The Rio Vermelho neighborhood had been decorated in an undersea theme in honor of the Festival of Iemanjá. There were nets over the entire area, dotted with colorful sea life. When it got darker, the effect was really cool, but it was neat in the daytime, too.

Danje Cardoso’s house was only steps away from the Fisherman’s Association headquarters, and Nelson herded us over there en masse. Once at the downstairs door, there was a guard-type guy who wanted to know who we were or who we knew. Nelson gave an acceptable password, because we were soon admitted to a very old building where Danje resided.

The stairs to the upper living area were narrow and looked like they were made of chalk. She had renovated the building with the same elements in mind that she and her sister had used when doing the Villa Forma gym. Recycled materials were put to intriguing use everywhere. There was a spectacular coffee table made from old machine parts and pieces of granite, if I can remember correctly. The art on the stucco walls was all fantastic, and Danje had put out her Iemanjá decor for the holiday just as most of Salvador had also done. Carol certainly had. Before we had left that morning, she showed us a great sculpture and wall hanging depicting the goddess in all her vain Bahian beauty.

The great thing about parties in Bahia is the custom associated with them: when someone opens up their home to you at a party, they are, in essence, making you the owner of the house for the day. Therefore, your friends can be invited once you’re in. This may be oversimplification, but as I understood it from Carol, once I was in, the house was mine for the day. Each guest had that dispensation. So, if I wanted to invite a hooker from the beach to the party, I technically could, because I was owner for the day. But I believe the well-mannered guest would refrain from doing stuff like leaving peter tracks in the master bedroom or flushing toilet paper. Boy, would I have loved to have owned THIS gorgeous house!

Here’s the view from the front balcony, which faces the street by the beach. The whole second floor was mainly for living: kitchen, living room, bathrooms, bedrooms, front balcony, back courtyard, and whatever else I didn’t see.

The feature that interested me most at the moment was the cooler full of water and beer, and the shady courtyard with chairs aplenty for us. A couple of the seats were pretty flimsy, and I feared sitting in one only to have it give way and drop my sweating hunk to the ground. After looking around, we found suitable accommodations for all of us, save Carol, who was out in the streets sweating it out for us.

We sat around, everyone sipping beer, me chugging water, discussing existentialism with Nelson, who not only speaks seven languages, but knows his way around Nietzsche and all those other deep thinkers the way he knows the streets of Rio Vermelho.

I emailed Robo this morning and asked him what it was we were discussing, since my encapsulation just couldn’t do it justice:

At 05/09/08 10:23 AM, you wrote:

Hey there pal.
What was the existential conversation we were having with Nelson the day of the Iemanjá festival? When we were at Danje Cardoso’s house?
I know you remember, because you ruminated over it the entire trip. So spill.
Thanking you in advance, I remain,

Robo replied:
He referenced a German (I think) philosopher — seems like he was early 20th century — who espoused that proof of existence could only be based on observation by another conscious being. I don’t think we nailed down too many specifics on it. Among several questions related to it that I later posed when Nelson was conveniently not available: Was the philosopher alone when he wrote that? And if so, did he even exist?

Is that the conversation to which you are referring? [No preposition on the end of that sentence.]

Notice his remark about the preposition. He’s an erudite sumbitch, I’ll say that!

By this time, Pettus had gotten antsy and had to move. She decided to go down and wait in line with Carol for the rest of the way. When Nelson looked up and asked where Pettus was, and we said she had gone to meet Carol, he had a mild freakout: “Mollie will kill me! I was supposed to keep an eye on you!” with his vocal patina from years of teaching, and the inimitable caress of English that only a Latin can give. What a voice!

We assured him that Pettus was no hothouse flower, and if anything happened, she’d take care of it. It would have been funny to come out and find her standing over a local Salvadoran tough after having cold-cocked him. Because that’s what would have happened.

Here’s a picture Pettus took of Carol delivering her basket to the keepers of the gifts. Good shot!

Meanwhile, back at the house, Danje had come into the courtyard, and I looked at her like she was a rock star. I was going to wait for Carol to get there to make the introduction.

Carol eventually showed up with Pettus in tow, and neither the worse for wear. Carol did chug a water upon arrival, but freshened up instantly. Amazing. Nothing ever fazed Pettus from the get-go. I was waterlogged, sweaty, still thirsty, and a little knotty in the midsection again. But not enough to keep me from swooning over Danje and pulling my most perfect “suado” and “beleza” from my bag of tricks.

I got a shot of the group, and we kissed and “beleza’ed” our way down the narrow stairs, out into the streets, and began the trek home.

Oy! It’s a hell of a lot easier to get down a hill than up one. Duh. But we managed. By that time, we knew the way, and knew the landmarks, too. There was a dental supply place that had a funny name. We parked there all the time and passed by just as much. Carol will supply the name. Maybe it was their logo. What was it?

Anyway, we threaded our way through the tapestry of smells, past “urine wall” and “distortion park” up, up, up the hill to Carol’s house. Jean and I did pretty dern good considering her heel problems and my general blobbiness. Pettus, Robo, Carol, et al were right ahead of us. Up the hill we went, doggedly plodding our way home.

Past the front door of the house, which is really on the ground floor and opens into Cerqueira-la; past the gate man, his vertical thumb and his beautiful birds; past Carmen and Suely in the kitchen preparing for the upcoming pizza party in our honor; past the “whufft” of frigid air coming from under Daniel’s still-occupied sleep chamber; past Patricia’s “how was it?” and my “great!” exchange in the hall; into our bedroom to sit on the bed for 30 seconds before my mouth heated up like a lava lamp; and finally into the bathroom to BWAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH all the water in my stomach into the little toilet with the beautiful green tortoise shell toilet seat.

Welcome back, Ben! Did you have fun at the festival?

So here it all comes around. The synchronicity is shocking and insidious:

1. We fail to get up at dawn and regale Oxum, “the jealous queen of sweet waters.”

2. I drink copious amounts of coffee, made from the “sweet waters of the tap.”

3. Robo begins to deride Iemanjá, and is not even aware of the existence of Oxum. (The fact that he was so hip to the quick-dry material that’s so popular in Brazil must have afforded him some sort of immunity to the wrath of the goddesses.)

4. I, the bloated tourist come to town, drink most of their “sweet water” and turn it into something else right before their very eyes. The goddesses can’t take it anymore, and work together for the first time in Bahian history to exact a poetic revenge.

5. I return a huge amount of their sweet water at one time to their quaint sewer system.

6. I then immediately jump into a cold shower and stand as still as I can, covering myself with the sweet waters, which drain out of the tub in the same direction as they do here. Just like in Psycho.