Why Sushi

How about the Sushi?

Well, I got in to the house around 7:15. I wasn't truly hungry even though it had been ninety minutes riding the bus from the airport. I went upstairs and worked on the computer, altered some pictures and busied myself for my own departure. At 9, I decided to go out for a light bite. Their was a family run restaurant and Loja de Doces (sweet shop) down the street that I had wanted to try. Well, they closed at 9, oops. I didn't want to go to the usual suspects right at Porto da Barra, so I decided to walk towards the Farol (lighthouse) and look for this strip of restaurants, clubs and Acai stands for an option. We had had a great lunch at a local fish house and I thought that if they were open, I would get some clams or a whole steamed crab, large like Dungeness. My stomach couldn't take the hike, so I started to settle near a strip of highfly restaurants. The light looked good, so I thought...I would be able to take some notes. The first place was too pricey. I didn't want the Empada restaurant chain from Rio, so I decided, "What the heck-I'll try the sushi bar. We are right on the water. " WRONG. The waiter was nice. The bar and restaurant was quite smart in reds, blacks and toasted almond. I ordered a beer and Sushi Tradicionao. The new wave sushi sounded scary and everything had cheese or cream cheese on it. Well, I think that they had used the rice pudding for my unagi roll. Yes, I am serious. Dipped in sugar syrup. The nigiri was the same, just less of it. The sashimi saved the day, though I could tell that the Tuna had been previously frozen and not truly thawed well. It wouldn't kill, it just was missing sublime. And in place of shredded daikon or mamina sprouts there were carrots cut from a Ronco Salad shooter. No lie. I got through it. It was light, and it was late, I was tired and still had some work to finish. As I got up from the table after paying my bill, I realized that I had a dull ache at the base of my neck. When I got home, my whole head ache. I swear it was the beer. This was the second time I had had this happen here. I miss my decent wines by the glass. Got home, went to work and then got nauseas in the pit of my stomach. I had the feeling that I could puke. I began to sweat-"Am I going to get sick off this meal?" I brush my teeth with bottled water, I wash fruit lathered with soap, is it the sushi that is going to do me in....or could it be that the carrots weren't peeled. That mental masturbation called internal dialogue was killing me as much as my head was throbbing. I put myself to sleep with some Olympic finals and was off until just before dawn when a sledge hammer came down on my temples. It had never left. I felt like my stomach had weathered the storm, but my head was dying. So, just to change it up, since I did not want to be maudlin over the departure of my girl I had treated myself to some Strychnine or Lobelia....ugh. I am sticking to my chewy grilled sardines and mackerel. thank you.

Last Days and First Evenings.....

Michele left this evening. We had a quietly gentle day together doing a few last errands, getting ready, going toward. One last morning snuggle before we packed up our temporary digs and made a final path for Pelourinho. She wanted to go home with a single strand necklace for Ossain. She had the two other single strands that she needed for the moment. Later, she would get the more ceremonial 7 or 16 stranded beads. But for now, we needed to go see Bene our new friend in the Mercado Modelo. We had met Bene, after a day of shopping with Giovanna. Our excursion with her had been on a Friday before the MAM (Museo de Arte Moderno) jazz concert, almost 10 days ago. She had introduced us to the Mercado. It is a curious place. Almost the size of a football field with 60 foot ceiings. A cafe on each floor and a bar on the side for the workers. A paved patio out front for another tier of goods to be hawked as well as food and hair braiding. In one sense a tourist mecca....yet you can get deals there; especially if you are willing to haggle and pout. When she took us there, she poured on the sob story, we are American artists, she is a native Baiana, blah blah. Don't ya know she knocked down some prices by 25-30%. You can never forget the walk away with a cold glazed gaze factor. After you have given your best price, if they don't bite, thank them, turn to granite and back away. Usually that will get you an extra 5% off. So, that day she and Michele both got lace dresses. They each got wonderfully colored ones. Giovanna got a rainbow of daisies on a mesh lace and Michele got a swath of alternating gold and black flowers on stitched onto a based of the opposite color. She also got a white lace dress. Everyone got a fine cotton shirt, even me and Ed, (the lovely man who watched our house). Well, we had made plans to return to pick up one of the items that we did not have money for at the time. Giovanna had said that we should also go to the second floor when we returned. We did return the following Monday and went straight upstairs. There we met Tekka. She had a mane of loose curls bound up in an elegant head wrap and accessorized with various piercings and tattoos. She is probably someone's grandmother too. Well, Tekka had beautiful bolts of African fabric, earrings and some beads. I kept eyeing 1 set of beautiful cobalt blue beads. She told me that she had others. I said, again and again, that these were the only ones I liked. Really she asked? Yes. She continued her pitch, standing between me and her beads. After the third go-round, she asked, "Did I really mean what I said?" Yes. (mind you, this is all in Portuguese). "Well, then"....she motioned to the man whose stall was across the aisle from hers. "Watch my space." She led us across the floor and down to the far corner and introduced us to a chestnut brown-skinned man named Bene, I would guess he was in his early 70's. He only sold Orisha beads. Yes, that was the issue, I had been coveting her personal Yemenja beads. She told us that this was a favor, and that we had to return to purchase from her, but we could look at what Bene had.

Well, with Bene its all about who your Orisha are. Once we settled that he looks and looks through the hundreds of beads he had on display to pick out the one, or ones for you. single strand or multi, one Orisha or combinations of two or the whole cadre. He pulled, we looked, we admired, he searched for more. I ended up with a special strand that included all of the Orishas. What I marveled at with all of these folk is the fact that they will all take time with you, even if the sale is not readily apparent. And then, if you do not have the money, they will put the items you like aside. When we returned 10 days later Michele had forgotten about our layaway. Bene hadn't. That final Tuesday he pulled out five sets of multi stranded beads, two for her and three for me. Once she identified Ossain, he added another set to her pile. Bloomingdales works like that, right? I agreed to return before a week was up and collect our booty. After Bene, oh- I forgot about the first visit. After that first visit we did go back to Tekka's booth. Bene had advised us that we must put our beads deep into our bag so that she wouldn' t see them and not to wear them until we were far from the Modelo. With that we walked back to her booth and Michele tried on earrings. I tried to knock down the pricing, but she wouldn't budge. She probably had guessed that we had spent our monies with Bene. I admired her fabric and had her pull down some smaller pieces that could have made a nice wrap for Michele. We couldn't agree on anything, so that gave us an out to leave. We claimed that we would return soon and off we went.

Thus, on August 12, terca feira (third market day or Tuesday for us old-skoolers) we returned. We got her Ossain, and went out to the outdoor market to buy a cocada for Mossa my teacher. Cocadas are to Bahia what pralines are to New Orleans. Large rounds of shredded coconut with crystallized sugar. They come either white-white, caramelized in a deep mahogany, Pale pink with Guava juice or a light yellow from fresh pineapple juice. I thought that this would be a sweet reminder of home for Mossa. We went up the Elevator and walked over to Senac (the state community college with a comprehensive food division) to register for the one day Dende seminar that I would be taking on Thursday. It looked promising with people speaking from culinary, agricultural and historic perspectives on how much the oil of Palm trees characterizes the foods and the region. My plan was to spend the day, Thursday, in the conference; hop on a bus for a almost two hours at 8:00 that evening for Cachoeira to catch the midpoint through to the finale of Festas de Boa Morte ([Boa Mortchee]-the festival of the Good Death). From there, I would come back to town, catch another bus to Gantoes [Gaantwaas] to witness my new friend Zeno's terreiro in one of their special ceremonies. Zeno is a direct descendant of one of the most powerful Mae de Santos in Salvador. He explained that when he initiated in Candomble, he was five years old, and they pulled him out of society for one whole year to learn the faith. "No one can do that today. If we are lucky we get them for one month. It causes problems, how will the culture grow strong and be passed on intact, without greater segments of time placed in the assimilation of the method and spiritual practice? This is how we are living, but it does not bode well". Hmm-it is hard to imagine, dropping out for a year of your life for ascetic reasons. We would probably have a much calmer, happier world if we would all try it.....(Obama can you hear me?).

Boa Morte. The festival was started long ago by women for women. They were protesting and trying to protect their elders who could not get access to freedom. They demonstrated on their behalf to set them free. It is alleged to be quite profound and symbolic, with its own set of foodstuffs. I heard that there is a fejioada without beans. (Fejioada is the national dish. An amalgam of slow cooked beans several types of sun dried meats and sausages, collard greens and farofa). Technically, the festival started at the end of July and continues until August 18th. I will see the crescendo, though I am told that I will be late for a key ceremony. The woman at the pousada I reserved a room at, said you need to come earlier to see the ______. Can't do it all.

Ok, back to last days and first evenings. Once we did our business in the Pelourinho we decided to go down the other exit to the gondola like car. We boarded a bus and went home. I had made arrangements with a cab company to pick us up and not run the meter. Good work if you can get it. The $70 Real ride goes down to $50 without a meter. On the way back to the apartment we got one last bag of fresh roasted Cashews and a Mango for the plane snack basket. At home, we made one last meal of roasted potatoes with wonderfully aromatic fennel seeds and rosemary from our locale spice vendor, a salad of shredded beets, carrots, onions and sliced cucumbers with a peppery spanish olive oil, and Senhor Levy's rotisserie chicken. yum. Of course when I went to confirm with Marcio, the cabdriver as he had requested, he swore that he had come by and we were not ready, so if we wanted he would send a trusted friend. But he had decided that the possibility of losing four hours work was too much for him. Cabs tend to be parked in well traveled corners waiting for fares instead of cruising for them. All drivers have cards to give you to arrange special excursions and airport drop offs. Well before Marcio's friend came, I found another willing driver. It was now 3:45PM. We got to the airport in plenty of time, which made me glad. I had been forewarned with horror stories of enormously long waits leading to missed planes at the connecting hub even though the layover was six hours and there was no storm to hold up either flight. As it was, we found our place in the queue and it snaked forward fairly rapidly. I took off for a moment to read the Arrival/Departures board. I found that I could not find Michele's flight. The board is funny, because it continually updates itself on 30 second intervals. The flights are grouped in segments by hour in military time, so your eyes have to adjust, readjust, make a mental note and then change it. After studying the board several times and asking an agent for help I was told that I shouldn't worry as long as we were on that line. Luckily, that is where Michele was situated. We checked in, walked to security and had a teary goodbye. It is always harder to be left than to be the one leaving. I made my way to the street, bought myself an acaraje and a coconut while I waited for the bus back to town. I later learned from Michele after she touched down at JFK that they had completely changed her flight numbers and that had she not been paying attention in Sao Paulo she could have missed the connecting flight. That by the time they announced the flight in English, she would have been a goner. Thank you Mossa.

Coming to Bahia do Todos Santos

the long flight seemed easier than i had expected it would be.

We arrived at Kennedy 20 minutes later than i had wanted to get there, around 7:45 AM, and I never mailed the letters that i had had to get out. Thinking that I, we would find a postbox we just kept going. I had my first sense of where we were headed when I saw a family with a retinue of luggage stroll up to the VIP 1st class. Two agents started helping them immediately. One seemed to be a manager who stopped working in the area she had previously been focused on. This family of 6 tanned and ebullient people festooned with all manner of Luis Vuitton on the market were then escorted by the two agents to the luggage xray and drop off area. Once they were through with this process, (45 minutes later). The two women did not come back to help the bulging line of close to 200 people. two tier society here we come.

once it got to be about 8:30-45 AM the agents seemed to pick up their pace and the line slowly snaked forward. We looked for a money exchange shop, but it wasn't open, though we had been told that it was....As the flight prepared for takeoff, my phone rang, and it was Robert Corkin the new US Foods rep for Rockville Md. I quickly obtained his contact info, before the stewardesses called me out. The flight was seamless, the food was better than US flights and we even got forks, knives and free Guarana, wine or beer. We were given a nice warm breakfast of scrambled eggs, potatoes, doughy bread and jam with either grilled thick cut smoked ham or roast turkey. Lunch was a pressed sandwich, a cheesecake with passion-fruit glaze, a simple salad more doughy bread and a petite bottle of extra virgin olive oil. The place-mats, in Portuguese, described how olive oil was made with integrity with simple farming practices that hoped to insure quality and good flavor. This was then drawn as a metaphor for TAM airflight services.,Such a simple touch, but well worth the effort. It far surpassed the low fat, insipid faux dressings that i am used to on domestic airflights. I watched at a few movies, but spent most of the time sleeping. We arrived in Sao Paulo right on time, and were able to breeze through customs. It seemed much easier than the scenes I have observed of foreigners coming through customs at Kennedy. As foreigners our bags were searched at luggage pick up, and then suddenly we were whisked into the main lobby of the airport. Though it was nearly 10PM, the airport was abuzz as though it were rushour. We found our way through checkin without problem changed some money to pay for our cabdriver in Salvador and prepared to find our gate. As we entered the elevator to go up two flights, I heard some whistling and yelling behind me. I thought nothing of it, until the doors closed and I asked Michele where her carryon bag was. She became teary and thought the worst. We descended quickly, and it was right beside the elevator doors. We had been the object of the catcalls, and had not heeded their warnings. Lucky for us, that people were not desperate, or that there were so many witnesses.

We found our gate and took a seat in preparation for our layover. Being antsy, I began to explore the waiting area and found a curious kiosk that held a smart bookshop that in addition to the magazines, newspapers and standard novels, literary and trashy, they offered many recent titles of popular American, British & French authors in translation; they also offered textbooks, history and nonfiction titles. Along the opposite wall was a little cafe with all of the usual suspects that i had just observed in the recent black comedy hit, "Estomago". Chicken Snacks shaped liked giant breaded Hersey's kisses, empadas filled with cheese or chicken, bolhinos de bacalhau, sliced ham, "brownies" flan and cream filled cakes. In addition to the espresso beverages and guarana, there was Mineral Water, Beer, Don Domeq, American Whisky, Vodka and Cachaca. A variety of options for just about any taste. Shopping with my eyes, I had my fill and returned to share details with Michele. Shortly afterwards the flight was called and we boarded a smaller plane for Salvador. Moving through this airport, observing the crowds and reading the departure/arrival charts I learned that airtraffic continues deep into the night, with scheduled flights posted as late as 3:00-4:00 AM to points far north that would require connections. I decided it must be all about the heat, conserving energy, reducing fatigue, tcb.

we received a simple snack, more wine, local tv options and Guarana. In approximately 90 minutes we landed in Salvador. As we descended towards luggage claim we sited a smartly dressed family escorting a Mae or Iyalorisha. Her grandson or nephew was nattily dressed in a matching "applejack style hat, vest and pants, no shirt. His ensemble was a raw cotton print of pink and beige. His mother or elder had red trim over her white skirt and blouse. Their "Mae" sat patiently in her white robes as they carefully tucked in her delicate gray curls, shining as if freshly oiled, wrapping it all in a carmine tignane which identified her station and gave her a regal air. She He closely resembled a young Milton Nascimiento.Few other people got off with us, so our luggage came quickly. Our hired driver, Pire was there promptly to pick us up and ferry us to our digs in Porto da Barra, (pronounced Baha).

Outside by the sidewalk driveup area I saw several barracas or semi-permanent food stalls hawking acaraje, pipocas (popcorn), and other local snacks. I grabbed a shot and we were off. As is typical it was nearly 40 minutes drive to get into town. The city seemed large in scale and highways were built on several levels often encompassing a river or fronting the beach. At one point we were both struck by the giant sculptures of the Orishas set inside the center of a lake as though dancing under the moonlight. We arrived without problem, unloaded our gear, and prepared to find our way to the apartment. Pire, worked like a bellman, trying to carry our bags, hold doors open and herald our arrival as though we were his houseguests. Unfortunately for him, we had only 60 reals (Hay-Ice), the e-note we had received had specified that he would need $50-80 reals for the trip. He seemed content with the sum, said goodnight and descended the elevator to his little Fiat.

Fiera Sao Joaquim

August 9-I woke again at dawn, restless full of odd dreams. holdovers from kptsd, dengue fever hysterical paranoia, fantasies of new digs in NYC and other scatalogical images. Watching gymnastics and dozing until Michele is fully awake. We had arranged with Mercado Levy to reserve a rotisserie chicken last night. I ate some granola, dressed and went out for the chicken and some fruit.

.......still fighting this flu that wont seem to quit. today we set out late, 11's to investigate feira Sao Joaquim. The market sits just east of the ferry dock to Itaparica. We arrived at the end of their day, it seems that everything closes early on Sundays in preparation for beach, family, ceremonies and rest. We did get a good view, some snacks and trinkets at the market, before it closed around 12:45. It was just enough for me, since I still am not fully myself. This market is cut from old cloth. Hardware, food, clothing, pottery, prepared foods, lottery tickets, all parts of all animals, live poultry both for eating and Candomble rituals, twined and wrapped ashes for cleaning teeth, Orisha beads and Exu's sacred waters and Cachaca. Our eyes are continually assaulted by the festive colors at every stall, Men scurry quickly with wheelbarrows weighed down with cases of vegetables, arms laden with gourds or printed cotton shirts. I begin to detect all of the implements, foodstuffs and paraphernalia necessary to maintain one's commitment to their terreiro and spiritual practice. Uncertain of my place in this cosmology, I choose a few things. Black-yed red beans, some smoked dried shrimp, malagueta peppers in vinegar and rappadura sugar. I didn't figure out the vegetables quickly enough. Some things were packed in larger quantities than i wished for, obviously for the week's family supply. So, no quiabo (okra), greens, iame, etc. Soon come.

Now hungry, we stop and grab a full tilt acaraje, (hot sauce, quiabo ragout, stewed camaro, and aipim puree) a perfect hearty snack for less than a slice of pizza in NYC. Finding our bus we travel up to Cidade Alta in search of Goya Lopes shop, a possible rendezvous wiht Bigge and hopes of locating Dona Mae Detinha de Xango, another friend of Danny Dawson and the creator of exsquisite Orisha dolls. I misunderstood the bus stops and we end up closer to Lapa then Pelourinho. Walking back through the backalleys and slums that do not bely the heritage of the district we find people at rest, some congregating in bars and barracas to wile away the day. We are always able to find graffiti wherever we end up. 10 minutes later we arrive back in the Pelourinho and stumble into the side entrance to a Igreja da Ordem Terceira de Sao Francisco. As we walk in, we overhear a "guide for hire"
discussing the elaborate mural on the cieling. I start taking pictures, como sempre, only to find out that no photography is allowed, only video. And unfortunately, I don't know how to operate the video side of my camera.The cileling is painted n a multi-point perspective. The guide says that it includes horizontal, vertical, axiometric, illusion of motion, 180 and 360 degree perspectives. The painter a Baiano, apprenticed in Italy, before creating this work which is alleged to be world renowned as an ideal example of plateresco style. I am tempted to join the tour, but realize that my energy will probably flag before the tour gets into full tilt. I make a note to return to this church as well as the one adjacent to it, Igreja Sao Pedro dos Clerigos, ( a wacky Roccoco layer cake). Within a few blocks we encounter Goya Lopes shop on Rua Gregorio Matos. I realize that this is a key locale in the hood, since it is just up the street from Biggie's place, Oludum;s headquarters, and 2 of the key capoeira academies.. The fabrics are quite well done, and have much more character than many of touristy tchtockes that we have previously seen. We both see eyecandy, Michele had hopes of cashing in on the 30% discount offered today for Dia de Spice, but her credit card did not work in the Banco do Brazil. Back on the bus, we head home stopping for a few veggies We enjoyed a quiet satisfying meal on the terrace on the eve o sunset. I followed my rituals and downloaded the day's images, editing a few, and proceeded to recline and consider how to begin this blog. Right now, I am feeling like the flu is finally leaving my system. We watch a fascinating documentary on Amazonian tribal practice and the city lights begin to sparkle..

Lunch with Eneida

Both Eneida and me had tried to make plans together almost from the moment we had arrived. She is one of the dearest friend of my mentor Danny. Unfortunately, often our schedules and our minor personal health issues got in the way. When I called her to apologize for missing the opening at Goethe House she revealed that she had had to cancel as well. Instead, she suggested that we come for lunch on Friday. Danny had raved about her home in a way that portended envy at our getting a taste of his favorite spot in town. His home away from home. Eneida is an architect, so it sounded like a good treat. That morning we bought some flowers. Curiously, I quickly found the flower shop-fine home entertaining accessories store near our apartment yet most of the flowers were silk. One small vase held lilies, a few roses and African daisies.

Observing habits, I always notice that even if there is a cash register and a sale is rung through it, the cashier writes the sale items and description in a ledger. As I paid for the flowers I saw that the store manager, nattily dressed, who was writing us up was the first woman I had seen with real Bling. A fat pave continuous diamond ring half as wide as one of her ring finger joints, gold bangles plain, plaited and bejeweled. What appeared to be a first quality watch. Everywhere else I had spotted a classic wedding band, occasionally a small stone, crucifixes round the neck; albeit the young studly men had their Bling crosses in what appeared to be plate or hollow chain-link big like the Hip Hop crews I knew from NYC. But, real jewelry; too easily taken-better not to risk it. Everyone had advised this strategy. This manager was the first person who asked for I.D. for credit card sales. It all runs together. Your focus becomes your life. Zeno had related how Danny had questioned him years before in Sao Paulo, "Is working only to pay your rent a justified existence?" my paraphrase. Pleasantly, the flowers came to us nicely wrapped with a raffia bow. We took them and were off to find Eneida's house.

She had suggested that we take a taxi. The driver needed to know which hill to enter to find her home. I had notes. So many of the districts are built into the hillsides that I imagine that unless you enter in the right spot on the hill you could circle through too many back streets and cul de sacs before you found your way. With a few questions to passersby, we found our way, and proceeded down a quite steep hill, her home sat in the belly of the hill. We paid, got out and approached two doors. One I could see overtop, it led down a long stair towards a lower floor in shadow. Thus, I chose to ring the bell of the door to its right. She came to greet us a moment later with a smirk and a curious laugh. Before I could assess her mood we were struck by the room, the light and the jungle outside. She was enraptured by the flowers. We all got fed. The main floor was shaped like a T with one flank extending into the kitchen and the other to a terrace overlooking a river with overgrown tropical plants and trees along either bank. The stone floors, wood and plaster walls gave way to a deep tropical forest, enlivened by many birds singing to each other. We both took a perch on the terrace that was bathed in light, (warm, yet northern?). I got up after a time to admire the artwork, collection of multinational percussion instruments and sculpture.All the while Eneida had been reflecting on her days since our last meeting, life, work, family. She went to the kitchen to fetch us some water. She turned to me, handing me my glass and I saw that smirk again. Hmm, before I could break it down she began an apology. On the phone I had asked if we could bring something with us for the luncheon. She had insisted that the house had a wonderful cook and that she could barely enter the kitchen to boil water. Immediately it came out that the cook had needed to go to the doctor and had let her know shortly before our arrival. With a little resignation, she said that If we were willing to try, she had several things to combine into a pleasant meal. Fine to me, Michele agreed.

With that settled we got the nickel tour. Three floors all magical. The middle floor had two bedrooms whose windows were framed by the soft mossy green reflected light of all those plants and trees. I saw that she needed mosquito netting for her bed, so I guess that is the price paid for this lush aura. A lovely intimate dressing area was on the far wall. Hinged antique wooden window shutters added character to the second bedroom; she had found them for $10 reals. There was a smart bathroom with muted tile and stone fixtures. We exited to the external stair that I had seen when we arrived so that we could reach the bottom floor. Here below the sleeping and bathing areas was a wonderful studio with two large bay windows that looked out at the base of the trees and showed the river too. The windows had no glass or screen. Something I began to notice as I was invited into other homes. The windows were framed by beams 24 inches wide. I realized then that this was not a place of serious storms. When I asked Eneida, she laughed, "Honey you are in the Tropics!" We met one of her partners, who was busy working on their current building project. We shared some cashews while Eneida pulled out some of her etchings. It was heavenly. Would I love this spot...hmmm. She needed to move, it could be arranged. Yowie. If only.

We returned to the main floor and ate some freshly made Bolinhos de Bacalhau that her buddy Roberto had fixed earlier. Then we delved into all of the little dishes she had discussed earlier. Macarao, unctous stewed eggplant and squash, a little salad, fejiao, farofa, some chicken, and rice with pumpkin. She offered shoyu and pepper vinegar and we had at it. We laughed and talked for nearly an hour looking at more art work, and getting to meet Roberto as he came and left. As we were leaving I asked her for the name of an acupuncturist since I still felt poorly and by now allergies caused Michele's nose to become a river and her sneezes like gale force winds. We left soon afterwards, she had arranged for a taxi to come get us. We went back to Barra to get monies and sought out the acupuncturist to cure our ills.

My first interview

I had wanted to collapse after the runaround day we had had looking for Biggie and Dr. Abreu. That morning, I had envisioned a lighter load during the day with a stop in at the gallery opening where I would leave Michele to hang with Eneida and I would continue on to see Dona Valdina. After our escapades in the streets, I knew that Michele was done. She said that she wanted to rally, but needed to rest. Later we found out that Eneida couldn't make it either. All for the better.

We had bought some snacks and recharged the house cell phones at the 24 hour drugstore on the corner before going in to rest. I sat briefly, then changed my shirt, washed my face, found my mini tape deck read the directions and left for Valdina's home. From the map I saw that her neighborhood was Engenho Velho da Fundacao. If I translated it correctly, this suggested that it had been the site of sugar plantation previously. I did not have enough time for the bus, so I took my first taxi. Being a good New Yorker, I gave broad directions, focusing on particulars once he got into the district. I had wanted to bring flowers, but hadn't seen a shop. By coincidence just outside of her district we came up a steep hill and were surrounded by a huge cemetery with walls like a castle fortress. On either side of the road were several flower shops still open though it was past seven. I wanted to stop, hop out, grab something; but no-time was too tight. Near to her house I got out of the cab and pulled out her notes of how to find her home. In my rush I had not taken the time to look up a few words she had used to describe her address. Now, I needed those clues. She lived near a fork in the road, off of a steep hill. The road seemed to be a throughway or artery in her neighborhood or district with a mixture of discount stores, small shops, an acaraje stand and the barber shop with the tiles on one side that had been my reference marker. Not sure which fork to take, I paced up and down the hill on either side of the fork before deciding that I needed assistance. A middle aged light caramel colored woman stood half in her doorway surveying the street. I knew that this was not Valdina looking for me, but she was probably a good guide. She pointed across the street, and said the door on the left and the house on the right. I was confused, but I crossed the street started to mount the stair, and she called out, "Nao, pra la, a outra porta. Sim, sim aquele." The second door opened onto a darkened screen porch. There was no bell, so I went in. Once inside I realized that I was not in someone's entryway but in a paved yard that had several doors and two story cottages coming off it on either side. I walked towards the light and heard voices. I saw an open doorway which revealed a small room where two women and a child sat talking. Poking my head in I asked for Dona Valdina. "Em frente" Next door. I walked to the next house, it seemed more solid than the others. There was a soft light in the front room, but the home was quite dark in contrast to the adjacent homes where people seemed to have come in from work and were fixing dinner. I knocked. A voice called out, and a moment later a slender dark skinned woman with a elaborated tied headwrap in muted olive drab, gold and black, strong black glasses, a dark sheath dress and a raspy deep voice greeted me, welcoming me inside. In the low light I saw that she had been sitting playing computer solitaire as she waited for me. As I prepared to sit down, she turned off her computer and turned to face me. Valdina was one of the three closest friends of my mentor Danny. She was one of the few people who had quickly responded to my email query. We had spoken once, and now here I was. Dona Valdina had a strong and wise face, a careful measured gaze. Her skin was smooth, of a matte teak color. She moved with grace and economy. Her face reflected a powerfully strong countenance that suggested an elder's wisdom, a take no prisoner's warrior posture and a certain benevolence (if you were worthy; of what I wasn't sure).
Two doorways were at either end of the room. One had a fabric drape and the other a wooden door. The room where we sat in was populated by books on several shelves along each wall, (some of which I recognized), an large carved antique wooden cabinet, her computer, a taupe laminated desktop, a few chairs, a small low table and some art work that was hard to decipher in this light.
Quickly, she asked me did I find her home easily, then...why I had come, and what did I want. Anxious with my answer and my Portuguese, I haltingly stated the purpose of my work, to research Afro-Braisilian cuisine and culture and compare it with African American counterparts I knew from deep South and Sea Island cultures. I pulled out my notepad, but I realized that I needed to record this session, and I couldn't remember the Portuguese word for tape recorder. I paused and asked her if I could show her what it was I wanted to use. When she saw the mini deck, she assented and we continued. She spoke quite forcefully and clearly, enunciating all of her words well. This made following her Portuguese easier for me. She reiterated that the base of Afro Bahian cuisine was smoked dried shrimp, garlic, onion and Dende. Other things were used. But this was the base. The shrimp had to be properly prepared, dried and smoked over a fire, not artificially colored or prepared industrially. She spoke at length about the method extracting Dende Oil from the kernel and the fruit. I asked about the distinctions between culinary practice in the home or restaurants and the cooking employed for the Candomble ceremonies. Where ingredients multi purposed? How did the iconic dishes reference or inform the daily cooking? Not being an initiate, I realized that there would be a limit to what she could specifically relate to me. But, she continued, discussing history and modernization, community cooking and distinctions within the region.
Midway through our conversation she made reference to a trips to abroad. Cuba, Africa and the United States. Focusing on Africa, I asked her what parallels she drew to the cooking she experienced while in Luanda and Benin. She stated that she had not had time to really observe the culinary culture, but she saw some similarities. Continuing on, Valdina related how in America she had met a Nigerian and he identified foods that she had prepared as being similar to his home foods, albeit with different names. Later on in this trip, I will sit with the tapes and attempt to translate all that was discussed. I may need help from native speakers, but at least I can begin to dig deeper. After about an hour, we finished up. She suggested that I come back for meal preparation days, on a weekend or special day. I said that that would be ideal, since I would often be free to come in on the weekends from Itaparica. I asked if I could take her photo, and she quickly removed her glasses. I had gotten so used to them, I stopped seeing them as being separate from her face. Was it an act of vanity, hmmm...probably irrelevant? I shot a few images and I was not satisfied with what i had done. I did not feel comfortable to keep shooting or move about the room to capture the right vantage point. Hopefully that would come later.
I said goodnight and she walked me into the yard, where we briefly embraced.

Back in the neighborhood, the lights seemed brighter. The street had calmed from the afterwork buzz I had heard upon my arrival. I walked to the acaraje stand for a snack and a point of reference. They were frying a fresh batch. As I waited, my bus pulled up. Snack aborted for a quick exit. The money taker told me that I would have to change buses. He instructed me where to get off. Another unfamiliar neighborhood. Now it was around 9:30 PM. At the next bus stop I asked a street sweeper in red coveralls for the list of buses that stopped there. He indicated that the bus went by here but didn't stop. I would have to go around the corner to catch my bus. I thanked him and walked in the direction that he pointed me to. When I was out of his sight, I saw some graffiti and took a few pictures. I reached the corner after a sharp bend in the road, and I could not see where he was indicating. I saw a man smoking with a flame red shirt just inside the doorway of the restaurant, Club Acaraje. I asked him, and he directed me back towards where I had come from. Confused, tired and hungry, I obliged his directions, only to be berated by the street sweeper when I came back into his view. I felt that I had slighted his authority. He quieted his town and began to more carefully show me where it was I need to go. Not just around the corner, but down the street a ways. I began to realize that I was near Campo Grande. By this time, many buses had passed me by, some of which were mine. I found a well lit square by the park and stood near a curve in the road. Not wanting to miss the right bus. Doubtful, I walked to a food stand, thinking that I could get confirmation and a snack. Hot Dogs. Not my speed right now. I learned that I needed to be up the road about 20 feet to catch the bus. Soon after my bus came, and I made it home before 10:30. Exhausted and harboring a tickle in my throat I sat down and had a glass of wine, some Queijo and Pao Milho (airy coconut corn bread) relating my story to Michele. Michele had spent the evening working on her online Graphic Design teaching class. She was glad to hear of my success. Ever supportive and nurturing, she is a great partner and friend. I downloaded the tape, listening to snippets before I took a brief shower and climbed into bed. Now I felt like I had the beginning of a foothold.

Looking for Biggie

I woke up a little worse for wear, always trying to be ready to keep flowing forward. Travel, disorientation, spotty sleep or the water was catching up with me. We ate a smple breakfast, granola, yogurt, coffee and the fruits from Barraca de Denis (an orange melon, mango, litchi, papaya & ). After following the email trails we decided to go back to Cidade Alta and look for Biggie, and another recommended resource Dr. Abreu who was a historian and his Fundacao Muau (a artisan crafts museum and support center for local artists). I wanted to locate as many folks from my list and make an introduction, before I left the city for the island of Itaparica and my residency at Sacatar.

We were now fairly well versed in flagging and catching the local buses. Salvador has a very comprehensive municipal bus system of standard sized buses that prowl the city with great frequency at all hours, it seems. One ride is $2 reals with no transfer. There is a discount pass for students and seniors. You enter from the rear cycle through a turnstyle at the top of the stair and grab a seat. The key is when a bus is approaching you have to read the destination district in large letters at the top of the windshield to recognize it as your local bus route. If you are not sure there is a legend of major stops, (+/-3 km apart) stenciled list just above the headlights and in front of the rear door in yellow paint. There are also luxury buses that seem to stop less frequently have reclining seats and cost $4. Quickly you need to learn which bus stops near to you which meets your needs. Either the terminus of routes is past your destination and the legend confirms that it will pass through the neighborhood you are seeking, or you can find the district you desire is inscribed in the legend. Generally, the buses don't stop at most bus stops unless you flag them down. This way they keep quick time. Thus, you have to become adept quite quickly with good long distance vision to ascertain if the next bus needs to be flagged to pull over. Luckily, most people are helpful and you can enter the bus and ask the money collector at the back if you are on the right vehicle. Often once you are on the bus will take off, even before the door is closed and if you have chosen the wrong bus you may have to jump off while the bus in in motion. Occasionally the money collector will yell to the driver to stop, slow down or reopen the rear entrance to let you off. Finally, if you were not getting off at a major stop (the equivalent of a Times Square), then you had to be acutely aware of your own stop and pull the cord in time, since the likelihood was that the bus wouldn't generally pull over there unless someone else was at the curb flagging them down. This ritual was repeated several times daily. Getting to the Pelourinho, Mercado Modelo, (City crafts market), ferry pier were easy since they were all within earshot of each other and at a major stopping point for tourists and locals.

So, we took the bus to the Cidade Baixa and to the Lacerda Elevator to the Cidade Alta. If I hadn't previously mentioned, the historic district sits above today's commercial city and close to a port, marina and naval station. In the 1880's the colonial system of a lift for the elite engineered with ropes and pulleys and operated by slaves was replaced with a more formal mechanized elevator on one side of town and a pulley system steel car for cargo, similar to a ski gondola a short distance away. GE helped to provide electrification in the 1930's, and this mode of travel was copied in Rio and Lisbon. Today there is a bank of four express elevators with two in motion in either direction until 11PM. The fare is five cents. I guess that that pays the wages for the elevator operators.

Enroute to find Biggie, we listened to a few discs of Maysa's music at a local Music store near the Praca de Se. Mossa, my Portuguese teacher in NYC, is also an amazing singer with operatic training and a style that encompasses free jazz, regional Brazilian and Middle Eastern song forms had turned us on to Maysa. She seems to fit into that 50's moment of prime Ella, Sarah, Peggy Lee and Xavier Cougat kind of jazz/popular vocals. She married well, so her husband fronted her career. Maysa was quite eccentric in her personal style and visionary in her producing and packaging herself. With the lack of record stores today, I knew that she would not be easy to find in NYC. But after listening for 30 minutes I had too many riches and couldn't decide which disc to purchase. We split and resumed our search, walking towards the main square

We were looking for Rua Gregorio Mattos, and no one seemed to know it. Curious for a relatively small community, even though the district was a rabbit warren of alleys, dead end streets, cathedrals and plazas. The first two people we enlisted both told us to head away from the Pelourinho, in the directions of Shopping Lapa. We walked and walked leaving the historic district behind relatively quickly. We traversed a commercial neighborhood & working class ghetto whose tall buildings shielded the sun from the street. We found two beautiful churches along the way, but couldn't find R. Gregorio Mattos. After several attempts we were directed to Fundacao Gregorio Mattos. We walked inside and found a plexiglass shielded reception area. Through the plastic we inquired for Biggie. The woman stopped and thought for a moment, and asked if he was tall, I said yes; assuming that Biggie was literally a giant. 8 minutes later a distinguished looking man appeared, almost 2 1/4 meters tall. We spoke briefly. His nickname was Biggie to his close friends, but he was not at all who we were after. We all laughed as he told us that the R. Gregorio Mattos was in the bowels of the Pelourinho. With that failed attempt, I decided it was better to pursue our second contact than retrace our steps for Biggie at this point. Walking up a sharp hill we entered a more working class neighborhood, with street hawkers analagous to Canal Street in lower Manhattan. I saw a cathedral at the top of the hill and wanted to check it out, even though it seemed to be on the opposite fork than our desired path. The church Sao Bento was quite beautiful with a high carved wooden ceremonial screen just inside the foyer of the church several Retablo of key aspects of the Christian story rendered in gold, semi precious stone and marble. As we left the church I saw across the avenue that there was a store of handsewn lace fabrics focusing on clothes for Orisha ceremonies. We walked inside to take some images of the ceremonial clothing. After admiring it, I ended up buying a shirt with lace axes for Xango (recheira [?]).

Resuming our search for Dr. Labreu and Shopping Lapa we walked through a feira or farm market just after the lunch rush. This one, Sete Portas (seven doors) was the smaller of the two city markets. As we would come to observe these markets had all manner of fruit, produce, meats, fish, live poultry, artisanal prepared foods and standard dry goods, clothing, hardware and culinary implements. We stopped briefly to photograph the displays at various stands. Being drawn in by the vibrant colors I navigated through several different jars of pickled peppers that had been put up by the woman who ran the stand, before buying a bottle of medium hot finger peppers. Back on the trail, walking and asking directions, after another 30 minutes we found Shopping Lapa. Set in between a confluence of small streets this urban mini mall had food stalls, small stores and some produce. At this point I realized that this was only a major directional point to get us close to the right side of the appropriate neighborhood. Michelle was losing her pep. Persevering, I asked some news sellers for more directions and we made our way to Rua de Mouraria. Another twenty minutes and many blocks later we found our goal. The doorman informed us that the Foundation had moved (my friend in NY had thought that change was in the offing) and Dr. Abreu had just left. Please note that for some people I had addresses, for some addresses, phone numbers and email. But, after having left messages and emails I had decided that for those folks who operated within an organization or foundation, it might be worth it to see these spots and find the contact or leave word. Michele was too through. I was hot and tired. We had not eaten a real lunch, and were now in a strange neighborhood not close to landmarks we knew and rush hour was coming quickly. We walked several blocks through fairly vacant alley streets in silence and exasperation. I had been so overwrought, I had forgotten to leave word for Dr. Abreu.

We had to circle back towards Shopping Lapa to catch the bus. When we got to a bus stop, waiting and watching we realized that none of the names or routes seemed familiar. After ten minutes we asked some local women, who seemed to indicate that we needed to cross the avenue, and that the bus would circle around and head back towards Barra. We crossed the street, waited and again no results that seemed familiar. Asking again, we realized that their was a hub station beyond Shopping Lapa down a large stair under an overpass. When we found the spot, we were in an outdoor version of Port Authority. I guess forty bus lines stopped here. There were some typical shops catering to people in between buses, several street vendors with the ubiquitous individually wrapped candies, bon bons, gum, etc, peanut vendors, soda, beer, popcorn, etc. It took a moment to find our route, but once there we got the bus and got home fairly quickly. Whew. When we got off the bus, near the small former colonial fort, that sat on the beach near our apartment I chuckled quietly. As we had stepped onto the street I realized that part of the construction that we had walked by several times before included the installation of the new home for Fundacao Muau. I had never read the marquis above the scaffolding. Argh.

Yesterday Eneida had invited us to another opening. This one was also part of the August celebration of photography at Goethe House. We nixed it in fair of a cold chill. Biggie would have to come later. I was going to have to find my muster, because tonight I had to see Dona Valdina.