Samba, Capoeira & Candomble, Sunday 17/8

Rains had briefly interrupted last night's Samba de Roda at the Irmandade. An unrelenting downpour began in between the sets of two of the bands. The refectory quickly recalled a steamy club or college Ratskellar, sweat streaming on faces and bodies. Like damp tinned sardines we were trapped inside. The smokers and beer drinkers stood huddled outside under the eaves or encircling old trees trunks for the protection of their canopies. I had chosen the blue bubble of an Oi! telephone booth. A perfect venue until the winds rose. When the music resumed I shot some photos. I was shaking my booty on my own until a woman's hand grabbed mine and pulled me into the strut yo' stuff circle. The crowd had created two small circles on either side of the room. Each one barely four feet in diameter was encircled by gyrating bodies ogling whoever jumped into the zone to exhibit their wares and their rhythms. We held our own for a few moments before I pulled out, tired and weak of knee. After the next batch of rain, I decided to head back to the "ousada" Wanting to decompress a bit, I walked down a few side streets to enjoy the evening air before bed. Light spilled out of the Cultural Center's massive wooden doors in front of me. I walked into the lobby, briefly eyeing an exhibit of abstract sculpture mimicking architectural models of skyscrapers. I heard music above me, so I followed the sounds to the main hall on the second floor. I found an adhoc party of advanced Capoeira students and their masters, lounging playing Capoeira and berimbaus. Several women were off to the side, chatting and smoking. Feeling like an uninvited guest, I listened briefly and then sought refuge in a nearby exhibit of Public School children's art and poetry in homage to the Boa Morte. It was honest and tender as children can often be. Twenty minutes later, I was back on the street walking towards the praca. The scene was pop rockish, so I gave up.

Entering the house, "Mom" was getting ready for her Saturday night, brushing out her hair, primping, painting eyeliner and posing in the mirror. Equally absorbed in his telenovela and his Mom's transformation Gito switched between the two from his makeshift bed/sofa. "Voce vai ir com nos agora? What, I thought-uh.., "Que?" " Vai ir: no Candomble! Esta cansado, voce? Sim, parece cansado." I responded, " Pois nao muito. Pode deixar me fazer algo, e eu posso ir com voces." She was right. I was exhausted. But, I realized that the opportunity was now. Then she began insisting that I bring my camera too. "Pode tirar fotos, certo! Nao e; pode. Deve. I was conflicted because I had dedicated the remaining photos on my card to the Caruru. "No", I replied in Portuguese. "I will use my eyes as my camera. Esta bom."

Fuimos desde um ratinho caminando comjunto entre as ruas obcuras. We walked quietly and quickly, trying to beat the next rain. We had elected to leave the umbrella at home, but brought a light jacket for Gito. We crested the hill across town and entered the park adjacent to the Igreja do Monte. In September I would return for another festa that would bless the church now undergoing renovations and celebrate Sao Cosme e Damiao. "Voce pode ouvir os tambores?" At first I heard nothing, and then suddenly the still night was shattered by thundering drums, their volume increased as we descended down the cobblestone street into another neighborhood. A crowd had gathered outside the terreiro as we walked up. Mom found us seats inside, I was placed next to two blonde German women, with their cameras ready. I was getting my Candomble 101 course. Last night's observation of the teen devotees engaged in their rituals in the town's square, had been a good precursor to this ceremony enacted by their elders.

The room square and white, was well lit with bare bulbs and fluorescents. A glazed golden tile with a large star was cemented in the middle of the floor. Coconut palm frond hung like streamers spilled down from the ceiling, interspersed with strings of popcorn. Several rows of white plastic chairs, thirty or so, lined two walls, a makeshift bandstand sat opposite the entryway, and a two throne-like wooden chairs opposed each other with symbolic objects mounted on the wall above them. A large window opened out to the street allowing standees to observe the ceremony. Faded iconic photos of black Brazilians, images of mermaids, Wonder Woman, Saint George slaying the dragon, a few inspirational messages and painted coconuts adorned the walls.

Initially the scene was measured by loping drum rhythms on three Atabaqui drums beaten with freshly whittled sticks, tinkling cowbells and hammered triangles. As the chairs filled, three middle aged men positioned in different areas began to chant and sing. Each new song instigated a new melody, slowly bringing half a dozen people mostly in light colored street clothes forward to processing around the starred tile. I knew that one man, dressed all in white with a white cap was a new initiate. All of the women had tied white fabric wrappers around their torsos and street clothes. A few women in Baianan white dresses and head scarves joined the circle. I recognized one of the Senhoras da Boa Morte in this group. Gazing around at the crowd, I realized that another Senhora sat in one of the throne chairs and two more flanked her. As each one approached these chairs, they hugged their elders, prostrated themselves, kissed their hands and moved on. Hips swayed and arms seemed to gestured rowing, hoeing, and offered thanks toward the sky. I imagined samba footwork at one quarter time. Subtly, in a whisper one, two then a third person became possessed. Each one had a mentor who rolled up pants legs, removed their shoes and any jewelry that might break or harm the wearer. Hands were grasped to guide the devotees, change their direction or occasionally leading them off to another room. A few people received their host hunched over uttering gutteral growls and shouts, spastically shaking their extremities. Loud, staccato drumming, heralded the arrival of Iemanja bearing a large tray of popcorn and shaved coconut draped in white lace. Setting on top of the popcorn was a small ceramic dish holding a few bills. The tray easily four feet in length was set down on a stool, and various people around the room were showered with popcorn. Everyone present was given a handful to eat.

Now the pace quickened. Others dressed as Orixa appeared chanting, barking and trembling as they performed their ritual and manifested a possession that vacillated between conscious and unconscious behaviors. Four hours had gone by, when an elderly woman touched my sleeve and beckoned me to the room behind the door. Across the floor, "Mom" rose and mouthed, "Vai voce, ela tem comida." They both led a small group of us through the door, down a short flight of stairs past a sanctuary emanating a soft blue light. The stair ended at a small anteroom, with a low ceiling, wooden slat walls a few closed doors and a counter where a woman was placing huge plates of food. I sat in silence next to my host eating a mixture of rice, black eyed peas, caruru, chicken, beef, vatapa and abbara. Everything was quite redolent of palm and dried shrimp. I was led back into the main room, stopping at the open doorway, at the top of the stair. The room seemed undersea with mermaids, plants and sea imagery. The soft blue light was comforting. She asked me to kneel for a blessing and to leave one real as a symbolic gift to the terreiro and as good luck for me.

Back inside the room, now fever pitched, I watched as visitors came and went, some who were "parishioners" would process briefly, embrace their elders or be embraced by the Orixas. An intoxicated man came in from the street, tried to process, bobbed and weaved and was led out quietly, while rounds of fireworks and sheets of rain resounded in the street. Often like a jazz or contact improv, people moved around, got up, sat down, looked for the toilet, yet nothing interrupted the flow of the service. The cantors slowly moved to new positions in the room, made eye contact with each other when trying to decide on the order of songs. A new man, older than the others began to add his baritone to their chorus.

The Orixa figures and a few of the possessed individuals began to embrace everyone in the front row of chairs as they completed their practice. From the street came a catterwall. The majority of attendees quickly turned to find the source of the screams. I caught myself dozing off, shocked into wakefulness from the shouts I turned from the warrior Orixa figure in the room to see this bystander become possessed in the street just outside the terreiro. A portly ebony woman with straightened hair, she ran in and out of the room, alone or with help from one of the mentors. In the opposite corner one of the Baianas began sweeping at the corners with a straw broom. This new woman did not cease her wailing and running to and fro. Accidentally I grazed Gito's arm, sitting next to me. His body slack, his breathing heavy he was in full REM sleep and could not be awakened. We were reaching the six hour mark of the service. Now the Senhora-Orixa who seemed to embody Iemenja carefully embraced each congregant, grunting and breathing like an animal on the prowl. As she came to me and the two Germans she pulled us up to standing hugged each cheek, took her right hand and motioned with two fingers that our eyes must look directly into hers, as she lifted our torsos and bear hugged us in a way that seemed carnal, almost sensuous. This Mae de Santo was also one of the Senhoras da Boa Morte. I learned later that they were all Maes de Santo. I had guessed that the woman who had been in the street was signaling that the service was coming to a close. Her possession seemed to have brought in a new spirit which shooed the others away.

Mom realized that we needed to get Gito home, It was now close to 4:00 AM. It took both of us prodding, shaking, calling his name and squeezing his cheeks to awaken Gito. Once he lost some of his sleep drunkedness we made our way to the street, after giving thanks to the elders seated in the throne chairs. The cobblestones were shining from the rain and the full moonlight. Hearing his calm measured voice, I realized that "Mom" was fully engaged with the last cantor, the older gentleman. He started walking with us as we climbed the hill towards the Igreja. It sounded like he was a Pae de Santo, it seemed like he was from this community but had moved away. Based on snippets of conversation that I caught, he had come back for the festa and possibly this ceremony. They were catching up on old business. Listening to Gito's mom speak, I realized how simple her Portuguese was. Her tone was syrupy, like Delta women in Mississippi; though clipped and halting, pausing often to find her words. Images flooded my consciousness, interrupting this reverie. I was trying to process all that I had seen. I reached for context, subtext or rationale, yet in the moment it seemed irrelevant. We walked quickly through the vacant streets, spying an errant couple or two who had no safe zone for their intimacy. He came home with us, this Babalow. Of course he took "Mom's" bed and she took the last couch. Sleep came quickly for me; not a truly restful sleep, so pregnant with dreams of the Candomble service.

Everywhere I go there is lunch

I left the Irmandade soon afterwards, around twelve thirty, still agitated by my fellow New Yorkers. They seemed to signal an end to my audience, or at least the quiet reverie that I had glimpsed this morning. I was tired from last night's ceremony. I was not going to be able to stay for the evening meal and closing of the festival. My memory card was full, Ana Claudia had suggested that I stop by for lunch or at least to say goodbye. Her friend, Dosete had also implied that I might be able to get a ride to Salvador with she and her boyfriend, Mario. I walked home, arranged my things, paid my way and sat down to update my journal with today's notes. Gito's mom, the Dona da casa, asked me to stay for lunch. At breakfast she had showed me her market purchases and related her plans for a celebratory meal as her end to the festa. The house was redolent of her cooking; feijoes, boiling veggies for a cooked macedoine salad, garlic, ginger sizzling in palm oil; the start of her moqueca de siri. A bucket next to the stove was filled with carangueijos, meaty blue crabs; still muddy and squirming. I thanked her, but explained that I intended to stop in Sao Felix to say goodbye to Ana Claudia and her family. Again she asked me to take Gito along. This time he seemed genuinely excited to come.

I decided to ask about Gito's sister, or her absence. "Oh, -she had gone to Salvador the morning after my arrival." My suspicions about freeing up bedspace were probably true. It had also been almost a day since I had seen that lithe, handsome chestnut man always shirtless who had been in and out all weekend. He had not seemed to be father or lover, and yet not quite border either. I guessed that "Mom" took in folks for various reasons as a means to survive. He might be one of us. She benefitted from her neighbors, a little more savy than she. At least savy enough to be able to obtain an internet listing. As she spoke to me, I looked at her as a woman. I had noticed her for the first time when she had been combing out her curls last night. She was tawny and sallow, her hair wavy and thick. Looking more deeply, I guessed that she was Criuolo. Her children were much darker than she. Well, no matter their heritage, they had opened up their simple home and their lives to me. She seemed to have judged me worthy enough. I was a safe bet to pair with her son. Practically speaking, she had fostered a certain osmosis between us. Gito and I had shared a few vocabulary words and brief conversations in English and Portuguese. We had shared our world's with each other.

So, on the way to Sao Felix I decided to stop in at the Pousada Ana Nery, the location of my botched reservation. Twice over the weekend, I had run into Grandma on the street, always in that same housedress. I wanted some closure, and I need to be thankful. As Gito and I walked around the corner, we found Grandma lifting the iron gate, ubiquitous in Cachoeira; (they kept out strays and kept in toddlers and pets). We followed her inside, surprising the family who were seated for lunch. Just as this Dona da casa approached me to offer another lunch invitation, I explained our visit; hoping to clarify my purpose. She asked Gito to confirm my intentions. She seemed surprised that I had come of my own volition, and had not been sent by his Mom. Finally, we came to one mind. She offered me blessings, God's kindness and safe travel. She was tickled and beaming when I related that I had observed Candomble, adentro dum terreiro. "Qual era o terreiro?" She asked me. "De Lira, atrais da Igreja do Monte," I responded. "O. Sim. Que bom. Que Bom! E bom pra voce."

Listening to her speak, I watched hummingbirds descend through the open roof, seeking nectar from the carnations and gladiolus on the dining table. The living room opened onto a stairway that led to the bedrooms on the second floor. The stair wrapped around a small stone patio at the core of the house that was open to the sky. First one, then two more hummingbirds came and went, fluttering at high speeds up to the clouds. Every room was graced with natural light, fresh breezes and probably a little rain. This magical moment at once breathtaking and so simple, also suggested a cue to journey on; savoring the memory of these birds inside the house. We said goodbye and walked towards the rusty bridge that linked the twin towns.

In the park at the foot of the bridge, Mario saw us and whistled for us. I was totally unaccustomed to be sought out in this town, in this country and in this new language. Gito pointed him out. Smiling up at us from a bench, they both quickly told me how happy they were to have met me, and now more formally offered me a lift to Salvador. I asked when they were leaving, and related my plan to see Ana Claudia briefly. They said that they thought they would drop by too. They would call her if they changed their plans. Now, with the possibility of a lift to town, I told Gito that I wanted to stop at the Rodoviaria and try to exchange my ticket. Pipedream.

Ana opened her door thinking that we were Rosangela and Julio back from morning stroll, a passeio. She was pleased to see me, and surprised by Gito's presence. Was this my son?--she inquired. I chuckled, explaining our relationship and thinking how different we lived. Wouldn't she have met him sooner, if I was a stranger alone in her town? Ushering us inside, she asked him specifics about where he lived and went to school, seeming to calculate his class and economics. Food arrived immediately after we were seated, yesterday's Manicoba (improved with age), a cool Frigideira, a dense meat pie with diced vegetables and an eggy crust. ( A bacalhau frigideira had been served by the Irmandade on the day of the White Meal.), the ever present Suco Maracuja, fresh passionfruit juice, and as she called it in broken English, "P-pI, Pie." Her pie had a crumb crust, ripe cooked peaches, possibly canned sat on top of a condensed milk custard and were bathed in a gelatinous probably tapioca thickened glaze. Oh, a drippingly sweet, sweet-yummy. Finally; the cafezinhos. By this time, Ana Claudia's Dad had arrived with Roseangela and Julio. They sat and ate with us. We broke into a discussion of grammar and tonality of Latin languages, discussing and disagreeing each point closely. Ana Claudia, Roseangela and Dosete had all been students of English and Portuguese studies at university together.

We stood up to leave and walked across a concrete patio to Ana's parents home. I said goodbye to her parents and her uncle and her other two aunts. Dosete and Mario had arrived. They cut some herbs from the garden, we loaded all the cars, and left Sao Felix, dropping Gito at home on our way out of town. Dosete stopped for a photo op at the golden archway heralding Cachoeira, to create a bookend for her weekend photos, before we got onto the highway.

Just like rural France and Spain, the larger towns forced you to drive down their mainstreets and see the few sites they had. The highway had speedbumps near some of these junctures, jarring me and containing hotrodders. Most of the towns we drove through seemed quite poor and destitute in comparison with Cachoeira, especially Santo Amaro; the home of Caetano Veloso and his sister Maria Bethania. I had been told that though poor the cultural heritage was also quite strong there.

The landscape was fertile and verdant studded with farms of cane, corn, stands of palm, banana and goiaba. I watched Macao monkeys scamper across phone lines, initially mistaking them for squirrels. Hawks circled above, and for the first time in years I spotted a bald eagle in flight.I had come to see why this was winter in Brazil. The air had been chilly the last few days and frequent soaking rains had characterized most days. Everything was new since I had arrived under cover of darkness. Back in Salvador, I was dropped at a major bus transfer point on the edge of town. Mario waited to make sure that I found the bus to Barra. I did some banking, ate a meal overlooking the beach and made my way to Zeno's terreiro, the former home of Mae Menininha; Gantois.

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.

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