where to from there.....

I left everyone else there to enjoy Sara while I hiked up and down hills to catch the procession for São Cosme e São Damião. I had given up on the idea of more Caruru. If it happened, so be it. I was desperately running out of time. It was now after four o’clock. The bus I needed to catch was at 5:20 PM. I had promised Ana Claudia that I would stop by to say hi & bye. I had had hopes of possibly navigating a future meeting with Zelita. That was toast.


I still needed to get my overnight bag at Francisca’s. We also needed to exchange information. The email that I had for her wasn’t working. On the run, I made it into the hood of the Igreja and everyone was patiently waiting in costume for the Go-Ahead signal. Young children in colored marabou and crepe angel costumes, marching band outfits and other rigmarole were sweating in the late afternoon tropical sun. Adult men were struggling to keep the icon of the Saints elevated off the ground.


I ran through the crowd, racing the clock. I was looking for Francisca. My memory card was just about at tilt. I thought I could shoot half a dozen still images, switch to video and use up the card before the already weak battery gave out. I am learning about traveling with technology in the street. I expended the card, capturing the frustrated and confused kids and some images of the Ibeji’s before I saw the film crew. The parade had just begun to move.


Once the parade had moved out of sight the rented van pulled up to gather Gina, Francisca and the sisters from the Irmandade to ferry them to the next best vantage point. Wolfgang and his cameraman had the strap on devices so that they could walk with the parade, the camera secured to their chest to keep a stable image. They would walk the entire route. Francisca told us that the parade finished up after seven o’clock with no ambient light left.


I jumped in the van to chat with her for a moment as we drove into the center of town on side roads. Unfortunately, I had misheard and they were not parking the van at the Irmandade, but by the old slave prison. This was farther from Francisca’s house and the Rodoviaria, or bus station, than I wanted to be.

After thanking Gina for the lift, and saying goodbye to Francisca and As Irmas da Irmandade, I ran down the main street, grabbed my gear and hit the parade as I ran up the hill near the bridge to the bus station. I hoped that the parade would slow the bus, in case I was late. I ran up and found three parked busses. “Ok,” I thought; “No-wait. It’s leaving soon. It won’t be parked. -Uh, that one across the street that’s pulling out. Kick into gear.” I started waving and calling. Luckily, for a moment he had no forward motion due to the revelers. I had made it. I switched on the MP3. There was just enough juice to carry me into Salvador. My plan was to go to Terreiro Gantois, Zeno’s house. Tonight was the annual ceremony, Aguas de Oxala. It promised to be exciting. Zeno would put me up for the night. Now I could chill.

Morning haunts.

Though still groggy, I woke up just before 7:30. I splashed my face awake and looked for coffee or something in the kitchen. Gunnert and Florian, the sound engineers from the Hamburg contingent had constructed a breakfast of tropical fruit and a jerry rigged muesli from Soy Milk, store-bought granola, whole grain flaked cereal, bird seed and nuts. I applauded and giggled at their combination of ingenuity and cultural retention. I shared part of it their booty while we discussed our various agendas for the day.

I left just after 8:30 and walked to the eastern edge of town up a steep hill through a grove of banana trees and another favela to find A Igreja de São Cosme e São Damião. Beautifully cut into a hillside, it was a grayish stone with a huge woven banner of the twins, Cosme e Damiao. These twins and their holiday on September 27, are another curious fusion in the synchronized culture.

The twin saints are alleged to have been Syrian circa 300 A.D., though whether or not they were Christian is still a question. Several stories/myths exist regarding their origin and demise. Some versions have them murdered by Romans three or more times (thrown from cliffs, drowning, stoning and burning) before dying as martyrs. The West African Yoruban culture, one of the cornerstones of the Baian- Afro cosmology, sees “Ibejis” or twins as major power figures. They materialize when needed to help children suffering from violence. These twin saints/friends of children (Cosme aka “the Florid” e Damião aka “the Popular”) have the ability to expedite any requests made of them in exchange for sweets and candy. Rappadura or molasses rich chunks of raw cane sugar were the first sweets made in offering to these twin saints. Platters of rappadura are now placed alongside drippingly sweet cakes, and bonbons. Today Cosme e Damião are the patron saints of Pharmacy, Barbers and Hairdressing; go figure.

At different times that day, bags of candy were thrown from trucks at people, into stores and house windows. I was struck in the back of my head with a small bag while buying some paper Saturday morning. Children, adults and seniors scream and scamper to grab the treasure or blessing for these twin saints.
Parishioner’s had gathered early to get a good seat for the 9:30 mass. Kids were running up and down the backstairs into the choir loft, giggling and cutting up. I checked out the scene, and asked when they would be serving their Caruru. After I shot some photos, I walked down through town to get to the stairs into Mae Analia’s favela.


She was sitting in her same child’s slingback chair by the door with a drawn look on her face. She had been having some renovation done to her bathroom and they had burst a waterline. She had not had water for hours. They could not start cooking until they had fresh water. They had been ferrying water from neighbor’s homes to flush toilets and boil some water for essential needs. We agreed that I would return at 2:00 PM.

I decided to walk across the river to Ana Claudia’s house. I could visit with her, and find out where her aunt, Mae Zelita was. She shrieked with glee when she saw me walking up the stairs from her porch. Her mother, two cousins a sister in law and her mother's two other sisters were making party favors for the party. It was her daughter, Ana Julia’s 3rd and her baby brother, Joao Victor’s 2nd birthday. They were riffing on a Disney theme complete with matching red and white polka dot cotton pique outfits and mouse ear headgear. Kidville would have been proud.

They had rented the abandoned train station, where a couple of guys had a cottage industry making a sweet aperitif liqueur, and decorated it with Disneyland scenes, 15 foot spiral clusters of rainbow balloons, card tables and videos. I had to laugh that here this family that was so tied to the roots of the culture and legacy of slavery was zooming into the proto-typical upper middle class toddler b’day trope. Shouldn’t they have played and danced samba for kids? Everyone was cute and all of the mom’s were way too anxious. The guy who was making hors’ doeuvres and frying them was an hour late. The kids had fun laughing and playing, being kids in this vacuous space; until Dad, Joao turned on the formulaic kid’s party dance videos. The children, obsessed with the images of happy kids on the screen stopped creating their own games and adopted the derivative option on screen. How many generations before this magic culture in Cachoeira is going, going;-gone? Yikes.

I had been the first to arrive. Everyone was 90 minutes late. I had stayed too long, brought the wrong gift, (a traditional children's natural lavender bath oil) and pissed off Ana Claudia because I did not stay longer or agree to sleep over. Her Aunt Mae Zelita hadn’t shown by the time I left at six. I had told Mae Analia that I would be back to see how to make the Caruru at 5:30. It was a twenty minute walk back to Cachoeira across the suspension bridge.


Back at Analia’s I put two and three together and realized that in a way she had not wanted me to see her process, just the result. Cooks are quirky about “their” culinary secrets. Luckily, as I walked into the house full of people, there were still a few steps to finish all of the dishes. After showing me what she had made, Analia called me into the living room to hear the traditional songs that honor the day.

The ritual for all Catholics is to place seven whole uncut pieces of okra in the stewpot for luck. The seven youngest children who can eat by themselves are sat together in a circle each having a full plate of Caruru in front of them. The crowd serenades them with good luck prayers and a Go-Fight-Eat cheer for their food to be chowed down. Once the seven children eat, the remaining young adults are fed, and then the adults.

Since Analia is a Filha de Iansan, she cannot leave okra uncut. All of the okra has to be cut in to four pieces, or in the sign of the cross for Male deities and for luck. The tradition suggests that in every neighborhood several mothers will make this meal for their families and the neighbors, so that everyone gets fed. Once the meal is eaten by everyone the devout will create a Latin prayer sing-out. The evening ends with an acapella Samba de Roda with a handclapped accompaniment.