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.
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.
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.
Oh yeah! A place to get more water. I hoped I wouldn’t ruin any of her furnishings.
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.
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.
Welcome back, Ben! Did you have fun at the festival?
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 
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.