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Second night of Carnaval in Salvador–part 2

It’s time to learn about the inner workings of Carnaval!


There’s a lot more to this than meets the eye. First of all, there are the trios elétricos. The first official t e took place in 1950, when three Bahian guys figured out how to wire a guitar to a car battery, and took off down Rua Chile on Carnaval Day, playing music from the moving car, a 1929 Model A Ford, known as the fobica. The novelty of the whole thing brought the people out in droves, who followed the car, singing and dancing.

Up until the 70s, the trios were more like parade floats, and the music was instrumental. Until everybody heard Caetano Veloso sing, “The only ones not dancing behind the trio elétrico are those who are already dead,” and the moving Brazilian party band was born.

Bell Marques’ group further refined the sound quality in the 80s, when the trios elétricos were turned into giant creeping boom boxes with the talent on top. By now, they are state of the art wonders, with full recording capability inside, huge dressing rooms that are for the stars, and a sound that would make both Mozart and Joey Ramone cry. In heaven. Together. They’re probably friends. That Mozart was irascible.

So now you see that people also ride on top of the trios elétricos, too. Obviously people with a lot of cash, because David paid a good bit for his ticket to be in the street. Although many would prefer to be in the street, I think I might like this kind of participation. In addition to the big music truck, there’s another truck the same size that follows behind the music. In that behemoth, there are restrooms, concessions, first aid, and a place to sit down if you’re too tired to make the 6 to 8 hour parade route on your feet.

You can see that everybody on top of the trio are wearing the same t-shirt. That identifies them as eligible 2008 members of Nana Banana, which is the name of Bell Marques’ bloco, like Os Mascarados was Margareth Menezes’ bloco name.

Notice the rabid motion of the people behind the trio. There are of course two schools of thought on whether it’s better to be in front of the music or behind it. The main advantage to being behind it is that the concession/bathroom truck is following closely on your heels.

Here’s David Breedlove with his matching Nana Banana t-shirt and stylish do-rag. He’s in the Nana Banana bloco, dancing, marching, and jumping up and down for as many blocks as he can handle. I never did find out how long he went, but Carol will tell me. Mrs. Breedlove, meanwhile, was on the patio of the Bahia Flats with us, and left right after David went by. She gets plenty of Carnaval in about an hour. Kind of like a very light skinned person gets red at the beach quickly. About that fast.

“Bloco, schmoco!” you are shouting at your screen. “Tell me more, Ben!”

The bloco is the name of the thing and the concept: several hundred workers carry a rope that encircles not only the two giant party trucks, but those crazies parading in front, in between, and behind the trucks, too. They all have gloves to hold the ropes, and Carol tells us that people line up for the job. They so much want to be part of the party, whether they’re working or not. And each rope holder gets a t-shirt that identifies them as part of that particular bloco. During the 6 to 8 hour parade, they wear out several pairs of gloves from constant friction on the moving ropes. What would happen in America if we tried to get people to perform this service?

Here are the rope and security folks for Timbalada, who was the group and bloco (same name) after Nana Banana. I guess the concept is, if you can get past the rope and rope handlers, the guys in the orange shirts would deal with you. If they didn’t, the military police was marching up and down the parade route, and was very conspicuous. They weren’t assholes by any means, and only stepped in when needed. They also seemed to be enjoying the festivities as much as anyone
on duty could, while still maintaining an iron exterior. Tough but firm. Kind of like a nice chocolate candy with a cream center from a Whitman’s Sampler. What do I know? They probably would have snapped my neck if I had gotten out of line. Creamy center indeed!

The whole concept of the rope and cost to parade in a bloco is a heated controversy in Salvador. There are those who claim it is elitist, and there are those that scoff at the notion. I tend to side with the scoffers. In addition to the fact that the music and festivities are free to everyone, there are trios that have no ropes, and allow anyone to parade with them. Elitist indeed! When there are no ropes and no bloco, the people that march around the trio are called pipoca, meaning “popcorn”, because they are inevitably going to be jumping up and down during the parade.

The trios were all heavily corporate sponsored, as attests the side of Timbalada’s truck, in addition to the butt-load of balloons with logos on them that preceded and followed each group.

 


 

Second night of Carnaval in Salvador–part 3

Some of the fascinating faces in the Carnaval crowd

It was becoming pretty heated by the time Timbalada came by. Another one of the Carnaval staples, this group is so much ingrained in the festival that their bloco name is eponymous. Carol had mentioned before we came that if we were going to march in a real bloco, that they were going to pick Timbalada.

This group was hot, hot, hot! Totally percussion heavy, with about 60,000 percussionists on top of the trio, and  participants sporting Afrobrazilian designs in face and body paint. In the next picture, you can see what the end of the bloco rope is like. The guys at the ends had the hardest jobs by far, since they were the keepers of the slack. Woo! I thought I was suado at the time. I’d hate to see my little rubber band arms try to perform that job.

The next group to come by was Cocobambu, the bloco that Daniel, Patricia, Pedro Peral, and Christian Nytun were in. Carol provided this picture of them in their shirts (surely made of that quick-dry fabric that is so popular in Brazil. Just looking at them makes my nipples itchy.)

Notice that they’re standing in the entrance to the underground garage at Bahia Flats. I’m sure they went down the elevator, flashed the sign to the jovial guards, and were released into the crowd with the same amount of love that a mother would give her first-day kindergartner.

The group commandeering the Cocobambu trio was Banda Eva, who was as unfamiliar to me as most of the groups were at the time. I knew Gilberto Gil, Jorge Ben, Carlinhos Brown, and Caetano Veloso from my library. But out of the whole Carnaval roster, I didn’t have a clue about 95% of the entertainers.

Not anymore. Not after the massive amount of Carnaval music I’ve listened to since returning home. It’s like a happy pill for humanity, and my treatise will come later. But this is how I know what I know now. Post-trip study–the best kind.

Banda Eva is the group that spawned Ivete Sangalo, who was to come by later. Carol had again mentioned that we were going to see some really famous acts. Once again I nodded, knowing they’d be great, but not having any idea HOW great, or HOW famous.

This next picture shows the end of Timbalada and the beginning of Cocobambu. The cool thing about being in a bloco is that you can hop into the parade any time you feel like it. All you need is a cross-street to do it in. Otherwise, you’d never make it in from the sidewalk.

The picture above shows Cocobambu on the run. When that giant trio behind a crowd of several thousand starts to move, the crowd starts to move, too. At least they’d BETTER move. And when it happens, it’s quite a sight. The crush of people all holding beer, or their other favorite beverage, are propelled forward at a remarkable speed, and their beverage of choice ultimately shoots into the air. When seen from the terrace, it looks like just a bunch of shenanigans. When seen from inside the crowd as we did later, you find out that it happens because of all the sudden movement. It’s like the popping of a big party pimple.

Below are Daniel, Patricia, and Christian in the bloco. No telling where Pedro is. I don’t know who the guy is in front of Christian, but when I first put the identifying rings on the picture, they crossed in front of his face. I figured he’s a friend of P, D and C’s, so I took the rings off. It’ll be, like, really ironic if he’s frienemies with P,D and C.

Here’s Banda Eva and their trio. The lead singer, Saulo, was excellent, as was the entire group. Another thing I liked about them was, it reminded me of playing in Chevy 6 for some reason. Saulo with his capri pants and t-shirt, and the whole band gave off the same vibe. They were like a great party band for a gigantic party.

Their bloco was comprised of a much younger constituency than most of the others, and I figured that Banda Eva was one of the reasons. The tickets were cheaper than some of the other blocos, too. Better for a younger budget? Regardless, this is still an interesting, rare case where the centerpiece of the band (Ivete Sangalo) launches a massive solo career, but the spawning group (Banda Eva) remains as popular as ever. In addition, it doesn’t appear that there is anything but love between former front woman and band.



Oh the zany shenanigans! Look in the picture above, right under sponsor logo LG, and see the two people that spotted me and signaled to the camera! I love it when that happens. I mean, these people were having a blast, and once again, NO VOMIT! In the next trio of pictures, you’ll see some clever gang-dancing girls. Notice the rope and security people watching them. How the hell they could do this kind of thing for 6 to 8, even 10 hours, was beyond me, but Patricia had told us how everybody starts really hitting the gym about 6 months before Carnaval because: (a) they wanted to look hot; and (b) they wanted to be able to do the whole parade route. It was obviously a thing with a lot of people to do so. Daniel and Patricia did, I know.

The fever was in the air all right. After the spawn had passed by, we went upstairs to liquor up again, enjoying the interactions with folks in the lobby and elevator. It was universal alegria, that’s all I can say. We sat in the condo for a while to cool off, listened to the entertainment from our balcony, then boa-noite‘d our way back down to the terrace. I was ready to sit down still, and so was Jean. I was sweating my ass off, of course, but was bubbling over with the music.

Suddenly, a young Brazilian woman walked by, grabbed my hand and pulled me up to dance. I don’t know if she thought I was gonna flake out and sit down, but I didn’t. The music was killing me, so I danced with her for a pretty long time. Long enough for her to figure I was either hip or on crystal meth, because she stopped dancing first, patted me on the shoulder and disappeared as fast as she came in. I’ll bet she thought she was gonna play a big gag on the big fat tourist, and ended up having to dance with him! HAR! I wonder if she looked at my teeth and figured I was NOT a meth user.

Robo, meanwhile, had recorded the event on his new video camera, and if I figure out the technology, I’ll post his video. I have no shame. Fat people are very fluid. It’s kind of fun to watch. Like a lava lamp.

After the girl zoomed off, we sat on the bench long enough for me to recover from temporary heatstroke after shimmying my gigantic self crazy with the coffee-and-cream-colored lady. Oh yeah, it’s a beautiful thing to watch. Shudder.  We headed back to the front of the terrace to watch more of the crowd. There was no bad place to be anywhere in Salvador as far as hearing the music, but seeing the unbridled human behavior is always a great video to go with a fantastic soundtrack.

It seems there was a slight altercation in the bloco. Some interloper tried to enter without the proper quick-dry identification. The second layer of security had quashed his attempt pretty quickly, but the military police were Joãos and Joanitas on the spot, and they carted the hooligan off promptly.

Look at this blast of color at the end of Cocobambu’s bloco! I’m sure the t-shirts are heavily coveted by the Salvadorans, and are surely some sort of status symbol to have. There are probably those who have shirts from all the recent Carnavals. Just another argument in favor of the democratic notion of Salvador Carnaval. The workers may be working, but they are a vital part, and I think they realize this and feel that way themselves. The only way to totally take the elitism out of it would be to banish the blocos, or either subsidize every single Salvadoran to join one, even if it were at the city’s expense. That’s the crazy kind of thing we’d do in America.

Second night of Carnaval in Salvador–part 4

After Cocobambu had completed their pass, we began to mill around the terrace, take the trip upstairs, watch people sing along to the music, watch everybody dance, and absorb a blanket of smiles. Our time in the street was coming in an hour or so, and we had to be ready, steady, and full of stamina.

I never left my camera down on the terrace, and kept it with me at all times, even though it was in relaxed Duffel position 2. So when I wasn’t taking pictures, I took it up to the condo. Therefore, I made a ton of trips back and forth, and each time in the company of genial revelers.  Carol had reminded me that blahblahblah, the really famous singer, was coming next. I went to get my camera and got back to the terrace in time to see the beginning of Ivete Sangalo’s bloco, Cerveja & Cia.

This thing was heavily sponsored, as were the others, but even more so. Vivo, a telephone network in Brazil, was a big hitter, and they even began the parade with a Vivo mascot balloon. The Vivo mascot looks just like a Gummy person, and was not only omnipresent around Salvador, but had a way of growing on you.

There were even 4 colorful-wigged Vivo guys leading the bloco.

The picture taking was totally different since I had the camera down less than an hour earlier. The night was beautiful, and the colors seemed even more intense under the streetlights. I began to hear the singing from the trio, still down the street. I thought it was supposed to be a woman!

When the trio came into view, I realized that it was, indeed, a woman. And WHAT a woman! A contralto-belting Brazilian beauty with long black hair and Herculean thighs was energetically holding court on top of the truck. EGADS!  THIS was Ivete Sangalo. Carol said she was probably the biggest female singing star in Brazil.

She was not only incredible looking, her resemblance to Charisma Carpenter was striking! Oh, here you go with the “Ben, you idiot, you think everybody looks like somebody else. Show me, for Pete’s sake!”  Yeah. Doubt me THIS TIME!

Rowrrrrr! (Roy Orbison growl). Ivete is quite the dish, eh? The people on top of her trio were probably the cream of the cream of Salvadoran humanity.


Ivete not only sang like a bird, she danced like a sexy crazy person. Carol said she was approaching 40, and had been doing this for years. I’m sure at that point she said something about her coming out of Banda Eva, the group that Patricia and Daniel had paraded with. I just couldn’t take it all in. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

Obviously Ivete was the pro-est of pros. Her stage presence was such that you wanted to not only go home with her, but go to a party with her as well. And have her sing to you the whole time. Ivete is also the one act that I saw that completely worked both sides of the trio. There would be long periods when she would be playing to the people that lined the water–the ones in the free seats. None of the other acts were quite so democratic with their performances. Most bands were set up facing us. Well, duh! Of course they would. All along the parade route on our side were viewing stations, a relatively new thing to Carnaval. Many of the stars had their own viewing places, and for a pricey admission, you could see it all in the comfort of their station, mingle with the star (possibly), and have an indoor bathroom. There was no word about whether you could flush toilet paper or not.

During Ivete’s performance, I heard three songs that I later was able to identify by CDs I bought: “Abalou,” obviously a huge hit, which I think from my limited Portuguese, is a song about a girl’s world being rocked by a guy, either in a good way or a bad way, I’m not sure. “Abalou” translates to “it rocked”. Another one of her hits that I heard was “Não me conte seus problemas,” which I think translates to roughly: “don’t tell me your problems,” like she was telling a cheating lover to not bother her with whether or not he had enough quick-dry fabrics for the week, after the way he treated her. Since listening to the stuff I bought, I’ve begun to hear tons of stuff that is native to not only Carnaval, but Brazilan culture in general.

The entertainers all had one thing in common: they would yell to the crowd in the middle of songs, in the most rhythmic way, all kinds of exhortatiions to put their hands up (levante suas mãos!) and jump up an down (sai do chão!). I may have spelled the “sai” word wrong, but Carol will correct me. Anyway, sai do chão was our favorite by a landslide. It literally translates “leave the ground,” and is pronounced kinda like “sigh doo shaon,” with the “aon” sound one of the most prevalent and hardest to duplicate in the Portuguese language. You have to kind of swallow the “n”, and you barely say it at all. Could that be because the “enyay” symbol (~) is over the “a” instead of the “n” like in Spanish? Oh hell, who knows? You’re probably irritated with my armchair Portuguese. I hope the Brazilians weren’t.

I DO know that we were hollering sai do chão! all night, and all throughout the trip. It was a miracle that any of my traveling companions could get it right. Pettus in particular, had to ask me “What is it again?” “Sai do chão,” I’d tell her. Listening to her and Jean try to pronounce it was a real trip.

The cool thing about Brazilian music is the prevalent repeating of their favorite themes, and “sai do chão” is one of them. I’ll tell you more later! Meanwhile, marvel at the near-40-year-old thighs of Ms. Ivete Sangalo, beloved by all Brazilians, and one Birminghamian in particular.
Smart woman, she. Carol told me that she had wisely gone into production and breaking new bands herself. Pretty, smart, talented. And Brazilian. I wish I knew what she was saying.

Second night of Carnaval in Salvador–part 5

Cut loose in the melee!

Our time was fast approaching to be out there in the fray with thousands of happy, sweaty people. Though you could never tell they were sweating unless you looked at their glistening faces, because that quick-dry fabric is amazing.

Toward the end of Ivete’s reign in front of Bahia Flats, I know I heard her do “Não Quero Dinheiro, Só Quero Amar,” (I think it roughly translates to “I don’t want money, I just want love”), either one of her greatest hits, or a massive Carnaval favorite, because she’s not the only one who did it. Anyway, it was one of the first Carnaval anthems that I immediately recognized from the night before. Just one of many to come.

After Ivete Sangalo disappeared down the street, having dazzled the crowd with her quivering flesh and trebuchet-style delivery, everybody was worn out. Little wonder she was voted best female vocalist for 2008 Carnaval.

I thought it was time to go up and take my camera. Believe it or not, it gets heavy and muscle-taxing when you clutch a big camera to your chest (Chest position 1) with one arm for a length of time.

So while we’re going upstairs to the condo, won’t you join us? Only please step into a time capsule and go back a couple of hours, because you’ll see Patricia getting nursed for a blister by Jean Burford, RNaL. (Registered Nurse at Large). And we all know that Patricia is far, far, away down the parade route by now, not up here.

Look at Robo laughing at the whole matter. Jean, of course, had her ubiquitious Ziploc® bag full of various medicines, remedies, poultices, bandages, splints, and the like for any occasion. I’m sure since we were going to Carnaval, she probably pared the inventory of her emergency kit down to 50 items or so. If we were at the beach, however, there would be three gigantic attic-storage-size Ziplocs containing approximately 300 items of modern healing, repair, and a potpourri of other things you wouldn’t expect. Like blunt-edged kindergarten scissors. They’ll let those on a plane. Jean found that out. I think she used to have a couple of fire extinguishers in her big emergency pack, but they went off and ruined all the over-the-counter antibiotics from Mexico.

Let’s head back down for VoaDois, who is doing TWO Carnaval routes, with two different bloco names: The one from the previous night was Universitario. Tonight’s bloco was called Pra Ficar/Fissura. Now, does this mean that two groups both hired VoaDois to do their parade? And I see also that Universitario had a parade both nights. The second night they had Motumbá, another heavy-hitter, on the trio. What gives? Someone explain! Anyone?      Anyone?      Bueller?

Regarding this question, a Carnival bastion–Ricardo Chaves–gave an interview lamenting this changing, transitory, cash-n-carry nature that has evolved. It used to be that a bloco had one and only one band, and a loyal following. The bloco would hold events throughout the year. Groups of friends would go out with the same bloco year after year. Relationships blossomed over 5 days of Carnival. Now there is a Central do Carnaval where you can do your own mix and match. Buy as much or little as you want. No commitments.

 

At any rate, their [VoaDois] popularity should explain why they were voted Best New Act at Carnaval 2008. I wonder if they did the same songs both times? I’ll bet they just flipped the set list upside down and did it that way.

Well, anyway, we watched them come to the center of the Flats, then headed up for liquor before the next group came by, who Carol was also touting as having a huge rising star as a singer. While we go up, please enjoy the graphic for VoaDois’ web page under construction. I don’t know if it’s still under construction, this was just a good image from Google.

Believe it or not, we were almost out of Bacardi Gold, and Pettus wanted some vodka, so Robo, Pettus and I decided to venture out into the mass of Brazilians and their guests. It was so easy. Down the elevator packed with precisely the right amount of people, a good brushing off, delousing, and smiling up and down from the downstairs gate guys, and we were free! It was like being some sort of celebrity.

Out we went into the humanity that heretofore we had only seen through the windows of Carol’s expensive imported SUV. Wow! I was totally liquor-friendly by this time, throwing my incredible Portuguese around like confetti, talking to anyone and everyone. I felt completely safe and free. Robo and Pettus must have thought otherwise, because they had to rein me in a couple of times. Actually, this “reining in” consisted of them trying to explain in broken English that they were in charge of a lunatic.

We wandered around until we came to the first rolled up door with a cage behind it that had liquor for sale. Why did we even THINK there’d be anything resembling Meyers’s? Hell NO. There was only more Bacardi Gold, and at a premium price that was tantamount to buying it in America at a discount place. Still cheap, but you get what you pay for.

And let me wax philosophical for just a second. I feel like a complete turd for dogging Bacardi Gold so badly. I used to LOVE me some Bacardi back in the day. So I’ve contributed a great deal of cash to the company’s bottom line, and do not feel the least bit guilty for the gentle bashing. But also notice that we continued to drink the stuff throughout our stay in Salvador, and, unfortunately into Rio.

We headed back to the underground let-in place, were immediately whisked in and given makeovers and thumbs ups by the guards. So back up to the condo to liquor up for the next act, which was Babado Novo, with their bloco Eu Vou. I also didn’t know at the time that this woman was as hugely popular as she was. Claudia Leitte, the front lady, was spectacular. And if I’m not hallucinating again from things I know now but didn’t know then, I could swear that they played one of my now favorite songs, “A Camisa E O Botão.” It translates, “a shirt and a button”–as in, “we go together like a shirt and a button.”

Why, oh WHY am I such a weakling that I can’t carry that camera at all times? There it sits upstairs while Claudia is prancing and belting catchy tunes wearing a frothy dress that matched her frothy blonde hair. She even had a guy whose only job was to wipe her sweaty legs and change her shoes. I am NOT SHITTING! Here’s her picture, and I’m ashamed to say it’s not one I took. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

I got this picture from a Brazilian online news article about a “supposed” bitchfest between Claudia and Ivete Sangalo! I was able to read enough of the Portuguese to translate Ivete’s remark about Claudia’s rising popularity: “We love each other. There is plenty of room in the hearts of Brazil for two stars. . .”  Hooo YEAH!!! Rowrrrrrrr!!!!

Just like in America, only HOTTER!

Second night of Carnaval in Salvador–part 6

It’s Pipoca Time!

The time was nigh! We were ready to go out into the throng and position ourselves in front of Trio Expresso 2222 for our march with two of my Brazilian music heroes: Gilberto Gil and Jorge Ben (who now goes by Jorge Benjor–Carol tells me it’s because people kept confusing him with George Benson–I just know it’s cool because it’s kind of like “Benje”). This was not a bloco, since it was free to everyone who felt like parading. Where’s your elitism NOW, Moses! I’m sorry. I can’t help but think of Edward G. Robinson in The Ten Commandments anytime I ask that question.

Gilberto Gil is an elder statesman of Carnaval in Salvador. A Bahian himself, he was one of Brazil’s most innovative and influential artists beginning in the late 60s. He was an important element of the Tropicália movement, Brazil’s counterpart to America’s cultural explosion brought on by the hippies. Though Tropicália included dance, theatre, visual arts and poetry, it is associated almost exclusively with the music: a melange of bossa nova, rock and roll, Bahian folk music, African music and Portuguese fado.

The crazy part of it is, the American youth were looking for a life of peace, music and freedom, and expressing it one way through their music. The Brazilians already had the life of peace, music and freedom, they just took it one step further with Tropicália. There’s a hint of social consciousness in some of the lyrics, but they’re still mainly about living the gorgeous life that they live every day in Brazil.

Here was the plan for joining the pipoca: we would exit the Flats through the secret underground chamber, walk one block, turn right, walk one block, turn right, and enter the parade at the cross street. It takes so little time to type it, but it takes forever to walk it. Especially through the throng, that was a cohesive mass of movement on its own. We held onto each other like children on a field trip, and gently barreled our way to our destination. Cameras were strictly verboten, and this is one time I would still comply, even today. Jean had a disposable camera, and did her best with that.

Once we entered the throng, with not too much difficulty, I could see just exactly how huge one of those trios is. Looking behind us, I felt a little like Jonah fixing to be swallowed by Gilberto Gil and his cohorts. We milled around a few minutes, waiting for the thing to begin. Meanwhile, Jean snapped a picture of us: Riviane, me, Carol, Nelson, Pettus, Robo and Janet.

Suddenly, a Bahian gentleman came up and advised us in incredible English: “You shouldn’t have that camera here! It could get stolen.” Jean explained to him that it didn’t matter. Suddenly, we were all friends. She showed him the camera, he took it, and snapped his own picture. Then I took his picture with Jean.


Our new friend was great. He danced along with us once we started, which was, like, instantly. We heard one of our group holler “We’re moving!”, and they weren’t shitttin’! We were moving, allright. Fast. This was when we discovered why we always saw explosions of beer from the parades. All of us sacrificed beverage to the gods of Carnaval once that bastard started moving. We were crushed together, and several of the girls were lifted off the ground. All of us manly men immediately corraled them, and we were able to begin the 6-block-long dance with Trio Expresso 2222. One of the first songs they played was “Umbabarauma” by Jorge Ben, which has been a favorite of mine for years. It was like a total out-of-body experience. Literally. Everything was being squeezed out of EVERYBODY’S bodies!


I heard five songs that I knew while we were dancing our asses off down the streets of Salvador with the sea rushing to meet us as if it were in time to the music. It was something you can never describe. And I can’t stress how fantastic the sound was. Not a blaring speaker, not a blown speaker, nothing overdriven, nothing but the stereo of your life barreling down on you at 1 mile an hour! Okay, laugh, but with people barreling in front of it, it’s not so namby-pamby. It’s like a music-lover’s running with the bulls in Pamplona.

Was I suado? You bet your booties I was. Carol thoughtfully bought me a sweat rag from a vendor that sold nothing but sweat rags! It was like a little hand towel, dark blue, and though it was like wiping up the Atlantic Ocean with one sheet of Bounty, it was just what I needed as the perfect souvenir to take home from Salvador. It’s really crazy the way the vendors coursed through the crowd, many with coolers on their heads, never spilling a drop of ice.

There was one time during our journey when our new friend alerted us to a group of youth that were roaming quickly through the crowd, pushing against people. He said they were pickpockets, and to be careful. I had nothing on me except sweat and a half can of Skol beer that I had bought from a nice vendor, all the while grooving to the Carnaval sounds of Gilberto Gil, Jorge Benjor and Lulu Santos. I still can’t believe I did it, but I know I’ll be back to do it again. And it’ll be like being able to relive your childhood and know stuff then that you know now. WHOA!

Believe it or not, we were all ready to cut out at the next intersection, which makes 6 or so blocks that we traveled with the pipoca. Not bad, really. It was extra fortunate that we exited on one of Carnaval’s true classics: “Pais Tropical,” by Jorge Ben. The crowd went totally apeshit, and the feeling leached into all of us. We were exhilarated as we forged our way back to Bahia Flats. Gol-durn! It was a long way! It didn’t seem so long when you were dancing your way down. I guess it’s kind of like sledding down a big hill and then having to trudge back up.

I’m sure the youngsters would scoff at us, but they would have no idea of Ben Burford’s rate of water shed. By the time we got back to the condo, I was a wrung out piece of flesh.  This was when I got to fulfill another one of my promises to everyone here in Birmingham: “I can’t wait to go to Brazil and take my shirt off.” Okay, I didn’t take it off in the street, but I sure as hell did in the condo, just to keep from passing out. I was beginning to get the jackfruit feeling again.

Janet and Riviane were there somewhere, too. I had no shame, I just wanted to get cool. The fan started making a squealing noise so they shut it off, which sent me into the bedroom portion to lay on the bed for a few minutes under its fan. I then decided to go take a cold shower in the new granite bathroom. It was just the ticket. By the time we left, I was feeling pretty okay.

Carol piloted us out of there with her trademark skill and aplomb, and before we all knew it, we were meeting a rising gate and a vertical thumb outside the house. I don’t know if we sat up or not. I just know that the next day was also full of festivities, and I needed my rack.

Fourth Day in Salvador, part 1–Festival of Iemanjá

In which Robo angers the goddess of the sea and Ben pays for it

2008 is a very unusual year in that Carnaval was not only two weeks earlier than usual, but in that the Festival of Iemanjá also fell coincident to Carnaval, which NEVER happens. I know that Carnaval dates are hooked to Ash Wednesday and Easter, and that this year it happened freakishly early. Why? Something about the solstice, I think. What’s going on here?

The Festival of Iemanjá (Ee-ah-mahn-JAH) is always held on February 2, which is also the Day of Our Lady of Candeias, a holy day associated with Oxum, the jealous queen of sweet water. Here’s the great part. You’d think a festival like the one for Iemanjá has been going on since Brazil first rose from the ocean and cooled into a continent. Not so.

According to Bahian history, the festival began in 1923. The fishery was in ruins, and the men of the fishermen’s association (!) decided to please the vain Mother of the Waters with gifts. Since they needed a day to do it on, and since the day of Our Lady of Conception had passed (in December), they used the next best thing: the day of Our Lady of Candeias, February 2. They decided they’d deal with Oxum first since it was officially “her” day, and they were bringing in this vain upstart of a goddess to possibly steal her thunder.

Now what about this Oxum? She’s the “jealous queen of sweet waters.” What does SHE think about Iemanjá and her mirror? I don’t know. I’m sure it’s not good. I DO know that before anybody gives Iemanjá ANYTHING, they go out at dawn and regale Oxum with music and gifts first.

It’s a little complicated. Iemanjá (a.k.a. Dandalunda, Yemanjá, and host of other aliases) is a Yoruba goddess, the daughter of Obatalá and Oduduá, the creators of the world. She wears light blue and silver, the colors of the Bay of All Saints. Her face is like the reflection of water, and she carries a mirror that she uses to gaze upon her reflection frequently. Iemanjá is Yoruban. I don’t know what Oxum is, but I’m sure she and Iemanjá behave like soap opera villainesses at a party whenever they happen to bump into each other under the sea. Rowrr!

Vain goddess? Check. Jealous original goddess? Check. Party time? Check.

It’s a big day for the Rio Vermelho neighborhood. Over 300,000 people bring offerings to the goddess–mainly flowers in baskets, but also mirrors, jewelry, letters, food and other precious items. After all the gifts are collected, the fishermen (in over 400 boats) take them out to sea and reverently lower them into the water for Iemanjá while they drum, sing, chant, and generally insure good luck in their fishing efforts. Fortunately for the environment, the people only give biodegradable presents, or those that the goddess can really use.

Combine this faithful throng with the Carnaval humanity swelling in the streets, and you’ve got another scorching mass of flesh packed together like potted meat.

 

——

Armed with none of this knowledge beforehand, Jean and I slept like rocks after the previous night at Carnaval. All we knew was that the next day we were gonna wear white (or as close to it as we could), and go down the hill and placate this vain goddess. Oh, don’t think the Bahians are only thinking about the goddess. Oh no. They are using this as another excuse for alegría. Who blames them?

That gol-durned Blackberry alarm obnoxiously announced itself all too early. By the time Jean and I made it in to the breakfast room, Carol and Pettus were dressed in white, like a couple of virgin schoolgirls. Robo was actually wearing cotton, and not quick-dry. Jean had originally planned to wear a demure jacket over a tank top, but decided that nobody at the festival would remember her in just a sleeveless shirt. After stepping out of the air conditioned bedroom, I was wearing my 50/50 shirt: 50% cotton, 50% water.

Carol had already begun to prepare her basket. It was decorated with official blue Iemanjá ribbons (Licensed? Surely not. Maybe I ought to have a talk with the Fishermen’s Association about that.). We were going to walk down the hill to the festival and buy flowers there. She assured us that there would be plenty.

She wasn’t kidding.

Right after leaving the little world inside the gate and getting our final thumbs up for the morning, we took it down the winding hill to the village. On the way we encountered a gentleman peeing on a colonial-era stone wall, a park full of partiers dancing to music pumped out of distorting speakers in the hatchback of a car, numerous food stands, and flower vendors enough to choke Holland.

The delightful odor of urine wove a rich tapestry of olfactory delights when combined with the venerable cooking grease, car fumes, sea air, fish, and homo sapiens sapiens. Truly, though, the Bahians were a non-smelly bunch of folks. I think they bathe two or three times a day during Summer for all the right reasons. Not to be a dickhead, but they smelled okay! Even in huge crowds! I don’t know if that would be true in the U.S.

I had wised up to the camera situation by now, and had it with me! I was just judicious about when I took it out. Not around the distorted speakers and peeing guy, but once in town, OKAY!

We first selected the flowers for Carol’s basket (as shown above). I loved the irony of the Christian t-shirt on the young man selling flowers for a pagan celebration, and giving the money to his church. God works in mysterious ways.

Carol did tell us that there was a contingent of fundamentalists that had begun to decry the festivities in recent years. I guess that’s one thing we haven’t got a lock on in America: religious superiority and intolerance. I say, let the Yorubas have their Candomblé. Love it all. It translates into many tongues.

This needs a little clearing up. When I moved here in 1986, the Catholic Church was fairly tolerant of syncretism. When Cardinal Neves was named Primate Archbishop in the late 80s, after having served a number of years in the Vatican, he began to call for a sharper line between Catholicism and Candomblé. To the outrage of many, he would not allow Bonfim Church to be opened during the Bonfim festival, which he said was a pagan celebration.

Several years ago an even more conservative Archbishop was named, Cardinal Majella, who reprimanded a priest who baptized Caetano Veloso’s youngest son and invoked the name of an orixa.

However, it is the fundamental Protestant sects that have a vendetta against Candomblé, calling it devil worship. The “Temple of Faith” in your photo is the Igreja Universal Reino de Deus and is growing by leaps and bounds in Brazil and abroad. Its founder Edir Macedo wrote a book slamming Candomblé, which was pulled off the shelves as it was considered hate literature (How’s that for being a good Christian?) I would imagine that the flower vendor belongs to a Protestant sect.


Once we made it to the water, we saw the line of umpteen thousand, ready to take their gifts to the goddess.

Carol insisted on standing in the gargantuan line to present her beautiful basket of flowers. It was one of the best offerings in the queue, and I swelled with pride to have such a generous cousin. In reality I was just puffy from gratitude, once Carol told us we didn’t have to stand there with her. I had already begun to chug water and spout it out of my pores like the cat in the cartoons that drinks a glass of water after being shot at point-blank range by the mouse. (See illustration.)I couldn’t fathom Carol’s dedication, but was glad to have her do it instead of me. Robo was openly deriding the entire concept and MOCKING the goddess! I didn’t mock her openly, I cursed her silently for not talking to the goddess of the local environment and giving me a breeze of some sort. But no.

Carol got in the line like a dutiful Rio Vermelhoan, while we milled aimlessly through the crowd, trying to get up to see the goddess. There were all kinds of video cameras and stuff going on, so I barged up front politely and took these pictures of the goddess and the people who had gotten to the front of the line.

Who were the ladies in white being interviewed and photographed? I don’t know. I suspect they are the wives of the heads of the Fishermen’s Association, and probably have an Iemanjá sewing circle at their Yoruba Candomblé (worship place). But then, I could be wrong.

Notice the largish girl in the front. Is she gasping at the beauty of the goddess? Or is she about to throw up? I voted for number two and decided to say “buh-bye” to Iemanjá and skedaddle.

Okay. I was hot. Jean was hot. It was time to sit down. And we had a place! Carol told us of an Iemanjá party being held at the home of Arilda Cardoso’s sister, Danje, which was right directly across the street from this beautiful church.

Oh yeah! A place to get more water. I hoped I wouldn’t ruin any of her furnishings.

 

Fourth Day in Salvador, part 2–Festival of Iemanjá

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.

Fourth Day in Salvador, part 3–Iemanjá pizza party

Today’s lunch entertainment was another party: a pizza fest in honor of Iemanjá and us. Carol had hired Ulysses to come in and do the pizzas–another master of the caliber of Sr. Itamar and Joasias. The pizza oven was the last piece of Cerqueira-la that had not been used on our visit. Like being able to use every bit of the pig but the squeal, we used every square inch of Cerqueira-la: all the chairs, all the tables, all the ovens, all the sinks, all the ping-pong tables, all the hammocks, all of the beauty and all the water. If we didn’t use all the dishes, Carol made sure to hire a Bahian to come in and lick what we hadn’t used, just to make sure it was all done correctly.

—–

After my liquid prayer session at the altar of Iemanjá and my redemptive shower, I flopped back down on the bed, this time covering up properly. Once again, I took a little nap while the guests arrived. All I ended up having to do was bring down a chair, my camera, and my groggy self. The sprinkler had been on next to the steps to Cerqueira-la, so the granite was wet and potentially treacherous to this cotton-headed oaf carrying down a chair, a camera, and stepping gingerly like a hippo ballerina in new Havaianas.

I tried to enter the party as surreptitiously as I could, but was nabbed. Half the place turned to look at me (through a fisheye lens). I felt like a convict in the spotlight, and wanted to do a dance into the little kitchen and through the secret tube back to the bedroom. Instead, I pulled out the camera and started shooting while I figured out what to say. The nap had fried my brain, and it was harder to get it started than a crappy old Toro lawn mower.

Ulysses was the natural thing to photograph, especially after Robo prompted me by saying “Look at him do that.” Good simple sentence. Ben understand.

I was so proud of Daniel and the pizza oven named in his honor. I thought how clever it was of him to want the pizza oven, just knowing that we would one day come and enjoy it. A hot little igloo it was. Cute, round, enough to make Wolfgang Puck take a look. The ingredients were laid out on the table. The guests selected what they wanted, and Ulysses made half a pizza with that on it. Very neat.

Once my head cleared and I had chugged a couple of waters, I met some of the guests. Ruybela Carteado is a Salvadoran artist and espouser of the arts. She is producing the Bahia Afro Film Festival, and I believe she teaches with Nelson. Tall, lithe, and elegant in movement, she was kind of like a personification of Iemanjá when I first saw her. But an Iemanjá that was from Liverpool. So strikingly beautiful! (Not Nelson)

She gave me a card for the Film Festival which is very cool. It looks like Jimi Hendrix, first thing, and second thing, it has the Lacerda Elevator and an old church, probably Bonfim Church, reflected in his shades.

By this time, Ulysses was passing out gorgeous flower petals of assorted pizza. Daniel was puffy with pride at the delicious use of his oven. We all were.  And here he is himself, along with Patricia, Jean, and Amina Dickerson.

Fourth Day in Salvador, part 4–Iemanjá pizza party, Carlinhos Brown & Co.

Every good Salvadoran knows to decorate for the Festival of Iemanjá, and Carol had done her civic duty to the utmost. She had hung the beautiful tapestry over the buffet table, and the sculpture of the vain Iemanjá admiring her reflection stood among the vegetables, fruit and silverware. She had also tied foamy blue and white net and ribbon all over the place.

Too little, too late, if you asked me at the time. Iemanjá had made her displeasure with me known already. The old girl was high maintenance, that’s for sure. And I say “old girl” with complete confidence, being as she IS the daughter of the creators of the world.

I continued to roam around the party, sampling a pizza petal now and again, but still chugging water like a fiend. I talked to Amina Dickerson for a while, learning that she worked for Kraft in Chicago. I told her how much I liked her Velveeta and her logo; being a big eater and an advertising man, I was qualified to do both.

Amina and her husband Julian Moore (who eluded my camera) were there for the evening festivities: Carlinhos Brown, another venerable Salvadoran music legend, had erected three or four massive stages on the very streets we tromped on that morning. Carlinhos and crew  (a bunch of stars!) were the ones to run through the streets at dawn, singing for Oxum. I hated to have missed that, but I was wallowing in the rack.

Carlinhos was also the spearhead behind the massive Iemanjá decorations, and was the Big Daddy of the huge family of entertainers who were going to pass through those stages. More music! On top of the sonic blast from Carnaval. It only happens once in a blue moon, and we were there to witness it.

Hold on!! That meant we had to walk back down there and back up again! Aieee!! Well, at least there were a bunch of other folks to share to trek: Cindi and Bill Howley and their kids, a very nice bunch, I’ll say. The youngest son was what an old lady (or I) would call “a little scamp”. All the kids were cute as hell, polite and not afraid to speak to weird old men in new Havaianas.

Wait! I just found Carol’s dossier on the Howleys. Encapsulated: The Howley family is Bill, Cindi, Annie, Clara and Tom. Bill works for Winrock International, an offshoot of the Rockefeller Foundation whose mission is renewable energy and sustainable development. Cindi recently went back to work at a winery — right up her alley. They lived in Brazil for almost five years, roughly between 94-99.

So. The Little Scamp’s name is Tom. He’ll always be The Little Scamp to me.

I was also in error about Ruybela. She doesn’t teach with Nelson: Ruybela Carteado was with Julian and Amina. She is a dynamic promoter of anything to be promoted that keeps her going between her home here and in Philadelphia.

It was time to go. And the new shirt I put on became an old shirt instantly.

Down, down, past urine wall and surroundings, past the dental supply place, finally breaking “free” where we came out that morning. But breaking free involved running into a brick wall of humanity grooving to the Brazilian sounds coming from Stage One.

No camera. Jean had the disposable. Which gave the event a whole William Eggleston quality to it. He always took only one shot of anything. Not a billion shots of the same thing. One shot. The three taken with the disposable are the only ones, if I’m not mistaken.

It was flat packed to the gills down there! And everybody knew all the words to the songs again! Grrrrrr! Our group moved through the crowd with the cohesion of a paramecium, undulating from all sides. One person would see a good place to stand (forget about sitting) and pull the crowd that way. Then another move. Then another. We were actually better where we were at the beginning. We could see and hear the stage better. The move that looked attractive, up a little rise on a side street, was ultimately not as good.

And goodness gracious was I ever thirsty! We ALL were. But the crowd-to-vendor ratio was woefully bad. If one of the enterprising Bahians had had a REALLY big cooler full of water and a few beers, he could have put his children through college on the money he would have made that day. God bless Bill Howley. Not only did he carry Tom on his shoulders for a large part of the time, he voluntarily pierced the throng to buy us beer. And he wouldn’t even take my money, to boot! What a guy.

I drank half the beer Bill brought me, but my body screamed “WATER!!!” We were on a rise, the street made of cobblestones. My Crocs were steady and sturdy 99.9% of the way, but the cobbles would get me every now and then. I staggered through the crowd, throwing around an occasional “licença” (excuse me). I finally found one vendor who was being besieged just as he set down his giant styrofoam treasure chest. Talk about your piranhas! I managed to snag a water and have it finished before I could make it back to the mother ship.

All the music from the stage was smoking hot Brazilian when we first got there. The crowd was happy and benign, and singing along, probably like they’d do at a kids’ soccer game. But then the music got slow and introspective and quiet. For a long time. The crowd was getting kind of distracted because they were louder than what was coming from the stage. There is no reason to do that. These people should have been rocking the house. Carol even got bored, and asked if anybody was ready to leave.

The Howleys were ten steps ahead of us. We watched them disappear into the crowd, eventually only seeing a very tall Tom as they were enveloped by the mass.

On our way out Carol and Nelson stoped to samba to some of the music blaring out of huge outdoor speakers at this bar. They far eclipsed the sound from the stage, disappearing in the distance. And the people at the bar and outside were raising hell and having a blast.

That’s why I couldn’t understand why the groups on the stage had ceased to play the party music. Don’t get me wrong. The slower stuff was pretty, and would have been great if you were sitting in a bar listening to it while a ceiling fan rotated slowly above your head and a beautiful Bahian served you roskas. But here, we were international potted meat, and wanted to get our pipoca on. I’m sure it was just a slow stretch, but it felt like an eternity, and a large group of festival goers tends to be pretty ADD. We were no exception.

It’s such a weird sensation to break free of a gigantic jamboree like that one. The crowd becomes thinner and thinner, the streets clearly show the aftermath of the human traffic, and the smells are presented to you in a crystal clear fashion. The disappearing dusk drove it home even more. There were a bunch of us, but it was still kind of a lonely feeling at the same time. I’m sure that our having to leave the next day added to it. For some reason, it was a vivid reminder of leaving the Alabama State Fair by the secret gate that only a “few” people knew about–the one with the best parking and the non-crowded entrance.

We magically made it up the hill somehow. Surely our training of the afternoon hadn’t hurt. At the house, I decided to sit in the cold tub for a while. My engine tends to run hot all the time, but it was in overdrive, and I needed to cool ‘er down. Jean and Carol sat up there for a while and chatted while I played the manatee and watched the sky.

We had a pickup kind of dinner. Carol dragged everything out of the refrigerator, and we had a big ole smorgy accompanied by the ever-popular manioc flour. At this point, it was decided that Daniel and Patricia were going to join us in Rio.

Robo had posed the idea earlier in the trip. Daniel and Patricia were the perfect traveling companions for many reasons: smart, fun, lively, curious, irreverent. Oh. And they both spoke Portuguese. We may have still taken them even without all the glowing adjectives. And Robo was not terribly keen on being language deficient in Rio for 7 days. Relying on me to tell everybody about my sweat and about the beauty was just not gonna be enough.

Therefore, as president of whatever one of his endeavors it was, Robo authorized a grant to underwrite part of D&P’s trip to Rio to stay with us in the huge house (that slept 13), learn about Rio and its Carnaval themselves, and help us survive same. Carol immediately went upstairs to book flights, and I went into Daniel’s temporary lair to celebrate our success by watching TV with my new BKFs. I had completely flipped into paternal mode, and was loving it.

Would Carol want them back after we got through with them? There are a million literary and musical references from throughout history that say “não.”

Departure from Salvador to Rio

Oh sad day.

The night before, Jean and I had rummaged through all our stuff, which had somehow managed to land not only all over the room, but on the walls, shelves, and under the bed. There were shirts of mine still damp hanging everywhere. Aiee! I couldn’t wait to pack it in a suitcase and experience it upon unpacking.


Suely had done laundry a couple of times during our trip, but we were going through clothes at a ridiculous clip, and by the conclusion of the Iemanjá event, I had been through four shirts. All wet. All hanging up along Daniel’s bedroom wall. I’m sure they had the delousing crew in after we had left. And was that paint peeling when we first got there? I didn’t think so.

Our packing mission was two fold. Not only did we have to just pack to go, we had to begin thinking about how to combine the necessary stuff into one suitcase in case that’s all we could take into the Amazon. That was fun. All that bending over! Whee! I felt like a tube of toothpaste being squeezed by a wasteful child–right from the middle, with bulges at both ends. That is not a natural pose for a human being. (See illustration.) We didn’t start walking upright eons ago just to have to bend over again.

 

—

Meanwhile, the gate man’s birds had gotten loose and flown into Robo and Pettus’ bedroom and packed for them, all the while doing an axé version of “Whistle While You Work.”

—–

 

Blackberry. Blackberry. Blackberry.

Out of bed on the first triplet of horror. Slightly smug because the packing had come together so well the night before. Slightly queasy from having my insides pinched like a garden hose. There’s no telling what was trying to get out on each end. Slightly anxious about a new location and the logistical clusterfuck that usually results.

We weren’t terribly rushed, since our plane was at 10:30.

What the HELL am I talking about? We were going on TAM!!

We had a delicious last breakfast. Patricia had gotten up already, but Daniel was still delightfully comatose in the lair of cool. Here’s a great picture of Patricia and Robo. The subtext is startling and Nabokovian. It’s so odd that Robo insisted on using this particular coffee mug every day we were there. I saw him trying to put it in his suitcase, but the birds had condensed everything to an 18″x24″x6″ package, hermetically sealed it, and done the saran wrap treatment for free. He couldn’t get it in.

It was time to go. Daniel had appeared mysteriously, with manioc flour all over his mouth and a real desire to get out of there. Both guest families gratuitized Suely and Carmen for all their wonderful help during our trip. It was the perfect amount–more than a local would give, but not enough to convey the fact that American-sized tips are de rigueur.

We packed into the SUV, with D&P in the backback, Jean, Robo & Pettus in the middle seat, and Carol and me up front. My feet were already shoeless and on the dash by the time we had gotten our final (sob!) thumbs-up from the gate man and headed down the serpentine course to the airport for the last time. THIS time.

We got there about 8:30. Plenty o’ time. Uh. Yeah.

At first, we stood in an interminable line at TAM with only one agent. But not for near as long as usual. Pretty soon, the requisite 3 extra agents appeared magically, one even sorting the lines out into Rio and São Palo. Our line was shorter, and the agents, all cute Brazilian girls, zoomed us through the luggage check in and boarding pass retrieval. Jean of course tried to see if they were in the mood to bump us up to first class, but the agent looked at her like she didn’t understand.
By now we had decided that I needed potassium to help my depleted little system. I had eaten a banana for breakfast, wanting not much else but some bread. Carol recommended that I try coconut water. All the Brazilians drink it for electrolyte and potassium replenishment. It’s the water in a green coconut that has had the top removed. In Salvador, Rio, and all the beach cities, they serve coconut water fresh out of the coconut as much as they serve just about anything. We drank some in the Amazon. You’ll see!

But since there were no green coconuts and machete handy, Carol got it for me in a little plastic bottle at one of the myriad cool eateries in the airport. She and Robo got an espresso, Jean and Pettus got juice and Diet Coke, and I got plain coffee (along with my coconut water). I could tell it was healthful when I drank it, because it “tasted” healthful. Like, kind of, uh, like the stuff you drink before you have a colonoscopy. I couldn’t wait to have it STRAIGHT from the coconut.

After we choked down, I mean, enjoyed our drinks, I insisted on having Carol take me to the CD place in the airport to get some local music while they waited for TAM to open up our flight for boarding. It would surely take long enough to allow me to peruse the entire store. We had plenty of time. Really. According to TAM we did. So Carol and I cruised down there, went through a bunch of stuff aided by a helpful store guy who was merchandising but not pushy. I ended up with several CDs: a live Ivete Sangalo, a Carnaval sampler from 2007, Gilberto Gil retrospective, and Margareth Menzes’ Afropopbrasileiro.

The store had a (qweeka), one of my favorite Brazilian percussion instruments. I know I’ve misspelled it. Yes, I did. It’s “cuica”. The sound is like somebody kind of sobbing. Whenever I would imitate it (which was perfect in my head), I would get lousy reviews from any audience that heard it. I wanted to buy one, but thought it might be trouble to travel with. But I was beginning to waffle.

Oh well. I had no time to decide to get it after all, because we were frantically summoned by Patricia (or Daniel) (or both) to get out there! TAM was ready for us. We hugged goodbye, knowing that D&P would be joining us in a day. Leaving Carol was the real bummer. And leaving the whole air of friendly, energetic calm that permeates Bahian life was killing me. I didn’t know what Rio would be like, but had a feeling it was gonna be more “big city-like.”

But we weren’t out of there yet.

Once we made it in the ante-chamber of inspection, it was another case of power-mad airport people with nothing better to do than piss a bunch of people off. Oh it was wonderful. This time at least we had Robo and Pettus to bitch with. There were also several other people (who spoke English this time, though not Americans) waiting to get on this flight to Rio. The security people were letting people in at a rate of 1 every three minutes. Seriously. There was some kind of group there behind us and our miserable compatriots, trying to get on the plane with us. But this group was a bunch of greenies as far as OUR line was concerned.

Suddenly here comes this guy “in charge” of stuff, asking where we all were going. “Rio!” we all shouted, including the people in the group. This dipshit guy suddenly grabs the papers from this group guy and pulls the whole bunch in front of us, counting them as they marched smugly past us, their backpacks swaying, through security and into the inner sanctum.

Hooooo Boooy! Did this make a bunch of us mad. PARTICULARLY a pair of 60-ish women from a Balkan-area country who began to bitch LOUDLY in ENGLISH. Unfortunately, Balkan-English from two
old Balkan women has a concentrated amount of “bitch” in it, enough to make everybody cringe. Of course, this made the “guy” mad, and he began to not only ignore these two women, but began to take random people from behind us in the line, all the while punishing US because we were standing next to these women.

Everybody was hot, hot hot! It was the consummate Brazilian airport experience, though there would be so many others to follow. We finally got through at the eleventh hour. By then we were practically yanked through the line, then slung down the hall at a running gallop to some mysterious gate.

And yes, it was the classic “hurry up and wait” scenario again. We had the impression that our plane was taking off as we plummeted down the hallway to the gate. I didn’t want to have to chase the plane down the runway!

No. It was a few minutes before takeoff by whatever clock they were using. The line of people wasn’t too bad, but they were just standing there. We had time to go across the hall to a gift shop and buy several Salvador Tshirts, me buying a couple of Ivete Sangalo shirts in delicious double XL and 100% cotton to boot! I told the salesgirls about my suado-ness and how I had a crush on the beleza Ivete, then followed it with the Roy Orbison growl. They were giggling by then. No stopping me at that point. I began to gush over Salvador and the Bahians in my virgin Portuguese with all the sincerity that was deserved. They were the last Salvadorans we would see on the trip. Snif.

We went into the anteroom and got in line. There was a woman sitting on a mat against the wall meditating as we came in. How she did it there, I’ll never know. I’m sure it was to ease her fear of flying. I was sorry she had to do that, because I would have just had a few drinks. Maybe she had never thought of that. Hold it! We were going on TAM, the liquorless airline! I tapped her on the shoulder and asked her to scoot over. I was going to join her.

Eventually the line began to move, and we headed down the tube to the plane, stockyard fashion. It was as if there were going to be a man around the corner that was going to do a jackhammer on our heads as we passed by.

That’s about half right.