Heart tears on the way back into NYC

I had cried as I drove away from Vivaldo’s. Looking back through the rear window, I saw that he was doing the same. How did I make such a strong connection through culture and language, age and race so quickly?

All in all the flight was uneventful. Getting through to the flight was the rub. Henrique was right on time to pick me up at Rua Calzans Neto, Zeno’s place. We drove through Stela Mares on the way to the airport. I settled all accounts with him, and he gave me a hug goodbye. My NY cabbies like me, but don't hug back. At check-in they charged me extra for one of my bags which was a bitch, and I realized that I could have concealed it and kept the money for myself..oh well.

When I changed planes in São Paulo a few hours later, I was told at security I would have to forfeit my Jurabeba. I freaked, inside. There was significance to this bottle, that had nothing to do with its claims for sexual potency. I was forced to back out of security and look for a cheap bag to pack it into. That was a fairly easy and inexpensive equation to solve.

Back through security now, I had to be scanned and frisked, why I wasn’t clear. Bitch. I moved to the passport check and learned that Nicé at Brazilian Travel in NY had counted wrong. Instead of just being at 90 days for my length of stay, I was at 92 and now in violation. Shit.

Not knowing that my flight was about to be delayed I sweated the next ten minutes that this holdup would cost me my seat. Politely I half complained and half joked to the young Customs Official. He quickly said that if I missed my flight, he knew a Brazilian who would put me up, him. How odd, sweet and genuine. He had truly meant it. This is why I didn’t want to go. People embraced me here. I don’t know what my Juju, fairy dust or aura looked like, but something was operative.

His superior came over approved my passage after I signed an affidavit and was informed that I had to present a copy of it with my visa at my next entry into Brazil. Marked. I told them that I loved their country. I could have been singled out for worse offenses. Whew. I checked out Duty Free, had a final shot of Cachaça, bought a CD, and went to the lounge to wait out the new delay. On the plane, I found an extra leg room seat, my dream. Watched the Will Smith, down and out superhero movie, got a bit maudlin over all the goodbyes and drank cheap Argentinean wine all the way to NYC.

The late start meant that I missed Michele when we touched down. Instead of arriving at dawn it was close to eight by the time I got through customs. P.S. with no hassles at all. I had no U.S. dollars, so I was a bit jammed up initially. I found Jill at home, which was essential because I realized that I had no keys to my house. She offered to meet me in Harlem and let me in. I found a cash machine just outside of Baggage Claim, waited another hour for Super Shuttle and made it out in the chill, brutal winter wind to the van and began the final leg back home.

Quarta Feira-Back to Opo Ofonja:

Luckily for me at this point in my day, Tracy suggested that we take a cab and not the sixty minute bus ride back to Ilê Axé. Tonight’s ceremony was for Iansa. She was senuous almost hedonistic. Suffered degradation from her abusive father, fell in passionately in love with Ogum and controlled the winds.


The hilltop Terreiro is spacious, simple and rustic. There is little attempt to disguise the concrete slab building materials. Today’s decorations are reminiscent of Junior High School class art projects, all glitter and glam. There is a beautiful life size image of a Musk Ox behind the thrones at the head of the space. One of Iansa’s iconic images is this animal. As we enter the barracão a portly black man bumps into us, and quickly says Hi, in English. So much for Tracy’s thought of our blending in. He turns out to be John Mason, a colleague of both Danny and Robert Thompson. We talk briefly of his research into Yoruba roots, and mine in Culinary. A Brooklyn native, he is in town for the full cycle of ceremonies. We exchange info and he gets escorted to a VIP area.


Against type the ceremony is delayed. This Terreiro generally runs on time. We watch as several large kettles and stew pots are carried in by muscular men. A group of tweens in oversized hot pink T-shirts walk In and climb to a stand above the Atabaques. They have a youth chorus to sing the Yoruban songs. The service began about 45 minutes behind schedule.


After the initial prayers to Orixa, several people begin to trance in the center of the circular procession. They seem buffeted by the ring of hands and bodies. This group seems to be shaken or thrown into their trance, a metaphor of Iansa? A few young people under seven trance too. One young girl, becomes a major focal point in her ecstatic mounted dance.


At the break, I see Raul Lody who had directed the Dende seminar. Glad to see me again, we talk briefly about my work. He offers to stay in touch and inform me when the book from the seminar will be published. I keep making more goodbyes with the people I first met here.



I step outside to find my smoking friend. Kathy is taken by the power of the ceremony, the rootedness of Africa in Baia. She gets it, as I knew she would. Kathy also saw why I have become so intrigued by this culture. Why I am so intent on learning more, and more. Tracy appears to have come to terms with the practice, but it is not his schtick.


Food is being served. I retrieve a plate to share, but they want two. Passing out food to the several hundred people in attendance is a feat. We all eat some and then head back inside. The ceremony resumes with the dancing of many Iansa’s dressed in pink and red gowns. There were a few shirtless Ogums, with fabric wrappers tied across their chests.

We have all just about lost our seats in the crush of new arrivals. Kathy had said that her stamina was limited. I looked at the time, and knew that Henrique should be in the yard. I found him dozing in his car, and promised that we would be done shortly. Driving home, I shared jabs with Henrique. We laughed about Augusto’s devotion to his church, MacDonald’s. And Henrique told me how his grandmother had been a Mae de Santo when he was growing up. He had helped her with her duties, but nobody, not his mom or siblings had ever taken up the call. It was a great last evening for Kathy.

remake remodel

Today I had some time with V. We had arranged a day in his library situated on the second floor above his house. Henrique drove me to the house in his cab. The traffic was light, possibly due to the bank workers strike and little money in the street. We got there early, just after 8:30. Henrique split and I sat on a low cement wall reading my GRE book for thirty minutes waiting for nine A.M.


I was lead into the living room, greeted Mrs. and given some cool water to drink. He came in shortly afterwords and we spoke briefly. He shared the Sunday food section with me and then he probed me for details. “Did I realize that I would need to have an adequate bibliography of Brazilian Culinary Books to begin my work with? I could supplement it with titles of similar significance from Portugal or Africa.”
He cautioned me about the delicacy of his health and stamina. “Now we can begin.”

We discussed regionality in Brazilian cooking and I made the error of paraphrasing a previous statement, substituting “typical” for regional. I quickly learned the etymology of typical, type, to typos from the Greek. I also realized how tiptoeing through word mine fields might become a necessity. Tread lightly, but with assurance.


We ran between an old fashioned apprenticeship, light banter, questions of intent, rootedness and jazz. He adored Chet Baker, among others. We both had a strong taste for Opera, Blues and African music. Some of that would unfold later.


The library was accessed by an external wrap around stair. There were windows on two sides. Full bookcases, mostly the gunmetal painted steel jobs seen in supply offices and medical equipment closets filled every wall. More books were stacked across three wooden tables. Within in moments of putting down his cane, he was picking up book after book and detailing key aspects of the story offered in each.


I was bringing my chair closer to his, looking over titles from Senegal to Goa. New stacks were growing. I wished then that I had taped this time. He moved so quickly for someone who truly did not seem as well as he could be, so animated, in the zone that I was taken aback when he stood up and suddenly seemed wounded.


I checked myself for a moment, had I miss stepped, spoken out of turn…?.Hmm. No. Now he barked about medicine and pain. I needed to have more empathy, for him in his situation. He got me with a low blow. I could be accused of being so high from the previous moments that I had pushed his limits. I was quite anxious now, since I really did not know him more than a few hours. As he turned in the doorway, I called out that I could understand, my father was his age. I didn’t speak of my mom.


It might be the vagaries of ego, too. We all need to be stroked. And as most elders and wise people I have met, academic or otherwise it can be a thorny vine to navigate egos and agendas. Pull it back a little. “Desce!”He called me to descend, and I didn’t want to. It seemed like going downstairs now, might set me into a characterization that was not mine. I asked if I could stay a bit, before I finished he told me, “Fica vontage se voce quiser, eu vou pra meus remedios agora.” Ok, I agreed to stay.


Alone I began to feel guilty. I understood the concept, but I did not truly know the nature or extent of his pain. Thinking that this might be the first and only time with these books, I decided to write notes for ten minutes and leave. Writing,now scribbling scrawl, fast, faster. My eyes darted up and down shelves to locate the gems he had referred to moments earlier. I think I retrieved most of them. I had some remorse. I put down my pad, went to the doorway and found that he had left his cane. I grabbed it and went downstairs.


He didn’t want the cane now. Male patterning; gotta do it myself-I’m ok, I don’t need any help. He reiterated that I could stay alone upstairs. I returned and took a little more time to recount which books required notation. I found him in his library 15 minutes later. He was studying quietly.


He motioned for me to sit, and then handed me an open book. Read this, if you can. It was a well written overview of Afro-Brazilian food written by him years earlier. It put things in order nicely. Once I had finished he told me that soon he would be leaving to run errands and see the doctor. Now is when he described his medical issues in depth. When he finished, I asked if I could call Henrique to come get me.

He thought that I was foolish to take a cab. I concurred and added that I had wanted to make sure that I was prompt for the meetings. I also needed to find where the bus stop was and which buses came closest to his home. He agreed to take me. I said that if he didn’t mind, I could get out at the bus stop. He insisted on driving me home. And also that at our next meeting, I should stay for lunch, planning to work into the afternoon. He gave me a slim volume with a concise history of the cuisine to take home. He also suggested that he could Xerox some articles that were no longer in print for me to keep.


We got up and went into the sitting room. I swear he had transplanted Perry & Nedie Sloane juju all over his sitting room. The art, color schemes, the same coziness, all of it. Just with a Brazilian flair, no Waterbury here. We discussed music in greater depth and we looked through some of the African ethno-musical series he had been an advisor for.


Barbara came in to ask if we needed a drink. I said that I was fine, and he stared at me from the bottom of his glasses. “Pois, se voce quis…-” I trailed off. Yes, he was thirsty. How do I like my Scotch? The eleven A. M. drink should always be neat so you really see right away where you are going. He apologized for not offering me Bourbon. I truly did prefer Scotch. I was happy, considering. Our talk became more jocular and rambly. The bell rang but he wasn’t ready to leave. We did have our Scotches, and he was showing me some of his music. The driver waited outside until we were through several minutes later.


We dropped him at a shopping center to run his errands. I was ferried home by Edger. I learned that he had two eight year olds, Junior and Matilda. “Ibeji; -twins I asked?” He mentioned a word I didn’t know. I looked puzzled. He explained that they were two months apart born from different mothers. “Oh..did they know, that you had to bellies pregnant at the same time in 2000?” “Nao, mais tarde. Eu ses disse mais tarde. E agora sim elas falam. Todo e tranquilo.” It was all good now. “Whew that’s a load to bear. But, I guess you know that you are fertile” I said. He smiled, as I opened the car door to leave. We had arrived in front of our building on Joao Ponde.

Lion out of water

Yesterday I made an essential contact in the next round of research I need to make. Sacatar has ended for me. I have moved back into the apartment I had occupied when I first arrived with Michele. This time my dear friends Kathy Sloane and Tracy Collins are renting the space. They have come for several weeks to visit and photo blitz Salvador. Graciously, they have made room for me. We have had some wonderful shared times and friends.


I had met Zeno during my second week in Salvador. Once he met me he immediately advised me to attend a conference at SENAC culinary school, entitled, Seminario de Dende and to look for Dr. Vivaldo da Costa Lima, a cultural anthropologist with a specialization in culinary studies. The Seminario was excellent. I then spent two and one half months trying to find a liaison for Dr. da Costa Lima. His books most relevant to my research were out of print, making this investigation truly abstract endeavor.


Last month Dr. Lima was profiled in the Sunday Style magazine, which I had mistakenly thought might yield some fruit. We were able to find his editor, but there was some hurdle to overcome the protective bubble she had around him. I learned that he was an Ogan at Ilê Axé Opo Ofonja. When I went to meet Mae Stella and see the Terreiro she was out and nobody had a good idea on how to locate him. The librarian had suggested that I try UFBA (Universidade Federal da Baia) where he was professor emeritus. Unlike most American universities there was no faculty web page on their site so, that was a real dead-end.


Finally after attending a ceremony at the Terreiro I saw some of the local socio and politically active folks who should have his ear. One of the speakers at the Dende seminar, restaurateur, Luis Domingo advised me to contact, Jurabeba. Anxious to get it right, I asked him to write the contact name down in my pad, Jurabeba Leão do Norte. Hmm. I quickly showed it to Augusto, who burst out laughing. He told me that I had been duped. I was perplexed. What was he referring to….. “Escotchee, Jurabeba is a drink, sweet, strong and old fashioned.” Yet, another let-down. I sat on his words for a half hour and then decided that something was askew.


I went back to the office and asked, “Augusto, can we dig a bit?” “Porque, escotch? “-he replied. I just did not think it was a ruse. When we did a web-search it turned out that his father had started producing this drink in the beginning of the 20th century. “Ok, now we’re cooking.” Augusto called the plant and a secretary quickly dispatched the cell number for Vivaldo’s brother the GM of the business.


Augusto, trained as a lawyer is an appropriately business like professional. He informed the Jurabeba receptionist that she shouldn’t give him the number. It would be better if she took our number and asked the brother to contact us. Otherwise we would compromise his privacy. It took another week to break ground. The triangle of our initial email to his editor, followed by several phone calls with her and now the message relayed through his brother elicited a return call from his office, early Monday afternoon. This was the official end date of our residency. Hmmm, I, we were to call his office the following afternoon. Well in the middle of the day we had the crisis of Rahul’s leaving which will come out later.


I ended up leaving in a rush late in the day, a bit crazed. I received an email the next morning from Luis, that Vivaldo had decided I should be in his office Thursday at 11:00 AM. He had an appointment at ten with a writer/former student who was finishing a book on Candomble Banquets. He was requesting that Vivaldo write the preface to his book. Vivaldo thought that I should arrive while he was there to network a bit. “Oh…” Augusto hesitated, looking for the words. “He told me not to use the word, D-i-a-s-pora. He hates it. That was one of the reasons he did not respond quickly. Don’t forget.”


Through Augusto I arranged for Sacatar’s Salvadoran cabdriver, Henrique to pick me up at 10:15 at Joao Ponde. I went downstairs that morning at ten to be ready for him. Of course, my cell was still malfunctioning and uniquely Henrique the master navigator had gotten lost. We played phone tag, me on the phone card at a booth near the corner. Time was getting tight. Where the hell was he now? He had just said, he was nearby. .. I put my card back in the slot at the booth to call, and suddenly the phone rang, the LED screen flashed returning call-Ligação Retornando. It was Henrique. I gave him a new landmark, and he picked me up a few minutes later.


When I showed him the address Vivaldo had forwarded to me, he didn’t connect to the locale in Pituba. We called into Augusto, a taxi-driver friend and a dispatcher; none of whom offered resolution. It was now 10:57 AM. By 11:05 we were in the hood, and a few locals clued us in. His street had an entrance gate and deadended abruptly. The house was walled like many middle class private homes I had been to here in town. I saw the ubiquitous sign on the door, Atenção: Cãos Perigrosas-The two lap dogs barked as I rang the bell at 11:15.


The office was tight, high ceilinged and crammed with bookcases. Vivaldo sat behind a small desk in front of the only window. To his left was a small secretaries’ desk, I assumed for someone to take dictation and calls. Two men had their backs to me as I entered. The one speaking, thirty-ish with corn-rows was discussing the details of his book. I pulled up the remaining chair and saw that the fourth man was Claudio, the projectionist for Kathy’s film presentation and film teacher at CEAO. He shot me a Chesire cat smile, and I felt at ease.


Vivaldo looked up from the manuscript and then resumed his conversation. At the next break, he asked me to define my interests. I briefly related the nature of my research and my interest in the work of his that I been exposed to. Without hesitation he said, “Why haven’t you called me sooner? You, we have a great deal of work to do, and not much time to accomplish it in.” You must understand that I do not use email. Occasionally I have people read it for me. But, here take this card, my card. Call me or write me anytime. This door is always open to you. Now we must make decisions and get you into my library,” He pointed up, almost towards the sky. “ I don’t get around well anymore, so I don’t use it as much as I should, but you can. When are you free to come back?”


We made a date for next week, talked briefly and then leafed through some books that he thought would interest me. My appetite was sufficiently whetted. I heard clatter from the kitchen and the air became redolent of roasting meat. “I need to apologize for not offering you a meal, but I need to leave soon. Claudio and I have an appointment. Could I offer you a Whisky instead of lunch?” I begged off due to the heat and the time of the day. He and Claudio each had stiff tumblers of Johnny Walker neat to my mineral water and we moved to the living room to watch the Brazil vs. Russia soccer match, while I waited for Henrique to return.