Recently in Chapter 2 Category

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 http://home.centraldocarnaval.com.br/index.asp 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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."