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.

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.

…Is that why Joan Crawford liked “Jungle Red?”

It had to happen, to someone. And fruitloops is a nickname that I could have. I guess, “Timing is everything. “ I can attribute my lack of sleep to the Eguns. Coulda, woulda, shoulda is the mantra.

What do I mean to say? He hath picketh my pocket. Who? I dunno. I believe it was on the bus to Cabula yesterday morning. I had agreed to not sleep after the Eguns. I would run on the nervous energy; especially if we got home at dawn. I sat down after showering to read for a moment and slept deeply for 90 minutes, almost missing my Moto-taxi and Lancha connection.

I was sure that that evening I would turn to jelly and that would be that. But, no Mr. Insomnia had Everyready Bunny energy. I had crashed the night before last close to 12:45. Yesterday morning, I was woken up by Hannah knocking and calling my name. “Davis was waiting!” I was a mess. I knocked things over dressing quickly. The air on the bike brought me closer to consciousness. Bleary eyed and dopey I made it to the Lancha, as the doors were being pulled closed. I never got coffee, though.

Salvador 8:40 AM; Indecisive about the best route to Cabula on the bus; my gut told me to go up and over the Pelourinho to get to the Av. dos Sapateiros, a faster connection. Instead, sluggish and lazy, I stood at the Lacerda stop looking for a bus. Confused, I asked a friendly woman for help. More waiting. I asked a Guarda, he said, “Deve ter pacíenca.” I probably came off as a mark. I had checked my seat as I left the Lancha. I had had my wallet as I mounted the bus. And, I did check my seat as I exited the bus. Cool, cool, cool.


I walked to the Terreiro, (Opô Afonjá) stopping to try and buy a churro and shoot some pictures. I arrived at the gate by 9:30-ish. I went to the house of Xango and found a seat on one of the salmon leather easy chairs. The room was decorated with references to all of the Mae’s de Santo and other power icons. Within 15 minutes it was full of Brazilians, some seeking Buzio readings, a crippled man fulfilling regular obligations and a mixed bag of folks from far and wide. We all were waiting for our audience with Mae Stella.


I listened to their chitchat as I read at my new find, “Sacred Herbs of Candomble.” Someone put something together and asked me where I had come from. I supplied my back-story, just as the Xango sanctuary room opened and we all went in to pay respects, praise him and kiss the Mae on duty. We were told that Mae Stella had been up until dawn and would not be giving readings today. Later I was told that Mae Detinha was taking her place. She and Mae Stella were both colleagues of Danny, my mentor. It was all good.

I watched the folks in front of me, and sublimated myself accordingly, taking in all of the fascinating objects, and references to Xango in this shrine. Back in the waiting room, over our breakfast of Amala, (Caruru and Farofa) I engaged a woman who had a colleague she thought could help me. Reaching into my pocket for a business card, I realized that it was gone. No more wallet! Sweaty and anxious, I didn’t know what to do. Luckily, I did not keep my money with my wallet, so I could still get around. I retraced my steps and realized that it was solid gone. Just then I was summoned to speak with Mae Detinha, sitting in the yard. Probably close to 80, sage and strikingly beautiful, she was sitting on a low wall with a few assistants. After hearing my request she had a youngster take me to Nana, the librarian; an affable, kind faced woman in her late 60’s.

Nana, in the middle of an audience with some upper class Paulistas, invited me to sit in. We sat together for nearly an hour, sharing our interests and requests. When they left, I had a good yet brief private session with her. Back in the waiting room to use the toilet, before initiating the paperwork with police to track down my wallet, I was confronted by one of the Filhas de Xango. “Was I alright?” she asked. I had not known that she knew of my plight.

“Se voce pode ficar aqui quando me banho; posso se ajudar...” That was kind. She, Christianne, telephoned her husband who had a job as a city functionary, trying to locate the best place for a foreigner to register a theft. Per our agreement, I waited as she showered, slipped out of her Baiana whites and into a red dress; preparing to leave the Terreiro and start her day outside this oasis. The best warrior and hunter, Red is Xango’s color. Today, Wednesday is his day. That is why I was at the Terreiro; this is the key day to be there.

I needed to change money. Other than the three credit cards, my business cards and a receipt for cell phone credits that had not gone through: I had had the $2 real bill I needed for the bus in my wallet. I suggested that I buy something at the supermarket, Bom Preço to break the bill.

Christianne chose a small discount store a few blocks down from the Terreiro. They were not willing to make the trade, but suggested that we go to the gas company nearby. Their entryway was locked. Adjacent to the door was a 3” hole in the two foot thick concrete wall, just large enough for a child’s hand to fit into. We called into it, and saw lips at the other end, asking after our business. The man’s lips agreed to make change, and I slipped and shoved my money to him.


Now more mobile, we walked to the bus stop. I had begun to doubt Christianne’s veracity. She was being kind; I was vulnerable and thus suspicious. I spotted my bus, which was not her best choice, but she climbed on, offering to pay my way so that I could guard my cash. If it was a setup, I could trust that a strange bus route would throw her off. In the end, she was just being generous and kind, and I paranoid. She suggested that I come back for the short service that evening, if I could work out my difficulties. I agreed to try. This daughter of Xango had been helpful.

I found the Ajudamento para Turistas at the back of the police station on the Praça Terreiro de Jesus in the Pelourinho. The intake officer In-training, took to me, complementing my Portuguese and agreeing to delay his lunch hour to help me. He shared his dreams of using his degrees and training in sports to create an international foundation for inner city youth to get ahead through sports scholarships. He wanted to apply to a model program in Jamaica. But he needed a job to pay the bills. A friend had hooked him up here. As we talked, and he eased my anxiety, I noticed that he had a carved stone necklace on; Xango’s axe. Hmm, whatever.

I was advised to contact my Consulate to help cancel credit cards, and further register the theft; their offices were in Cidade Baixa on Avenida dos Estados Unidos. Got it. Down in the elevator, past the bus stop of consequence and then a short walk to Av. E.U. Almost all of the Consulates were there. The building that I was directed to had no idea of the Consulate. Luckily, the larger buildings on this boulevard had concierge desks. I would find it. It was just after three o’clock. Eight buildings later, and no end in sight, I was pissed. My phone was still out of money, and I had not wanted to use the little money I had to buy more, since the voucher was in the lost wallet.

I asked several concierge’s if they knew of the Consulate, and the answer was, “Não, só conheco meu lugar aqui.” –I only know my building; Ugh. “How about a phone book?” I implored. Finally, one guy told me to wait until his buddy the bottled water delivery man came downstairs. He would know. Of course, he said it was in the first building I had gone to. Retracing my steps, the new man on duty said that he thought that they had moved, only Danmarka and Hollandaisa were still here.

“Can I go to the Danish Consul then?-They should be able to help me.” He shot me a quixotic stare, but agreed. The elevator doors opened to a security entrance. The receptionist and most of the staff were Brazilian, and not Danish. Exasperated, I had hoped for a schooled English speaker. As I addressed the receptionist, she took a call from a friend; part business, part girltalk. Venom was rising in my throat. Instincts knew that she was not at fault, but I was thin on patience. Nearly ten minutes later, still on the call, she rifled through papers to look up my request, still chatting.

She hung the phone up and stated, that the address was in Iguatemi. “What?” I said, “Está longue da aqui.” Shit. Trying to think quickly, I struggled to find a remedy when she suggested that she call the Consulate and pass me the phone. Perfect. That was when I focused on her carmine silk blouse.

The woman on the phone, Baiana with a stilted English accent, explained “That the office is closed now. They just take calls in the morning. Since another Consul was calling, she had taken the call. No, she couldn’t call my credit companies. Nor did she think she could give me access numbers.” Hmm. “ Oh, wait, her co-worker has an Amex card, he can retrieve their number from his card.” A patch of daylight. I hung up the phone, thanked the receptionist and asked her if she followed Xango. “Com certeza,” was her reply. She had heard through my anger and distress to offer help. I left seeking an HSBC branch to cancel their bankcard. It was just 4:00PM and the man in the blue uniform refused to let me in or take anymore work for the day. Come back in the morning.

Sao Roque, Mae Stella & Olu Baje

Saturday, our first weekend on island, 23-Aug.

This first week had already been quite full and it was barely half over. In addition to our two tours, we had had a midweek visit from Orlan, a French performance artist the same generation as Yoko. She was famous or infamous for her Feminist manifestos and the body modifications she had had done to herself via plastic surgery. Orlan seemed to question western ideas of beauty and position of women in society. She had come for lunch with her young husband, documentor and translator and their liaison from the Alliance Francaise. On Thursday evening after our brief tour of the old city we went to hear her intone her theories at MAM, the Salvadoran modern art museum. Stopping for a fast dinner, and catching the last ferry to the island, our culture excursion ended at almost 2:00 AM.

Friday at lunch, Augusto informed us that he would be attending a festa to Sao Roque and a Olu Baje ceremony on Saturday at seven o'clock in the evening. San Roque, St. Lazarus in English was a French saint who saved his community from the plague. The Olu Baje is the public ceremony centered on the ritual meal in honor of Omulu, the Orixa who was depicted with a head to toe straw covering. The legend is that he was born with open wounds and pustules which left him horribly ugly, his skin pocked and scarred. He was the Orixa of the poor, he governs disease, pestilence and healing. Augusto was willing to escort anyone interested in joining him. He explained that the this was an opportunity to witness the synchretic nature of Catholicism and Candomble. These two ceremonies back to back would illustrate how much the dialogue went back and forth between each discipline. I was game. Most of us were. I stayed close to home Friday night, but was struck with insomnia, so sleep was fruitless. I was summoned to the phone at 8:15 Saturday morning, just after I had come out in search of coffee, attempting to reverse the effects of my sleepless night. Augusto happened to drop by the terreiro where the Olu Baje, and Mae Stella their Mae de Santo was willing to allow me interview her and observe her prepare the Comida de Santo to accompany the evening service. He had just arranged one of the motor-taxis to pick me up. They would be arriving at Sacatar within 10 minutes. "Could I be ready?"

--"Yes. But shit, I was whumped." I thought, This is what I came for. Two minutes later he called again. "You must wear all white, and long pants." I knew that already. I made sure that I had my camera battery and a pad, grabbed coffee a banana and headed for the front gate.

Ten minutes later I was led into the terreiro where Simon, an attractive young woman in a pink shift introduced me to her Mae; Stella, two other Mae's who had come to help and various other congregants. All of the women were dressed in white dresses with white wrappers over their clothing.I parked myself in the corner pulled out my pad and began to take notes. Augusto was gone. Two minutes into the interview, Mae Stella suggested that I take pictures if I had a camera. Damn-straight. Another coup. We were off and running. I struggled to comprehend her Portuguese, it was not as polished as Augusto's or Luis's. Mae Stella rattled off her method while pureeing shaved coconut, peanuts, cashews and dried smoked shrimp for the Vatapa.

A middle aged woman, still shapely and attractive though missing most of her front teeth on both top and bottom of her mouth. She worked quickly, with a long agenda of tasks to complete before nightfall. She indicated that she had been working for two weeks to prepare for the Olu Baje. Olu Baje is the I learned that this was a typical pattern for all of the ceremonies. She said that before she had access to a blender it took her even longer, crushing all of the ingredients in the tall mortar and pestles that typified plantation life. We laughed at the reality of grinding all of the ingredients by hand. Still she had had to smoke and dry the shrimp, find animals for sacrifice, and fulfill many other duties. The two goat skins were drying just outside her kitchen window. Hours later, I found the entrails of a recently killed duck and chicken suspended behind a beam out back. In the same backyard two of the women were cooking beans over charcoal braziers, fejioe fradginho, branco e preto-black-eyed peas, white and black beans. There was Caruru to make. Chicken to cook, plus abarra, bolhinos de milho, acaraje, salad, rice and goat. Production of Bolhinos de Aipim were already in process. Linens had to be pressed. Popcorn popped. The few tasks given to males were to whittle pitanga branches for drumsticks, gather three types of leaves, one of which would serve as plates for the food service, and Palm fronds for decor. She barked orders left and right, tasted every single item that was cooked, and made a variety of offerings to the Orixa throughout the day; an Executive Chef and Spiritual Leader rolled into one.

Their ceremonial room more closely mirrored Ligia's in Cachoeira. Concrete, set a few feet below the foundation of the main house. The main house had two bedrooms both furnished with two single beds. A cozy sitting room, small bathroom and a sizeable, yet simple kitchen. A room to Oxumare, their spiritual head was off of the kitchen. A cement counter ran along the length of the wall that the ceremonial room shared with the main house. The fundamento sat in the opposite corner and her throne was set in a niche on the wall catty corner to the fundamento. At either end of the wall shared with the house, there were narrow doorways which ultimately led out to the street. The backyard was a decent sized rectangle, possibly eight feet wide by fifteen long. There was a cistern in the corner filled with water for washing. There was another Orixa house in one corner, two covered sheds, A sacrificial fire pit and a covered drain leading to the town's sewer system. The central square in the ceremonial room had a three foot diameter ring of popcorn, three inches high. At one of the side doorways there were offerings to the Orixa, and a young woman sat on her haunches in the opposite corner scraping tendons and sinew from freshly boiled goat heads and feet. A few young neighborhood children ran in and out, observing the activity. Two young girls, possibly ten years old, also dressed in white quietly observed their elders at work. The next generation to be inducted into the terreiro. The next day, Mae Stella told me that the girls entered into service between 14-15 years of age. One of the older Mae's continued to wink at me, shooting me goo goo eyes like a teenager while she worked.

By eleven AM I was parched and starved. She saw my hung dog look and asked if I wanted coffee. Hesitating at first, I felt that I should not be indulged while they were so fast at work. Mae Stella asked again. This time, I jumped at the offer. A small silver tray was brought to me, with freshly brewed coffee an elegant dainty demitasse, docantes of Stevia and a small spoon. This brought a welcome reprieve until midday. In the meantime I walked between the kitchen activity, the careful processing of the goat and the preparation and cooking centers out back. Each woman completed their task deftly with a great sense of economy of motion and use of materials. Occasionally, the younger woman would take a break to gossip, giggle and rest. These moments were brief since Stella seemed to have eyes in every room. The only things consumed by anyone were cigarettes and coffee. Periodically a young comely boy ran up to me looked deeply into my eyes or at my camera and then ran quickly out of sight. This was Lucas, recently adopted by Mae Stella. A little bit of a hellion, but generally a harmless young boy. By about 1:30, he had been whining for food for at least ninety minutes. Finally Stella consented and one of the women offered him a dish of stewed chicken and rice. Seeing him eat made me want to keel over. They must have sensed my hunger. Within about twenty minutes, I had a place at the table and my own bowl of lunch. The chicken had a russet colored sauce or Molho, slightly vinegary with a flash of garlic and palm oil. The rice, cooked plain without salt, took to the rich sauce and the combination gave me back some vigor.

All of the women would complete a project and carefully clean all of their implements, sweep, mop and prepare for their next duty. Finally by 3:30, the cooking frenzy was winding down. One by one the women began to take individual plates of chicken and rice, while Mae Stella continued to intone orders to her charges. She continued at her fast clip for another ninety minutes before she too stopped for a bite of lunch. Now all of the counters were cleared and a variety of simple ceramic bowls were brought out to hold each prepared ritual dish. She debated with herself which vessel would best show off each dish, changing her mind several times, before commiting to the final arrangement. Their was a dish for each Orixa. Once her decisions had been finalized, most of the women began filling the various ceramic containers, while my goo goo eyed friend finished ironing lace. A large stack of freshly folded lace was brought into the room. Each dish was wrapped in lace, Mae Stella again stopped to decide which swatch was appropriate for which dish and corresponding Orixa. Next a large platter was brought out and she spent forty five minutes, laying on lace, tying bows at each end and then summoning my admirer to fill her platter with freshly popped corn and shards of coconut. Once it was full, she took thread and basted the lace to seal the popcorn and coconut tightly in this container until the ceremony. At this point, she suggested that I take a break, go home, rest and return around 7:30 PM. that evening. Glad for the reprieve, and tired of having to constantly recharge my nearly dead camera battery for the next, "money shot", I was glad to walk home to Sacatar, shower, rest and ready myself for the service. I could tell that it would be a long night.