Finding and leaving Vivaldo (bus-cab-scream-breathe)

I had been anxious walking with Big as he cruised his neighborhood, acknowledged all the right folk and bartered for better prices on concrete, nails and lathe. I wanted to be in Pituba on time. I didn’t quite understand which bus or stop was the right one for me. I hoped that it would all become self evident along the way.

As it worked, the bus was much slower than I had imagined. My phone was inoperable, so calling Henrique was a non reality. By the time we hit Avenida João VI, which I knew began the beginning of the hamlet, it was a few minutes shy of nine. I hoped that it would fall into place as we drove on. I asked the driver and he was somewhat clueless. Other passengers interjected their thoughts, but it was a blur to everyone. I kept going thinking that I would see a landmark, just ahead. In my stress, I had botched the name of the cul-de-sac that Vivaldo lived on.

Finally at 9:05 with nothing quite adding up, I jumped off the bus, flagged a cab and asked for help. He was local to the area, a bit spacey and had no idea what I was talking about. After we circled a few blocks he agreed to let me use his cell. He dialed the number and started to talk to one of the housekeepers when Vivaldo obviously grabbed the phone on the other end and barked directions at him. His neck hairs tensed and we sped off. It took him some time after we came into the hood. The guard at the gate recognized me and we drove down the block. It was almost 9:30. I heard the dogs barking behind the gate when we drove up.


Vivaldo was already at the curb looking out for us. Immediately he had decided that I had found one of those merciless cabs who had just taken me for a ride. He ripped a new asshole and gave him a colon cleanse for my driver, who initially was apologetic, then defensive, and finally brutally hostile. The Latins' were in session, and it wasn’t pretty. I worried for this man, who rightfully bitched of failing health. I thought this was not the catalyst for an episode or a bad memory of Scott that needed to be the denouement of my morning or my new acquaintanceship. I just wanted the cab to drive away.


One of the housekeepers pulled on Vivaldo’s arm, as the cab cursed, took the three point turn too quickly and sped off. Immediately Vivaldo was protective and apologetic of me. Later, he demanded specifics. He told me that I had already missed lunch. “Lunch?” I asked. It seems that even though I had shared my schedule with him, he had planned a luncheon last Saturday with two eminent Anthropologists he thought I should meet, but I never telephoned. “Oy vey, here we go….” So when we went back to the cab incident, I was honest and anxious as I shared the details. He told me that I needed to learn the city; No… “I needed to stay here with him, read, study and ask questions. That was it!

--When did I have to go to NY?”
“Today.”

“: Today, no that wouldn’t work. Couldn’t I stay on?” “Boy, did I wish….” Well, he decided we just had to get to work, time was passing quickly. We sat down and were served juice and coffee before I went upstairs to the library and he retired to his office. Before we split he finally explained the relationship he had to the comely middle aged Blonde who had been and still was ever present. I had thought that she was a cousin, sister or some relation. No, she was the widow of his cousin’s friend up from São Paulo. He had thought that her mourning should happen somewhere else to clear her head. She had spent two months with him, and would leave in a few days.


I got lost in my studies upstairs, candy all around me. It was true, we both saw books the way most men see porn. I was beside myself and barely knew where to start. Especially since most everything was written in Portuguese, then French, with a small minority of titles in English. Hours later he called up to me with a restless throaty yell. He was hungry, wasn’t I? “Come down so we can discuss lunch.” I shut the books, closed the sliding glass doors and locked up before I climbed down the stairs. As I expected a double Scotch neat and a few beefy snacks were waiting us in the sitting room. He asked if I had any special dining requests? “We eat simply here, whatever they fix is fine, it is always a surprise.” I thought that a bit curious since he was a Culinary Anthropologist, but I stayed quiet and went with it.


We were four for lunch, his cousin, the widow, Vivaldo and me. We had a simple meal of a macaroni salad, some simply cooked vegetables, grilled chicken, rice, Farofa, and some stewed fish. He opened a round Argentinean Cab for he and I, while his cousin drank coke. In the end, the widow joined us in the Cab. After lunch he told me of his family’s business, Jurabeba Leão do Norte. I acknowledged that I was familiar with the history. Consequently he felt that I needed a bottle to remember him by. We sipped this bitter that was alleged to aid and strengthen my member whenever needed. Whatever. Then he had them bring us some Nocello and coffee with the sorvete we had for dessert.

It wasn’t three o’clock and I was swimming in the sauce, trying to keep my tenses straight and not make a bigger ass of myself. We decided that it was better to end our session here. He sketched out his summer, our winter and we made tentative plans to get together in May or June. His driver picked me up, and we drove north along the coast to Zeno’s to get my bags, say goodbye to Zeno, João, Itapúa, and actually Brazil.

Cookin’ it up with Dada, hanging with Big, his mom and his Spliffs…

Monday late afternoon, when I got off the Lancha, I headed up the Lacerda to Big’s (pronounced Biggie) store. He had wanted me to buy/bring an Orixá painting to Danny for his birthday. I knew that at minimum I needed to buy something from him as a thank you for the people he had introduced me to. From the day I had met him, I knew that his friendship came at some kind of price. No matter, he had been sweet and generous with his time, his family and his contacts. And the mini canvases were cheap enough.

When I got there, he let me know that he was hurt that I had never taken him up on his offer to have a meal or stay for a week at his house. We talked for a bit, and we decided that I would spend the night with him. He told me that he had no food in the house, so why didn’t I go get some chow. I walked up to the cash machine, nosed around for some grub, and decided to try once more to suss out Dada at her Pelourinho spot, Sorriso de Dada. When I walked in the door, I saw her on the phone. I grabbed a table in the back, ordered a Moqueca de Polvo, Agua de Coco, a Caipirinha and an audience with Dada.

She sashayed over, deep cleavage revealed an ample bosom in her strapless satiny gown. Silky whitecloth wrapped tightly round her head obscured her hair. She was quick to hug and talk shop. I explained my previous attempts to share a TV slot with her. She apologized, and we got down to business sharing stories, laughing and revealing some trump cards. She was on the heels of a Norwegian excursion, she had been contracted to teach them Bahian Bacalhau recipes. The Norwegian Fisheries Commission had contracted her to write a small cookbook. In the best way she was bawdy, colored and full of fun, and little modesty. Dada was the Brazilian Emerald or Bobby Flay with her empire and kingdom. She was the ambassador of Bahian cuisine, and had been the darling and a character inspiration to Jorge Amado. Dada was gap tooth girl (a traveler) with an agenda. We had so much good laugh time that I almost missed Big.


He asked me to pay for a cab, so that we could get home faster. Like many people in retail, when it was over he was too through. Done and extra crispy. He wanted to get home, chill roll a fatty and forget. One of his salesgirls came with us as we walked down to Baixa dos Sapateiros to find a cab. Big precisely directed the taxi through the city only offering the driver a few blocks worth of information at any moment. This is the real way to travel in town. I have seen too many cabs take the scenic route to build the meter check.


His house was a crazy conflagration of shack, DYI and mansão. He had bought a double lot, and just kept adding floors as he had money and construction materials. Obviously he had sold many, many little canvases and building codes were probably a fiction. The ground floor façade was non-descript to fit in with the working class homes of his neighbors on his lane in Sete Portas. He had cleverly constructed the entrance with an ante room to prevent an onlooker to see over his shoulder when he turned the key and see what booty was inside the house. Like Danny he was an Ogun, and he had an ofrendo in the anteroom. He took no chances. I quickly learned as I had guessed that he was some kind of made man. He told me that he grew up on the streets to learn how to live. He had been with gangsters, and was not a gangster. He had been with drug dealers and was not a dealer or a user. He knew everyone, but stayed clean. After I set down my things, I went back to the street to make some calls, solidify my agreement with Henrique to drive me to the airport, confirm tomorrow’s meeting with Vivaldo and say a few quick goodbyes.

Back in the house, he called down to me to head up to the roof. There he sat with his co-worker and his mother, her parrots and parakeets rolling spliffs for all takers. The top floor was half open to the sky. He told me he was making a suite for people like me to come and stay in. He and his mom who was quite attractive, petite (as was he) and café au lait to his deep ebony skin, told me that I had a room for Carnaval, just confirm my flight and I was all set.

I took several pictures of his expressive face in the half light of the moonrise. For whatever reason, Big had cottoned to me. He cooked up the idea that we should collaborate on a book. It seems that Oprah had been one of the many black Americans who had traipsed through his tchoctke gallery.

Allegedly before he knew quite who she was he had invited her home for lunch. His story goes that she loved her meal so much she came back two days later and wanted more. When she went to pay for the meal, he insisted that this was his home not a restaurant, he would be insulted to accept money. “But I am….”-she trailed off. “It doesn’t matter who you are, you are my guest,” he asserted. Out came the card and the invitation to Chicago. “Come be on the show, tell me how I can help you, whenever you need it.”


So now he wanted to cash in. Did I think that she would cover the U.S. book publication and publicity fees? He had a source for the Brazilian side. We could make it work, together he assured me. Wow…some sleepover. I said that I needed to think on it. What a possibility, Vivaldo all day, and Big all night. I foresaw two sides to Salvador, two books and very little sleep. Hmm. I needed to take some notes, straighten up my stuff for traveling and prep myself for my day with Vivaldo. I went downstairs, showered, charged all my technology and crashed.


In the morning, his mom made coffee while we fed the birds and Big got his blunts together. He told me that he would walk me to the Pituba bus on his way to Pelourinho. Every person who crossed his path he either knew, or they owed him a favor or needed a hand. I guessed that I should be calling him Don Big. The specter of working together took on deeper resonance. He bought some building materials for a some L.A. black friends reno' job he was supervising and dropped me at the bus stop. All along the way I was shooting pics, probably to the consternation of my made man. We parted with a full embrace, and I agreed to send him copies of my pictures and a response to his request. Whew that was a great deal to experience before eight A. M.

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.