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.

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.

clap hands

Leaving Analia’s for the third time that day, we made an agreement to meet at ten Sunday morning to share recipes. ‘Nita has said that Francisca would be taking the Germans to hear another Samba comjunto. I think the other Germans, she was working with, the crew who was filming a Public TV multi-segment, something like Roots of Culture (my words) would be shooting. The younger crew, the students were editing their work and recovering from the accumulated total of their 10 day blitz on Brazil. Francisca was out with the film crew, no one knew exactly where.

The masterplan was to hear the Samba and then go to a Caboclo Terreiro that would also be filmed by the TV crew. I asked if anyone knew if the Caboclo was the one scheduled in Cachoeira or in Muritiba? They were clueless. Nita had said something about the Samba being in a barraca below the Caquente joint, close to the water. I knew enough from walking the city to try and figure it out.

At the small Praça de Sé just before Caquente I found a few guys, in their late teens setting up an elaborate sound system. I asked if it was for a Samba show, and they pointed to the open garage door behind me. In the archway of the entrance obstructing my view of the interior was a handsome dark chocolate skinned man speaking with a woman off to his left. I asked him, and he said, “Pois vamos ter samba depois de Caruru.” “Caruru? Onde-Quando-where, when? “ “ Vai dentro agora!”

Through the front door, I stepped into the empty sitting room and heard the singing and clapping. Moving through the living room into the adjoining kitchen I found a cluster of people, mostly under 12, festing. On the stairs leading up to the bedrooms were a few photogs and a local TV film crew. I felt a bit embarrassed walking all the way up into a strangers house unannounced, (try that in Harlem), but decided that there were other people shooting images; just jump in. The older folks quizzically looked in my direction, but seemed to chill as I just started taking pictures. This was a view to the core traditional celebration of the holiday that had been described to me, and I have previously shared with you. The seven young children were seated at the dining table. They were serenaded for an hour with singing and clap hands.

Though it was shortly after being at Analia’s I had another plate of Caruru in my lap after the singing had ended. They expected over 200 guests from the hood, and they wanted me to get a plate while it piping hot. The hostess, a lovely woman who was the wife of the man who had directed me inside the house needed me to see her back stock. In a shed behind the house that connected to her husband’s beer garden, she had eight or so stock pots with all of the cooked elements ready to be reheated and served through the night.


I pulled a chair up next to a sweet woman, whose dude poured us beer while she clued me into local Cosme & Damião traditions. I was both in pig-heaven and trying to eat and run. Right about now at the Igreja dos Pretos (Church of the Blacks) a Caruru and Poésia was scheduled. I had run into the woman whose house I had stayed in back in August on the street. She had invited me to stop by. I said hi to the kids, and we had arranged to meet at the Poésia gig.


Before I knew it, I wasn’t leaving. I put my plate down, walked round to the front of the house and parked in a chair next to the homemade altar, and waited for the Latin reza (hay-za, prayer song), and then Samba to begin. Two hours later, again beaming with glee I was walking towards the Caquente clubhouse hoping to find the other Samba. Just past that Praça, what little street lights existed in that part of town disappeared. After I passed the clubhouse in the dark, with no reflected light nearby to guide or alert me to street tuffs, I decided to look for directions. I heard footsteps at my rear. Turning, I saw a late middle aged strong boned woman with a pre-teen girl walking in my wake. I stopped, waiting for them to catch up to me.

“Alo, Boa. Com licença, voces conhecem onde é a Samba de Roda?” The woman stopped. The white floral motif in her shift had a dim shimmer in the dark, her dimpled smile was kind; godmotherly. “Não sei nada de Samba hoje a noite. Mas, tem reza encima, la.” -I don’t know about any Samba tonight, but there is a prayersong up the hill, up there. “Devo subir nessa escada?”-I have to climb up that stairway? “Sim.” Yes. “Obrigado. Boa.” Thanks, goodnight.


Again, up a steep stair, this one of painted white stone. This time not into a favela but into thick woods, a small open building on my right, another a bit further; Oh!-I got it, I am walking into a Terreiro. Terreiro Mucumbi, Filha de Iansan was one of two Casa de Angola Terreiros in Cachoeira and São Felix. I was told that there were close to hundred Terreiros in town and this was one of the oldest. I had not been to an Angolan house. This one was old and worn in the right places. The Terreiro or terrace, looked down this steep hillside to the river. In a room adjacent to the ceremonial chamber I could see a TV on, with something like a local movie of the week droning through the doorway, slightly ajar.

Here in Cachoeira the regs were a bit more relaxed. Yes you should wear white, and men trousers; but rules were bent. I was burnt and wanted to have an out. The service had just begun, I decided to stand outside and not get a seat. As people arrived, one of the ceramic assentamento jars (used to store your waters and the energies that connect you to your Orixa), was raised above each celebrant’s head, circling it counterclockwise, winding down to the shoulders and then the contents were thrown out into the bush as brief spiritual cleansing.


Shortly after I arrived, my friend of the floral shift and her teen charge walked up, huffing. She, they received their cleansing and as she stepped inside she was venerated as a key figure, possibly the Makota, (right hand to the Mae de Santo aka lieutenant governor) of the Terreiro. A white wrapper was brought for her to cover her shift and the service was in full swing. Timing is everything.


Before the atabaques began in earnest, a simple rhythm was tapped out by one drummer with his hands, (not the customary whittled sticks), and the Baianas danced a short Samba, the beat a bit slower than the dancing at Caquende. Early on I had noticed that the opening dance in all of the Terreiros was really a Samba. Women stepped through honey instead of the floating lilt step I saw in parties and bars. Here was proof. Now all of the drummers came to the stand and the light energy and air shifted. Church was in session.

The biggest initial difference that I noticed was how different the drumming was. A different kind of insistence to the rhythm. As at Gantois, one of the drummers always played with his hands throughout the ceremony.


After the call to each Orixa was nearly done, I considered going home. It was only eleven, but the day had been full. I stepped down from the patio to sit on a lower thought and consider my options. A dapper man offered me a cigarette, and I agreed. It would wake me up; -it did. We talked. His name; Garçon. He owned a restaurant of the same name, his birthname, Junho, was only known by confidants and family. He suggested that I stay for the Caruru. Oh my. We calculated how many more Orixa needed to be called and I decided to tough it out. We went back and listened until the break.

At the break small sweets and salty dried shrimp empadas setting in tissue papers were distributed with refrescantes. Then bon bons wrapped in red and white foil and covered with streamers came out. I ate a bit, and stuck the rest in my breast pocket. I was out of film, so most of the service is a wispy memory.


I thought that I saw Iansan manifested in the costume and dancing by both men and women. The dancing was great, I was awake, but I could not sustain much more; and definitely not more Caruru. Quietly I slipped away arriving back home to an empty house. I gathered my bedding, dumped my treats in a jar and was down, but not quite out when the crew came in about 90 minutes later.

Morning haunts.

Though still groggy, I woke up just before 7:30. I splashed my face awake and looked for coffee or something in the kitchen. Gunnert and Florian, the sound engineers from the Hamburg contingent had constructed a breakfast of tropical fruit and a jerry rigged muesli from Soy Milk, store-bought granola, whole grain flaked cereal, bird seed and nuts. I applauded and giggled at their combination of ingenuity and cultural retention. I shared part of it their booty while we discussed our various agendas for the day.

I left just after 8:30 and walked to the eastern edge of town up a steep hill through a grove of banana trees and another favela to find A Igreja de São Cosme e São Damião. Beautifully cut into a hillside, it was a grayish stone with a huge woven banner of the twins, Cosme e Damiao. These twins and their holiday on September 27, are another curious fusion in the synchronized culture.

The twin saints are alleged to have been Syrian circa 300 A.D., though whether or not they were Christian is still a question. Several stories/myths exist regarding their origin and demise. Some versions have them murdered by Romans three or more times (thrown from cliffs, drowning, stoning and burning) before dying as martyrs. The West African Yoruban culture, one of the cornerstones of the Baian- Afro cosmology, sees “Ibejis” or twins as major power figures. They materialize when needed to help children suffering from violence. These twin saints/friends of children (Cosme aka “the Florid” e Damião aka “the Popular”) have the ability to expedite any requests made of them in exchange for sweets and candy. Rappadura or molasses rich chunks of raw cane sugar were the first sweets made in offering to these twin saints. Platters of rappadura are now placed alongside drippingly sweet cakes, and bonbons. Today Cosme e Damião are the patron saints of Pharmacy, Barbers and Hairdressing; go figure.

At different times that day, bags of candy were thrown from trucks at people, into stores and house windows. I was struck in the back of my head with a small bag while buying some paper Saturday morning. Children, adults and seniors scream and scamper to grab the treasure or blessing for these twin saints.
Parishioner’s had gathered early to get a good seat for the 9:30 mass. Kids were running up and down the backstairs into the choir loft, giggling and cutting up. I checked out the scene, and asked when they would be serving their Caruru. After I shot some photos, I walked down through town to get to the stairs into Mae Analia’s favela.


She was sitting in her same child’s slingback chair by the door with a drawn look on her face. She had been having some renovation done to her bathroom and they had burst a waterline. She had not had water for hours. They could not start cooking until they had fresh water. They had been ferrying water from neighbor’s homes to flush toilets and boil some water for essential needs. We agreed that I would return at 2:00 PM.

I decided to walk across the river to Ana Claudia’s house. I could visit with her, and find out where her aunt, Mae Zelita was. She shrieked with glee when she saw me walking up the stairs from her porch. Her mother, two cousins a sister in law and her mother's two other sisters were making party favors for the party. It was her daughter, Ana Julia’s 3rd and her baby brother, Joao Victor’s 2nd birthday. They were riffing on a Disney theme complete with matching red and white polka dot cotton pique outfits and mouse ear headgear. Kidville would have been proud.

They had rented the abandoned train station, where a couple of guys had a cottage industry making a sweet aperitif liqueur, and decorated it with Disneyland scenes, 15 foot spiral clusters of rainbow balloons, card tables and videos. I had to laugh that here this family that was so tied to the roots of the culture and legacy of slavery was zooming into the proto-typical upper middle class toddler b’day trope. Shouldn’t they have played and danced samba for kids? Everyone was cute and all of the mom’s were way too anxious. The guy who was making hors’ doeuvres and frying them was an hour late. The kids had fun laughing and playing, being kids in this vacuous space; until Dad, Joao turned on the formulaic kid’s party dance videos. The children, obsessed with the images of happy kids on the screen stopped creating their own games and adopted the derivative option on screen. How many generations before this magic culture in Cachoeira is going, going;-gone? Yikes.

I had been the first to arrive. Everyone was 90 minutes late. I had stayed too long, brought the wrong gift, (a traditional children's natural lavender bath oil) and pissed off Ana Claudia because I did not stay longer or agree to sleep over. Her Aunt Mae Zelita hadn’t shown by the time I left at six. I had told Mae Analia that I would be back to see how to make the Caruru at 5:30. It was a twenty minute walk back to Cachoeira across the suspension bridge.


Back at Analia’s I put two and three together and realized that in a way she had not wanted me to see her process, just the result. Cooks are quirky about “their” culinary secrets. Luckily, as I walked into the house full of people, there were still a few steps to finish all of the dishes. After showing me what she had made, Analia called me into the living room to hear the traditional songs that honor the day.

The ritual for all Catholics is to place seven whole uncut pieces of okra in the stewpot for luck. The seven youngest children who can eat by themselves are sat together in a circle each having a full plate of Caruru in front of them. The crowd serenades them with good luck prayers and a Go-Fight-Eat cheer for their food to be chowed down. Once the seven children eat, the remaining young adults are fed, and then the adults.

Since Analia is a Filha de Iansan, she cannot leave okra uncut. All of the okra has to be cut in to four pieces, or in the sign of the cross for Male deities and for luck. The tradition suggests that in every neighborhood several mothers will make this meal for their families and the neighbors, so that everyone gets fed. Once the meal is eaten by everyone the devout will create a Latin prayer sing-out. The evening ends with an acapella Samba de Roda with a handclapped accompaniment.