boys to men

Men never lose their boyish nature in gesture or in heart. Horsing and slappin’ backs; yet rarely embracing. Emotions are often held at a distance, stored in a jar.
Boys wanting to be men learn distancing quickly emulating fathers and men they see in their lives. Stony smiles barely slip through bloodless pursed lips.


Here, Itaparica in the Brazil I have met the boys/young I have come to know do embrace. They came into my life to share their love of Capoeira. Historically it had been outlawed by the state. To begin to practice, play or joga your master baptizes you with a name, possibly silly or indicative of your nature. Ultimately a foil, or subterfuge if questioned by the police.


Being around these young me, I saw their hearts peak out; shining winning grins on cue. They really do live inside their skins and their innocence. They revealed their emotions. Nurturing each other befitted their nature more than tough bluffing and swelled chests which trap more air than passion.


Each one: Feijões, Cenoura, China, Bodogi and Correia were not sure how to gather a net for Junior after his mother died suddenly. They were as confused as all young men are who are not ready to understand death. Through the initial period, they remained attentive and patient; not shut down or vacant. Their presence swaddled the love they had of their homey like a downy feather bed.


I am not sure if time heals, or if it just softens the reality of the pain. That day back at Sacatar; Monday, na segunda 27-October I saw flashings, molten metal emotions hot for a moment then rising as fog burned off by morning sun. These buddies who joga Capoeira together were silently, invisibly hugging Junior, (aka Arroz), guiding him like a true posse on his road forward.

The beginning of Goodbyes

Time tough. In a recent email, Danny suggested that I had the pre-Saudade Saudade in reference to a statement I had made regarding my displeasure over my imminent departure. Yeas, a deep, and moanful blue(s). Melancholia nervosa. I have many, many thoughts of this place I have begun to know, Baia do Todos Santos; Cachoeira, Itaparica & Salvador. I feel like my feet have sprouted interstitial root hairs, looking for a place to take hold, grow and come into flower.

It is by no means perfect. The poverty is omnipresent. But the culture and the manera de ser of the people is transcendent. As almas da gente da aqui, têm um sol reflechindo ao mundo. Que beleza; beleza. The soul of the people holds a sunshine reflecting out to the world. How beautiful; beauty.

Coming and leaving. I have looked up several times randomly and realize that I have found myself in places where I had began this journey. First, it was coming back to Rua Doutor João Ponde e Edificio: Paul Cezanne with Kathy and Tracy. The same apartment that Michele and I had rented in July and August.

Originally, I had planned to take a trip and travel to another region to see a new view and gather information from another point of reference. I am glad I stayed local. More things became evident as I became more and more familiar with Salvador. It may be a street corner that comes up out of nowhere, or a concerted effort to reconnect and say goodbye to a new colleague or budding friendship.

I had asked Danny what if anything did he need to be brought back to NYC? All he wanted as Valdina’s Pemba. A special chalkish powder. She harvests it once a year in late May or early June. It is dried and ground fine. Then it is used as an aspect of ritual practice.

I had decided to try and nail down all of the stuffs that I needed to bring home before I left for Cachoeira on Friday morning. I also thought that it would be a good idea to go to Tanuri Junçara, Valdina’s Terreiro. We had never managed to coordinate my visit during my residency. The Terreiro was close to her house in Engenho Velho de Federacao. Wednesday’s and Thursday’s they were open to the public.

I had had a full morning already running between Dois de Julho for an interview, Liberdade, Sao Joaquim and Mercado Modelo before coming to Federacao. I got the wrong cabbie from the Mercado. When I told him where I thought it was, he acknowledged that he knew where to go. To insure success, I borrowed his cell to call Tracy. He was able to give me the exact address that I had in my computer, Rua Apolinário Santana, #146. I looked down to check my notebook for something and then I saw that he went into the wrong part of the neighborhood. We had previously discussed where to enter this large district. At the next traffic jam, I jumped out and threw 10 reals in his lap, discounting money for his mistake.

Walking down the main avenue I passed a Manicure-Terreiro combo business. I guess you have to know that you can pay the rent. I asked a few blocks later and was asked which one of the three major Terreiros’ just ahead did I want? This group of women was not familiar with the name I had given, or my pronunciation of it. Then, one woman stepped forward from the group I had stopped and she said she had an idea. She pointed, explaining the location and landmarks to me before I continued on down the hill.

At the first doorway, she appeared again, and dissuaded me from ringing the bell. Let’s try the next one, she said. Suddenly, I had a partner. I knew already that the third one was Bodum, Urania’s Terreiro, so I was confident that middle choice would be Tanuri.

The heavy wooden door opened up to a large courtyard and driveway with a large, old tree in the middle of it, (memories of my Norwalk home). A carved, wooden plaque, was painted in primary colors: Terreiro Tanuri Junçara. The yard was ringed by a few two story houses and the Barracão or ceremonial room. A boy was folding clothes just inside the open second floor window on my right. I asked him for help and his mother appeared. She said that Valdina was probably at home, but I was free to look around, “Fica vontage a ver o que voce quer.”

I stepped into the dark, squarish room, stacked with chairs and other stored items which suggested that they were in between ceremonies. A large image of Yemanja was the only décor. As I walked back into the bright midday sun, a thin, jet colored man appeared to greet me. He had a halting Portuguese that I had to work on to comprehend. He led me to each offertory shrine, and each house of Orixa, explaining who was being honored. Since I had never been to a ceremony here, I had not realized that it was Angola or Fon Terreiro, until he explained that if I was Ketu, I would call it this name in Ioruba and if I was Nago-Jeje I would call it that. The layers and interconnections run thick and deep. I took one picture and left to find Valdina.

Ten minutes later, I walked through the back door of the ad hoc thrift shop into the yard that her house shared with half a dozen others. She was home and just as I had found her, at her computer. Her head wrapped in a beautiful coil of fabric. She had a long short sleeved cotton shift, decorated with a bit of lace. Funny she said, after we embraced. I had just returned your email, when you walked in.

We talked for a bit about my research, and she invited me to a Palestra, she called an Abara. I guessed that they borrowed the name of the steamed amalgam of ground black-eyed peas, ginger, Dende and grated onion wrapped and cooked in a banana leaf as a metaphor of the joining of ideas involved with culture, politics and food. Unfortunately, it would occur while I as in Cachoeira.

I sensed in this conversation how she was renewing her invitation of welcome to her community and culture. We laughed together when I asked for the Pemba. She told me that everyone who comes from NY to Salvador is required to bring back Pemba for Danny. He’s gotta have it. Shrewd dog. She wished me well and we both looked forward to my return.

This time I found a cab who knew how to get to where I was going. When I walked up the ramp to the driveway of Paul Cezanne at 3:00 PM, Henrique, Tracy and Kathy were anxiously waiting for me. I ran up, grabbed my things, shut down my computer and said goodbye to this oasis. Henrique dropped me and my stuff at Zeno’s and took Kathy to the airport. I had to switch gears and go back downtown to São Joaquim and meet the TVE crew for my interview on connections between African-American and Afro-Baian foods. Time was tight.

blurbs, first taste of Itaparica

When does the season change in the young people's dispositions? I have found sunny kids as you can find, almost wherever you go. Yet sitting under shaded thatch at a beach side restaurant in Ponta da Areia na Itaparica I have met several kids in part because we are foreigners, Michelle is drawing and they are sucked into the act of making art, making images. And, for all at one point they were looking for money.

They proclaimed their ages to be between 8-15, though in ways the youngest seemed older than 8 and the oldest younger than 15 in biological, not street years. I would have guessed they topped out at 12 years on the planet at most. Over several hours we shared simple pleasures and elemental conversations in our nascent Portuguese. As I watched the next generation, full of bravado flounting their capoeira machismo on the beach I thought of how much innocence is broken down in adolescence. Wanting to be cool. To be able to fuck. Not wanting to be suckered or jumped. And coming to grips with the an intitial weltanschauung. Those teenagers on parade in front of us, looked tough and old beyond their years. Naivete discarded or suppressed. They are lauded for their manliness, especially in a more overtly gender defined culture than the one that I know; but to what end?

Hot tears well up in my eyes, a few graze my shoulder as a young boy standing over me just in my peripheral vision as I rest on the sand, shivers and babbles not very coherently, "Meu irmao, chorando. Leite, leite." Que me disse?"-I ask; what are you saying, did you say; your brother crying? Milk? Still sniffling, his large white towel obscures most of his face. "Que esta passando com seu irmao? What's going on with your brother?

"Nao e leite na casa. Nossa casa nao temos leite e ele chora, chora. Ele esta chorando sempre. Meu irmao tem so um mez." There is no milk in the house. We have no milk in the house and my baby brother is crys, he crys. He is always crying. He is only one month old. Pragmatically, I attempt to ask if his mother is carrying milk. What is the real essence of the problem. An itinerant jewelry maker who uses sea and coco shells, beads, thread and wire to create her designs appears and senses some urgency in this scene. I ask her if she knows this boy. No, she replies. I then explain his tale. She interrogates him, and he maintains his story. Branca comes back, she was one of the first girls I had met that day. She as a lovely chocolatey skin, bright eyes, good cognitive skills and says she is 12. She is Junho's younger sister. She walks with the cocadas that she and Junho help make with their mother. White, Caramel, Amendoine, Goiaba and Abacaxi all jewel like quite sweet and wonderfully tasty. She pulls out an Amendoine for this crying boy, whose tears suddenly subside. He grabs it and chews the sugary treat happily.

He sees some other boys, his peers and rushes to catch up to them. Immediately they want to know how and where he got this treat. Jealousy, envy and desire. He points to Branca, Michele and me. They eye us wistfully. Hours later, as we finish some more drawing, Branca turns to Michele and asks her when will she pay up for the cocada. She says, "hmmm, I didn't buy one from you." Yes, you did. For that boy." Sharp as nails. At least as subversive as that act was it was surgical unlike Camila, model gorgeous, with a close cropped afro, large almondy eyes, who copped to being 9. Camila came up to me thrice asking when I would be paying her? I asked why? For what?--usually we need to make some trade or exchange to receive money. She stared back at me blankly, as if searching for another tactic or retort that wasn't available.

Maybe, I had seen the exotic and perverse film, Vers le Sud, with Charlotte Rampling annually sewing her post menapausal oats during her summer vacations from teaching with teenage colts at a Haitian beachside compound. Often other women would come and seduce the same boys who seemed only to happy to receive the free sex, petty allowances and attention. At least until disaster struck. That was a clever film, what am I seeing?