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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.

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!