Can you juggle?

Can you juggle? Then, catch this. I may seem like a perpetual improv to some, but I like to plan ahead, knowing what’s coming up. Our workshop at Escola Cultural Mario Gusmão began with a bang. Luckily, due to Sunday’s election all public schools were closed on Friday and Monday. All voting booths are located in neighborhood schools. Many of the students at Gusmão didn’t show up Monday, thinking that these sessions were suspended too.


Hannah had a story telling and illustration workshop to give on Itaparica this morning. So, it was the boys club; Nathan, Rahul and me. Luis found a Norwegian exchange student, Nora to volunteer which helped. I learned quickly that we had misunderstood the class schedule. As we had planned we made the small kites, decorated them, with potato prints and wishes before flying them on the beach.


Everyone adults included shared the contact high of flying. Kids running, screaming and laughing in the sand, sprayed by slapping surf some struggled to keep the kites aloft. Now and then they were forced to stop abruptly to untangle string and tails with their classmates before moving on. It was all too much good fun.


Snack break was a very sweet version of Mingau, the warm corn and coconut drink that is served at Candomble ceremonies as well as the Catholic festa de São Roque. The lunch lady told me that when she has money to make food that they have to chew, they all stop and eat. Otherwise, it is quickly forgotten in favor of rough-housing. While they ate, we cleaned up and got ready for the next group.


At ten o’clock, they re-entered the cramped classroom, and I realized that we had a big misunderstanding to work through. I, we thought that each group had a ninety minute session, twice a week. Actually, they had two back to back ninety minute sessions twice per week. Now we had to create a new plan on the fly.


I asked if Raquel if there were children with musical aptitude? She told me that there was no music instruction on Monday’s so she did not know. ..Rahul created a quick call and response percussion workshop, which I translated for. Children chose different instruments and he created simple rhythms which the kids repeated or riffed on. We made a brief performance and then the dance teacher had them demonstrate their long term modern dance piece. Nathan developed a crush on the teacher, or a fantasy on her physique.

Lunchtime was a bit dicey for us since most restaurants were closed. We finally found a Churrasceria and shared a decent meal of grilled chicken and requisite starches. After lunch we prepared to divide our group and our curriculum to better allow for the time frame.

First we began the music workshop, until we were interrupted by Jose Carlos, the sweet and flighty theatre teacher. He explained that he works Monday afternoon through Wednesday morning. He also had a long term project, which included puppet making, scene writing and a dramatization of the scenes. He wanted to pick up where he had left off last week. We agreed to collaborate. He took half a dozen students and worked on scene memorization and puppeteering while Rahul and I created the musical improve workshop. We worked separately, then came together to create a collaborative piece.

Raquel appeared in the doorway, and briefly apologized for not telling us, or confirming with him. The beat goes on. I was beginning to see that a blustery wind enveloped Raquel. Everything was in flux and not fixed other than her push up bra, and revealing dresses, more suited to a dinner dance than an inner city art program.


This time everything came together well and easily. Hannah showed up just at the tail end of the kite flying episode. Mel, her heartthrob had come in moments before her, anxious to see her. After class they helped us prep for the next day’s session.


All day Raquel had floated in and out with issues, ideas and hot button neuroses. The back and forth in English and Portuguese was thoroughly exhausting. I had deduced that she was jealous of my language skills. “I studied your English for one and a half year and I am not speaking like you, only here two month.” I explained that I had also studied in America and that I had an aptitude for language. She couldn’t hear me. The train wreck had already happened. Now she wanted to take us back to the mall for more string. Nathan wanted to swim and not prep. I was beginning to be too through.


Mel suggested that we get dinner, let’s call him Mr. Détente. Raquel finally went home. We walked to Rio Vermelho and had actually wonderful thin crust with good fresh toppings at Companhia de Pizza, the top place in town. We hung out for a bit on the roof deck watching the moon and the waves before we went into our dorm digs. Our room bed to bed to bed was a little too close for pleasure.


Later that evening, Nathan decided to pick up his friend Chad at the airport and sleep with her in the Pelourinho. He cajoled us to try and help him find a taxi, though we both fell asleep before he packed and left. Chad a sweet Cambodian friend from Australia is also an art writer who helps to pump his work. I wasn’t sure what she got in the bargain.


Day 2, we had decided would repeat the format we had arrived at yesterday afternoon. First we would do the music and theatre collab-confab and then finish with the kite making project. Well by 8:35 Jose Carlos had not arrived. When I asked Raquel about him, “He has too many emotional issues. You cannot depend on him. He often doesn’t show up.”


I lost it. Every other minute I had had to hear or bear some part of her scattered histrionics. It was not my fault that he cannot get it together. In fact, she never told me to expect him in the first place. I wanted to know what she was going to do about his absence? Would she or someone else fill the gap? Did she have his puppet script? “Go, work it out!--will you?” I bellowed. She cringed. Turning to walk away, she bumped into him as he rushed to cover his tardiness and get to work. Ten minutes later an attractive young black woman appeared with a pad and a camera. “Raquel sent me to see you. I am the journalist here to interview you for Tarde newspaper.” I rolled my eyes, wanting to foam at the mouth.


Raquel entered the room. Immediately she suggested that I sit down and complete the interview. I pointed to the children and said, “We’re teaching.” “-But, she is here now. We need this. The Assistant Superintendent of Education is coming this afternoon. You need to make an impression.” I had not recalled the contract negotiations. What was my pay rate? Were there benefits? No. Not unless you factor in the guilt over not doing the best thing possible for the children.


The sticky filaments of freshly spun webbing were tightening around my mid section. She was good at roping me into her hell. I had taken the bait. I was pissed, when Nathan and Chad arrived at school, just before lunch.


We took lunch at the officer’s club. Hannah and I shared a crunchy platter of baby camarão com alho e azeite. Nathan and Chad ate starches and Caipirinhas. I walked to the bar to pay our tab, and realized that the large table of older adult men were serenading each other with old Brasilian love songs. One man played the Cavaquinho and the other a twelve string classical guitar. I stood listening quietly, until one mad berated me for listening to his out of tune friend. I disagreed, and was then ordered to sit down. All old enough to have been repressive turds in the60-70’s junta, they were all quite nostalgic now.


Hannah came to snag me, just as the one brown man, sashayed over in his Speedo and nothing else, “Não dançou você, se não dançaba com um Africano. Você gostaria dançar comigo?” She replied, “—Uh, no. I mean yes, I would like to, but we can’t. We have to teach.” Stumbling over her words, she repeated herself.”


My new retiree pal asked how far we had to go as he offered us beer to entice us. We left, walked into class just before the Board of Education Administrator. She decided to observe Rahul’s process. In less than an hour we had this group, 15 kids, working as an ensemble with solos. It was hot.


Augusto arrived with a new fellow, Michael, just as we finished. The music teacher stepped up, saying that he wanted to direct his kids to sing too. He proceeded to lead three renditions of classic Brazil pop songs, while accompanying the chorus of kids with an electric piano. The children performed this large work, while standing at attention, stiff as marionettes. He sucked the life out of the material and the children. Someone later said that they saw him as a quite repressed person, hmm.


They all left as we initiated today’s kite project. I had learned that this class had some rough kids in it. I always find these types zap your energy and require more one on one than the other kids. I want to nurture them since I see how compromised they are. Instead they just challenge every moment, charging the air with their volatility. Everyone pays for their inadequacies or poor upbringing.


We had segregated the kite project into component steps. Hannah and I learned that we could work together as a great team. Nathan prefers to get swallowed up in the aura of the children, one on his lap, two pulling gently on his hair while he helps them fold and paint. Stressor quotient was high. Now Raquel came to say that we could not have all of the kids out at once. Her director was anxious. I suggested staggered shifts. “No, that won’t do. There are too many to contend with.” I couldn’t understand her logic. At any time there were at least four teachers in their study-lounge area; often six. Sitting, talking and solving the crises of education and the failed system.


At the appropriate time, I sent the first group at with Rahul, while we stayed behind to finish and cleanup. Ultimately I said screw it, and sent the kids out in shifts as I had suggested. I made sure that they were safely across the street;-what else did we need to do? The kids experienced the same visceral thrill, which softened and brightened my day. I told Raquel as I was leaving that I would send a disc of photos I took next week.


“Não. Vou precisar amanha. Temos uma reunião pronto na manha.”- Again, I felt caught. I understood how and why she could need the images for the director, but she had no sense of planning or grace to grease a wheel. “I will do what I can.” Rahul and I left without paying our mini-bar bill. I hoped that she would be stuck for the $8 reals.

Amaralina, no boogie no cry

Lauri was deep in her Liberdade photo essay, so she was not available for the workshop. Nathan was on the fence, considering a part time involvement, if any at all. Rahul now low on funds was willing but needed a stipend. I wanted to engage some of the local folks who had offered to volunteer with us. I hoped that we could sequence it so that my homey’s Kathy and Tracy, both photogs from America could document the results. An overactive mind is a dangerous thing.

Our project would combine art, music and story. As I remembered of San Francisco Bay, many people here flew kites. Hannah suggested that we create a kite (Pipa or Perequita) making workshop. “Let’s fly them on the beach and have kids make a “musical soundtrack” to send the kites into the sky,” I added. Hannah wanted to create more resonance to the project. Collectively we hit on the idea of Wish Kites. Imbuing the kite or its tail with written dreams or wishes, making a design or drawing that symbolized your hopes could create dialogue and the depth of meaning she desired.

Group dynamics with artists can be colorful at best. It seems like everyone either wants to be the remembered garnish, not a carrot or compliment in the soup; or possibly the spice that dictates flavor. Just getting on the same page at the same time in the same room is creative. Nine days later, after scaling down the time frame to two days with Augusto’s help we began to see daylight. I left Thursday for an overnight in Salvador. I had targeted some material needs to bring back to the island. Twisting my ankle running for the bus, precluded any extra walking or shopping. I barely made it to an acupuncturist, skipping all of my previously arranged appointments, before heading back to Itaparica.


Last Saturday morning we arranged for the third time to make a kite template. Afterwards we could forage materials not available from the school or Sacatar. Junho our neighbor and Capoeira teacher, aka Arroz agreed to share kites he had made as a ‘tweener. Mel, a Baiano artist, college prof., and recent heartthrob of one our crew also had some ideas. Saturday became Sunday and now I was short on time to meet Raquel at the hotel to finalize details. By now Nathan was in it to win it so we left the template in his hands. Hannah was coming in from Salvador. She was bringing wooden skewers to use as struts or supports. All good, so I thought.


Rahul and I made it in good time. I had brought a few snacks to tide us over. We ate a bit, put our stuff away and changed into our trunks in preparation to swim after meeting with Raquel. We were told that she had a four P.M. appointment, so we had arrived early. I had a three item shopping list to fill. I asked her about kite string and she insisted that the only place to buy it was a short car ride away. Her only child Jocelyn was just fourteen, going on 27. She was attractive and a typical teen fashion victim who had a perfect command of English with an American accent to match.


From Amaralina to Boca do Rio to Pituba, within less than ten minutes drive we were in an upper middle class sub-division. The shopping mall; yes the mall. I had left Salvador and was in a sterile mid American urban mall. I eschew television and abhor malls. I have previously gotten nauseas and anxious in malls. Generally, I sit in the car and read or walk the perimeter of the landscaped parking area. When pushed, I will attempt the garden store, or elect to enter a store with direct street access. We all do have limits and idiosyncrasies.


It took ten minutes to find the Brinquedo or toy store. They had a hobby desk with a few types of string. Great, now we could go…No-Jocelyn wanted to window shop and possibly buy something. She also needed to stop in one of the “cute espresso café’s. I guess that this was the 4:00 P.M. appointment. I turned to Rahul while we walked through the cathedralic glass atrium with its tile and chrome décor, “I guess this means no swimming. And, you know what, since I did not expect this trip, I do not have much money on me.” Anticipating beachside snacks, we had never had had lunch. F-ed.


When I saw the Siciliano Bookstore, similar to Barnes and Noble; I tried to realize personal gain from this excursion. I went in looking for the Tropicalia catalogue that Michele had hoped that I could find. No dice; but again I was impressed at how quickly current American and international titles were translated into Brazilian Portuguese. We were treated to espressos at a hip café, alleged to be the best cup of coffee in town. On our way to the car, I asked if we could stop and see an art exhibit near the restaurant court that Luis recommended in an earlier email. The photos were well executed and decorative, befitting their environment. We arrived back at the hotel at dusk. Everyone had previously forewarned us that the beach was unsafe after dark.


Having been chosen to be in the advance party offered a secondary goal for us. I wanted to go to the Aguas de Oxala ceremony at Ilê Axé Opo Ofonja; Mae Stella’s Terreiro. I had arranged for Henrique, the Sacatar cab liaison to pick us up by midnight.

For his only wish, Rahul asked if we could have fish for dinner. I thought that if we headed back towards Pituba or Boca do Rio, we would be able to catch a bus to Cabula and the Terreiro. We had been waiting hours for Nathan who had the template and wanted to see this Terreiro. By 6:30 we gave up on him, leaving a note and directions for him.

I picked Yemanja, what seemed like an “institution” of a restaurant. Everything was fresh and well presented, but without much character. Two busses later and almost ninety minutes of waiting in between we arrived at the Terreiro. It was a few minutes before nine.

Opo Afonja is set on the top of a hill in Cabula. The Terreiro sits on probably forty to fifty acres of urban land. Inside the white cinderblock ceremony room, a dozen incarnate Oxala’s were dancing and praising him. Twenty minutes later, just as I was making sense of this service, I realized that the costumed dancers were preparing to exit the room. If I understood what I was seeing, that meant it was all about to end. Moments later outside in the yard, I learned that they start their ceremony at six instead of eight, or eight thirty. Their model fit a working class congregant’s reality. In the dark I walked Rahul around the compound or village identifying the elementary school, museum and various houses of the Orixa, before finding pay phone to call Henrique. He came quickly, and got us home by ten thirty.

Rahul was thirsty. He wanted water or a soft drink. I asked the clerk if he had heard from Nathan, identifying him by name and description. No dice. “Is there a place nearby for a drink?” I asked. “Saia ao mão izquierda, segue na frente, perto da esquina--On the corner, just down the street,” was his reply. We set out walking in the dark.

Itaparica: Healing waters, Caboclo, 95 & counting

Na sexta passada nos fizemos um turne sobre na ilha Itaparica.

As part of our orientation to Sacatar we were taken on a onibus tour of the island by Augusto, the programming director. Prior to this tour we had had a snapshot trek through the historic district of Salvador, including Cidade Baixa and Alta, O Pelourinho, or the Pillory and a few areas to purchase art supplies and sundries. Now we would have a full day's exploration of Itaparica. Our first stop was Ponto d'Areia. We passed the beach and restaurant where Michele and I had spent the day, drawing with the kids, eating freshly caught fish and Blanca's mother's coconut cocadas. Augusto had a great delivery, a bit of a dry wit and just enough history or backstory to fill in the necessary gaps.

We arrived in the village of Amenoeira to see the Terreiro, de Lidio, who goes by the name of Bui. The first glimpse of Candomble for the majority of our crew. Set back from the road, the terreiro extended all the way to the ocean, with two story homes along the eastern side of the compound. We entered through a brick archway. Three tall ceramic jugs were cemented into the top of the arch. A ladder leaned into the wall and a man was adding another layer of mortar to the structure. Just inside the archway was a tableau that included Exu, (Eleggba in Nigeria, or the Orixa guardian of the crossroads; and Preto Velho, the Orixa named Old Black Man,(a symbol of wise, old slave full of wisdom and healing). Our guide was the grandson of the Pai de Santo. The courtyard was anchored by a round stone pedestal that supported a welded sculpture of a power figure. Underneath the apartments on the second floors were the houses of each individual Orixa, all locked tight. Most sported an emblematic piece of dried animal hide, a piece of bird's skeleton, or sun-dried caul fat. Remnants of past sacrifices and I assume power conductors for the Orixa. We were not allowed into the initiation chambers. Everything else was openly displayed and photos were permitted. This was exceptional; a rarity.

Their main ceremony room at once mirrored the others that I had seen, in that it was square, albeit much larger than most, with the central tile and streamers hanging from the ceiling. All the surfaces were covered in stone tile. Facing the entrance way was a raised stone platform with a three large black ceramic figurines . These figurines complimented more than one dozen others ringing perimeter of the room and dressed to represent all of the Orixa. I tried to identify the few that I knew. Augusto interrupted my self quiz with a few choice Orixa legends that offered concise clues to their identities.

We continued back, walking into a recently constructed room that Augusto had never seen. It was a Caboclo Sanctuary. The Caboclo spiritual practice was uniquely Brazilian. It identified Gods or spirits that were Indian in nature. I guessed that the dancers I had photographed in front of the Irmandade last weekend must have been followers of the Caboclo tradition. This room, smaller than the first had crisscrossing banners of the Brazilian flag draped from the ceiling. We were told that this was a signifier of the roots of the practice. The altar area had a figure who was surrounded by food offerings, Obobora,( a local Calabash/Squash), ceramic vases and other symbolic objects.

Next we ventured beyond the buildings down into the yard that touched the sea. Around specific trees and plants we found small firepits stradled by ironwork sculptures signifying each Orixa. A variety of offerings surrounded each designated area. Every tree or bush held a specific relationship for each Orixa. Off to the left I saw the Iroko tree, that Jane, a visiting Sacatar fellow, had described at lunch. She had related to us that here in the new world Strangler Figs were often confused with Iroko. According to legend they were only trees who grew from the heavens to the ground, as opposed to the others who sprout in the earth and climb to heaven. Botanically they both begin by having their seeds sprout in the crotches and boughs of host trees. Ultimately, they strangle the host, growing around the trunk and branches often creating a large hollow room where the original tree had stood. Jane had researched and written about these trees when she had lived on the island. Once again, I had received information just before I needed to understand its relevance within the cosmology of this environment. Walking back up the hillside, someone asked me to translate their question to our guide, "Wasn't it difficult, hard work to build and maintain the terreiro, raise a family, pay the bills and survive?" "Yes, it is work," was his oblique reply.

A short distance down the road we stopped in the central square to greet a local political candidate, whose beauty and physique stunned our female companions. Augusto explained that he also administered a youth program, Nova Terra in Mar Grande. If there was time, we would tour their facility. He encouraged us to drop in and view the children's folkloric presentation this afternoon. As he walked off, Augusto saw Don Alvaro Florencio da Concecao, (Senhor Alvinho). Three times elected to the Town Council, and now the resident historian at ninety five. His skin still somewhat taught seemed to be two sizes to big with folds of wrinkles accumulating at each joint. His eyeglasses were nearly Coke bottle thick, his weathered, aged speckled hands rested on a carved wooden cane and a red and white MacDonald's cap shielded his face from the strong sun. We listened for a good half hour, as Sr. Alvinho related vignettes of Itaparica, the mineral springs, the healing waters, experimental artists like the musician Walter Smetak and other former residents. Augusto whispered that he wanted to interview him and create a film or video for the town archives. He had had five children, two were still alive. He could not remember how many grands, great and great greats he had. Augusto asked him to begin the story of Venceslaus for us. His mind still sharp, he truly carried a library on his shoulders. With a grin, he joked about how spry he still was as we bade him farewell.

We stopped on a beach to see the remains of a large brick whale oven that now had a large tree growing through the foundations. The early whalers had cooked the meat, and extracted oil from the carcasses. The bones were used to make the same mortar that the Algonquins had taught the Pilgrims to make from oyster shell. We drove a few miles until we arrived at a large field. Tethered at one end were several cocks, scarred from previous battles. Instead of parking we drove across it arriving at a small thatched pavilion commemorating Venceslaus Monteiro Parque, and asking all guests to be silent and respectful of nature. The miracle of Venceslaus implies that in a series of dreams he was led to a pool deep in the park. Bathing his face in the waters, cured him of blindness. He lived in the park for the rest of his life, leaving under duress and dying immediately afterwards. Senhor Concecao had know Vencelaus, and confirmed the tale. We entered the park and walked one quarter mile or so, through tropical forest and wild flowers to a clearing. There was a small stone house and sanctuary shaped like a beehive oven. At the edge of the clearing was the famous pool. Augusto had his own story of an innocent friend who had come in for a nature walk not knowing of the power of the waters. He had received his own cure, as adolescent scars from scarlet fever disappeared soon after bathing in the pool. Augusto had not known of his scars and was surprised to see the changes in his friends body.

We all took turns washing our hands and faces in the waters, sitting for a time in personal reflection. Rahul's rich baritone voiced a lament, evolving to an emotional crescendo Gospel-like with hope and promise. I cried for my mother and for joy. Rahul then shared with us that he had chosen one of the Baul prophet Lalon Shais songs. An ode to Atma, (the bird or soul living inside our body or its cage). "You must protect Atma from danger, lest he fly away and your soul is lost." Lalon's song asked, "Does our conscious mind control Atma, the bird-soul, or does our bird-soul control our consciousness. He sang this in empathy for Venceslaus.


Caboclos*

When the forest is on fire
the cabin does not burn.
With his bow and arrow
the Caboclo is not afraid of anything!
There where the nightingale sings,
there where the moon shines,
there where my guide stays,
glittering star.
With Oxala's permission
I saw a Caboclo arrive.
He joins in our dance,
the Caboclo warrior,
A red cross in his hand!

*excerpted from: Macumba, The Teachings of Maria-Jose; Mother of the Gods

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.