Everywhere I go there is lunch

I left the Irmandade soon afterwards, around twelve thirty, still agitated by my fellow New Yorkers. They seemed to signal an end to my audience, or at least the quiet reverie that I had glimpsed this morning. I was tired from last night's ceremony. I was not going to be able to stay for the evening meal and closing of the festival. My memory card was full, Ana Claudia had suggested that I stop by for lunch or at least to say goodbye. Her friend, Dosete had also implied that I might be able to get a ride to Salvador with she and her boyfriend, Mario. I walked home, arranged my things, paid my way and sat down to update my journal with today's notes. Gito's mom, the Dona da casa, asked me to stay for lunch. At breakfast she had showed me her market purchases and related her plans for a celebratory meal as her end to the festa. The house was redolent of her cooking; feijoes, boiling veggies for a cooked macedoine salad, garlic, ginger sizzling in palm oil; the start of her moqueca de siri. A bucket next to the stove was filled with carangueijos, meaty blue crabs; still muddy and squirming. I thanked her, but explained that I intended to stop in Sao Felix to say goodbye to Ana Claudia and her family. Again she asked me to take Gito along. This time he seemed genuinely excited to come.

I decided to ask about Gito's sister, or her absence. "Oh, -she had gone to Salvador the morning after my arrival." My suspicions about freeing up bedspace were probably true. It had also been almost a day since I had seen that lithe, handsome chestnut man always shirtless who had been in and out all weekend. He had not seemed to be father or lover, and yet not quite border either. I guessed that "Mom" took in folks for various reasons as a means to survive. He might be one of us. She benefitted from her neighbors, a little more savy than she. At least savy enough to be able to obtain an internet listing. As she spoke to me, I looked at her as a woman. I had noticed her for the first time when she had been combing out her curls last night. She was tawny and sallow, her hair wavy and thick. Looking more deeply, I guessed that she was Criuolo. Her children were much darker than she. Well, no matter their heritage, they had opened up their simple home and their lives to me. She seemed to have judged me worthy enough. I was a safe bet to pair with her son. Practically speaking, she had fostered a certain osmosis between us. Gito and I had shared a few vocabulary words and brief conversations in English and Portuguese. We had shared our world's with each other.

So, on the way to Sao Felix I decided to stop in at the Pousada Ana Nery, the location of my botched reservation. Twice over the weekend, I had run into Grandma on the street, always in that same housedress. I wanted some closure, and I need to be thankful. As Gito and I walked around the corner, we found Grandma lifting the iron gate, ubiquitous in Cachoeira; (they kept out strays and kept in toddlers and pets). We followed her inside, surprising the family who were seated for lunch. Just as this Dona da casa approached me to offer another lunch invitation, I explained our visit; hoping to clarify my purpose. She asked Gito to confirm my intentions. She seemed surprised that I had come of my own volition, and had not been sent by his Mom. Finally, we came to one mind. She offered me blessings, God's kindness and safe travel. She was tickled and beaming when I related that I had observed Candomble, adentro dum terreiro. "Qual era o terreiro?" She asked me. "De Lira, atrais da Igreja do Monte," I responded. "O. Sim. Que bom. Que Bom! E bom pra voce."

Listening to her speak, I watched hummingbirds descend through the open roof, seeking nectar from the carnations and gladiolus on the dining table. The living room opened onto a stairway that led to the bedrooms on the second floor. The stair wrapped around a small stone patio at the core of the house that was open to the sky. First one, then two more hummingbirds came and went, fluttering at high speeds up to the clouds. Every room was graced with natural light, fresh breezes and probably a little rain. This magical moment at once breathtaking and so simple, also suggested a cue to journey on; savoring the memory of these birds inside the house. We said goodbye and walked towards the rusty bridge that linked the twin towns.

In the park at the foot of the bridge, Mario saw us and whistled for us. I was totally unaccustomed to be sought out in this town, in this country and in this new language. Gito pointed him out. Smiling up at us from a bench, they both quickly told me how happy they were to have met me, and now more formally offered me a lift to Salvador. I asked when they were leaving, and related my plan to see Ana Claudia briefly. They said that they thought they would drop by too. They would call her if they changed their plans. Now, with the possibility of a lift to town, I told Gito that I wanted to stop at the Rodoviaria and try to exchange my ticket. Pipedream.

Ana opened her door thinking that we were Rosangela and Julio back from morning stroll, a passeio. She was pleased to see me, and surprised by Gito's presence. Was this my son?--she inquired. I chuckled, explaining our relationship and thinking how different we lived. Wouldn't she have met him sooner, if I was a stranger alone in her town? Ushering us inside, she asked him specifics about where he lived and went to school, seeming to calculate his class and economics. Food arrived immediately after we were seated, yesterday's Manicoba (improved with age), a cool Frigideira, a dense meat pie with diced vegetables and an eggy crust. ( A bacalhau frigideira had been served by the Irmandade on the day of the White Meal.), the ever present Suco Maracuja, fresh passionfruit juice, and as she called it in broken English, "P-pI, Pie." Her pie had a crumb crust, ripe cooked peaches, possibly canned sat on top of a condensed milk custard and were bathed in a gelatinous probably tapioca thickened glaze. Oh, a drippingly sweet, sweet-yummy. Finally; the cafezinhos. By this time, Ana Claudia's Dad had arrived with Roseangela and Julio. They sat and ate with us. We broke into a discussion of grammar and tonality of Latin languages, discussing and disagreeing each point closely. Ana Claudia, Roseangela and Dosete had all been students of English and Portuguese studies at university together.

We stood up to leave and walked across a concrete patio to Ana's parents home. I said goodbye to her parents and her uncle and her other two aunts. Dosete and Mario had arrived. They cut some herbs from the garden, we loaded all the cars, and left Sao Felix, dropping Gito at home on our way out of town. Dosete stopped for a photo op at the golden archway heralding Cachoeira, to create a bookend for her weekend photos, before we got onto the highway.

Just like rural France and Spain, the larger towns forced you to drive down their mainstreets and see the few sites they had. The highway had speedbumps near some of these junctures, jarring me and containing hotrodders. Most of the towns we drove through seemed quite poor and destitute in comparison with Cachoeira, especially Santo Amaro; the home of Caetano Veloso and his sister Maria Bethania. I had been told that though poor the cultural heritage was also quite strong there.

The landscape was fertile and verdant studded with farms of cane, corn, stands of palm, banana and goiaba. I watched Macao monkeys scamper across phone lines, initially mistaking them for squirrels. Hawks circled above, and for the first time in years I spotted a bald eagle in flight.I had come to see why this was winter in Brazil. The air had been chilly the last few days and frequent soaking rains had characterized most days. Everything was new since I had arrived under cover of darkness. Back in Salvador, I was dropped at a major bus transfer point on the edge of town. Mario waited to make sure that I found the bus to Barra. I did some banking, ate a meal overlooking the beach and made my way to Zeno's terreiro, the former home of Mae Menininha; Gantois.

Shit, Shower, Shave; then learning Caruru

After three days in a bed that was wanting for more comfort than thin slats and threadbare sheets a cold shower seems like spoonfuls of Caviar. Everywhere I look, even where I least expect it I am accosted by profundity. I had woken up slowly, drunken with images and lacking that blind deep sleep of simple dreams and rest. I wanted to savor the quiet and the sand in my eyes. Women singing, fireworks, church bells and a lame ring tone melody on one of the other border's cell phone brought me to full consciousness. An hour later, I got out of bed, in preparation to shit, shower and shave; then locate pao and cafe de manha. Something.

Last night a Babalow had come home with us from the ceremonio. He seemed to be from this community, though now was just passing through. My Dona da casa had offered him her bed, and she took the third love seat cum couch. Por causa que ele estive pra la, tinhamos cafe de manha feito na casa. Legal! Since he had stayed overnight she made us all a light breakfast. Coffee, Beiju, butter and bananas. I left at ten to go to the Irmandade. Immediately upon my arrival I found Mae Zelita and let her know that I would start taking pictures. She agreed and I walked outside to the terrace to capture the making of the broth and the washing of the okra for the Caruru. Today's meal, Caruru, is possibly the most overtly African dish in the festa. It is a unctuous stew of okra and smoked dried shrimp, garlic, peanuts, cashews and palm oil, all cooked to a pulpy mash.

Just after I began, the house managers ran towards me screaming and flailing their arms. "Nao. Nao pode. ni um foto pode tirar agora. Deve vai embora! Agora mesmo!"
They were refusing me the ability to shoot or even be present. Shocked, I stopped, frozen in motion. I let my camera drop to my side, and began looking for Mae Zelita. As I looked, I blurted in my broken Portuguese that she had sanctioned my presence. "Agora, NAO!. Hoje ela nao pode fazer nada. Nao tem poder ela!"--Powerless; what? As I grasped the fragments of their statements, today Mae Zelita was not in charge, someone else was. Hours later, Francisca Marques gave me the low down. Every year a commission is created amongst the sisterhood. A chief commissioner defines the arc of the week's activities including the food preparation, fund raising and processions. Sunday, the last official day of festivities was always given over to the commission elected for the following year. This allowed them to get their feet wet, and understand how to implement their duties. Thus, it was true. Mae Zelita had no jurisdiction today. Shit.

I heard someone call to me in a hoarse grunting voice, "Voce tinha cafe de manha, hoje?" Have you had breakfast this morning?-Mae Zelita to the rescue. Following her lead, I lied and said that no I had not eaten at all. "Perfeito." She responded and she ducked into the kitchen. Returning quickly with a cup of coffee and a dosante of stevia in one hand and a small plate which held a small roll of white bread stuffed with ham, another roll smeared with butter and a napkin. In her absence I had shuffled across the room to find a seat between two Mae's near the door. She brought me the "stall tactic" or breakfast and I began to eat, while my companions began to get setup for cutting okra. A few minutes later, Francisca entered, hugging various Mae's, and offering kind greetings to all. She was the same woman who I had been standing next two at last night's Samba de Roda, with the videocam. We had been jockeying for position, trying to document the various dancers and bands. I had come close to asking her to move several times when she blocked my camera angles. Being new in town, I had decided to let it go. Now, again she pulled out her camera and started filming the food production. Zelita seized the moment and began jeering at the kitchen managers. A volley of terse whispers and sniper glares came at me. Mae spat out, "Se ela pode tirar; entao, ele pode tambem!" -If she can, then......

The more vocal brown skinned woman with glasses marched towards me, and with a bitchy undertone she growled " Entao, voce pode deixar agora." -You can stay now. Disdainfully she added, "E sim, pode tirar fotos, tambem." Vanquished by me, the stranger she stormed off.

I surveyed the room, looking for a response, animosity or empathy from the sisters. Everyone present was quietly at their work. Some of the sisters had still not arrived. One of the cheerier women had brought in a censor which flooded the room with the smoke and fumes of frankincense and myrhh. Three times she walked around, anointing all of the women, the foods and implements for cooking in the room and on the terrace. This happened every morning, but I had not previously been privy to her procedure.

As anticipated, my memory card filled quickly, this being my last day in Cachoeira. I sat for a time, recharging my battery and dumping shots I felt that I could part with. Slowly, the women began to hum. First individually, then as a collective they began to sing together. I am not sure of the content, though the songs seemed light and praiseworthy. The incense vapors floated with their melodies. Their volume increased and a few women stopped cutting and began to add hand claps, punctuating the phrasing of their songs. Trancelike and ethereal they humbled the few onlookers like me who stood and sat in awe of their performance. Francisca told me that they were asking Yaya, or their Nossa Senhora for blessings, for support and especially for luck; going forward. I asked if they received any sign in response to their prayer songs? She continued, "Yaya would approve their wishes over the day today and over the next several months as they completed their annual rituals and began preparations for the coming year. Good luck in life, in prayer, especially in festas would be essential. The success of this festa and the following one next year would be proof; her acknowledgment."

Waiting for the next activity to begin, Francisca and I continued to discuss the sisterhood and her research in ethno-musicology. Francisca had been living in Cachoeira for eight years, documenting Samba de Roda and the Irmandade. In a few months she would be receiving her Phd; and she needed to move on. She was low on funds and short on patience. She had successfully trained a cadre of individuals and academics from teens to doctoral fellows in the manner for conducting proper field research in ethno-musicology and anthropology. Graciously, she filled in many of the gaps I had about the sisterhood and the community. She suggested some books to read and offered to give me a teaching brochure that she had created. The brochure had won her awards from UNESCO. She also offered me a bed in her home, when I returned to Cachoeira. As Francisca described her reality, I reflected on the nature of higher education here and in the USA.

"I want to ground my life. I want to teach and I need to make some money. I am now in my forties! Twice I have been selected to teach at University. Yes, here in Cachoeira. I would like to stay here. Both times I have passed my examinations and have been approved for hire. But, always at the last moment I have not been seated. I haven't paid off the right people. I deeply believe in free public education-Yet, I hate our system of corruption. Everything is corrupt here. How can you be qualified, pass the exams and not be seated; Twice?" Phew. That is a harsh reality.

Sitting in silence, digesting her story I wanted to cry, or hug on her. From behind us, came shuffling and high pitched voices in American English. Twenty or so mostly African American women all in white cottons entered the room following behind a middle aged man who defined the scene they were observing. Brazenly they took over the room, pulling out their cameras, and sitting with the sisters, embracing them for photo ops, as though they were the focal points and not the Irmandade. Disgusted and not really wanting the knowledge, I put my camera aside and asked them where they had come from. "Brooklyn."-came the chorus. "Oh...." "We are from the Simmons Museum of African American Art. Didn't I know it? Was I American too?" I responded, "Yes, Mount Morris Park-Harlem." I wasn't sure if I was disgusted more in their overt American-ness, dominant and self centered in nature; or in their inability to show respect and humility for this group of women who were holding up a tradition of solidarity for over 200 years. Turn off the TV and get real. Pausing, catching my breathe to contain it's fervor; silently I acknowledged that I too was an interloper, a voyeur here in Cachoeira. You cannot be too self righteous. Probably, they would pay for the privelege of the picture taking. The sisters lived from these contributions. In that way, they could help them. Possibly, someone who saw their pictures back in NY, could affect change or embrace their dedication as inspiration in their own work.

Cachoeira: Walking with Gito & Cozido

I woke up early again, from the combination of the strange setting, someone's ringing cell, the snoring next door and the now accustomed fireworks and roosters. Dressing in the dark, I left walking in the opposite direction looking for another simple cafe, to eat and write in. I found a nice place near the bridge and had coffee and a bacon, pepper and egg pie baked in a crust, though not quiche. Exiting into the bright sunlight, I realized that I was at the edge of the town market. The market here was eight to ten times the size of that across the river. I spent a few hours walking the stalls that were centered around a Praca and two buildings, one larger for meat and grains, and the other for fish. If you couldn't afford those stalls you sold in the street with some folks displaying their wares on the cobblestones. sides of meat, cured meats and sausages, organs, heads, eyes, salted fish, tuberoses, herbs, fresh fish & shellfish, live poultry, honey, cheese, pickled peppers fruit and vegetables five blocks square. Wherever I could, I talked to the vendors and farmers about their products, shooting portraits, taking names, buying a piece of fruit or snack to taste. This was a better experience for me in many ways than the market at Sao Joaquim. I could navigate and negotiate the scale and the crowds much more easily than in Salvador. I was engaged with the softball sized pressed spheres of pounded manioc leaves ready to be boiled in several changes of water for Manicoba, the local beanless Afro-Indian style Fejioada. Passionfruit or Marcuja as large as grapefruits, air fragrant with aromatic flowers, manyof which I later learned were raised for Candomble ceremonies. Well cooked Figado de Boi, cooked and pressed into a pate-like rectangle. Fuma de corde, oily, thick coiled black rope that truly was a cheap form of tobacco, cut in sections for smoking. Salted and sundried meats, pieces of smoked pork belly skin, glistening with a fat layer if you couldn't afford a true piece of meat in your stew. Intestines ready to be cooked like chitterlings, honeycomb tripe, oxtails, live whole muddy blue crabs or cooked picked meat for $20/kilo. Herbs dried and fresh for cooking, home cures and spiritual practice. According to Lucia and Joselito I could flavor my dinner, treat diabetes, asthma, bronchitis, sore throats, ease the birthing process, get a laxative or cure a flu. I was impressed with the patience of some of the vendors with my Portuguese and diverse questions. Joselito the medicinal herb seller told me how much he like to communicate, share remedies, and accept that today's inquiry could be tomorrow's regular customer. Too many people were too rude with customers for him. People need help and advice and he prided himself on his honesty and hearfelt desire to teach. His daughter worked alongside him, I assume one day she would carry on his trade.

I returned home around 10:30 to set down some of my purchases and recharge my camera. I had to charge it in the hallway close to the door to the street, so I tried to charge it and rest since anyone could walk by reach in and take the device since the exterior door was never locked. As I walked in the home, Gito's mom told me that she had decided that I needed a good view of the city for a panoramic photo op. Gito would show me now if I was ready. Gito and I had had little to do with each other up to that point. I had spoken to him in passing briefly. As most kids do, he was typically fixated on the television when I was in their house. Quite a small boy for the 9 years he admitted to, I had wondered if he was fibbing, or just hadn't hit a preadolescent growth spurt. We eyed each other closely as she rattled on about the view and the hill. "Ok, I agreed; I will need a few minutes to charge my camera and eat a snack."

Walking uphill in an alley between the houses that I had not previously seen for approximately 500 meters lrevealed a nice view of the city. I turned fully around to take a shot and Gito waved me off. A fork in the road came and we took the upper roadway into the favela. (approp. in small cities?). A steep cobblestone street pitched such that I could not stand straight up, indicated a major visa further on. Almost two kilometers later, sweating and breathy the road became earth and mud. The houses had given way to fazendas, (farms). The first, on the eastern slope had a high iron gate and modern wire fencing. I asked, but Gito did not know what they raised or who the farmer's were. Higher still on the western slope was a massive cornfield, loosely terraced following the contours of the land. Everywhere we looked, even before the farms had begun there were large stands of banana trees. An occasional man with a machete, or a donkey laden with produce crossed our path; otherwise we were quite alone. I tried speaking to him, but for a long while he seemed put upon, as if I was another chore. Once I began to shoot some pictures he began to relax. I tried to include him in some of the shots and he initially refused, possibly trying to be courteous or self conscious. Finally, I asked him if I could put him in my frame and he suddenly began to warm up. We jumped from an exchange of random words or questions, "What is the name of that bird?," to a fuller, albeit choppy conversation, about Cachoeira, his interests, his studies in English, Italian and Capoeira.

The unpaved road was flatter and I could see some other streets up ahead. "Tinhamos passado a Porta do Belem". -We have crossed the townline, we are on the edge of Belem. "Is that is why it is a dirt road?" "Sim." He continued telling me how we could walk through part of the city and head south entering Cachoeira across town from where he lived. Matter of factly he said that it would be a long walk. I looked back, thought about my appointment to watch the preparation of the Cozido, and the distance we had traversed already. I quickly responded, "Nao. Obrigado pra sua sugestao, mais vamos voltar agora." No, thanks for your suggestion, let's turn around here. Descending the way we came, I shot a few more pictures of random people and lthe andscape. I did not notice that close to town he chose a different fork that put us close to the praca. Now fully engaged he showed me the prison cum museum built first to house and punish slaves, a plaque identifying Cachoeira as the site of the first independence movement against Portugual and a sweet cafe and shop of local artisans. I asked him if he knew of a tour of the sugar mills and Dende plantations that I had read about? He took me to the tourist office and then to a neighbor's home who did Jeep tours. Neither option gave fruit. I suggested that he come with me to see the women, so we continued uphill towards the Irmandade, now quite familar and comfortable with each other.

We entered the refectory and some of the sisters were sitting, chatting; waiting for the remainder to arrive. The refectory consisted of two rooms and a bathroom. The first room had a large sitting room, dining area an open kitchen at the back and a stair to the sanctuary. The other room was a large flagstone patio which had two iron burners with propane tanks large enough to accomodate forty and fifty gallon pots. The kitchen was defined by a half wall with a countertop, above which hung an accordion steel gate that could be folded tight to the wall or expanded and locked to protect their equipment. Mae Zelita brought me to meet the women who began the food preparation each day. Since the sisters had not all arrived, I was allowed into the kitchen with my camera. Ana Christina, a stout round face woman with a cheerful grin pointed out all of the vegetables that they had cooked and were prepping to cook, the various meats and the rich stock that had come from braising everything together. The pattern was that the women in conjunction with the commissioner of the Irmandade, (this year it was Mae Zelita), prepared the ritual meal for the sisterhood, and then did it again in massive quantities for the townsfolk. By that time the sisters had all arrived and Mae Zelita returned to finish their food. I began to shoot her as she grabbed a 3 foot wooden spoon to stir and season the broth, when she raised her voice and told me never to take her picture, or at least not when she cooked. I never found out why, I couldn't do this; but I heeded her command and left the kitchen.

Walking across the floor, one of the sisters beckoned to me to sit next to her near the exit door. Mae Analia was a large woman, with a body suited for hard work. She had a warm face and she volunteered some details about the history of the sisterhood and the week's festivities to clarify questions that I had. I was appreciative of her help, though I learned that any sister who you engaged wanted tribute money. The sisterhood lives off of the sale of handmade candles representing each of the Orishas and whatever donations they receive from the town and the tourists. I cannot truly blame them for their methods. I venerated the sisters, with a high degree of esteem, respect and humility. But it still felt odd to have a pleasent discussion and then be asked to pay for it.

At this moment, Anaclaudia entered with her family a college friend Rosangela and her husband Julio, from Salvador. Rosangela had brought me a book written by a European in English about the foods of Bahia. Somewhat dated, yet quite informative, I was quite appreciative that a stranger hearing of my research gave of themselves to help me with my work. She went on to tell me that if I desired a home in the area, she wanted to sell the beach house she and her husband had built when their kids were small in the fishing village west of Itaparica in Barra da Paraguacu. She would send Jpegs and we could discuss it. Maybe I had a friend...?

Lunch was served now that the immediate families of the sisters arrived. The cozido was delicious and the veggies sublime. Gito refused the meal. I am not sure why. One of the Mae's brought a basket filled with Banana Reais-Banana Fritters. I gave mine to Gito, who beamed as he ate the warm sweet filling. We decided to leave when a few of the sisters called me over. I was wearing my t-shirt depicting a Vampire George Bush sucking the blood from a dying Statue of Liberty. The sister seemed quite disturbed by the image. I wasn't sure if she knew the characters. I explained the image and the symbolism to her. One of her companions added to my description to make sure that she understood the theme. At that moment the three of them burst out in bawdy laughter and I joined in.

I found Mae Zelita to thank her for her generosity and to ask about the nature of the specific dishes chosen for these meals. She stood between Ana Claudia and me facing her relations as she told me that this dish, Cozido, had to do with the fact that the slaves always kept a small garden to supplement the meager rations that they received from the masters. This dish, all of the dishes helped us remember the reality of the slave life and their diet, relative to their workload. She looked closely at me for a sense of comprehension. I said nothing, but had followed her story. Most of her extended family was lost in their own conversation. All of a sudden, as though she was a teen girl, she looked around the room furtively and said we make this food to show what the NEGROES ate and grabbed Ana Claudia's arm who is many, many shades darker than her aunt. Holding her forearm, Zelita pointed to her skin color to make sure I understood what she was describing, cackled boldly and ran away. She had grabbed everyone's attention except Ana and Rosangela. We all burst out laughing uncontrollably while Ana stood bewildered looking at the arm that her aunt had just relinquished. Having seen the tristeza and solidarity of the sisterhood, it was great to see this expression of pluck and good humor.

I thanked the sisters and cooks who had helped me today, found Gito and got ready to leave. At the door a tiny sister, made huge by the volume of lace garments that she wore, made me think of the B boys in NYC who wear clothing several sizes too big creating a similar visual statement of grandness. She sat by herself, head down in thought or meditation. I said hello, she looked up and I saw her cheeks and forehead speckled with moles like my mother had had. I shared this memory with her, telling how as a young boy I always thought that any black woman I saw with moles like my Mom suggested a safe harbor, friend or maybe relation. Her eyes sparkled spreading light between us. Nearly teary, I left with Gito.

He had one more stop he thought we should make together. He thought that his neighbor might be in his boat which was tied up on the river near the praca. Arriving at the water the boat was gone, but their was a Capoeira demonstration and graduation ceremony for the young recruits of the Mulekietu school. Children from four to about sixteen were sparring with their masters and being awarded their first belts for their efforts. Some of Gito's friends were in the demo, so he was all up in this scene. Half an hour later, I walked on, leaving him there reveling in his friend's successes; free from the care of the American.

Streetlife

I rested at "home" in the Pousada for thirty minutes to gather myself and charge my camera, then set out to find the dueling bands and dancers. Shortly into the party it started to rain. This theme continued all weekend, causing dancers to run from the streets to stand under the eaves of buildings and boughs of old trees while the bands boogied on. Bars were full with whole families covering three generations, all enjoying the party. Busses offloading tourists continued to pull in and leave as people caught slices of this festa. The days became a collection of simultaneous parties in different neighborhoods from ten until midnight, or later. Walking streets, I had memories of Clarksdale, Mississippi on the Delta, a former bastion of cotton and plantation commerce, now like this town a shadow of itself. Many buildings were just facades with no interiors. Souvenir sellers seemed to have rented abandoned shells for the weekend, rigging lights to give a semblance of propriety. Street food was all over, Caldo de Cana, or fresh pressed Sugarcane juice, acaraje, pipoca, etc.

I spotted Os Filhos de Gandhi who looked vaguely like Garveyites in royal blue and white. Os Negros and half a dozen other Samba bands; some local and some shipped in from Salvador. Listening to their melodies, I heard Zairian zouk music with congas, percussion, guitars and a categinha (sp?) steely-twangy like a Ukelele or a Tres. Three or more vocalists, the lead singers gravely baritones, of Otis and velvet. All generations danced, intoxicated by the music. The town Trannie, over six feet tall, falling out of his lame halter, pulled off four inch heels to jump in. I watched a crippled middle aged man position his crutches above his head to create a counter balance, altering his center of gravity to boogie. Sensuous dancers traded random partners of either sex for overt sexualized pleasure, for hours and hours on end. We were consumed by dueling bands, tribal dancers, grilled meats and swilling of Cachaca, Skoll or Nova Shin beer and a sweetish local Licor Cachoeira flavored with herbs. The bus rides, the anxiety and anticipation had paid off. I had found magic in a foreign place with no points of reference, seething with African inspired culture and warm loving people.

I took a break and crashed when the rains refused to let up. I returned to the street after seven looking for dinner. I ate a decent chicken dinner by the river. Again the beans were superlatively cooked, and the salad fresh and simply delicious. The chicken, unmemorable and the red wine insipid. Walking toward "home" I heard music coming from the refectory. I walked into a duel between Samba de Nago and Samba Sao Felix. The endless sets had the energy of a James Brown or Fela Kuti show, transfusing energy to everyone in the room. I danced until they finished and decided to crash. As I neared the house I heard loud cacophonous sounds coming from the Praca Principal. Free jazz on steroids with a salsa-disco beat. I needed to ascertain what it was. When I arrived two pickup trucks with huge loudspeakers were parked at the far end of the Praca, belting out distorted Latin rock. In reality, it seemed like a cover for the Candomble ceremony that was going on under the stage, with the nucleus of one of the Samba bands providing the soundtrack. I watched for hours as teenagers introduced various Orisha in full costume as they ritualistically embraced Exu and executed their dance, communion with their gods to a capacity crowd. I was stunned by the quality of the performers and the attention to be over sixteen. After 2 hours I was ready to drop and left before it was finished. Fully sated and overstimulated by the activities of the day. From my bed, I heard the drums continue on for over an hour and more fireworks exploded as I drifted to sleep.

Just as I really lost consciousness, near midnight I heard a knock at the front door. Then again, with no answer. I contemplated getting out of bed when I heard a Dona da casa speak to the three new visitors. They were half cocked and looking for a room. My door had been ajar and one of the two men looked in. He recognized me from Salvador. He worked on the concierge and maintenance staff at the apartment Paul Cezanne in Porto da Barra. He started talking to me, asking about Michele. It was all a little close. They had missed the last bus and decided to make it a party weekend. He suggested since we knew each other and there wasn't much room left to sleep, he could park on my floor while his friends, a couple took a bedroom. I look haltingly, thinking, uh-we ain't dat close; not wanting to create ruckus or misinterpret the situation. Before I had to respond, the young son lost his room to the couple and the single guy got the settee. I lost some of my bedding to her son, Gito. It was cool from the

Do Seminario do Dende a Cachoeira

You cannot ever be too cocksure in a new place. Anxious to absorb all that I could and hopeful that I could, would make relevant connections at the Seminario de Dende at Senac Cooking School in the Pelourinho, I had decided to stay on until the end. Or at least until the cocktail reception and book party at 6:30 PM, for Raul Lody's new book. He was the director of the seminario and a key anthropologist of Afro-Brazilian culture. I had introduced myself to him, he was gracious but we got nowhere. I was constrained because that same day I had plans to go to Cachoiera, (Cash-o-where-a) for A Festa Da Irmandade da Boa Morte. The Festival of the Sisterhood of the Good Death. More on that soon.

The first of the last two speakers of the day at the seminario was truly sawdust. I am sure she is a competent woman, and seemed quite intelligent. She is the chief administrator of Senac and is based in Sao Paulo. Senac appears to be a national vocational college with branches in Tourism, Cooking, ___________ & _____. She deals with food. I am sure she has great strengths as a CEO, she acknowledged that last week was her thirteenth anniversary in her position. But she must not have been hired for her elocution skills. She attempted to demystify the editorial and publication process for books on food and cooking. As relevant as it might have been, it could have been turned into a Powerpoint presentation or a printed brochure. I lost my taste for more speechifying and decided I would be better served to try and catch an earlier bus to Cachoeira. I wanted to be able to arrive at a more reasonable hour, navigate the town, find some dinner and get oriented with regards to the festival. Thus, I left the seminar 45 minutes early, 5:30 PM and made my way to the Lacera Elevator and out of the Pelourinho. The bus stop at the foot of the elevator was a major transit link for city buses. Fairly quickly I found one marked Rodoviaria Volta B-Brotas, (Ho-dough-Vee-ar-ee-ya: Bus Station). I hopped on, chilled down and made ready for my trip into the Bahian countryside. Heading east from town, we went through the tunnel cut into the same hillside that Pelouinho sits on top of. I had made this trip yesterday from Barra to buy my ticket in advance. Everyone said that the festival was breathtaking, and a major magnet for Brazilians, foreigners; in particular African Americans.

A Festa is said to be the first act of solidarity by black people for black people in honor and in struggle for the people who had died enslaved in Brazil. It has been held for over 200 years, initially begun in Salvador. The sisterhood of black women in a direct bloodine descendancy from slaves dedicate their lives to honoring the struggle of the ancestors, express real and metaphoric tears for the murder and subjugation of their elders and live a simple ascetic life, dressing traditionally, holding special vigils, prepare ritual meals and ceremonial rituals which culminate in this week long festa, which began on Monday. It was suggested that I also sample some regional dishes, Manicoba-a rich Afro-Indian meat stew thickened with manioc leaves, Caldo de Sururu-A mussel broth or soup, Fejoida com Feijao Preto-Fejoida with Black Beans, Licor da Cachoeira among other dishes. Taylor, one of the founders of Sacatar had tried to connected me with his friend, Edmilson, described as a flamboyant gay man who spoke French, Portuguese and no English; someone who had a good head for the festival, could be a general guide to Cachoeira and had room to put me up for a small fee. Unfortunately, he never responded to our emails. As a safeguard, I had found an internet site with some Pousadas listed, and made reservations at two to be safe.

Bus tickets sell quickly, so I was advised to purchase my ticket ahead of time. They printed my name and reservation time, 8:00 PM was printed on the ticket, like an airticket. I used that trip to a Rodoviaria to clock the travel time, so that I could be ready on the day of the seminar, forty five minutes. Therefore from the Pelourinho stop is should be approximately a 20-30 minute ride. My bus, a tortuga, appeared to stop at every corner in Engenho Velho de Brotas (Engenho Velho indicates the site of a form Sugarcane Plantation during the colonial period). I asked the moneytaker on the bus for an explanation of the route. "Vai ficar tempo", It takes time, was his response. It was now 6:50PM. I thought that at least I would make my scheduled bus. My phone rang a few times with calls from the States, which distracted me from the sluggish ride. When I finally saw the highway up ahead, the eastbound lanes we needed to taker were bumper to bumper and barely moving. As we mounted the on ramp we headed west towards the ocean. I was confused and distraught; my cool unraveled. I realized that our route required us to head west to some intersection where we would reverse direction and head east to the bus station; 5 km later.

The third time I spoke to the money taker, he was too through. When I asked how much longer? He came back with, "Um rato. Vai ficar tempo pra chegar pra la. Nao posso dizer cuanto tempo. Temos muita congestacao, trafico". Awhile. It takes time to get there. I can't say how long. There is a lot of congestion, traffic. Voce deve buscar Shopping Iguatemi. Look for the Iguatemi mall. Being pragmatic and crazed, I said, "But don't you do this everyday? The same route?"---Yes.

"Entao....How long, you must know the time it takes....?" "Vai ficar tempo. Nao sei." I cursed the lives of functionaries. There had to be a better answer, it was now 7:29. I wasn't sure if I would even be able to catch my scheduled bus. I considered trying to get out in traffic, flagging a cab, or what I wasn't sure. I didn't quite know where I was to make clear decisions. Then I saw Shopping Iguatemi, and thought that it all might work. I had had such good luck up until this point, I hoped that it didn't portend a bad scenario ahead in Cachoeira? I found my queue on the Santana bus line at 7:50. The only concern I had had, was that I was waiting on money from America and what I had was what I had, and there were not many reals or time alotted for dinner. Agua sem gas and a small bag of boiled peanuts were the realities for now.

The ride took about two and one half hours. None of the overhead lights worked, so my preparatory reading sat in my sack. Behind me two chatty Brazilian men flitted time with their chatter. Two young ample bosom women marked by revealing cleavage and hugging jeans got on, and the men had a target. I dozed off between my peanut splurges and their cat and mouse. While I was awake I appreciated the rolling hills in silhouette under a shadow of clouds. Closer to our destination an almost full moon rose as I anxiously watched one street towns and random roadside stops blink by. The larger villages caused this bus to function like a cityline, stopping five or six times on shuttered streets that reflected a stray bar or a streetside card game. I bolted awake as I came to consciousness in Cachoeira. Overstimulated by my day and ride, anxious for the weekend and underfed, I had slept deeply for 20-30 minutes. I realized that I had no idea where I was going, and that this town would have several stops. Inquiring with the moneytaker, (all the buses have one; I wonder if it is also a crime detererrent?), neither he nor the driver knew the street I named, even as repeated it with a new intonation. Rua Ana Nery. "Porque voce nao saia na Rodoviaria da Cachoeira? Sera melhor." As my feet touched the pavement street hawkers chanted at me and the passengers on the bus-cerveja, agua mineral, amendoine, refrescante-Aqui.

The bus made a U-turn and disappeared over a rusted steel suspension sitting over the river. Across the river there was also a town, more brightly lit. Should I be there? Is that were the commercial streets and Pousadas were? Giovanna had said that the bus might only stop in Sao Felix nearby. Maybe that was Sao Felix. I walked to the riverfront and saw lights ahead, deciding that at least at the lighted place I could ask. The crowded bar sat adjacent to a playground, soccer field and town park. At the street corner one group was split between three people at table and two in their car, doors flung open beer sheening all of their lips. Walk away from the river, (into darkened streets), direito ate ...Two blocks later, I found two men selling churrascinhos on a main drag. I stopped to ask again, and decided to buy one. I watched them cook over a hibachi with a small two speed electric fan hotwired into the street lamp to stoke the coals. They had just run out of beef, so I was given sausages, chicken and squash with a crown of raw onions and sliced cucumbers oozing vinegar. The meats were rolled in farofa just before he handed it to me with the next set of directions. A few blocks later, nest to a large church, I asked a guarda, and realized I was looking at the Pousada across the street from his station. I had found a website with Ana Bea's help. I couldn't get a Skype signal, so I used my cell and probably would pay tweny American for my calls. In front of their doorway was a chipped silver wrought iron gate, removable, like a toddler barrier. Almost one meter tall. I saw no bell, so I called out in a low voice. A woman, teenager turned in the dark hallway telling me to come in. I lifted the gate, replacing it as walked int their home. She led me into a squareish room dominated by a heavy wooden dining table and too many chairs. Grandma in a housedress and a headscarf sat on a sagging sofa. A dark skinned man, the girl who brought me in and two young children sat around the room glued to a telenovela.

A woman dressed like gram was in the kitchen in profile to us. She held a chubby sausage with her left hand, hacking slices in the air with her right. A stairway was in the corner and the roof was partially open to the sky. Moonlight spilled in adding to the TV glow. She motioned me into the kitchen, took me in as she sliced; asking what I wanted? The pot behind her sizzled with onions and garlic as I requested the room I had reserved. You called? Yes....She looked into my eyes, then she surveyed my frame. "Voce vai assentar com minha mae". Go and sit on the sofa next to my mother. Grandma creamy coffee colored, breasts long past firm as they sagged to her mid chest under her garmets pulled up a seat next to the sofa and motioned to me. I sat. The man, not Dad, in a sleeveless black V neck tennis sweater with white trim, black dress shorts and a black apple jack hat muttered something at me that I didn't follow. I was exhausted, and now had no room, nor did I know where the other possiblity was; it was late. I needed my wits now, all of my cognitive skills to follow this conversation in a lazier dialect than that of Salvador. I quickly became the focus of the conversation, though they spoke about me, not too me. Until Grandma turned , smiled and whispered, " Voce nao e globo?" I repeated, "Globo?" (does that mean globe?). "Voce parece globo." I answered, "Nao, nao sou globo, mais obrigado." No, I am not globo, but thanks. She continued muttering and looking at me with a sultry gaze. Where was I? Was she senile? A woman called out and came in beer gut leaking over her pants. She asked for coffee and the teen girl whipped out cafezinhos for everyone. She sat on the sofa and immediately began to speak to me in English, telling me that there was housing for men only down the street two blocks. I wasn't sure I wanted that. I just imagined trashed guys, loud late at night. Our hostess stepped from the kitchen and quickly told the man to leave and ask at one of the neighbor's homes for a room. He left and returned quickly empty handed. She looked at me again, and said to the room more than someone, "Mas ele me ligou." But he called me. Maybe I can do something for you, but I am waiting for someone from Sao Paulo. Grandma kept on about globo as I finished my coffee. Now the dona addressed the man, mentioning someone's name. He stood to leave and they all looked to me. He wanted me to follow.

Around the corner, and up the block, a smallish woman with thick wavy brown hair cracked her door and I listened to him discuss my situation. She opened the door for me and he left. The room was in shadows, she led me down a short hallway speaking as she walked. I made out a a ceramic roof high above this railroad flat, kitchen at the back, TV in the backround. None of the rooms had cielings, so true privacy would be at a minimum. Out of the shadows, a young girl came from the farthest room as we talked. A measured cadence of snores emanated from the door behind me. Dad? I was shown a room, sky blue walls, double bed covered with a mossy satin spread and matching quilted velvetine headboard. A square of lace appliqued to the middle of the spread. A carved wooden armoire with sliding doors, two of them broken stood along the far wall. A picture of the young girl I had seen at an earlier age, praying was framed adjacent to a reproduction of female nude charcoal drawing. We stepped out of this room and she asked, "How many people? How long?" "Just me. Until Sunday." Immediately she whispered to the young girl. It depends upon the price, doesn't it? How much will you..." They looked at each other again. $80? I repeated the figure. "Yes, ok; $80. I asked for a toilet as they whispered on. Returning, I set my things on the bed and asked about food. The girl volunteered the leftovers and a drink. I looked up, and accepted a glass of water, as her mother'e eyes nixed the food. What did I want-dinner? It was too late, I just wanted a snack. They sent me to the central square a few blocks away. In the street again, now hereing cicadas, I stopped to photograph the church when I heard the daughter whistling and jogging up to me. "Chaves. Voce precisa um chave." A key-duh.

The praca was three streets long with a center island, grassy and studded with plastic chairs and street food carts. Several full bars, cafes and restaurants opened onto the square. Brazilian rock, countryish blared from loudspeakers mounted on street lamps.Noisy people sat, chatting under strings of small white light bulbs strung in the trees above the square, watching the itinerant souvenir sellers set up camp and tents. I chose one, sat, ordered a beer and negotiated a bowl of Caldo Bacalhau with the owner from among the ten or soups she had written on the plywood menu. Unctous and satisfying with a taste of roux or starch, it did its job. I got up to pay and split, watching to men thrust their tongues into each others mouths. Was one of them Ed? Too late. When I got back to my digs, mom and daughter were still whispering incessantly. Thankfully, they had locked my door. They showed me how to work the lock. I am too trusting. I unpacked and hung up the few things I brought, grabbed my toothbrush and went the toilet again. Now a young boy half awake was watching the TV. Mom called to me in her choppy, poorly constructed Portuguese, "I had missed the invocation and the first procession. I needed to be at the Irmandade by 10:00 AM to see tomorrow's procession. Go early." I thanked her and crawled into bed. As I turned out the light I spied a pair of sequined slippers peeking out from under the bed. I think that I had taken her daughter's bedroom. It was almost midnight and fell asleep quickly. Drifting in and out of random dreams, I heard music faintly.

Abruptly, several hours later before dawn, I was shocked into wakefulness first by three rounds of fireworks, then the peal of church bells and finally an hour's cacophony of roosters. The fireworks had shocked them too. Starting individually, they united into a crowing chorus, like strays dogs howling until daybreak. By seven I was up and out walking the streets to see where I had come to. I stopped in the church, watching devout parishioner's pray momentarily. I walked against traffic, paralleling the river as townspeople hurried to work or to prepare for the festa. Side streets and alleys carried me past massive colonial buildings, some intact, many crumbling. Waling away from the town center, all of the residential neighborhoods had small one or two story brick homes covered in plaster with the same arrangement of small iron gates creating a buffer with the street. The interior rooms of almost every home was fully visible. Outside of every other house, people hung their bird cages with all manner of birds from Budgies to Parrots, singing in the day. I could see that this town had been rich 300 years ago, now it was holding on, appearing solidly working class; with exotic birds in cages, satelitte dishes and a donkey here and there. I came to an edge of town, the east side I think, and found a playground along the river. Happily I did a Tai Chi set, as morning fishermen cast their nets from narrow pirouges. I heard a distant drum, then faint singing coming from across the river. I isolated three long, low buildings as origin of the music. Thinking it might be the parade band or an early gathering of festivants, I decided to walk over the metal bridge and find the musicmakers.

Approaching the Rodoviaria in daylight the Rodoviaria it was impressive sitting at one foot of the bridge adjacent to the Ferroviaria (train station). I crossed the battered span barely wide enough for two lanes of traffic to find Sao Felix, a cathedral and a farmers market at other foot. Hungry now, I bought some bananas, found a cafe with full of men glued to the Brazilian women's Olympic soccer team final's. I ordered a Banana Real or Banana Turnover and coffee. Across the way a man ate a full plate of fried potatoes and scrambled eggs. I ordered that too. Shortly afterwards a plate arrived with only poorly scrambled eggs. I asked after the potatoes. They had run out. Hmm...Bread? He returned with a puffy roll. I made an egg sandwich, the game finished and I left. I never found the music. Possibly, my ears had been playing tricks or eating breakfast upset the timing. Returning to Cachoeira, I found signs leading me to the Irmandade/Sisterhood. The streets choked with people talking loudly in anticipation of the procession, briefly became quiet as a tuba bleeted in the distance. I saw the procession of women coming down a steep hill with a marching band at the rear.The tune could have been written in New Orleans.

Looking around, looking for camera angles and positioning, someone called my name. Big (pronounced Biggie), from the Pelourinho. We embraced, laughed and checked in with each other. He was playing private tour guide to a black actor and his wife from L.A. I recognized his face, but couldn't name him. Adroitly, he began to I.D. key players in the crowd, local politicians, historians, the minister of culture. People he thought I should know, based on my research topic. I exhanged cards and handshakes with all of them, including the govenernor of Bahia. Is Big an Exu at the crossroads? Next, he introduced me to a group of Black American journalists and a tourism executive. We bantered back and forth. One of the women, chatty, flaunted her book, Black History for Dummies. I decided that the church service held more intrigue, and pressed myself into the throng. It took forty minutes of jostling to get to the front of the aisle between the pews where the Irmandade were seated. Periodically, people got up and left from the heat inside the sanctuary overcrowded with locals, other Brazilians, international tourists, a visiting French bishop and many black Americans. Having been raised Episcopal I can always navigate a Catholic Mass, even in a new language. I studied the faces and dress of the sisterhood. Today they were dressed in a variation of the Baina costume. They had full circle boldly printed hooped skirts, lace under trousers, a white blouse cut like a priests supplice, red satin shawls with black lining, thick ropes of beaded Orisha necklaces and silver chains and lace headwraps. I took communion in honor of my mother and marveled at their sense of faith and solidarity as their leaders shared the altar with the priests.

Back in the street, other marching bands, Samba de Roda troupes, dancers in Afro-Indian tribal costume enjoined the nascent procession. The street thicker with flesh pressing flesh feverishly waited for the women and their idol, VIRGEN______to exit the chapel. Finally an hour later we returned to the chapel and people crowded inside in anticipation of the next round of activities. I followed, looking for a copy of the historical brochure for reference and notes. I chose the right person to ask about the brochure and the culinary traditions of these women. She directed me to one of the director's who was heading our way. The man next to me, Luja, heard my questions and suggested that I follow him to see the food being prepared. His aunt was the chief commissioner this year, she could answer all of my questions and probably provide recipes. Wow. He grabbed me by the hand and ten minutes later I was upstairs in the refectory behind locked doors open only to the sisterhood, important officials and family members. I talked with Luja's aunt, Mae Joselita, or Mae Zelita to family and friends.His Mae was directing traffic in the kitchen to finish the Fejioada, Carne de Boi (Bull, Black Bean and Pork Stew) that had been started early that morning. The sisterhood was always served first, then their families and finally the general public. They had enough food to serve several hundred people. Mae Zelita asked what I was doing here, when I responded she turned to her family and asked for a translation. I guess Portuguese needs more work. She then offered me a plate and advised me that tomorrow we could sit and share recipes. I could not be in the kitchen, but I was free to photograph. The beans were perfectly cooked with a nice bite to the tooth. I navigated through a reddish sausage, a leathery strip of well done beef, (maybe Carne do Sol), a braise-shoulder (?), rice and farofa. It could have been Monday evening in New Orleans with a plate of Red Beans and Rice. The dishes ran right together. I shot some photos until my battery was spent, then negotiated the door to search for my charger. On my way out, Luja introduced me to his cousin, Anaclaudia. She insisted that I needed to experience everyday food and should come for a drink and a snack at 5:30 to her home in Sao Felix. She quickly gave me directions and I left.

I was later told the order of all the traditional dishes prepared for the festival. I had missed the first day with the symbolic distribution of black beans and corn in exchange for alms and the second day's famous White Meal of Bread, a Fridgeira da Bacalhau, a cool deep dish savory pie of salt cod and vegetables with an eggy top crust, White Wine and Seafood. Tommorrow's meal would be Cozido. This dish sounded similar to a classic Latin Caribbean dish of braised meats cooked with whole root vegetables and then served separately with the vegetables cut into hefty chunks. There's would have Beef and Goat. The last meal would be Caruru, a very African dish of stewed okra, camarao or smoked dried shrimp in the shell, herbs and Dende oil. Every meal ended with performances of Samba de Roda, and frenetic dancing.

blurbs, first taste of Itaparica

When does the season change in the young people's dispositions? I have found sunny kids as you can find, almost wherever you go. Yet sitting under shaded thatch at a beach side restaurant in Ponta da Areia na Itaparica I have met several kids in part because we are foreigners, Michelle is drawing and they are sucked into the act of making art, making images. And, for all at one point they were looking for money.

They proclaimed their ages to be between 8-15, though in ways the youngest seemed older than 8 and the oldest younger than 15 in biological, not street years. I would have guessed they topped out at 12 years on the planet at most. Over several hours we shared simple pleasures and elemental conversations in our nascent Portuguese. As I watched the next generation, full of bravado flounting their capoeira machismo on the beach I thought of how much innocence is broken down in adolescence. Wanting to be cool. To be able to fuck. Not wanting to be suckered or jumped. And coming to grips with the an intitial weltanschauung. Those teenagers on parade in front of us, looked tough and old beyond their years. Naivete discarded or suppressed. They are lauded for their manliness, especially in a more overtly gender defined culture than the one that I know; but to what end?

Hot tears well up in my eyes, a few graze my shoulder as a young boy standing over me just in my peripheral vision as I rest on the sand, shivers and babbles not very coherently, "Meu irmao, chorando. Leite, leite." Que me disse?"-I ask; what are you saying, did you say; your brother crying? Milk? Still sniffling, his large white towel obscures most of his face. "Que esta passando com seu irmao? What's going on with your brother?

"Nao e leite na casa. Nossa casa nao temos leite e ele chora, chora. Ele esta chorando sempre. Meu irmao tem so um mez." There is no milk in the house. We have no milk in the house and my baby brother is crys, he crys. He is always crying. He is only one month old. Pragmatically, I attempt to ask if his mother is carrying milk. What is the real essence of the problem. An itinerant jewelry maker who uses sea and coco shells, beads, thread and wire to create her designs appears and senses some urgency in this scene. I ask her if she knows this boy. No, she replies. I then explain his tale. She interrogates him, and he maintains his story. Branca comes back, she was one of the first girls I had met that day. She as a lovely chocolatey skin, bright eyes, good cognitive skills and says she is 12. She is Junho's younger sister. She walks with the cocadas that she and Junho help make with their mother. White, Caramel, Amendoine, Goiaba and Abacaxi all jewel like quite sweet and wonderfully tasty. She pulls out an Amendoine for this crying boy, whose tears suddenly subside. He grabs it and chews the sugary treat happily.

He sees some other boys, his peers and rushes to catch up to them. Immediately they want to know how and where he got this treat. Jealousy, envy and desire. He points to Branca, Michele and me. They eye us wistfully. Hours later, as we finish some more drawing, Branca turns to Michele and asks her when will she pay up for the cocada. She says, "hmmm, I didn't buy one from you." Yes, you did. For that boy." Sharp as nails. At least as subversive as that act was it was surgical unlike Camila, model gorgeous, with a close cropped afro, large almondy eyes, who copped to being 9. Camila came up to me thrice asking when I would be paying her? I asked why? For what?--usually we need to make some trade or exchange to receive money. She stared back at me blankly, as if searching for another tactic or retort that wasn't available.

Maybe, I had seen the exotic and perverse film, Vers le Sud, with Charlotte Rampling annually sewing her post menapausal oats during her summer vacations from teaching with teenage colts at a Haitian beachside compound. Often other women would come and seduce the same boys who seemed only to happy to receive the free sex, petty allowances and attention. At least until disaster struck. That was a clever film, what am I seeing?

First Days on my own.

Is it a guy thing or what? I woke up with that headache, just where it had been when I had dozed off before I rolled over on the volume control and blasted myself into wakefulness the night before. Now I tried espresso, aspirin and One a Day PC Vegetarian Vitamins for Men to quell the pain. After an hour I was on my feet. I realized that I needed to stay in Salvador for too many reasons if I intended to go to Boa Morte, so I called my friend Zeno and asked if at least, "Could I leave my bags with him, while I found a place for a night or two?" He suggested that I stay with him. The night before I had left a message with Alain the house manager to see if he had a room in his portfolio.

At 10:00 AM fast talking Alain with the snake in his grass, called to ask if I wanted to seem some apartments. Kenny the full figured boisterous man we had seen in the lobby. You know the one, cannot hide their Americanness, and probably don't want to really. We had seen him on one of our beach walks in the company of a more zaftig fellow, I believe also from Brooklyn. They seemed to be on a flesh hunt, possibly just eye-fucking, but anyway--you got it. The three of us jumped into Alain's brand new Ford Focus and looked at a couple three apartments. One was right on the beach with great views and a wonderful pool deck if you wanted to avoid the crowds. He said he gets $6000 Reals a night during Carnaval. It is right on the parade route, so you could have a boffo party but it would not be about sleeping at all. I got the lay of the land, was glad for the view. Told them al that I would think on it, and jumped a bus for Itapua. An hour later I had dropped my bags, got an acaraje from one of my favorite stands, yeah it gets like that. Maybe I should break it down.

Soak some black eyed peas until you can shuck the skins off. Mash them to a pulp. Whip them a bit. Then shape them into cakes. Heat some palm oil in a deep casserole. Add an unpeeled onion to the simmering oil for flavor. Fry the cakes until tawny russet brown. Drain them, slice them laterally and begin to fill them. The hot sauce has the smoked dried shrimp, palm oil, onions and chilies. There is a simple salsa like condiment, not spicy at all. Vatapa- the bomb! A blend of ground peanuts, cashews, the aforementioned shrimp, breadcrumbs, coconut milk, ginger, malagueta peppers and palm oil. Throw in 8-10 shrimp and your off; all for $3.50. Reals that is. Maybe two bucks. And it is light and fluffy. The fried bean cake is fluffy like a light biscuit. I found a busstop close to Zeno's house, but it took forever for a bus that I could use to get there.

An hour later I got back to Barra, went home, worked on some computer stuff, tried to secure a spot to sleep in Cachoeira and tie up loose ends. Paid Ana the housekeeper her tip and left to drop some clothes at the seamstress. I needed some hemming and light repair done. I also asked about having a zipper fixed. They told me that they would have to replace it. I said, "yeah, ouch-how much?" Eight Reals, maybe $5.25. That works. From there I went to Citibank to get cash. Looked at my accounts and realized that the party is over for now. Not good. Boys and budgeting...nuf said. Found a bus toward Iguatemi to get me to the Rodoviaria, (major bus station for out of town excursions). From where I was I had to go by the historic district almost all the way up to Bonfim to a tunnel in the hillside, a long stretch of highway to be dumped by the side of a major highway under an overpass. A few yards behind the stop there were three major caged in stairways that could carry folks across the highway in either direction. On the northside was a large bus station, where I bought my passage for Cachoeira. You have to register with your name, no I.D. You receive a receipt, or proof of purchase and a little mini plastic card analogous to the savings cards we receive at supermarkets. This is what you need to swipe on the bus. Everyone said that this festa is so popular, especially with Black Americans that I needed to buy my tickets in advance. From that stop, I took another bus back to Itapua over highways, past the airport and back to the lovely beach that makes it so sweet. Another 90 minutes travel. The second bus was so crowded that in true Salvadorian fashion a woman sitting down offered to hold my carry bag and mochilla (backpack). Once space opened up, I grabbed a seat and relieved her of my burden.

I decided to keep it simple, so as I got off the bus I stopped at the street vendors. I will never forget my visit to my G.P. eight weeks ago for two reasons. First the man who came in behind me on recommendation from his hotel, looked greenish, and proceeded to look worse as we sat waiting to be seen. Twice he got up to ask how long for his turn to come up. Whenever he sat back down he would begin to writhe with pain. Needless to say, it was the first time I saw an ambulance squad come to a doctor's office. I hope it worked out for him. My larger point is that, when the doctor pulled out the recommendations from CDC for Brazil and I realized after a deep gulp that this was going to be possibly a $500 visit, I started questioning the need for all of the innoculation cocktail. When we got to the Hepatitis A & B series, the information brochure asked, "Check yes or no to the following questions: Are you and I.V. drug user? Do you engage in male homosexual sex, including anal penetration? Are you an adventurous eater?" See where I am going. I was like yeah, I am all about C. We wouldn't be even considering not chowing on acaraje et alia. So, off the bus, I decided to try this fresh corn roasted over a hibachi like grill. I had memories of summer 'cues, la la. Well I felt like a hungry sow being fed burnt, leathery weathered warm corn. Yum. I thought, how can they have so many delectable fruits and whenever I go to buy them the sellers specifically ask how soon I will eat each piece so that they can pick for perfect ripeness. And now this? I wanted to throw, no spit it out, but I was hungry. I moved on. Two blocks later, I saw this stand I had walked by many times before. Batata and Sundried Beef snacks. I sidled over and read his menu. He had these oversized croquettes made with a base of either potato or mandioca (cassava) puree. In the center you could get cheese, cheese and roast chicken, sun-dried salted beef, beef and cheese, ham, etc. I went for Frango e Queijo (cheese and chicken) It was truly superlative. Miles above my corn. To seal the deal I walked two more blocks to my acaraje buddy, Sira. But instead I went to the Tapioca e Beiju stand. I got a coconut, butter and cassava beiju or griddled crepe. Another winner. I was done. When I got to Zeno's house I decided to sit outside for a moment. I found a hip pocket park on the corner with a nice stone sculpture to Yemanja. I took a few pics, caught my breathe and then went in.

Immediately upon entering Joao hid under the arm of the sofa next to where I was sitting. He is Zeno's 3yr old grandson. In short time he was in my lap, talking rapfire, (for a 3 yr old) stories of his superman, aranaja homen (spiderman) and G.I. Joe like soldier figures. He conjured discussions, faux massacres, full tilt right brain shenanigans. I downloaded my pictures and we looked at them together. We laughed, he played hide and go seek with me as the secret witness of where he hid out, and then we traded vocabulary words and phrases. Kids are great at grounding you when you are new to a language. Out of the blue Zeno called me to dinner. I was touched. We had an interesting and simple meal of: coffee with options to make it cappuccino, fresh maracuja juice (passion fruit), fresh baked bread with butter, sliced cheese and roast beef and fruit if we needed it. We spoke of my research and my impressions of the city. I shared today's pictures with him. He smiled. I settled in for some writing, emails back and forth to Kidville to make sure the new store opening goes smoothly from my departments end, and I got a nightcap of a surprise chat with Michele. It was a good day. Boa noite.