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Second day in Salvador–part 3

With our dispensation, we felt free to roam the Villa Forma gym, which included a tour of the men’s locker room. There was nobody in there, thank goodness, because I felt like a camera and a locker room were as good a mix as Drano and Parson’s ammonia. The inside was cool, with old terrazzo flooring and antique lockers. It wasn’t a spacious, luxurious haven like the ones here in the U.S., but it had them beat hands down, character-wise. There were old photographs of U.S. movie stars such as Marilyn Monroe and the Rat Pack all over the place. It was very cool, and the age of the building and the luxury of the terrazzo floor made it all come together beautifully.

We said goodbye to the hardbodies at the front desk, who had become much more personable. Out the door and around the corner was a small hotel that Arilda had also done. Since I was totally hip to what Arilda was doing, Carol thought we’d like to see the hotel, too. Right across the street from the gated stairway was The Twist Pub. More homage to old U.S. stars. Very neat picture.

Up the narrow, gated stairway we found ourselves in one of the courtyards of Catarina Paraguaça hotel. This was another example of Arilda Cardoso’s use of recycled materials, varied tile, and functional use of space.

The large courtyard featured a large sculpture by Mario Cravo, Jr., artist of Bahian Woman. Every angle and color comprised a beautiful composition in any direction you looked.

Notice the Braque-like painting in the picture on the right. Another Mario Cravo, Jr. His work was prevalent, and very good.

Inside the hotel there was an entire wall made of different tiles from every type of source imaginable. Some were handmade. Some were antique. Some were new. It was an eye-popping display, and I have no idea why there’s no picture of it.  Stupid!  Stupid! Stupid!

Onward.  Homeward.

But not before stopping at a small bodega where Carol knew everybody, of course. I was sweating like no tomorrow by this point, and dying of thirst, so she bought me a water and herself a coffee. I chugged the water so fast that it collapsed the bottle, shook my sweaty head, and decided I wanted some coffee too! Especially from this charming lady, who looks like a professional model from a travel brochure. Well she’s not. And Carol knows her.

I laid my old suado act on her to everyone’s delight. Upon reflection, I have determined that my doing that is sort of like some Frenchman running around Birmingham saying “I’m stupid” in shitty English. I’ve decided to chalk it all up to charms of the language barrier.

Robo, meanwhile, had discovered that they had liquor in a little cabinet, and we began examining all that they had. Same old Bacardi Gold. A bunch of cachaça, but at that time we didn’t know how to uncork its charms. He got the lady to open the cabinet (just like here in America!) and he got some kind of liquor. I think it was the Bacardi Gold. A dying man will drink anything in the desert. He also bought some toothpaste. I think it was toothpaste. It was some kind of personal hygiene product. He had forgotten to bring it, whatever it was.

Little wonder he forgot something. He and Pettus had packed in TWO lousy suitcases. TINY suitcases that a chipmunk could carry. Jean and I were packed in 3 behemoths, with wheels that wobble just enough to throw them off balance frequently during the airport dash.

Jean had been forced to pack in 30 minutes due to last minute work crap before we left. Being that neither one of us had done any kind of major prep, when Pettus showed up at our house to take us to the airport the first day, Jean was still throwing stuff at three gaping maws of Samsonite covering our bed.

And that’s not all! By the time Pettus had dropped us off at the airport, Jean had come up with a list of things she had forgotten to pack. Pettus said she’d get them and bring them to us. I can’t remember what they were, but there were several. Such humiliation.

It was so much fun schlepping all that luggage around.  SO   MUCH    FUN.

We went back to the lot we had parked in, Carol tipped the guy and covered him with her pristine Portuguese, I told him I was sweaty, and Robo stuttered out something in bad English. We all gave him the thumbs up as we headed out. It felt good.

Second day in Salvador–part 4

Arrived back at Carol’s in time for my massage with Luciana. I say it happened after our trip to the gym, but it more likely happened before we went. At any rate, we had booked me a massage for that day, and it was time.

Luciana is beautiful, lithe, and a great masseuse. She gave the kind of massage I like. Not one of the ones where you grit your teeth as they knife their way down your spine. No, she had one of those three headed massage robots, some oil, and some jungle sounds. A mat on the floor, a bath towel, and she was ready to do her job. I naturally worried that there might be something unsightly showing–who knows what–but got over it pretty quickly.

As great as the massage was, my head felt like a concrete block when I got up, and that tiny knot in my stomach had returned to say “Hi. How was the massage?”

I went into the den where Daniel and Patricia were watching Brazilian MTV. Whoa! What a trip! There was a show based on that cover band gag that featured a wired up shirtless Brazilian guy with neatly trimmed beard, a few tats, a pair of harem pants and a white fedora. So here he is hammering away in Portuguese, and he has a pantomime “sidekick” who looks like him and is dressed like him and imitates every move he makes. Patricia explained that it was because since the bands imitate other bands, he had his own host imitator. It was crazy!

The first band was covering the B-52s, and the other one was covering Blink 182. The set was small, sand covered, with a pair of bleachers for the live fans (many of whom were old as shit, some Japanese, who KNEW who they were?), and a big wrecked boat, on top of which were two Brazilian hotties dancing and posing. There were three Brazilian celebrities who voted for the bands in each competition: two comedians and a hot model type. Of course the vote was always even until the very last.

During the blast of speedy Portuguese, I heard the word “muthafucka” several times! CRAZY! I also saw my first commercial for Havaianas.

This über-hot Brazilian girl in a bikini is strutting down the beach, and an ordinary guy is lusting after her. She turns to talk to him! He can’t believe it! She asks him to hold her Havaianas. He gladly agrees! She struts off, and when she returns, the guy has the shoes in his mouth. He sheepishly gives them to her, she smiles, and the camera shot widens to reveal a big beefy guy. She promptly hands him the flip flops. “Thanks for holding my boyfriend’s Havainas,” she says sweetly. They run off.  HAR!!! It was fun watching TV with Daniel and Patricia.

No rest for the wicked. It was time for the afternoon excursion.

We were headed into a very old section of Salvador, Santo Antonio Alem do Carmo. Up a huge hill to a large square with a fort and a church on it. Both old as hell, both beautiful. The fort, Santo Antonio Alem do Carmo, was a beautiful white edifice perched on the top of a hill overlooking Salvador. It had recently been renovated to house many capoeira schools in the area. Capoeira (CAP-pa-WAIT-a) is incredibly popular in Salvador, and other parts of Brazil as well. It’s a martial arts dance/game devised by the African slaves in 16th century Brazil. In this fort several internationally famous schools were housed.

The first one we visited was run by Mestre Boca Rica, Manoel Silva. Here I got my first glimpse of a berimbau, the primary instrument played in capoeira.


Yes, I bought a CD and had Mestre autograph it! He spelled my name right (with Carol’s incredible Portuguese prompting). Here’s one of the tracks.

02 Quando Eu Vim Para A Bahia.mp3

I think I can talk Robo into bringing this whole berimbau/capoieira craze to Birmingham. It’s sure to catch on with our athletic youth. And I may be 55, but I can still kick!

Second day in Salvador–part 5

The Mestre across the courtyard from
Mestre Boca Rica

We said goodbye to Mestre Boca Rica, and proceeded to peek in a couple of the other classrooms that ringed the courtyard. There was nobody in any of the ones on Boca Rica’s side, so we crossed the massive courtyard, stopping to marvel at a big concrete cylinder in the middle.

Once on the other side, we encountered the school of this guy. I never got his name, but there were two or three people fluttering around him like he was somebody important.

I began to wonder if he and Mestre Boca Rica would duke it out with dueling berimbaus across the courtyard, and then go all capoeira on each other in the middle.

At any rate, he posed for pictures without complaint. On the wall just as you walked in was a portrait of St. George and the dragon. It was the second time I had seen it down there. It is obviously one of their important motifs.

At this age, you never pass up a bathroom, so after stopping at the sanitario, we headed toward the gate. On the way out, we decided to investigate the concrete cylinder, and found that it was a wall around an old cistern. The wall looked new, and I wondered what blocked it in the past. What a laugh that would be to see some guy capoeira himself right into this hole.

Once outside, we discovered the beautiful view off the mountain.

At a right angle to the fort on the courtyard was an old, beautiful colonial church, Santo Antonio Alem do Carmo. It is obviously still in use, because there was brand new playground equipment in front of it, and there were even a few food vendors already set up around the perimeter of the place square.


Of course one of the things I liked the best about the whole view was the gang of lazy dogs just hanging around and reminding me of Zoey and Spike. They were funny. They’d lay down for a while. Get up, walk around a little bit and then lie down again. They were oblivious to everything, and I would have loved to have met them, but decided to forgo it.


It was time to wend. We were in a very old section of Salvador, Santo Antonio Alem do Carmo, (duh), one that had recently become renovated and brought to new life by Europeans. Carol piloted that SUV like a champion over cobblestone streets that were as old as Dom Pedro himself. The streets were steep, curvy, and lined cheek to jowl with colonial storefronts, apartments and houses.

I managed to take a couple of shots from the car.

We parked in an impossible place for any car, much less a big one, and gingerly alighted from the SUV onto the totally uneven cobbles. Carol had advised that I be mindful of my camera, so I had it in duffel position #1, with drawstring wrapped.

Jean and I were being particularly vigilant of the uneven street, and I was constantly in high mental gear, lest some toughs rush by and try to grab my camera.

We passed by edifice after edifice, each scrolled with beautiful colonial details. It looked like something from St. Tropez as much as it did Brazil. Our destination at the top of a couple of hills was an old 16th century convent that was now re-purposed as a 6 star Hotel, the Convento do Carmo.

Carol’s dazzling Portuguese garnered us access to limited areas of the hotel ONLY, but it got us in, nevertheless. I only took a couple of pictures, mainly of this urn and whoever would stand in front of it. But only if they would answer the question, “What’s a Brazilian urn?” Jean did, but the picture was too blurry. But guess whose wasn’t! (Many thanks to my pal Pumpie for pointing out that I originally had written “who’s wasn’t”. I should be KILLED!)

 

Second day in Salvador–part 6

Okay, we did this in reverse order, but it really doesn’t matter. Dimitri’s place was first, followed by our look-see in the Hotel.

We were all standing around outside the Convento do Carmo talking about what we wanted to eat. (Duh). Carol looked up to see a tall, grey haired man in cabana shirt and sandals coming out of the hotel. “Dimitri!” she called. He replied with a beautiful European tint on the word “Moh-leee!” (Mollie) Everybody down there calls Carol that. Her real name is Mollie Carol James Cerqueira. She was always called Carol growing up, since her mother’s name is also  Mollie. Once she went to college, she started going by Mollie, since it was her first name, and in college people always call you by the first name they see. So Nelson knows her as Mollie. (They met at Indiana U where he was a professor). And everybody in Salvador knows her as Mollie. Jean and I stubbornly call her Carol. But the “Mollie” is so pervasive, that I even heard Pettus refer to her by that moniker more than once. Her brothers and sister call her Carol, as does her mother, so it’s kind of her American name. Mollie is her Brazilian name. It’s quite simple.

The man was Dimitri Ganzelevitch,

the owner of an incredible gallery right down the street from the hotel!

Carol had been telling us about how she and the kids had seen the place at an earlier date, and how fantastic it was. And here he was, right here in front of us! And he was inviting us to his gallery, which is also his home.

We cobble-hobbled down about a half a block until we came to his place on the left. Beautiful from the outside.
Incredible on the inside. This man had great taste in art, and a prescient eye to match. His specialty was outsider art, but he had a lot of established stuff as well. His own collection was mixed in with what he had to sell, and it was an overwhelming melange.

His modus operandi is to find these untrained artists from wherever they hide, and collect, nurture, and show them. The naive art in Salvador is very much like some of the earlier Southern outsider stuff. Before many of the outsiders themselves became savvy to the buck.

One of his artists had developed a method of capturing graffiti and actually lifting it from building fronts by smearing a polymer-type substance on the facade, letting it set, then peeling it off. The graffiti comes off with it, largely, leaving uneven patches that lend even more interest. I immediately saw Basquiat in the canvases, and the fact that it was graffiti to begin with made it all the more sensible. Dimitri congratulated me on my perception (puff, puff) and pulled out a magazine that contained a quote by him about this artist, saying the same thing. I hate to call him “the artist.” I wish I had gotten names. Maybe Carol will know what to do? Maybe we can email Dimitri at dimitri.bahia@qmail.com or try this.

The artist worked not only in undercover situations, but in the open as well, when he could. Dimitri told us how he had been ripped off several times by people who would wait for him to complete the process, then steal the result from him on the spot! Wow! Talk about bad karma. Art with a hex on it.

I wrote an e-mail to Dimitri, and he quickly replied. The name of the graffiti artist is Willyams Martins. The author of the heads is Eckenberger, an Argentinian of German descent. He presently has a showing of 40 years of his works, curated by Dimitri. One friend commented: “I wouldn’t want to get into his dreams.”

Another of the artists was a surrealist to make Max Ernst stand up and take notice.
The variety was immense, but very, very good. Of course seeing all this new art at once and talking with this guy in his gorgeous, but very hot, house, I had begun to sweat profusely again. I didn’t take any pictures except the mask above (when he was in the other room), and I didn’t ask him if I could. I wish I had, but somehow it seemed kinda tacky.

His house was incredible, of course. Hundreds of years old, on three levels, with galleries on three floors, it opened on the bottom floor to a courtyard, garden, and freeking amphitheatre! All three levels of this glorious old place had views of Salvador, since we were still very high up in the city. This amphitheatre had terra cotta poles with sculptured heads on top of them inset into the plant covered wall. I finally asked him if I could take pictures of the heads, and he said “of course”. So I guess I’m a schmuck after all for not asking to begin with. Sigh. The pictures of the heads are kinda blurry, because they were taken at 2 seconds exposure, and it was dark out there.

At any rate, Dimitri was charming, with an accent that would melt butter. His love of Salvador and his artists was evident. His life seemed to be idyllic. We thanked him profusely and left to get some food somewhere. Carol was thinking rapidly of what we could have. The GPS in her head had keyed in on several options, with her deciding on blackeyed-pea fritters from Dinha do Acarajé in her neighborhood, Rio Vermelho.

Here again, I was a chicken and didn’t even bring my camera out. One reason was, I was hot, sweaty, and kinda knotted up in the gullet again. I wasn’t thinking properly. I was hungry, I thought. And surely, I was ready for some kind of bebida, wasn’t I? Not particularly. We pulled up at an open place on the side of the street filled with tables, and a couple of large tents. It was right across the street from the Villa Forma Gym! I was getting so familiar with the area! Carol and Nelson really do live right over downtown Rio Vermelho, and it’s a hopping place! Dinha do Acarajé, according to Carol, had been pitching her tents here for years, and her children were working behind her, and she had a storefront restaurant, and was hugely successful. She was Afro-Brazilian, and her servers wore the traditional turbans and big shiny skirts. They looked so hot. I mean, like it would be hot to wear them. It made me kinda queasy in a way, which is weird.

I ordered a water right away and chugged it. Then we ordered our food. They cook it under the tents, and the waiters bring it to you. I wonder who gets paid for them to do this here. It’s like “their spot” and no matter if somebody came in earlier and set their stuff up, I think Dinha would run him off. WHO GETS PAID? We ordered the blackeyed pea fritters stuffed with stuff. It’s called acarajé and abará. They were stuffed with vinaigrette salad and pepper, called vatapá. It was marvelous, and the beer I had was marvelous, but I did not possess my traditional gusto. The little knot in my stomach kept reminding me of everything bad I had ever eaten. Crazy.

Regardless of the knot, we had a fine, fine time, and in retrospect, I hate that I was such a puss to not bring my camera. The waiter was charmed with Patricia (as were most of the young men in Salvador), she laid some REAL Portuguese on him, and we headed to the SUV to go up the hill a few blocks and prepare for our first night at Carnaval!

 

First night at Carnaval, Salvador–part 1

We got back to the house from eating blackeyed pea fritters, and I chugged another couple of glasses of water. Since there was no Meyers’s Rum to be had in all of Bahia, Robo and I had settled on Bacardi Gold made in Brazil. Mixed with club soda and a bunch of lime, Meyers’s is pretty dern good. The Bacardi was a sad substitute, and drinking it kind of creeped me out sort of, with my tender gullet and all. But it became the staple drink. Kind of. At any rate, we packed it up to take with us to Carnaval.

One thing about the limes: they don’t have lemons in Brazil. Only limes. And they’re dirt cheap. They’re called limão, I think. Carol had a grocery bag full of them in the bottom of her pantry. It was like the motherlode to me, because I love limes. LOVE!!!! (exclamation marks with hearts instead of dots)

Everybody began to prepare for the trip over to Bahia Flats for our first night of Carnaval. This was going to be strictly observation, but observation is pretty great in itself. Especially when you’re shedding water at a quart an hour. I was trying to imagine what it was going to be like the next night when we actually marched in one of the parades. Aiee!!

Carol had advised me about my camera earlier, so I decided not to take it this first night, and only use it sporadically on the next night. What the HELL was I thinking listening to my cousin the gol-durned Cassandra?! Okay, she has a right to be cautious. Everyone in the family except Patricia has been robbed in one form or another, and she’s rightfully vigilant. But I just wasn’t thinking properly at that moment to relent. There was ALWAYS duffel position #1.

Bahia Flats is a condo that is right on the parade route, and overlooks the water. Carol and Nelson have a unit there that they rent out during the year, but reserve for their personal use during Carnaval. Did anyone say “cushy”? Yeah. I did. There are about 10 million people in Salvador for Carnaval, and they’re all lining the streets to watch the blocos, and bathrooms are at a premium. It’s like 2 times a New Orleans crowd, and there are two parade routes. The city is PACKED to the gills with mankind during Carnaval. At the Bahia Flats, we had an enclosed terrace that had a dead-on view of the trios elétricos, and the stars performing on top of them.

But we had to get there first.

Good grief, you absolutely should have been there to see us get to Bahia Flats. Nelson had opted out for this first night, so there were 7 in Carol’s SUV. Festivals, fairs, any kind of hullabaloo that involves traffic and parking and logistics make me extremely nervous. I hate to be in charge. But with Carol behind the wheel of the SUV, I felt like a baby in the womb. They had let me sit up front, so I had the air conditioner blowing on me, I was able to take off my Crocs and put my sock feet on the dash. I really had no idea where we were gonna park, and how we were gonna get to the condo, but I just blindly followed along.
Between she, Daniel and Patricia, they plotted a path to the Bahia Flats that involved driving through throngs of people that glutted every street. Carol was completely unfazed. She had a RIGHT to be at Bahia Flats, and had the papers to prove it. There were a couple of Checkpoint Chickies, with Brazilian military stopping cars. All she had to do was show her tax records for their condo at B.Flats, and the guys would give the thumbs up for her to plow through the throng.

Which she did, with the delicacy of somebody cooking a soufflé. People would see her coming through, and most would part with either a thumbs up or a smile. WHAT?? WHAT the HELL was THIS?? In America, the car would have been overturned and set on fire by an angry crowd at the get-go. But not here. Oh, a couple of people would slap the car and holler some
Portuguese party phrase, but I saw not one iota of malice anywhere. Was Carol freaked out? Not at all. She’s from Indiana. During our slog through the crowd, she would often turn to tell us some factoid about this or that. We passed the hospital where Patricia was born, and heard the stories of a freaked out Aunt Mollie calling from America. Ha ha!

After a 30 minute trip through what was like either some kind of birth canal, or the longest colon on record, we arrived at the vertical gate to the underground garage at Bahia Flats. That’s exactly right. We were able to park underneath, take either a well-used elevator or the stairs to the third floor, and we were at the place.

On the first floor was the front desk, lobby and terrace, replete with food, drink, and a bunch of incredibly benign-looking, happy people!

Carol took only one picture that night, and it’s of the four of us, but I’m going to illustrate this night with pictures from the next night. You really won’t mind, will you? The same people were there both nights, and they acted just the same.

Here’s the picture Carol took of the four of us.

I don’t look sick. I look deranged. It’s always bad to be on the ends of: a) a hot flash; or b) a wide angle lens. Disaster.

First night at Carnaval, Salvador–part 2

One of the world-famous
Brazilian butts.

 

Yeah, they were there. But not in the abundance that I first expected. I really kind of halfway thought everybody was gonna be naked.

Carol took this shot, because, remember, I didn’t have my camera this first night due to my chickenshittedness. I could have really done some damage with my camera on this particular model. Alas. Lesson learned. Duffel position #1 will take you anywhere.

The shots you see related to this first night are all lies, you know, but play along, because similarities between the two nights are identical. (huh?)

When we first got there, we headed up to the third floor to put our stuff in the condo. There were two elevators in the lobby to service the whole building, and they were constantly in use. They were kind of old fashioned in a cool retro way, because you had to open a regular door to get in, and they just reeked of an existence that OSHA would frown upon. It was scheduled for renovation, because there was a sign that said something in Portuguese like Pardon our Progress. Uh, Not Now. Soon. Each elevator had a maximum capacity of 6 people. A sign was posted saying such. And people actually OBEYED the sign! I couldn’t BELIEVE it! In America, each elevator would have been packed with enough drunk people for a long enough time to assure that each cable would snap and plunge the revelers to their doom. Lawsuits would ensue, blahblahblah.

When I was little I used to think that if you ever were in an elevator that was free-falling due to a snapped cable, if you would just jump up and down, there would be a fifty-fifty chance that you would be in the air when it hit, and after it did, you would return to the ground just as if you had been jump-roping. Har! I’m glad I never mentioned it to Robo. “Mr. Scientist” would have pelted me with words like “inertia” and “gravity” and “dipshit.”

The Cerqueira’s unit at Bahia Flats was cute as hell. It had a little bitty kitchenette-ette, a living room/dining room that consisted of a couch and a little round table. One step up was a king size bed with a big closet. There was an open bookshelf that divided the two rooms. The bathroom was big with new granite appointments (duh), and a great shower. It was amazing, and so freeking cozy, it reminded me of when we were kids and would build “forts” out of blankets and cushions and hole up in there.The balconette didn’t overlook the ocean. It overlooked the street one block back, which was thick with partiers, food and liquor stands, blasting music from distorted speakers, and people weaving through the throng with coolers on their shoulders, selling a beer every so often. You could have spent your whole time watching just that and have a good time.

The best feature of the place was the air conditioning. Oh yeah. It worked. And it was on.

We liquored up and headed downstairs, saying boa-noite to everybody we saw, Jean usually forgetting and saying obrigado instead. Which was doubly funny, because she was using the masculine form of obrigado, which would technically indicate to the listener that she was a man. Ha ha! Oh “Mr. Portuguese” was so cool with his “suado” and “beleza”. She could never keep up with ME!

Once on the first floor, the revelry hit you in the face like a blast of napalm. The terrace area of Bahia Flats was comfortably packed with genial folks eating, drinking, dancing, and knowing every word to every song that was being sung from the trios elétricos.

Uh-oh. Something else to fret about. Not only was the music incredible, and exactly what I was used to and expecting, but I wanted to know every song, too. The Brazilians totally embrace their stars, and rightly so, because they are an amazing bunch of entertainers. Ain’t a lip-syncher in the bunch. And it’s a grueling physical workout to perform live for that long without a break, in 95 degree weather. That probably helps explain why most of the women sing in rich, sexy, contralto voices. They may look like hummingbirds, but they sing like big fat robins.

It began to dawn on me pretty early that the people were there to have fun, but not in a crazy, excess, MTV-style way. I didn’t see anybody dog drunk at all! It may be that it was so hot that the liquor disappeared through their pores. But everybody was happy, not obnoxious. In the parades, there were a few extremists, but not many. And fights were nearly nonexistent. There were a couple, over the span of both nights, but the military police stepped in quickly and nipped it in the bud.

On our terrace, we were watched over by a couple of Bahia Flats security guys. They were incredible. Not only did they wear suits, they didn’t sweat, they thumb-upped you every time they saw you, and they kept everything on the up and up. There were a couple of them in the garage keeping it real down there. Every time we saw them, they smiled and gave us the secret sign. It was so nice to see, after some of the Barney Fife style security people in America that think they have more power than they actually do.

Oh didn’t we have the fun? Even the stupid Bacardi Gold wasn’t too bad, and the knot seemed to be mildly diverted with something else, so I got a little buzz and reveled in the music. I know when we got there late, there were some guys going down the street. Carol had casually mentioned that we were gonna see blahblahblah who was a big star in Brazil, and she was looking forward to blahblahblah coming by. I nodded, figuring it would be good, whatever it was. We went back to wiggling around to what turns out to be Alexandre Peixe followed by Guig Ghetto.

They were fun to listen to, and were rhythmic as all get out, but I didn’t snap to attention until Margareth Menezes came by with her Os Mascarados show. THIS was who Carol was waiting to see.  All of the blocos and pipocas had a name, and I figure that Os Mascarados must mean something like “the masqueraders”.

Wow! When Margareth appeared, I almost fell out. She had powerful Brazilian legs, and did that constant fast samba step that was not only sexy, but invigorating. She had a short dress on that looked like chocolate mousse around her waist. Her hair was a sienna mass of curls lit by the evening lights. In constant motion, she was a sight to behold. In her incredible contralto, she samba’ed and exhorted the crowd to action. On this first night, we didn’t know what all the entertainers were hollering, but we learned the next night.

Margareth’s music was part axé, part samba, part African. Her CD is called Afropopbrasileiro, and she means it. I didn’t know it at the time, but one of the songs that had transported me to nirvana that night was one of her big hits, “Dandalunda.” Yippee!

Here’s a picture of Margareth that Pettus took with her small Canon.

I’ll talk about the blocos and trios elétricos more in the second Carnaval installment, but I’ll show you an example of the vendors that roved through the blocos.

Guess who was next! VoaDois! Yeah! I couldn’t wait to see Katê and Fred! And hell yes they looked just like their pictures, and hell yes they were energetic as hell, and hell yes, at times I couldn’t tell when Katê was singing and when Fred was. They were great, though, and the sound was incredible. As a matter of fact, EVERYBODY’S sound was unbelievable. It was like the biggest, friendliest stereo of your fantasies traveling at a snail’s pace right in front of you, filling you with vibes that you could only get in that manner.

We were partying our asses off by this time. I was so incredibly suado and carefree! And here’s the kicker: there was no vomit ANYWHERE! Nobody was throwing up! You’d expect to see people by the tens marching down the street, spewing as they went. But NO. These people had fantastic governors on their bodies, I guess. They could party to the very maximum without ever really going over the edge. I could be totally wrong about this, but I don’t think so.

Meanwhile, VoaDois was kicking ass on top of a massive, corporate-sponsored machine that was propelling this party into the stratosphere.

I didn’t see Katê’s braces. I looked.

It was eventually time to go home, being about 1:30 or so. They do everything in military time there, so combined with the fact that I had no idea what time zone we were in, and never wear a watch, I’m only guessing. I just know it was late, and we still had to penetrate the human mass for a good twenty blocks before breaking free.

And we did! Carol’s expert piloting of the SUV, a fresh Bacardi Gold and soda, witticisms aplenty from Robo, Pettus, Jean, Daniel and Patricia, and we were home to a thumbs up and a soon-to-be-air-conditioned bedroom.

Nelson was up when we came in. We fixed another drink and Robo and I went into his library to see what was an until-then unseen part of the house. WOW! He had everything. In all languages! Robo and I marveled at every part of it. First of all, it was catalogued and shelved appropriately. I saw a bunch of books that I have actually read, many in two other languages. I was also able to bullshit my way through a few titles that I had heard of but not read. An advantage of hanging around a lot of English majors. I didn’t see any Hardy Boys. And he calls himself a “scholar”!

Off to bed in a cooling environment. Then there’s Jean setting that gol-durned Blackberry for God-knows-what hour. I hate that thing.

Third day in Salvador–part 1

We figure we must have gotten to bed around 3:30 the night before. Jean and I both were totally eager to get up the next morning.

“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”
“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”
“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”

silence long enough to almost go back to sleep

“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”
“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”
“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”

Jean, of course, has managed to ignore all of this. Another minute of ­silence.  Almost     almost           almost

“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”
“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”
“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”

I HATE THAT BLACKBERRY! HATE! HATE! HATE! And here’s the truly insidious part of its alarm system: a full three-minute pause in which you have time to lower your blood pressure from all the hate previously expressed, relax, and float back into the arms of Morpheus, who quickly turns back into a screeching harpy
“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”
“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”
“Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime-Cha-chiiiime!”

Jean was still impervious to the whole affair. With stomach roiling, I sluiced out of the bed, grabbed the malefactor by the cord and dangled it in front of her snoring face. “You need to turn this thing off,” I pouted. “I don’t know how.” Actually I DID know of a way to turn it off, but I didn’t want to upset Brazil’s delicate sewer system, and I definitely didn’t want to have to “call the man” to unstop the toilet.

It was 10:00. Carol had obviously let us sleep, but had herself been up since 8:00 bustling around the house getting ready for the first of two parties she was having in our honor. Simply amazing. Here we were barely alive, and she had already scouted and climbed a jackfruit tree, paid a friendly Salvadoran to carry it and her up the hill on his back, meanwhile peeling and preparing the jackfruit in ancient Bahian tradition before she even arrived back in the kitchen. Okay, not really. She was probably making coffee or something. But the house was definitely alive, even though we weren’t.

I drew a little solace from the fact that Daniel was still asleep in his lair, and would continue to do so for another couple of hours. Vicarious living through the young. If only they could bottle it.

Carol’s notes say that this morning was when I had my massage with Luciana, which is probably correct. It also explains why I lurched back to the bedroom, took a shower, then promptly flopped on the bed in my underwear and began to doze. Jean, meanwhile, was getting ready, dodging three giant suitcases and their contents, my sodden clothes, and was oblivious to me lying there.

Then Carol came in and told me to cover up, I was embarrassing the help. WHAT?? In “naked” Brazil? Curiouser and curiouser. You’d think that my big leviathan self sprawled out in my underwear would be nothing to them after all their thongs and stuff. In actuality, she probably wanted me to cover up because I was grossing everybody out. THAT, I’ll believe.

Today’s party was going to be barbecue and roskas prepared by Sr. Itamar and his assistant/barman Joasias. Of course in Cerqueira-la there just happens to be an incredible barbecue pit. Obviously the chefs in the area will travel and work parties readily. Ordinarily this kind of thing would have me down there swilling liquor and cleaning the grill with my teeth. But my gullet was doing half-gainers on me, so I wasn’t sure.

I did manage to go back to sleep, covered up of course, and stay in that position until well after most of the guests had arrived and all the pre-party flurry had taken place. I dragged myself up in time to slip into my new pair of Havaianas, grab my camera and gingerly make the trip down the stairs to the party.

Yep. They were all there. Nothing like walking into a room of people you don’t know with a head like a rock and a stomach like a dinghy on the open sea. Good thing I had my camera. Carol had invited several of their friends, many from the Expats Society, and they exhibited the same characteristics as the other Bahians. Everyone was laid back, gliding through the heat like it was nothing.

Two of the guests, David and Betty Breedlove, were in Brazil because of David’s job at Ford. David had bought a ticket to march in the Chiclete com Banana bloco, which is, like the biggest one, and was scheduled to begin in the late afternoon.

Patricia told me how all of her mother’s friends want her to call them by their first names, but Betty Breedlove prefers to be called “Mrs. Breedlove,” just as Patricia has done since childhood. Patricia obviously prefers it, too, because she said she couldn’t call her anything else.  I, personally, love the moniker “Mrs. Breedlove.” It sounds like the name of a sweet little English lady that would serve you scones. It’s also the name of the next-door neighbor of Patty McCormick in The Bad Seed, one of the greatest old black & white shockers EVER.

Third day in Salvador–part 2

What are “roskas”?

When I said we were having barbecue and roskas in the last entry, you probably said, “Well that doesn’t tell me a thing, Ben! Tell me more.”


Allrighty then!

Here’s a picture of one of the roskas Joasias the Great made for us. This one is undoubtedly lime, sugar and either cachaça or vodka. This next picture shows the stuff he used. Limes for days, whatever those orange things are (some kind of orangey thing, I think. What the hell was it? Carol??) Then the other thing in the tupperware next to the limes that looks like kiwi fruit.

The procedure is: cut up a bunch of the fruit, smash it in the mortar and pestle, add sugar to taste, add cachaça, vodka, or even rum, and pour over ice. This was more of the type of drinks we had at Trapiche Adelaide. Also the thing Carol fixed for us the first night, and I quote: Carol fixed us a delicious cacophony of Brazilian drinks with fresh fruit: (she tells me umburoska, aceroloska, and cajuroska, It was totally sublime, especially after the TAM-athon we had been through that day. Notice how two out of the three names for the drinks end with “roska.” I have no idea why “aceroloska” is different, and just two letters are transposed. I even looked it up on Google to see if there was an “aceloroska”. There WASN’T! There were, however two entries in Portuguese referring to “aceroloska.” Curiouser and curiouser.

Roska 101: Drinks made from mashed fruit, sugar and vodka. The suffix “roska” was invented as it sounds to the Brazilian ear as Russian as Vodka itself. If you mix
lime and sugar with cachaça, it becomes a caipirinha; lime, sugar and Bacardi (is
there any other rum?) is a caipirissima.
The construction of the flavors of roskas seems to be the only exception to hard and
fast Portuguese spelling rules. Umbu + roska = umburoska; kiwi + roska = kiwiroska; caju + roska = cajuroska; but, acerola + roska = aceroloska, as siriguela + roska =sirigueloska.
I consulted Nelson on this, and he said the rule appears to be according to what
sounds best.

It was all coming together in an insidious way. They were trying to foist their fruits and liquors off on us unsuspecting tourists. There’s no question that a drink made with fresh fruit makes you think you’re having something “healthy”. In the same manner that food eaten while standing up has no calories.

The sight of the limes in the tupperware made me swoon. But so did my seagoing stomach. When Joasias came by and asked what I wanted, I told him how sweaty I was and how I would like water, more water, and maybe one of the little roskas with lime. He complied in a Bahian jiffy, and there sat the roska, begging me to drink it. I took a couple of sips and decided that the water would go down better.

And then came the chicken hearts. My guess at translation would be coração da frango. Whoa! When I ate one, I knew they were delicious. And they were. But my stomach said, “Ben, what in the HELL do you think you’re doing? Drink water and take pictures.” Which I did. I ate a few pieces of the various barbecue, and it was all superb. But I could only take a few bites at a time, and then had to go for copious amounts of water to float it away.

Third day in Salvador–part 3

By this time, the churrasco was in full swing, and Joasias and Sr. Itamar had begun to buzz through the crowd with skewers of different meats: the chicken hearts, smoked sausage, pork, beef, and a bunch of other meat that I largely ignored, much to my dismay. The smoked sausage is a sure winner with Ben, and a crowd pleaser for my insides as well, but this time it got a chilly reception from my innards that also surprised and disconcerted me to no end.

I began to circulate and take more pictures, discovering more about the guests. I say that, but it’s actually a recap from Carol. Some I already knew, but some is new to me. I was in a fog, remember? Margarita Andrade is an old pal of Carol’s from way back. She is dry, wry, and has a great laugh. Kind of like a toned down female Lewis Black. She cracked me up.

Janet Fisher is a tall blonde that appears to be built on a hovercraft chassis. It may have been the long colorful sundress, but it appeared that she was gliding wherever she went. Janet is originally from Lynchburg, Virginia, and wears her provenance beautifully. This further impressed on me the similarities between Bahia and the Southern U.S. She seemed as at home in Salvador as she would have on a horse farm in Lynchburg. She’s studying international relations at Nelson’s university.

—-

When I first met Milene Peral, she reminded me of Mary Louise Parker, who is cute as hell. Well, when you do the actual comparison, it may not be as amazing as I thought at the time, but judge for yourself. Look at Milene by herself and you can just imagine that they were indeed separated at birth. Whereas Mary Louise became a famous star, loved by millions, Milene, meanwhile, is loved by Salvadorans for her homeopathic M.D. work, and loved by the Salvadoran girls for being the mother of Pedro. Pedro and Carol’s kids have known each other since Carol met Pedro’s uncle at a McDonald’s, peeled him a jackfruit, and became pals with his sister-in-law. FAR BETTER than being a movie and TV star, though beloved, that has to worry about whether she’s dropped off the flavor of the month list yet. Milene is on the permanent list.


Riviane Nytun is the only other guest you haven’t met. She’s a dentist in Bahia married to an engineer from Norway who’s working at a petroleum camp in Nigeria that he spells “Miseria” and pronounces “My-zeer-e-a”. They met at Carnaval around 20 years ago and have lived all over the world, the last place being Nigeria. Riviane and the kids moved back to Salvador several years ago after Nigeria became unsuitable. Her husband comes home about every 12 weeks. Their son Christian, who eluded my camera, is an old pal of Daniel and Patricia’s.

All the ladies were to join us at Carnaval that afternoon, beginning with Dave’s march with Chiclete com Banana.

Second night of Carnaval in Salvador–part 1

Whee doggie! Carnaval! The thing we came for! And I was feeling human again!

Yep. In retrospect,
• I’m sure that my sensitive stomach cells were shocked by the brash Bacardi Gold molecules, when it’s used to the smooth liquor stylings of the Meyers’s Rum.
• Being up late the night before with aforementioned Bacardi Gold, intense heat, sweating out the ass, and lingering water damage in my system all contributed to my feeling like an old jackfruit that had fallen off the tree before summer, exploded, then gradually rotted during the oncoming summer and was eventually consumed by huge ants. I didn’t make this up. We saw it in Rio, and it was so very cool to see, because by then I felt better.


But let’s not forget what really made me ready to live. The wonders of Brazilian TV with Daniel, Patricia and Robo were enough to make anybody feel better.

YEAH!! It was that MTV Brazil show I saw the day before, Covernation! And look, I found the link for you to enjoy it and the twin hosts and EVERYTHING about it! No wonder I was ready for Carnaval. And notice, also how closely the video matches my description from an earlier post. I was so accurate! More brain cells are there than anyone would believe.

And then came the next Brazilian TV mind-blower: on an episode of South Park, which was in English with Brazilian subtitles, every time Cartman would utter “crap, shit, sonofabitch, Jesus Christ” or any of his other oaths, the subtitle would read “Caramba!” THIS from the network that allows the casual muthafucka to pepper other programs. I can see them censoring the “Jesus Christ” with the large Catholic population, but the other words? CUR-I-OUS-ER and CUR-I-OUS-ER!

We packed up swiftly and surely for the trip to “the Flats”. I was clearheaded enough to know that there was no fear for my camera, and no doubt that I was going to sweat like a madman. Again, Carol piloted the SUV, with Nelson up front handling the paperwork for when we got to the militia who wanted to bar us from plowing through half of Salvador in a big, imported car. Those magic documents!

One day later, would the people be more rabid? Hell NO! They were just as fluid as they were the day before. It was great watching the whole thing while packed into a glass observation capsule piloted by Carol with the skill of Captain Nemo gliding through a coral reef. Before we knew it we were at the Bahia Flats garage.

In America, we would have sat outside waiting for the “attendant” to open the gate, while he kept us waiting eating a sandwich and talking on his cell phone. Here, we had the smiling Bahia Flats crew sporting suits, ties and thumbs, whisking the gate up before we were even down the ramp good, meanwhile keeping the unauthorized personnel at bay. Un-freeking-be-LIEV-able! I loved those guys! Everybody did!

The elevator remained in the good hands of the Bahia Flats residents and guests. NOBODY overloaded it EVER, anytime I saw. And I’ll bet nobody would let it happen even if somebody wanted to squeeze in. Amazing sense of self control and self responsibility. Up to the condo to put stuff away, liquor up and head down to the plaza, which by now was as comfortable as my own backyard.

We were there just in time to see David come by with Chiclete com Banana, featuring Bell Marques. He was so cool and fun and ready to have everybody party. Dressed all in white with a red and white bandanna, which I believe is his uniform, he casually but firmly whipped a late afternoon crowd into the proper froth for a great evening. Little wonder. Bell Marques was voted best male performer for Carnaval 2008.