Running on empty, swimming free.

I have to laugh at how much I internalize myself and my thoughts. The second week of Sacatar we had one on one interviews to discuss the trajectory of our residency or art making. Later over lunch we shared those aspects of our plans and hopes with the other fellows. I had clearly identified the work I had brought with, projects for editing and shaping. I suggested a Salvador based food project, still nascent in my mind. Finally, I hinted at a object or offering that I wanted to make. The last idea was still tender, raw inside me. I needed some time to unravel the elements and inspirations.

I came here acutely tuned into the two anniversaries heralding the end of the Atlantic Slave Trade. This year marked the 120th anniversary for Brazil and 200 years for the United States. Brazil had celebrated theirs on May 3. Ours would be celebrated in early October, on the tenth. I came here thinking about my mother. Whenever I travel, I know that she calls out to come with. She had truly wanted to see the world. I brought a few of her ashes that I still had left.


Giving a form to these thoughts was still in question. Shortly afterwards Augusto suggested that I discuss it with Mae Stella. I had first thought that for forty days I should make a daily meditation in reference to the average length of time of the slave ship’s journey. I also wanted to give something to the sea. One gift would be gift of Sylvia, giving her a spirit home in Baia. I wanted another gift to the people who did not survive the voyage or suffered the life of enslavement. I did not feel centered yet to discuss the particulars.


When I read about the foods brought on board, I learned that it the right trade winds were not found or the seas rough, the journey could take four to five months. In preparation for the journey, some of the captive slaves penned in on coastal concentration camps were raising grain for the voyage. Several thousand pounds of cereal or grain was needed to keep the slaves alive. Rice, yams, beans and millet were often the first choices. Corn and mandioca brought back from the New World, grew quickly. Manioc needed to be milled into flour to make its inclusion worthwhile.

Like the early churches shipped pre-fab from Portugal to Baia, complete with assembly instructions stone by stone, the grains added ballast needed by the ships. Ballast for the return journey was made up of harvested loaf sugar, molasses, rum or grains for trading or the next voyage. I was finding threads.

I kept putting the project aside trying to feel my way through the form of it. I needed down time apart from the research and the writing I had brought with me. I also knew that I had not made a physical piece of plastic art in years. My work was constructed of the ephemera of fruits, vegetables, meats and fishes. I ran a bit scared on the how to part.

After some thought, I decided to solicit help from the fellows. I had started to shoot the water and waves rushing and swirling on my Lancha rides. I asked Lauri for some advice on constructing a simple video with marginal edits and sound. She suggested some free software, and said that she could help if need be. I thought that back in NY I could finalize the elements into a cohesive whole. I solicited a promise from Rahul. He didn’t know the form or nature of my goal, but wanted to help.

We decided to leave it for the final weekend. I was past spent, but I had promised myself and secured Rahul’s time. When I described the project to him, he was fully committed to my realizing this goal. He identified how much it mirrored the Hindu practice of honoring the dead.

For the gifts, I had arrived at a mixture of Orixa foods and slave rations. My raft would be made of sugar cane. I had first thought that like the offerings to Iemanja on February 2nd, I wanted my boat to float out to sea, metaphorically back towards Africa. No. It needed to sink like a stone sweetening the charnel house at the bottom of the bay. This voyage enacted for global dominance and sugar business would be anchored in the sugar boat. The ingredients would be placed in halved baby cabaças. Let them float as far as needed.

Not including the ashes there would be about one dozen gifts, Dende, Feijões Fradinho, Preto e Branco, Arroz, Cana, Tobaco, Sementes de Cabaça, Pipoca, Coco Ralhada, Quiabo entero pra Xango, Cortada pra Iansa e Cachaça for Exu; (Palm Oil, Blackeyed Peas, Black and White Beans, Rice, Sugarcane, Tobacco, Calabash seeds, Popcorn, Coconut, Okra for Xango and Iansa , finally Cachaça for Exu). Together, we had drilled one calabaça and carefully filled it with Sylvia’s ashes. The makeshift cork would be one piece of popcorn.


Rahul helped lash the canes together with fronds from the Dende palm. Lauri shot some video of me walking into the bay to deposit the gifts. In retrospect I wish I could have trusted myself to have had a camera. There was a personal view that was anchored in the release that lives in my memory.


I walked out nearly one quarter mile as the tide was coming in. The tobacco spilled as I walked, a reminder of the toll it took in her life. As anticipated the raft sank like shoes of concrete. Gracefully the popcorn drifted in mass surrounding the cabaças. Most of them headed toward the shoreline where the largest mansions in town were located. All of a sudden, the bobbing cabaça split away from the group and headed southeast as if looking for open water. I watched for nearly twenty minutes, until I could no longer see it on the horizon popping up and drifting away. I was flooded with a warmth and optimism of the possible. For me, this gift was truly emblematic of Sylvia’s spirit willing to fight any adversary, push the edge of her rainbow and believe that she and we could.

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.

The Cocoa Tree and Exu, or not.

3.
Over the next several days after class at Senac, I attempted to gain access to Nossa Senhora, the Blue Church. For one reason or another, usually the staff lunch hour, I usually found the front door locked. Finally, on Friday we were released before noon, so I scurried downstairs to make another attempt. The side door was unlocked. I paid my $2 reals and went on in. I had not captured a good photo of São Benedito and I wanted to explore more of the facility.


Again, I looked at the cocoa tree, admiring the six or so large pale green fruits that hung from its spindly branches. When I inquired about the tree and its story, the attendant could not tell me anything more than it was here when I arrived; 18 years ago. We went to the Irmandade Office, where the Sister in charge said the same thing, adding a few more years for herself. In the end, they went to the rear to ask one of the older Sisters. She conveyed that it was 28 years old, and was recently identified as the best species of Cacao in the country. Quite rare, and no one knows how it got there…

Through two doorways at the rear of the building was a small Sacristy that contained vitrines filled with various images of the black saints, a few portraits of previous pastors, key members of the Irmandade, a traditional lion’s head faunt and a signed photo from Pope Paul II’s visit.


Not being Catholic, I needed some tutorial on the saints. As I began photographing all of the icons a petite black woman amply built with a frosting of moles on her face brought in some golden and white carnations to fill the vases throughout the church. While she added water to each vessel, I introduced myself and began to ask questions. The Sister said that she was one of the 300 plus members of the Irmandade. They were dedicated to the church and community work, which included helping sister churches and the needy. All my questions were carefully answered in beautifully enunciated Portuguese. We hit it off well.


“E voce estava afora no jardim pra ver no cimiterio des escravos? E muito importante pra a Igreja; pra a comunidade.” I made sure that she understood that I would not miss the slave cemetery in the backyard, and kept on taking pictures as she filled the vases.


I am fascinated by the dialectic between belief systems. It has been suggested to me that São Benedito was a bone of incentive thrown to the slaves. If they saw one of their own in an ascendant role, it may have been an inspiration to adopt Christianity. Thus they may become faithful; and possibly more easily able to be dominated.


In contrast, the Africans arrived with a full complement of their own, “saints”. The Catholic cosmology provided a thin veil to drape over their belief systems, thus fostering the spread of Candomble, Santeria and other African spiritual cosmologies of the Americas. Now, so intertwined this fabric appears seamless. There are modern voices preaching for a cleaving of the Christianity from the Candomble; thereby arresting the synchronous connection. Mae Stella at Terreiro Ile Axé Opo Afonjá had all of the Christian references removed from her Terreiro in 1988.


It all becomes a trick-bag. Many of the metaphors in the synchronous experience reference slavery, keeping it fresh in our minds. Foods that we have eaten as slaves, and still consume in sacred and utilitarian cooking provide a through line to our history. This may suggest the possibility of an empathic experience. Hopefully, it does not foster a victim or martyr status. These deeply rooted retentions often seem essential as markers of the culture.


I suspend my internal dialogue, as she directs me to the vitrine along the far wall. I had noticed the sparse arrangement when I had entered this room. There were just three items inside, a painted ceramic sculpture, a weathered pencil drawing of a proud woman and a picture of Pope Paul II. Playing tour guide, she now turned toward the carved marble lion’s head faunt behind her. “Ate poco tempo estavamos utilizando este banho pra baptistas. Agora fazemos no sanctuario……” I think, “Ok, so the baptisms don’t happen here anymore, what about the vitrine. Nice, but..”
Switching between topics I continue, “Gosto muito a esculptura de Exu. Está bem feito”. -I very much like the Exu sculpture. It is well done. I had accepted his presence as another example of the bonding between faiths. “…..Oo. Este home, ele não é Exu. Eu posso ver porque voce esteve achando isso. Mais, não é ele.” I retorted, “Huh?” Essa esculptura é uma imagem da molher ao lado; dentro na desegno.Sim. Aquela.”


Now, I am truly stumped. Does she not want to reveal a truth set down as a construct hundreds of years ago? This likeness is so reminiscent of Ex..and No; it is not a feminized image. I sat on my thoughts and the images, wrestling with my logic and perceptions. Roaming the surfaces, my eyes continue to investigate and question the premise; while I look for some concordance. Her smiling face and the glint in her eye allowed me to insert a ray of doubt regarding her statement. The alleged door closed and we stopped discussing this piece, moving toward the hallway and the backyard.

The yard is nondescript, ordinary. Two reddish benches face each other. A large white planter is standing empty on top of the scrub grass. In the distance I see a partial view of Avenida des Sapateiras, made famous by Jorge Amado. The hallway door closes, revealing a long glass case mounted to the structural wall. Four large square concrete lids are set just below the ground’s surface. The covers of the communal crypts housing the slave remains from this neighborhood. Inside the case are plastic flowers and references to Escrava Anastacia, a famous local slave who faced and fought her captors. She has a power and place in history akin to Sojourner Truth. Her remains now reside in Rio. We stand quietly, staring at the contents of this display. I cry briefly, scattered tears, not a river. I thank her and walk towards the street.

Itaparica: Healing waters, Caboclo, 95 & counting

Na sexta passada nos fizemos um turne sobre na ilha Itaparica.

As part of our orientation to Sacatar we were taken on a onibus tour of the island by Augusto, the programming director. Prior to this tour we had had a snapshot trek through the historic district of Salvador, including Cidade Baixa and Alta, O Pelourinho, or the Pillory and a few areas to purchase art supplies and sundries. Now we would have a full day's exploration of Itaparica. Our first stop was Ponto d'Areia. We passed the beach and restaurant where Michele and I had spent the day, drawing with the kids, eating freshly caught fish and Blanca's mother's coconut cocadas. Augusto had a great delivery, a bit of a dry wit and just enough history or backstory to fill in the necessary gaps.

We arrived in the village of Amenoeira to see the Terreiro, de Lidio, who goes by the name of Bui. The first glimpse of Candomble for the majority of our crew. Set back from the road, the terreiro extended all the way to the ocean, with two story homes along the eastern side of the compound. We entered through a brick archway. Three tall ceramic jugs were cemented into the top of the arch. A ladder leaned into the wall and a man was adding another layer of mortar to the structure. Just inside the archway was a tableau that included Exu, (Eleggba in Nigeria, or the Orixa guardian of the crossroads; and Preto Velho, the Orixa named Old Black Man,(a symbol of wise, old slave full of wisdom and healing). Our guide was the grandson of the Pai de Santo. The courtyard was anchored by a round stone pedestal that supported a welded sculpture of a power figure. Underneath the apartments on the second floors were the houses of each individual Orixa, all locked tight. Most sported an emblematic piece of dried animal hide, a piece of bird's skeleton, or sun-dried caul fat. Remnants of past sacrifices and I assume power conductors for the Orixa. We were not allowed into the initiation chambers. Everything else was openly displayed and photos were permitted. This was exceptional; a rarity.

Their main ceremony room at once mirrored the others that I had seen, in that it was square, albeit much larger than most, with the central tile and streamers hanging from the ceiling. All the surfaces were covered in stone tile. Facing the entrance way was a raised stone platform with a three large black ceramic figurines . These figurines complimented more than one dozen others ringing perimeter of the room and dressed to represent all of the Orixa. I tried to identify the few that I knew. Augusto interrupted my self quiz with a few choice Orixa legends that offered concise clues to their identities.

We continued back, walking into a recently constructed room that Augusto had never seen. It was a Caboclo Sanctuary. The Caboclo spiritual practice was uniquely Brazilian. It identified Gods or spirits that were Indian in nature. I guessed that the dancers I had photographed in front of the Irmandade last weekend must have been followers of the Caboclo tradition. This room, smaller than the first had crisscrossing banners of the Brazilian flag draped from the ceiling. We were told that this was a signifier of the roots of the practice. The altar area had a figure who was surrounded by food offerings, Obobora,( a local Calabash/Squash), ceramic vases and other symbolic objects.

Next we ventured beyond the buildings down into the yard that touched the sea. Around specific trees and plants we found small firepits stradled by ironwork sculptures signifying each Orixa. A variety of offerings surrounded each designated area. Every tree or bush held a specific relationship for each Orixa. Off to the left I saw the Iroko tree, that Jane, a visiting Sacatar fellow, had described at lunch. She had related to us that here in the new world Strangler Figs were often confused with Iroko. According to legend they were only trees who grew from the heavens to the ground, as opposed to the others who sprout in the earth and climb to heaven. Botanically they both begin by having their seeds sprout in the crotches and boughs of host trees. Ultimately, they strangle the host, growing around the trunk and branches often creating a large hollow room where the original tree had stood. Jane had researched and written about these trees when she had lived on the island. Once again, I had received information just before I needed to understand its relevance within the cosmology of this environment. Walking back up the hillside, someone asked me to translate their question to our guide, "Wasn't it difficult, hard work to build and maintain the terreiro, raise a family, pay the bills and survive?" "Yes, it is work," was his oblique reply.

A short distance down the road we stopped in the central square to greet a local political candidate, whose beauty and physique stunned our female companions. Augusto explained that he also administered a youth program, Nova Terra in Mar Grande. If there was time, we would tour their facility. He encouraged us to drop in and view the children's folkloric presentation this afternoon. As he walked off, Augusto saw Don Alvaro Florencio da Concecao, (Senhor Alvinho). Three times elected to the Town Council, and now the resident historian at ninety five. His skin still somewhat taught seemed to be two sizes to big with folds of wrinkles accumulating at each joint. His eyeglasses were nearly Coke bottle thick, his weathered, aged speckled hands rested on a carved wooden cane and a red and white MacDonald's cap shielded his face from the strong sun. We listened for a good half hour, as Sr. Alvinho related vignettes of Itaparica, the mineral springs, the healing waters, experimental artists like the musician Walter Smetak and other former residents. Augusto whispered that he wanted to interview him and create a film or video for the town archives. He had had five children, two were still alive. He could not remember how many grands, great and great greats he had. Augusto asked him to begin the story of Venceslaus for us. His mind still sharp, he truly carried a library on his shoulders. With a grin, he joked about how spry he still was as we bade him farewell.

We stopped on a beach to see the remains of a large brick whale oven that now had a large tree growing through the foundations. The early whalers had cooked the meat, and extracted oil from the carcasses. The bones were used to make the same mortar that the Algonquins had taught the Pilgrims to make from oyster shell. We drove a few miles until we arrived at a large field. Tethered at one end were several cocks, scarred from previous battles. Instead of parking we drove across it arriving at a small thatched pavilion commemorating Venceslaus Monteiro Parque, and asking all guests to be silent and respectful of nature. The miracle of Venceslaus implies that in a series of dreams he was led to a pool deep in the park. Bathing his face in the waters, cured him of blindness. He lived in the park for the rest of his life, leaving under duress and dying immediately afterwards. Senhor Concecao had know Vencelaus, and confirmed the tale. We entered the park and walked one quarter mile or so, through tropical forest and wild flowers to a clearing. There was a small stone house and sanctuary shaped like a beehive oven. At the edge of the clearing was the famous pool. Augusto had his own story of an innocent friend who had come in for a nature walk not knowing of the power of the waters. He had received his own cure, as adolescent scars from scarlet fever disappeared soon after bathing in the pool. Augusto had not known of his scars and was surprised to see the changes in his friends body.

We all took turns washing our hands and faces in the waters, sitting for a time in personal reflection. Rahul's rich baritone voiced a lament, evolving to an emotional crescendo Gospel-like with hope and promise. I cried for my mother and for joy. Rahul then shared with us that he had chosen one of the Baul prophet Lalon Shais songs. An ode to Atma, (the bird or soul living inside our body or its cage). "You must protect Atma from danger, lest he fly away and your soul is lost." Lalon's song asked, "Does our conscious mind control Atma, the bird-soul, or does our bird-soul control our consciousness. He sang this in empathy for Venceslaus.


Caboclos*

When the forest is on fire
the cabin does not burn.
With his bow and arrow
the Caboclo is not afraid of anything!
There where the nightingale sings,
there where the moon shines,
there where my guide stays,
glittering star.
With Oxala's permission
I saw a Caboclo arrive.
He joins in our dance,
the Caboclo warrior,
A red cross in his hand!

*excerpted from: Macumba, The Teachings of Maria-Jose; Mother of the Gods

Streetlife

I rested at "home" in the Pousada for thirty minutes to gather myself and charge my camera, then set out to find the dueling bands and dancers. Shortly into the party it started to rain. This theme continued all weekend, causing dancers to run from the streets to stand under the eaves of buildings and boughs of old trees while the bands boogied on. Bars were full with whole families covering three generations, all enjoying the party. Busses offloading tourists continued to pull in and leave as people caught slices of this festa. The days became a collection of simultaneous parties in different neighborhoods from ten until midnight, or later. Walking streets, I had memories of Clarksdale, Mississippi on the Delta, a former bastion of cotton and plantation commerce, now like this town a shadow of itself. Many buildings were just facades with no interiors. Souvenir sellers seemed to have rented abandoned shells for the weekend, rigging lights to give a semblance of propriety. Street food was all over, Caldo de Cana, or fresh pressed Sugarcane juice, acaraje, pipoca, etc.

I spotted Os Filhos de Gandhi who looked vaguely like Garveyites in royal blue and white. Os Negros and half a dozen other Samba bands; some local and some shipped in from Salvador. Listening to their melodies, I heard Zairian zouk music with congas, percussion, guitars and a categinha (sp?) steely-twangy like a Ukelele or a Tres. Three or more vocalists, the lead singers gravely baritones, of Otis and velvet. All generations danced, intoxicated by the music. The town Trannie, over six feet tall, falling out of his lame halter, pulled off four inch heels to jump in. I watched a crippled middle aged man position his crutches above his head to create a counter balance, altering his center of gravity to boogie. Sensuous dancers traded random partners of either sex for overt sexualized pleasure, for hours and hours on end. We were consumed by dueling bands, tribal dancers, grilled meats and swilling of Cachaca, Skoll or Nova Shin beer and a sweetish local Licor Cachoeira flavored with herbs. The bus rides, the anxiety and anticipation had paid off. I had found magic in a foreign place with no points of reference, seething with African inspired culture and warm loving people.

I took a break and crashed when the rains refused to let up. I returned to the street after seven looking for dinner. I ate a decent chicken dinner by the river. Again the beans were superlatively cooked, and the salad fresh and simply delicious. The chicken, unmemorable and the red wine insipid. Walking toward "home" I heard music coming from the refectory. I walked into a duel between Samba de Nago and Samba Sao Felix. The endless sets had the energy of a James Brown or Fela Kuti show, transfusing energy to everyone in the room. I danced until they finished and decided to crash. As I neared the house I heard loud cacophonous sounds coming from the Praca Principal. Free jazz on steroids with a salsa-disco beat. I needed to ascertain what it was. When I arrived two pickup trucks with huge loudspeakers were parked at the far end of the Praca, belting out distorted Latin rock. In reality, it seemed like a cover for the Candomble ceremony that was going on under the stage, with the nucleus of one of the Samba bands providing the soundtrack. I watched for hours as teenagers introduced various Orisha in full costume as they ritualistically embraced Exu and executed their dance, communion with their gods to a capacity crowd. I was stunned by the quality of the performers and the attention to be over sixteen. After 2 hours I was ready to drop and left before it was finished. Fully sated and overstimulated by the activities of the day. From my bed, I heard the drums continue on for over an hour and more fireworks exploded as I drifted to sleep.

Just as I really lost consciousness, near midnight I heard a knock at the front door. Then again, with no answer. I contemplated getting out of bed when I heard a Dona da casa speak to the three new visitors. They were half cocked and looking for a room. My door had been ajar and one of the two men looked in. He recognized me from Salvador. He worked on the concierge and maintenance staff at the apartment Paul Cezanne in Porto da Barra. He started talking to me, asking about Michele. It was all a little close. They had missed the last bus and decided to make it a party weekend. He suggested since we knew each other and there wasn't much room left to sleep, he could park on my floor while his friends, a couple took a bedroom. I look haltingly, thinking, uh-we ain't dat close; not wanting to create ruckus or misinterpret the situation. Before I had to respond, the young son lost his room to the couple and the single guy got the settee. I lost some of my bedding to her son, Gito. It was cool from the