Mr. Ninja Stealth Weapon & O Senhor Axê

Rhasaan* sang screeches about Bright Moments like when your lover takes the last bite of what you wanted to be eating on and you got to go get it the other way, (from off their lips and tongue).


Some of these moments for me have been watching young men on the island and in the country take their caged birds for walks ‘cause they can. Bringing their birds out into nature to hear the fullest sound of their song.

Seeing the Amaralina school children fly with their raggy kites full of hope and handmade passion.

Feeling that just right slithery texture and unctuous flavor outta the moqueca bubblin’ on the table in front of you as it courses over your taste buds and gets swallowed down below.


People who care to give kindness, love and help in a minute without thinking of remuneration. People who could use a double dose of that in their own lives.


Listening to the Irmandade da Boa Morte sing praise songs for luck as they cut up the okra for their Caruru . Winter morning light bathes the room adding shines to their faces peaking out from the veil of frankincense that added its own blessing.


Watching joyous women, middle aged and elder at home, create their own Roda for Samba dancing ecstatically for each other. The song comes from their voicings and hand claps. It all seems to signify the end and the beginning.


Lost in the morning waves, briny smells, streaming sun and idle chatter of people in the bow of the Lancha.


Waking up to the calling drum, with the knowing that it is time to go back into festing.


Sitting with Augusto Alberquerque smiling toothily, eyes a glimmer, dimples floating and bobbing as he recounts another story you really do need to hear. Padrininho, O Senhor Axê, Ursinho or whatever you call him you really do need him in your life.


Finding the water at the right place to swim when you want to be there. The sand bar and your own agenda can too easily trip you up.


Knowing that its ok not to eat Papaya anywhere else after you understood what ripe really means on Itaparica.


Loving on new fruits that you might not be able to spell or pronounce.


That imperceptible feeling like when the air is just feeling sweet, the perfume of ripe goiava or rustling pitanga leaves might have got you there.


Finding that person who can sweetly complete your thoughts and is not your lover and doesn’t want to be. He just wants you to help you better find yourself and what you need to be doing. I call him Luis Mario. You can call him Mr. Ninja Stealth Weapon. He or a She may be other people for you where you are.

Hearing Rahul sing and feeling his song resonate inside of you.

Arroz, Feijoes, Cebola, Cenoura e Alho- both for eating, or the ones who play Capoeira

Laughing until you infect the room with giggles and tears

Giovanna, Eneida & Bia

Knowing that you can.

*Rhasaan Roland Kirk- http://www.alfanet.hu/kirk/

O Camino a Carmo

Tuesday evening, at dinner I discussed the possibility of a brief sojurn to Salvador. First Hannah and Rahul and I were going to go. We planned to to to the neighborhood of Vitoria to see an opening at Acbeu, an exhibit at o Museo Costa Pinto entitled; Herança Africana no Universo Baiano – Um Filá de Liberdade, African Heritage in the Bahian Universe, a Line of Liberty. As an adjunct to the exhibit my new friend Ana Bea Simon was presenting her research on the history of slave jewelry traditions; and their was an animated film from Senegal I thought that Hannah should see for inspiration. We discussed shopping for art supplies, Sim cards and books, taking a bag lunch and returning home by eight o'clock. By morning, everyone had a reason to go. I realized that we had left a little late while we were walking the quarter mile to the Kombi (VW van shuttle) stop near the hardware store. I flagged down an approaching Kombi, who took us to Mar Grande to the Lancha, or wooden ferry boat into Salvador. We had a minor dispute over the fare, alleged to be 2 reals and 30 cents. Later I realized that he had decided not to pick up any other passengers intending us to foot the equivalent bill for a full van. Coming home later in the week after another excursion, I learned that this van with seating for eight to nine people, carried fifteen people plus a driver and a moneytaker at rush hours. Gotta pay the rent!.

The boat ride over was sweet and uneventful. The sun was already high in the sky at 11:15, the current was steady but calm and the hawkers were out in full force with ice cream, beer, cocadas, pastries and boiled peanuts. Landing in Salvador approximately 35 minutes later, we tried navigating the Sim card situation. I footed the bill because everyone else had not brought their ID. In the end, my phone was the only one that would not accept the "semi-legal" switch. Our plan was to put local Sim cards in our cellphones. This would give us a local Salvadoran number and we could buy a pay as you go plan to enable our phones to make local calls. My snappy Blackberry screen, immediately told I had an illegal Sim Card implanted in my phone. I new that this would lead to some kind of god-awful roaming charges or something. I am still negotiating with one of my fellows to buy my new Sim card from me at the going rate. Oh, well. We grabbed a quick bite at a Churrasco restaurant that I had found with Michele before going to the upper city.

We took the gondola to the upper city with our list of errands to accomplish before descending to catch a bus to Vitoria a short ride away. I had an address and directions to Mestre Moraes Capoeira studio. Rahul's main errand was to purchase a Berimbau; a professional model, not a lame tourist version. We walked in clumps, Rahul and I in front leading the way, and the others just behind in sharing conversations and photo ops. We walked across the main square towards the former site of the actual Pelourinho to find, "Ladeira do Carmo"-The Hill of Carmo; another neighborhood just west of the historic district. I asked twice to make sure I was on the correct path as we descended down from the Pelourinho and up the steep hill towards Carmo. Halfway up the hill we came to a worn but beautiful church on our left with a long stone stair and two towers. Up ahead their was another church and the Office for Historic Preservation of the district.

Rahul was getting anxious, and kept at me to see if we were on the right path. I assured him that we were set. He told me of how he likes to collect traditional folkloric instruments when he travels, learning to play them and including them in his recordings. On fellowship near Osaka, Japan a few years previous, he went in search of a artisan made Shakuhachi flute. He was directed to the wrong train track and rode 300 miles out of his way. I now understood the root of his anxiety. To placate him, I walked into the courtyard of the Convent-Pousada-Museum at the top of the hill. A weird triumvirate, but the right place to ask directions. We were on track.

I turned around to signal the group, assuming that they too were anxious. I realized that we were alone. They were nowhere in sight. I had been so focused on our path, I had not checked on their status. Behind us, the hill had two forks. If they were following us, they would eventually track us down; but I felt that they were long gone. I laughed, since I had my prominent mop of hair and a fire engine red shirt on, Rahul was the only Indian subcontinent type for miles and he also was wearing striking colors. Oh, shit. I am the one who knew the way. I reflected that Lauri had been to Salvador before, and that this might be a wonderful opportunity for Hannah and Nathan to try out their nascent Portuguese. And away we went.

I began to fall in love with the worn seedy quality of these narrow streets and buildings. The neighborhood was relatively quiet with few pedestrians in sight. Here and there we spotted a pickup card game around a folding table in a shady spot, or a grandmotherly type wistfully staring out of her second floor window at nothing in particular. The buildings were full of character and in general need of repair. The urchin boys actually looked gaunt as opposed to some of those who frequented the Pelourinho. And we kept trudging forward. We came to a rotary with a 20 foot tiled tower, shaped like Big Ben, with glass and no clock embedded at the apex. I mused to Rahul, "Hmm-Had it been gaslit, was it an old watchtower? But, there was no apparent way to get inside of it." this was an odd sliver of a neighborhood. Many signs for Rooms to Let, funked out Pousadas, seamstresses, junk shops or Delicatessens.

The road coursed uphill again, as we passed another gondola I had not known about. I sensed that this is how Pelourinho had seemed twenty years ago. As long as I assured Rahul that we were on the right path, he stayed calm. I could see that the road was heading toward a cul de sac. I was anxious that in fact we had missed a turn. On our left was a majestic view of the bay froma vantage point I had not previously seen. I began to realize that this must have been the neighborhood that I had tried to locate with Michele. The neighborhood that was home to some of the contacts that I had been given back in NYC. Particularly two key Capoeira masters and a historian. Reaching the circle, we found a street vendor running a sausage cart with her husband and young son. I asked again, and she pointed across the way to a chalk white fortress shrouded in palms. At the center of the circle was a crop of trees shading half a dozen pre-teen street boys, who looked like they could be trouble after dark. At six o'clock position of the circle, there was an esplanade to fully engage the view, and a partially completed nineteenth century Cathedral at high noon. I had read that if the colonial Portuguese community did not complete a church or public building they did not have to pay taxes to the crown. I guessed that this had been the reality for this church.

We walked up to the fort and found a long stone archway behind a half open thick wooden door. The archway opened up into a central square, where an attractive young woman had a folding table and some brochures. A few lanky security guards in red and black uniforms stood nonchalantly nearby. All of the buildings were built of white stone with white walls two feet thick, and red ceramic roofs. This former colonial fortress had been turned into a major Capoeira studio and performance space, by Mestre Moraes; one of the Capoeristas I had been told to look up. We were pointed to the far building on our right, and walked in out of the bright sun to hopefully find Rahul's instrument. The room was cool, sweet smelling, with filtered natural light accented by one or two piercing beams of bright sunlight from the window facing south. In the corner were two teenage boys, one round and brown and squat with afro and a tambourine. The other gangly with rattan colored skin and coarse short hair. He was strumming a Berimbau. A auburn haired woman with a gymnasts frame was opposite them, assembling more instruments when we entered. Periodically, she corrected their notes and rhythms.

I translated for Rahul, and then went over to listen to the boys play while she picked out a Berimbau for him to look at. He called me back after a few moments when they expended the few bridge words that they could share. A Berimbau is a one stringed instrument made from a bowed pole of wood, (traditionally from the Beriba tree), a calabash and taught wire string. It is strummed with a whittled wooden stick identical to those used in Candomble ceremonies and a black stone positioned like the frets of a guitar. The player moves the instrument against and away from their chests to change the resonance of the notes, while strumming the string. I had previously known that the Berimbau a drummer and some percussionists accompanied the Capoeiraistas during training and performances, or Rodas (Ho-Dahs). What I hadn't known is that there were always three Berimbau played together, A Gunga or Bass, A Berra-Boi, Medio or Tenor and a Viola or Soprano. It is thought to have been developed by 19th century Afro-Brazilian slaves.

The woman, who was also the assistant master of the school had pulled out a Medio for Rahul. She was teaching him how to armar, or assemble and disassemble it. He was ready to pull out his money, when he overheard the two boys playing across the room. He asked them to come closer to him. Suddenly, he changed his tone, and told me that possibly she was selling him an inferior instrument, or at least one different than theirs. That was the moment that I realized that they were playing a Gunga and he had a Medio. She decided that he needed a lesson. First she played a Medio, then she had the young teen play his Gunga, with his pal on tambourine.

Then they joined forces, playing and singing together. It was worth the price of uphill trek. I was completely sated. Rahul vacillated between the tonal variations of the calabash. I suggested that since you can put them together, or disassemble them within ten minutes, that he buy both. In the end, he agreed. He joined their group, learning the simple fingering; which alternated two strokes below and three above the stone, while moving the resonating calabash onto or away from your chest. She told him to wait for awhile before he tried to add voice to the rhythm. It is not as simple to play as it looks. He ended up buying a carrying case, the two calabash, the beriba pole, two strings, two different strumming sticks of different woods one high pitched and the other low, and a woven straw caxixe rattle for $68.00 reals. A steal!

We thanked them and reversed our steps, hoping to encounter our homeys along the way. I bought the two books I needed for research and we headed for the gondola, the art store and the ferry home. We had lost our window of opportunity to check out the museum. Now winded, I needed a pickmeup. We stopped for a Beiju or Manioc Crepe in the Praca da Se . Mine had coconut and white cheese, his Coconut and sugar. I took pictures of Conceca, "Mais, voce pode chamar-me Ceca." As we wolfed them down, I told Rahul that this snack might have cost us our art supply shopping time.

We jogged to the gondola and got to the alley of art supply stores as all of the gates were being pulled closed when the New Yorker in me wormed inside one of the accordion gates as it slid down its track. The man operating the chain from the street looked disgruntled, but the cashier told me that if I was quick she would serve me. Rahul needed some special art paper. Lost in translation, it turned out I had misunderstood his English. He did need paper, but they type he needed was not available here. Shit. I needed typing paper, though not right now. I decided I had to to buy my paper, since they had accommodated us. We walked the five blocks to the ferry, and found our friends boarding the same boat. They had split up, after we separated, with Lauri going off on her own to catch some of the photo exhibits up for the August spotlight on photography around town. She was already on the island, waiting at the dock for our boat to arrive. I was shooting random experimental images while the others talked over their exploits. Just as we came to port a kind faced middle aged man asked me if we were going to Quinta Pitanga, the original name of the former girl's school, before Sacatar took it over. Having noticed our art supplies and motley nature, he suggested that he could drop us off in his cab, parked near the dock. It was both fortuitous and comical. He seemed to have acquired a selection of CD's appropriate for all types of locals and tourists, reflecting the music of their homelands. Aussie Nathan got the Bee Gees, and Rahul hummed to himself while the Americans echoed the chorus of I Will Survive, among other disco hits. It had all worked out.

Temples, Sunsets and Dorado Grelhado

Friday, na sexta Feira 22-August

Driving away from Venceslaus Park, we learned that the fame had become so great that jealousies brewed over the waters and the town had sued Venceslaus. Deciding to leave his sanctuary rather than create enmity, he died within days of his retreat from his forest home. Augusto also told us that the mineral springs of Itaparica had once been the center of a Spa. The spring was the only natural coastal mineral water source in the entire country. People had come for the cures. Today, townspeople gathered this pure water for drinking and cooking.It is the water we use at Sacatar.

We decided to break for lunch, hitting another "Por Peso" buffet restaurant. The owner, as everyone else we met that day quickly embraced Augusto, kissing his cheeks and smiling with joy upon seeing him. She told us if we had time to wait they had just received some Dorado and could grill some for us. The buffet was decent, as usual the beans were perfectly cooked, the vegetables still had a bite to them and manioc was in abundance. The grilled fish was superlative. Her pepper sauce tinged with ginger had just the fire and acidity to set off the richness of the fish.

The restaurant was near the Lancha dock in Mar Grande, the eastern tip of the island. The ferry boat also docked nearby in a neighboring town. Around the corner from the restaurant was Nova Terra a fifteen year exchange program with Italy. Italian citizens sponsored Brazilian children in Salvador and Itaparica from birth through all of the supplemental schooling and vocational training the children were willing to participate in. Often the sponsors would travel to meet their charges. Otherwise the children were instructed to write to their benefactors informing of their successes and giving thanks. They had raised enough money to build a brand new three story facility. Most children came two to three days per week, receiving instruction in history and cultural including Capoeira and Samba, Computer skills, Beautician training, Math, Italian, Portuguese, Construction and soon a new Art curriculum.

_________the political candidate greeted us a the door, and ushered us into a small gymnasium. We were given small portions of chocolate caramel mousse before the children, aged eight to fourteen began to demonstrate their talents in Samba and Capoeira. Slowly they pulled us onto the floor to join them, mimicking their moves. We laughed, dancing, sparring and parrying with a variety of quite proficient young boys and girls. We toured the facility learning about all of the programs that were extant. Rahul and I laughed as we saw several pre-adolescent girls cluster, giggle and blush at us.

We continued on stopping briefly at the Sociedade Brasileira de Eubiose Spiritual Center on a hillside. Their temple consisted of three large Isoceles triangular buildings, one larger than the other two. This faith believed in the age of Aquarius, Harmonic Convergence among other things. The site had been chosen based on the planetary energy it contained. Later, after driving for thirty minutes or more, through several small villages, past some houses constructed with Indian building methods and over beautiful landscape, we arrived in a forest clearing that contained a massive three story ruin. This was the site of the first Catholic Mission, built in 1551. It mirrored the story of the film of the same name. The Portuguese Jesuits had wanted to build far from the early colonial settlements and their corrupting influences, in their quest to bring God to the Indigenous population. There had been a great central hall with a room at the back and two narrow rectangular rooms on either side of the hall. We all took pictures, and Rahul planted half a dozen candles in the dirt at the center of the former great hall. He lit them and made a quiet incantation in Bangla before we left.

The driver drove fast and furiously, overtaking donkeys laden with produce and building materials, scooters and speeding island taxis. I commented that a violet and salmon sunset was beginning to show brilliantly ahead of us. Augusto shook his head and said that is the problem. We are supposed to be at the western edge of the island to see it. We arrived at the bridge to _______________in time for the afterglow. A few fisherman were busy at work below the bridge as trucks and cars hauled across the span twenty and thirty miles over the local speed limit. The day had been varied and rich. We had gotten a wonderful taste of this temporary home and a better sense of the loving nature of Augusto our right arm at Sacatar.

Arcoiris

Zeno's house: Monday, na segunda 18-August; 6:45 AM..

Awake and dreaming of what had just occured over the last few days, I realized that in a short period of time, I had seen an entirely different Brazil than the one that I had enjoyed with Michele. We, she and I had had an exceptional experience together. Now, I was getting under the second or third layer of skin. Everywhere and everyone we encounter requires greater depth of context and exposure to reveal the heart or essence of the taste. Yet, too often we motor through our experiences pinning on badges to indicate how we have accumulated many "toys". The goal becomes the acquistion of the trophy and not the subjective experience. Time, context and a certain sense of abandon can bring the place/the person; the ripening fruit more fully into our consciousness. Do we work to pay the rent or to give time for quality of life? This might be one of the gifts that Brazil is giving me 50 years into the game.

I heard birds outside my window and the dog shortly afterwards. Today was the shift. Leaving Salvador for the island of Itaparica, the largest island in Baia de Todos Santos. A few months of remove, research, beauty, introspection and challenge. I dressed quickly after the cold shower. The water makes you get your business done quickly. Zeno's daughter had fixed breakfast for us. She and Joao, her son had already eaten. We sat down to pao, two types, butter, cheese, ham, a little fruit, strong steaming coffee and suco Maracuja. Chatting a bit more about last night's service, I began to construct relevant questions, when a business call took him away from the table. I finished eating, cleaned my place, organized my possessions and began to resume writing in a sunny corner of the living room. The phone rang again and it was Luis, from Sacatar. We had been corresponding for nearly a year, but I had never heard his voice. I had guessed that he would not have been a tenor. No matter. He was calling to ask if I could be ready by 1:00 PM. A mini van would be picking me up. Fine. I returned to my work.

Thirty minutes later the bell rang. Zeno came back inside and called me to the door; "It's for you Scott." Hmm? I went to the door, standing there was a handsome, robust dark skinned man, who identified himself as Augusto. His face was kind, and his afro longer than the buzz cuts, I had grown used to. In English and Portuguese he told me that he was here to pick me up. Surprised, I could tell he read the perplexity on my face. Continuing he began to explain, a delayed flight, change of plans; if I wanted he could come back? I asked where he would go? Did he have other folks with him? Zeno interrupted our quirky dialogue. He asked Augusto for his itinerary. It turned out that people had been arriving at different times. We would be five in total. Two were at a Pousada that happened to be a short drive from his house. One was enroute from Sao Paulo. Her plane from NY had been delayed. She, Lauri was the photographer who lived near me. We shared some friends yet did know each other. The last, Nathan was coming in from Australia. I learned later he had had to take five flights to get to Salvador. He would have the longest trek, longer than Rahul who was with Hannah at the Pousada, Villa Cristina.

It was decided that Augusto would collect Hannah and Rahul, return to get me within thirty minutes, and then we would pick up Lauri at the airport. Zeno's home was a relatively short drive away from the airport. Ok. I straightened up Joao's room where I had slept. Checked my things, and began to move my bags out to the yard. Luckily his daughter spied my computer cable, plugged in under Joao's desk. That would have been a pain in the ass. I spent the last half hour, playing with Joao. He was insisting that he was still three and not four. He had brought out his superheroes, Superman and O homen aranha. We wrestled a bit, and then he proceeded to inflate and deflate balloons left over from the party. Bored with this activity he grabbed a broom and batted balloons around the room, then stabbed them dead, as they exploded and shreds of rubber fell on the furniture. He cackled. The bell rang again. I ran to get it. This time it was a friend of Zeno's. I was anxious. While I was calling Zeno to come meet his friend, the van pulled up. I hugged Joao, said goodbye to Zeno and his daughter, lugged my gear to the van and we left.

Hannah, blonde, fetching and easter lily pale, also American from Vermont was living in Capetown teaching art, painting and working as a children's book illustrator gave me an easy smile and a warm greeting. Next to her was a lithe tawny Bangladeshi man, Rahul. He had a cottony beard, lush curls and a winning, tender character from the get-go. He was fifteen hours behind Brazil, and had taken three days of travel to get to Salvador. All a bit nervous, we quietly eyed each other, shared perfunctory introductions, and listened to Augusto discuss the trajectory of our morning. Lauri's plane was still delayed. He decided to give us a cash machine lesson at the airport to kill time. I bought some popcorn to share, while we waited. Lauri arrived soon afterwards. She was nimble, bubbly and attractive, her fresh extensions grazed her shoulders. We had lost Rahul for a moment. He is very intimate with tobacco.

Within in ten minutes drive we were in a Por Peso buffet restaurant. Though they mimicked our salad bar restaurants, they seemed to be a cut above. Steam tables were replenished quickly, filled just enough to handle the crowd at hand, the food never seemed wilted. Additionally, there is generally an option to purchase churrasco, chicken, meat skewers, sausages, hearts, grilled carne do sol, etc. Of course there is also a plethora of ripe fruit and prepared sobremesas or desserts. Finally, fresh cafezinhos are generally complementary. Depending upon the weight and the establishment, you could have a satisfying ample meal for $7-10 American. I guess this is what draws folks to __________. Now satiated, we headed to the Ferry Boat, "yeah that is what they call it in Portuguese." Unfortunately, we had just missed one. We waited about forty minutes for the next one. The ferry ride would be an hour. I preferred the Lancha, or wooden boats that left every thirty minutes. The ride took half the time, and had more personality, for a similar price. The Lancha did not take any vehicles. Suddenly it began to drizzle. I helped Rahul buy cigarettes. In his words, "Bangla is my mother tongue". His English was a bit halting, but good. Portuguese would be uphill for him. His communication and charm would be with music. He was a classic Indian flautist and excellent singer. We would come to hear him break out in song at almost any opportunity. The joy of performance was enhanced by the explanation of the song; an ode to Krishna, a prayer to the sea for putting the sun to bed. My kind of guy.

The ride from the dock takes about ten minutes. We drove through a small village, past simple concrete homes, a few tourist vacation cottages, past tethered horses and sloping verdant hillsides. Finally arriving at Sacatar after three o'clock, as we all stepped from the van to take in the house, grounds and beach in unison we all cried out, Augusto included. T"Look, did you see the rainbow! And you can see its terminus. I ran around the van, parked in a rutted muddy tract. "Look, you can see the other end too". Both ends of the rainbow kissed the sea. I turned to Augusto, "Qual e o nome do rainbow em Portuguese?" He replied, "Arcoiris!" Rahul began jumping and pointing, "YOU must look now. Do y-o-u see; See it?" Oh, my. It was a double rainbow. Faintly, there was another rainbow adjacent to the first. Now, that's planning. Reveling in the beauty, our house tour was a blur. We all got lost several times, locating our rooms, the library and the lounging areas. Augusto, somewhat of a jokster, beneath his dignified facade created a drama akin to Monty Hall's what's behind Door # 2, as he showed us first our rooms and then our individual studios. At several instances he whispered clues in Portuguese to anyone who could follow along.

He left us to rest, telling us that our fifth, Nathan would hopefully arrive tomorrow at lunchtime, if his last flight stayed on schedule. They expected him to land later on this evening in Salvador. After we had had a break, we met the staff, all of whose names I forgot immediately. I would quickly recall both Dete (Day-chay) and Marcia (Mah-see-a) who would be our cooks. Sometimes the meals were simple. Sometimes they were vaguely international, I guess to suit our diverse and evolving palates. But always the fruits and vegetables were just picked, the chickens freshly killed with a chew to the bone from being on their feet and the beef or pork generally of the salted variety. This was a holdover from the colonial period when the lack of refrigeration necessitated salting and sun curing as a preservative. Marcia loved baking and making desserts. That was her strong suit. And, as all good cooks need to be, they new how to stretch their ingredients. I clued the crew into the fact that they would begin to eat Mandioca at almost every meal, sometimes in disguises that would hide its identity. We had a simple dinner of roast chicken, simple salad, rice, beans, white rolls, a passion fruit mousse and cherimoya juice. That evening after dinner we all professed incredulity at the beauty and serenity of Sacatar and the island. We had arrived.