Flip

Sunday 24-August

Mae Stella, garbed in her white dress and head wrap was on the porch coming up for air around 12:40 AM after the ceremony, talking to random congregants and smokers. She drifted back in the side entrance, past the drying goat skins to thank us for coming; and let me know that if I was interested, she-they would be making a meal for Oxumare's birthday the following afternoon. "Voce pode chegar depois do deis horas; ta bom?" I was down. Lauri and Nathan had video taped the ceremony, and Lauri said she was game for more. Somewhere between 10:40-11:15 on Sunday we trekked over the rutted road behind Sacatar, and up the steep hill to the terreiro. Perennially anxious that I might miss something, I was in a hurry to get inside. When we walked into the ceremonial room, half of her lieutenant's from last night were dozing on straw mats laid out on the floor. They were all huddled together as though we were in a northern clime and they needed each other's body heat to keep warm. I quietly, I thought that we had rushed for nothing. I watched them come slowly to wakefulness, play tricks with each other, whispering and laughing amongst themselves. Augusto arrived soon afterwards, with his young buddy, Mateus. We sat together and discussing last night's festivities here and at the Festa da Sao Roque.

Out back, the Mae who had been mounted by Nana was working with Simon to prepare the Cozido. They told us that they had been braising the meats and temperos for two hours. Periodically, one of them would check the glowing charcoal under the brazier, while the other poked the different cuts of pork and beef to assess their timing. Unlike the stews that I am used to at home and in professional kitchens, these meats were not cooked until the meats fell from their bones. They were left with a bite that caused every eater to be forced to gnaw a bit, and accept their carnivorous nature. Possibly the Carne Salgado, or salted meat introduced by the colonial Portuguese never became fully tender unless it was soaked for long periods, with frequent water changes. Like salt cod it tended to have a toothy mouth feel, from the process of salting and sun drying. Whichever the reason, it was closer to rawhide than velvet. The salting added an intensity of flavor to the caldo or broth, something essential for a dish as old as slavery, that generally had good flavor and very small amounts of actual flesh. Approximately, forty five minutes after we arrived, some chickens were added to the pot. In between, the stirrings, we walked inside to keep a pulse with the crew. Lauri jumped on her video cam, and I gave her space and a clear field to shoot. Mae Stella came and went, moving between the backyard, the ceremony room and her bedroom. I assumed that she was somewhat drained from last night. She was quieter and more reserved today.

I went to the street for air, and began chatting with one of her assistants and her "lover(?)" who had dropped by. Young children and the tweenage apprentices ran in and out of the house full of pent up energy. I heard noises from the front room, and then the stereo was cranked up. Like teen homegirls after the latest Teddy Pendergrass or Luther single, all of the devotees rose from their nests and went to dance ecstatically to a series of songs about Oxum. I appreciated the honeyed melody and I poked my head in to watch. One of the women, who had screeched with joy when I arrived last night, was dancing and sucking her thumb. They played a few tunes over and over again, until someone switched the disc to Carmina Burana, by Carl Orff. This Germanic choral classic, though also quite inspirational, is quite a mood wrecker relative to their current playlist. Everyone was now all up and about. I watched as the women took turns brushing out their hair, primping, giggling and gossiping amongst themselves. The one man, yesterday's whittler, ran to and fro with a devilish grin and a bawdy laugh. Everything seemed to fit into the vibe of a lazy Sunday at home.

Returning to watch the yard I shot some pictures of the cook's quartering heads of cabbage to set into the Cozido as a buffer between the simmering meats and all of the vegetables that were now being added. First the hardiest root vegetables were added, peeled but whole: Iame, Cebolla, Manioc and Batata Doce. Fifteen minutes or so later, the ropey rusty colored Calabresa sausages were delicately removed from the pot with a long cooking fork. Then more vegetables were added. First came Cenoura, Xuxu and Obobora; (carrot, chayote & calabash). Finally twenty minutes later, she added the Quiabo (okra) and Tomates. The vegetables were gently pressed down, so that they were swimming in the rich broth while the fire was carefully tended to stay just at a simmer, to keep the bubbling liquid from upsetting the meticulous arrangement that had just been created. They told me that everything would be ready within an hour. I walked back to the front room and sat on the sofa, absorbed in the activities, dancing and making pretty of the devotees.

There, I noticed that the woman, who had been so shy yesterday, had finished combing her own hair and had called a young girl to have her hair brushed and combed. I photographed them together and then asked the woman, if this was her child. She replied, yes; she was her daughter. "How old is she," I inquired. "Ela tem cinco anhos." (--She is five). "Oh, ok, e quantos anhos tem voce?" I continued." She spoke quietly and quickly bending over the child, her words were garbled to my ear. I thought that she had said Trinta, or 30. But, there was something more. I asked her to repeat herself. Again, I heard "Trinta, {..............?}" Questioning her response, I replied: " Voce me disse trinta. Trinta anhos?" "Nao, dias. Eu tenho trinta dias." I repeated this response to myself, checking my vocabulary. Now sure of what I had heard, I repeated, "Trinta dias. Voce tem trinta dias? Como sera posivel--Um mez?" 30 days, Did you say 30 days, How is that possible,-- One month? She giggled, then rejoined, "Agora tem um anho! Sim umo."....... "Ok". I said to myself. "What is going on? First she says one month and now one year. I sat for a moment, to absorb her staement and my impression of her true age. Bewildered, I went to the back to look at the Cozido and ask Augusto.

He and Lauri were sitting and chatting with Mae Stella. Some new congregants arrived and prostrated themselves at her feet. I used this opportunity to pull Augusto aside and explain my recent conversation. Immediately, he asked, "Who were you speaking with?" I began to describe the woman, her dress,--"No!" He stopped me. "I mean, were you talking to the woman or to the Orixa?" I said, "What, do you mean?" He began, "Well it sounds like you just met the Orixa that has mounted her in their child state." "I, what?" I asked Lauri if she followed his logic. She interjected that she had been seeing and filming odd reactions and dialogues between the different congregants. I looked hard at Augusto, and walked to the backyard perplexed. By now, the vegetables were all tender and slightly al dente. Each variety was placed in its own ceramic bowl. The meat were removed, and the two women began to prepare the Pirao. An interesting distinction between this stew and those I have made or sampled is that the broth is drained and used to cook a mush made of Manioc Flour. Thus, there is no liquid to the "stew", and a starchy rich mash is added to each portion. Still thinking about my conversations with the woman, and Augusto I sat back to think while the cook's carried all of the ingredients into the kitchen.

By now, it was close to 3:00 PM, and everyone was anxious to eat. The backyard was cleaned, swept and mopped by the diligent cooks while the finishes were put to the Cozido by Mae Stella. Everyone was seated around the periphery of the ceremonial room, sitting patiently. Two or three plates at a time, Mae Stella brought out the Cozido, serving the youngest children first. The advent of the meal had caused all of her lieutenant's to sit between the straw mats crosslegged, whining for food. She brought out one plate, and began dangling a piece of bacon, a link of sausage or vegetable in the air as each hungry devotee clamored for their piece. If I didn't know better I would say that she was feeding caged animals or toddlers. As they each received a morsel from her plate they cooed, and showed their prize to their neighbors before devouring it in a bite. She returned to the kitchen and brought out a plate for each one. They howled with ecstasy. Once they had been fed, the cook's helped her divvy out plates to all of the remaining guests. We all ate noisily, with a few asking for seconds. Once the meal was finished, Mae seemed drowsy, her chin dropped briefly to her chest, before she rose and quickly disappeared to her bedroom.

Five minutes later she returned in a new outfit of red checked pedal pushers, a smocky shirt and matching cap. Two steps into the room, and everyone cried for joy. She screamed, "Doces, refrescantes; estou com sede!" Hmm, I thought. She ran out the room, animated and agitated until she saw me in the corner. Pleading and whining, "What did I have for a present? Did I bring sweets? Where were they? Did I have soda..? Get it now!" I turned to Augusto, he said, "You remembered last night's promise, right?" I replied, "Yes, I gave them a large bottle of Guarana when we arrived." "Go. Get it now. She wants it." I ran up the six steps to the kitchen, and ask the cooks who were still cleaning up. They looked nervously at me, then said, " We have already served it." One turned to the other, then reached up to the thin shelf near the window for a key. She quickly opened the house of the Oxumare off of the kitchen and came back with a 2 Liter bottle of Coke, and said, "Aqui, pode dar este a ele." I took it, and went back down the stairs. Wait, she said, "I could give it to H-I-M.(?)" Mae saw me coming and jumped up and down, laughing and grabbing for my soda. She took it, opened it and guzzled a hearty gulp. Burping, she told me that I had done well. I sat down, looking first at Lauri and then at Augusto.

All the dynamics changed abruptly. My buddy from yesterday, the large older Mae who had made me coffee, came running in, not in her white Baianan dress, but in a scarlet shift, tied at the waist with a matching headwrap. She cackled loudly and jumped from the stairs onto the cement floor. Everyone screamed for joy. First sucking on her thumb she settled near her cohorts, occasionally shouting and laughing loudly. They followed her lead, bobbing up and down, in anticipation of I don't know what. Then, the one young man came in with a canary yellow outfit, similar to Mae Stella's. He ran toward his friends, sliding into the mat like a homerun slugger. Next, Mae or whoever she was was at the top of the stair with a bag in each hand. "Doces! TENHO Doces!. Quem estao com fome pra doces? Sweets, I HAVE Candy. Who is hungry for sweets? Her group started barking and screaming like wild dogs. They gathered in the center of the room, over the Fundamento, jumping and jostling each other for space. At first one by one, and then in fistfuls she threw out hard candies and sweet treats, waiting after each feeding to see who had run fastest to catch the booty and fight for the few pieces skittering to the corners. The young children were out classed and disorientated. Augusto turned to us, and whispered, "NOW, do you see?" Lauri said, "I have seen it all. I thought I had seen something last night, but this is wilder than any possession." "OK, look", he said. "Oxumare has mounted her. It is his birthday. He is a man, and his favorite food is sweets. He is impetuous like a child. He brings out the youthful Orixa in all of the initiates." As he explained the scene more candy was thrown round, some landing in our laps. We had to grab and hide it before someone else came to snatch it. Every so often Oxumare/Mae made a point of making sure that the children had received their due.

We were now in fult tilt boogie. The children and possessed adult/kidlings ran and shouted, aped childlike behavior, teased one another; but honored anything that Oxumare said or did. Tired of his game, Oxumare came over and asked Augusto if he would hold onto the remaining candy for her. He smiled and nodded in agreement. She turned, ran to tap on the drums, then began galloping, dancing around the room. Once her back was turned the young man in yellow came over and tried to take her candy. Defiantly, he reached into Augusto's lap, shouting, "This was mine. I am taking it, now." Augusto looked into his eyes, paused before saying, "Why don't we ask Mae?" He called out, Mae, Ox-u," when she turned toward us, ran over and pushed yellow-man out the way. "This is mine. Leave now!" He abuptly ran away. Moment's later, one of the thumb sucking devotees, was fully mounted, crouched down and bellowed just like last night. Her face and hands became animated as she rose up growling and scampering in circles. Now coaxing and prodding the mounted woman, the room quieted; as the others began to be mounted more forcefully. This time, each one was removed from the scene resurfacing shortly as their child persona.

Once things simmered down, we decided to leave. Mae came toward us, acting as if this was just another day back at the ranch. She asked me if I had enjoyed the Cozido and had tasted last night's Olubaje? I nodded affirmatively. As she invited me to return tomorrow at five for another ceremony, the woman who had been forcefully mounted walked up, with her left thumb in her mouth. Her right hand was full of popcorn. She looked deep into my eyes as she opened my right hand with her moist one. She opened her right hand, letting the popcorn cascade into my palm. She folded my hand into a fist, with both of her hands. Softly, she whispered a phrase or song, then opened my hand and closed it three times, repeating the phrase. As she finished, she looked up at me, for acknowledgment. Obviously still flummoxed, Augusto interjected, "She is giving you a blessing. You must keep the popcorn for three days and then toss it in the ocean. Show her that you understand." I nodded, and tightened my fist. We hugged and kissed Mae Stella, then thanked the cook's and said goodbye to the devotees, all now childlike once more.

Walking back to Sacatar, Lauri kept reiterating how we had seen so much more than what we had experienced in last night's ceremony. I agreed. There had been a subconscious level of expectation that came with the ritual, its costumes and the cover of night. Now, this seemingly innocent Sunday afternoon had opened up exploding into a waking dream or a somehow sober acid trip. There was a lot to learn.

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.