to Kidville to make sure the new store opening goes smoothly from my departments end, and I got a nightcap of a surprise chat with Michele. It was a good day. Boa noite.

Looking for Biggie

I woke up a little worse for wear, always trying to be ready to keep flowing forward. Travel, disorientation, spotty sleep or the water was catching up with me. We ate a smple breakfast, granola, yogurt, coffee and the fruits from Barraca de Denis (an orange melon, mango, litchi, papaya & ). After following the email trails we decided to go back to Cidade Alta and look for Biggie, and another recommended resource Dr. Abreu who was a historian and his Fundacao Muau (a artisan crafts museum and support center for local artists). I wanted to locate as many folks from my list and make an introduction, before I left the city for the island of Itaparica and my residency at Sacatar.

We were now fairly well versed in flagging and catching the local buses. Salvador has a very comprehensive municipal bus system of standard sized buses that prowl the city with great frequency at all hours, it seems. One ride is $2 reals with no transfer. There is a discount pass for students and seniors. You enter from the rear cycle through a turnstyle at the top of the stair and grab a seat. The key is when a bus is approaching you have to read the destination district in large letters at the top of the windshield to recognize it as your local bus route. If you are not sure there is a legend of major stops, (+/-3 km apart) stenciled list just above the headlights and in front of the rear door in yellow paint. There are also luxury buses that seem to stop less frequently have reclining seats and cost $4. Quickly you need to learn which bus stops near to you which meets your needs. Either the terminus of routes is past your destination and the legend confirms that it will pass through the neighborhood you are seeking, or you can find the district you desire is inscribed in the legend. Generally, the buses don't stop at most bus stops unless you flag them down. This way they keep quick time. Thus, you have to become adept quite quickly with good long distance vision to ascertain if the next bus needs to be flagged to pull over. Luckily, most people are helpful and you can enter the bus and ask the money collector at the back if you are on the right vehicle. Often once you are on the bus will take off, even before the door is closed and if you have chosen the wrong bus you may have to jump off while the bus in in motion. Occasionally the money collector will yell to the driver to stop, slow down or reopen the rear entrance to let you off. Finally, if you were not getting off at a major stop (the equivalent of a Times Square), then you had to be acutely aware of your own stop and pull the cord in time, since the likelihood was that the bus wouldn't generally pull over there unless someone else was at the curb flagging them down. This ritual was repeated several times daily. Getting to the Pelourinho, Mercado Modelo, (City crafts market), ferry pier were easy since they were all within earshot of each other and at a major stopping point for tourists and locals.

So, we took the bus to the Cidade Baixa and to the Lacerda Elevator to the Cidade Alta. If I hadn't previously mentioned, the historic district sits above today's commercial city and close to a port, marina and naval station. In the 1880's the colonial system of a lift for the elite engineered with ropes and pulleys and operated by slaves was replaced with a more formal mechanized elevator on one side of town and a pulley system steel car for cargo, similar to a ski gondola a short distance away. GE helped to provide electrification in the 1930's, and this mode of travel was copied in Rio and Lisbon. Today there is a bank of four express elevators with two in motion in either direction until 11PM. The fare is five cents. I guess that that pays the wages for the elevator operators.

Enroute to find Biggie, we listened to a few discs of Maysa's music at a local Music store near the Praca de Se. Mossa, my Portuguese teacher in NYC, is also an amazing singer with operatic training and a style that encompasses free jazz, regional Brazilian and Middle Eastern song forms had turned us on to Maysa. She seems to fit into that 50's moment of prime Ella, Sarah, Peggy Lee and Xavier Cougat kind of jazz/popular vocals. She married well, so her husband fronted her career. Maysa was quite eccentric in her personal style and visionary in her producing and packaging herself. With the lack of record stores today, I knew that she would not be easy to find in NYC. But after listening for 30 minutes I had too many riches and couldn't decide which disc to purchase. We split and resumed our search, walking towards the main square

We were looking for Rua Gregorio Mattos, and no one seemed to know it. Curious for a relatively small community, even though the district was a rabbit warren of alleys, dead end streets, cathedrals and plazas. The first two people we enlisted both told us to head away from the Pelourinho, in the directions of Shopping Lapa. We walked and walked leaving the historic district behind relatively quickly. We traversed a commercial neighborhood & working class ghetto whose tall buildings shielded the sun from the street. We found two beautiful churches along the way, but couldn't find R. Gregorio Mattos. After several attempts we were directed to Fundacao Gregorio Mattos. We walked inside and found a plexiglass shielded reception area. Through the plastic we inquired for Biggie. The woman stopped and thought for a moment, and asked if he was tall, I said yes; assuming that Biggie was literally a giant. 8 minutes later a distinguished looking man appeared, almost 2 1/4 meters tall. We spoke briefly. His nickname was Biggie to his close friends, but he was not at all who we were after. We all laughed as he told us that the R. Gregorio Mattos was in the bowels of the Pelourinho. With that failed attempt, I decided it was better to pursue our second contact than retrace our steps for Biggie at this point. Walking up a sharp hill we entered a more working class neighborhood, with street hawkers analagous to Canal Street in lower Manhattan. I saw a cathedral at the top of the hill and wanted to check it out, even though it seemed to be on the opposite fork than our desired path. The church Sao Bento was quite beautiful with a high carved wooden ceremonial screen just inside the foyer of the church several Retablo of key aspects of the Christian story rendered in gold, semi precious stone and marble. As we left the church I saw across the avenue that there was a store of handsewn lace fabrics focusing on clothes for Orisha ceremonies. We walked inside to take some images of the ceremonial clothing. After admiring it, I ended up buying a shirt with lace axes for Xango (recheira [?]).

Resuming our search for Dr. Labreu and Shopping Lapa we walked through a feira or farm market just after the lunch rush. This one, Sete Portas (seven doors) was the smaller of the two city markets. As we would come to observe these markets had all manner of fruit, produce, meats, fish, live poultry, artisanal prepared foods and standard dry goods, clothing, hardware and culinary implements. We stopped briefly to photograph the displays at various stands. Being drawn in by the vibrant colors I navigated through several different jars of pickled peppers that had been put up by the woman who ran the stand, before buying a bottle of medium hot finger peppers. Back on the trail, walking and asking directions, after another 30 minutes we found Shopping Lapa. Set in between a confluence of small streets this urban mini mall had food stalls, small stores and some produce. At this point I realized that this was only a major directional point to get us close to the right side of the appropriate neighborhood. Michelle was losing her pep. Persevering, I asked some news sellers for more directions and we made our way to Rua de Mouraria. Another twenty minutes and many blocks later we found our goal. The doorman informed us that the Foundation had moved (my friend in NY had thought that change was in the offing) and Dr. Abreu had just left. Please note that for some people I had addresses, for some addresses, phone numbers and email. But, after having left messages and emails I had decided that for those folks who operated within an organization or foundation, it might be worth it to see these spots and find the contact or leave word. Michele was too through. I was hot and tired. We had not eaten a real lunch, and were now in a strange neighborhood not close to landmarks we knew and rush hour was coming quickly. We walked several blocks through fairly vacant alley streets in silence and exasperation. I had been so overwrought, I had forgotten to leave word for Dr. Abreu.

We had to circle back towards Shopping Lapa to catch the bus. When we got to a bus stop, waiting and watching we realized that none of the names or routes seemed familiar. After ten minutes we asked some local women, who seemed to indicate that we needed to cross the avenue, and that the bus would circle around and head back towards Barra. We crossed the street, waited and again no results that seemed familiar. Asking again, we realized that their was a hub station beyond Shopping Lapa down a large stair under an overpass. When we found the spot, we were in an outdoor version of Port Authority. I guess forty bus lines stopped here. There were some typical shops catering to people in between buses, several street vendors with the ubiquitous individually wrapped candies, bon bons, gum, etc, peanut vendors, soda, beer, popcorn, etc. It took a moment to find our route, but once there we got the bus and got home fairly quickly. Whew. When we got off the bus, near the small former colonial fort, that sat on the beach near our apartment I chuckled quietly. As we had stepped onto the street I realized that part of the construction that we had walked by several times before included the installation of the new home for Fundacao Muau. I had never read the marquis above the scaffolding. Argh.

Yesterday Eneida had invited us to another opening. This one was also part of the August celebration of photography at Goethe House. We nixed it in fair of a cold chill. Biggie would have to come later. I was going to have to find my muster, because tonight I had to see Dona Valdina.