Gantois

Sunday evening 17-Aug

Stepping off of the bus that Mario had directed me to as it arrived at Porto da Barra, my old stomping grounds with Michele, I walked quickly to the loja da Costeira, or dressmaker's shop where I had left some mending earlier in the week. I was doubtful that she was still open, if she worked at allon Sundays. As I guessed, the shop was tightly shuttered. I walked through the neighborhood to the Citibank ATM to withdraw cash for the next few days. After that I would have time for dinner before heading to Terreiro Gantois, the house that Zeno officiated at. Zeno was the grandson of Mae Menininha, one of most important Mae de Santos of the twentieth century, and a dear old friend of my mentor, Danny.

Most of the restaurants were closing early or opening late, depending upon whether their clientle were locals or tourist based. Against my gut, I went to the large beachside restaurant that sat under a large tent on a hill just above the sand.

Non-smoking was on a lower level and breeze according to the Maitre'D. I put on my jacket, sat down and realized that I had to anchor everything on my table, including the cloth against the strong seawinds. I had a simple dish of Corvina Grelhada com Molho Brasiliero, Grilled Corvina with a creamy, pinkish sauce of Hearts of Palm and Shrimp; rice, farofa and pirao. My waiter directed me to the bus I would need to Engenho Federacao neighborhood and the Terreiro Gantois. Again, I recalled that the word, Engenho signified the site of a Sugar Plantation. An appropriate site for one of the three most important terreiros in Salvador.

The wind whipped at all of us waiting for the bus. Thirty minutes and my bus was still not there. I walked past the lighthouse towards Ondina to stay warm and decided to take a cab in front of a large Hotel Condo complex. I was anxious. Since I was not able to pickup my trousers I knew that I would have difficulty at the service tonight. I had learned in Cachoeira, that men needed white or light colored shirts and long pants. They had let me slide at the Lira Terreiro, i knew that Gantois would be more strict. I already knew that no photographs, recording or video equipment would be allowed.

Grinding the gears a bit as my driver shifted into second gear as we began to climb a steep hill. Earlier at lunch in Ana Claudia's home Roseangela had said that she thought Gantois sat on the site of an old Senzala, or Slave Quarters.Zeno, later disagreed with her assertion. I chuckled when we reached the top of the hill, Gantois shared the hill with the broadcast tower of the local CBS affiliate. I exited the cab at 8:15 PM, after paying the $17.00 fare. On either side of the slope were a few small cafe bars and a bodega. I saw that they earned their livelihood from the neighborhood and all of the international tourists who wanted to experience a Candomble ceremony. This arena was quite different to the local feeling I had witnessed in Cachoeira. While waiting for the doors to open, I bought a bottle of mineral water and some gum to guard against dozing. I walked to one of the windows and stood with the other tourists waiting for our cue to enter.

The well lit ceremonial room was a large square similar to the yesterday's in Cachoeira. Large rectangular windows were open on three sides of the terreiro. White streamers rained down from the ceiling like snow. Starburst icons of cane stalks with coconut centerpieces, painted with red, white and black designs decorated the walls. A raised platform framed on two sides sat in the center of the fourth wall, with two doors on either side of it. A large wooden throne sat in the center of this area with two smaller chairs on either side of it. Many sprays of tuberose and white carnations were set around this platform, in a beige mesh accented by coconut palm fronds. On the floor at the front of the platform is an arrangement of red flowers with a painted ceramic figure planted at their center. A large over saturated cibachrome photo collage hung above the throne. It seemed identical to the images created by my NY astrologer Carol's husband Aris. Curious. Several photos of Mae Menininha hung at the far end of this wall. Lush potted tropicals were set around the perimeter of the space. A large scuptural represenation of Oxossi, the Orixa who is the spiritual head of the terreiro was hung near the entryway. Behind the bandstand were wide wooden panels like venetian blinds with dried painted Obobora Squash arranged in festive designs. Again the center of the room is demarcated, this time with three different rectangular tiles, below which sit part of the Fundamento. A jute hanging with mini dried gourds suspended in a web of cowries hangs above these tiles.

This terreiro segrated the men from the women with long benches on either side of the room. The doors leading to the preparation rooms and sanctuary areas were marked for each gender. The musicians and cantors were stationed on a small platform in the center of the men's area. They chatted and laughed together, killing time. Identical to any church there were half a dozen men dressed all in white functioning like ushers and deacons milling around the room. I heard at least four languages from the anxious crowd. Here colored skins constitued fifty percent of the crowd. From the conversations, I learned that some of the tourists had guides with them. A handsome black man approaches me, recognizing me from Cachoeira and last night. Greeting me in perfect British accent, with overtones of Portuguese, he immediately I.D.'s me as "the American." He was surprised that I had known of the Ligia terreiro. Was I connected to the Mae de Santo? No, I replied. My first time her in Brazil. Switching to Portuguese he wished me well and walked on. I had also noticed a few faces from last night's ceremony, including the two blonde Germans. Hmm. On the sidewalk I saw man I had found in three different locales hawking Orixa etchings. Beautifully bold monochromatic images which were badly printed and stained with ink. He claimed to have exhibition quality prints as well. Then the doors were opened and I walked around to the front of the building to find a seat. I was immediately denied entrance due to my exposed legs.

I quickly went back to the window I had been stationed at. I nudged inbetween the oversized bellies of two large Argentines dressed in white outfits, appropriate for a tennis match. Together we shifted positions, and craned our necks to see over the male congregants inside who had long pants on. The best view I could muster caused me to stand with my torso torqued, one hip jutting into the wall balanced on my left leg with my right knee stradling between the brick work. I could tell that I wouldn't be falling asleep tonight. Luckily, Zeno had informed me that their services were generally three hours long. A thick crowd gathered behind us, including one woman who spoke Haitian French and Portuguese. She was spotted and saluted by several of the ushers. I wondered why she did not go inside, since she had been identified as a known quantity. After 90 minutes, first one then the second Argentine split from our perch. I was able to stand in a more normal fashion, though still on my toes in hopes of a partial view. This woman now sharing the window with me kept sniping at the taller men inside who obscured our view to move off to the sides. Some obliged her entreaties, others ignored them.

In spirit the service mimiced that of Ligia, though it was much more grand and polished. The opening procession around the central icon was done by twenty to thirty women; black, white and brown all in traditional Baiana dress. They proceeded to become possessed and also introduce popcorn to the congregants, though in a much more subtle way. Everyone paid homage to the Mae de Santo on the throne and were more deliberate in all of their postures, dances and actions. Again we were greeted by Mae de Santos garbed as Orixa. I saw Omulu, the Orixa of disease, Iemenja, guardian of the Seas and Oxossi among others. All the while I watched as Zeno quietly observed the service standing just inside of the doors marked for men. He observed the scene very closely, as if insuring that all of the rituals, songs and procedures were appropriately observed. Again, I saw people led out of the hall for a meal. Yet there was no equivalent to the "bystander" in the street who changed the focal point of the activity and had appeared to herald the denouement of the service. This time, I had more time to observe the details of form and function within the ceremony. I was beginning to become accustomed to the visual tableau enacted by the possessed, these Baianas and Orixa figures. Still it was spellbinding and ethereal to behold.

As predicted, about 11:30, Zeno came out and found me, stating in English, "Let's Go! -It's just over now." The participants were still circling to the singing and drum beats, but I could tell that all would be done in a few moments. I guess he wanted to beat the traffic. We talked briefly about the service. Zeno was curious to see if I had enjoyed the experience. I briefly related my experiences in Cachoeira to him, including last night's Candomble. He asked me a few questions about what I had observed. I realized that I had begun to jumble my Orixas into one big muddle in my attempts to clarify and understand the ritual. I had too many naive and ignorant questions. I needed to ground my knowledge in some history and fact. We switched our conversation to discuss the details of Joao's fourth birthday that had occured yesterday. We made it home fairly quickly. I felt at home, and comforted in his house. There were references to his grandmother and to Iemanja throughout the house. We both worked on our computers for awhile before retiring for the evening. This time, I made sure to slather mosquito repellant on my legs. His house was so close to the beach, that many flying insects flew over the walls that surrounded his home and provided sanctuary from the street. Finally, I had a easy dreamy rest.

Samba, Capoeira & Candomble, Sunday 17/8

Rains had briefly interrupted last night's Samba de Roda at the Irmandade. An unrelenting downpour began in between the sets of two of the bands. The refectory quickly recalled a steamy club or college Ratskellar, sweat streaming on faces and bodies. Like damp tinned sardines we were trapped inside. The smokers and beer drinkers stood huddled outside under the eaves or encircling old trees trunks for the protection of their canopies. I had chosen the blue bubble of an Oi! telephone booth. A perfect venue until the winds rose. When the music resumed I shot some photos. I was shaking my booty on my own until a woman's hand grabbed mine and pulled me into the strut yo' stuff circle. The crowd had created two small circles on either side of the room. Each one barely four feet in diameter was encircled by gyrating bodies ogling whoever jumped into the zone to exhibit their wares and their rhythms. We held our own for a few moments before I pulled out, tired and weak of knee. After the next batch of rain, I decided to head back to the "ousada" Wanting to decompress a bit, I walked down a few side streets to enjoy the evening air before bed. Light spilled out of the Cultural Center's massive wooden doors in front of me. I walked into the lobby, briefly eyeing an exhibit of abstract sculpture mimicking architectural models of skyscrapers. I heard music above me, so I followed the sounds to the main hall on the second floor. I found an adhoc party of advanced Capoeira students and their masters, lounging playing Capoeira and berimbaus. Several women were off to the side, chatting and smoking. Feeling like an uninvited guest, I listened briefly and then sought refuge in a nearby exhibit of Public School children's art and poetry in homage to the Boa Morte. It was honest and tender as children can often be. Twenty minutes later, I was back on the street walking towards the praca. The scene was pop rockish, so I gave up.

Entering the house, "Mom" was getting ready for her Saturday night, brushing out her hair, primping, painting eyeliner and posing in the mirror. Equally absorbed in his telenovela and his Mom's transformation Gito switched between the two from his makeshift bed/sofa. "Voce vai ir com nos agora? What, I thought-uh.., "Que?" " Vai ir: no Candomble! Esta cansado, voce? Sim, parece cansado." I responded, " Pois nao muito. Pode deixar me fazer algo, e eu posso ir com voces." She was right. I was exhausted. But, I realized that the opportunity was now. Then she began insisting that I bring my camera too. "Pode tirar fotos, certo! Nao e; pode. Deve. I was conflicted because I had dedicated the remaining photos on my card to the Caruru. "No", I replied in Portuguese. "I will use my eyes as my camera. Esta bom."

Fuimos desde um ratinho caminando comjunto entre as ruas obcuras. We walked quietly and quickly, trying to beat the next rain. We had elected to leave the umbrella at home, but brought a light jacket for Gito. We crested the hill across town and entered the park adjacent to the Igreja do Monte. In September I would return for another festa that would bless the church now undergoing renovations and celebrate Sao Cosme e Damiao. "Voce pode ouvir os tambores?" At first I heard nothing, and then suddenly the still night was shattered by thundering drums, their volume increased as we descended down the cobblestone street into another neighborhood. A crowd had gathered outside the terreiro as we walked up. Mom found us seats inside, I was placed next to two blonde German women, with their cameras ready. I was getting my Candomble 101 course. Last night's observation of the teen devotees engaged in their rituals in the town's square, had been a good precursor to this ceremony enacted by their elders.

The room square and white, was well lit with bare bulbs and fluorescents. A glazed golden tile with a large star was cemented in the middle of the floor. Coconut palm frond hung like streamers spilled down from the ceiling, interspersed with strings of popcorn. Several rows of white plastic chairs, thirty or so, lined two walls, a makeshift bandstand sat opposite the entryway, and a two throne-like wooden chairs opposed each other with symbolic objects mounted on the wall above them. A large window opened out to the street allowing standees to observe the ceremony. Faded iconic photos of black Brazilians, images of mermaids, Wonder Woman, Saint George slaying the dragon, a few inspirational messages and painted coconuts adorned the walls.

Initially the scene was measured by loping drum rhythms on three Atabaqui drums beaten with freshly whittled sticks, tinkling cowbells and hammered triangles. As the chairs filled, three middle aged men positioned in different areas began to chant and sing. Each new song instigated a new melody, slowly bringing half a dozen people mostly in light colored street clothes forward to processing around the starred tile. I knew that one man, dressed all in white with a white cap was a new initiate. All of the women had tied white fabric wrappers around their torsos and street clothes. A few women in Baianan white dresses and head scarves joined the circle. I recognized one of the Senhoras da Boa Morte in this group. Gazing around at the crowd, I realized that another Senhora sat in one of the throne chairs and two more flanked her. As each one approached these chairs, they hugged their elders, prostrated themselves, kissed their hands and moved on. Hips swayed and arms seemed to gestured rowing, hoeing, and offered thanks toward the sky. I imagined samba footwork at one quarter time. Subtly, in a whisper one, two then a third person became possessed. Each one had a mentor who rolled up pants legs, removed their shoes and any jewelry that might break or harm the wearer. Hands were grasped to guide the devotees, change their direction or occasionally leading them off to another room. A few people received their host hunched over uttering gutteral growls and shouts, spastically shaking their extremities. Loud, staccato drumming, heralded the arrival of Iemanja bearing a large tray of popcorn and shaved coconut draped in white lace. Setting on top of the popcorn was a small ceramic dish holding a few bills. The tray easily four feet in length was set down on a stool, and various people around the room were showered with popcorn. Everyone present was given a handful to eat.

Now the pace quickened. Others dressed as Orixa appeared chanting, barking and trembling as they performed their ritual and manifested a possession that vacillated between conscious and unconscious behaviors. Four hours had gone by, when an elderly woman touched my sleeve and beckoned me to the room behind the door. Across the floor, "Mom" rose and mouthed, "Vai voce, ela tem comida." They both led a small group of us through the door, down a short flight of stairs past a sanctuary emanating a soft blue light. The stair ended at a small anteroom, with a low ceiling, wooden slat walls a few closed doors and a counter where a woman was placing huge plates of food. I sat in silence next to my host eating a mixture of rice, black eyed peas, caruru, chicken, beef, vatapa and abbara. Everything was quite redolent of palm and dried shrimp. I was led back into the main room, stopping at the open doorway, at the top of the stair. The room seemed undersea with mermaids, plants and sea imagery. The soft blue light was comforting. She asked me to kneel for a blessing and to leave one real as a symbolic gift to the terreiro and as good luck for me.

Back inside the room, now fever pitched, I watched as visitors came and went, some who were "parishioners" would process briefly, embrace their elders or be embraced by the Orixas. An intoxicated man came in from the street, tried to process, bobbed and weaved and was led out quietly, while rounds of fireworks and sheets of rain resounded in the street. Often like a jazz or contact improv, people moved around, got up, sat down, looked for the toilet, yet nothing interrupted the flow of the service. The cantors slowly moved to new positions in the room, made eye contact with each other when trying to decide on the order of songs. A new man, older than the others began to add his baritone to their chorus.

The Orixa figures and a few of the possessed individuals began to embrace everyone in the front row of chairs as they completed their practice. From the street came a catterwall. The majority of attendees quickly turned to find the source of the screams. I caught myself dozing off, shocked into wakefulness from the shouts I turned from the warrior Orixa figure in the room to see this bystander become possessed in the street just outside the terreiro. A portly ebony woman with straightened hair, she ran in and out of the room, alone or with help from one of the mentors. In the opposite corner one of the Baianas began sweeping at the corners with a straw broom. This new woman did not cease her wailing and running to and fro. Accidentally I grazed Gito's arm, sitting next to me. His body slack, his breathing heavy he was in full REM sleep and could not be awakened. We were reaching the six hour mark of the service. Now the Senhora-Orixa who seemed to embody Iemenja carefully embraced each congregant, grunting and breathing like an animal on the prowl. As she came to me and the two Germans she pulled us up to standing hugged each cheek, took her right hand and motioned with two fingers that our eyes must look directly into hers, as she lifted our torsos and bear hugged us in a way that seemed carnal, almost sensuous. This Mae de Santo was also one of the Senhoras da Boa Morte. I learned later that they were all Maes de Santo. I had guessed that the woman who had been in the street was signaling that the service was coming to a close. Her possession seemed to have brought in a new spirit which shooed the others away.

Mom realized that we needed to get Gito home, It was now close to 4:00 AM. It took both of us prodding, shaking, calling his name and squeezing his cheeks to awaken Gito. Once he lost some of his sleep drunkedness we made our way to the street, after giving thanks to the elders seated in the throne chairs. The cobblestones were shining from the rain and the full moonlight. Hearing his calm measured voice, I realized that "Mom" was fully engaged with the last cantor, the older gentleman. He started walking with us as we climbed the hill towards the Igreja. It sounded like he was a Pae de Santo, it seemed like he was from this community but had moved away. Based on snippets of conversation that I caught, he had come back for the festa and possibly this ceremony. They were catching up on old business. Listening to Gito's mom speak, I realized how simple her Portuguese was. Her tone was syrupy, like Delta women in Mississippi; though clipped and halting, pausing often to find her words. Images flooded my consciousness, interrupting this reverie. I was trying to process all that I had seen. I reached for context, subtext or rationale, yet in the moment it seemed irrelevant. We walked quickly through the vacant streets, spying an errant couple or two who had no safe zone for their intimacy. He came home with us, this Babalow. Of course he took "Mom's" bed and she took the last couch. Sleep came quickly for me; not a truly restful sleep, so pregnant with dreams of the Candomble service.