from Sandy Needham

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Nigerian Fishermen Dispatch

SCENE: Our hotel room in Salvador, Bahia; October 5th: A news item on TV mentions a Nigerian fishing boat that has washed up on a beach in the state of Rio Grande do Norte (our state) after 35 days at sea, both engine and generator having failed.

SCENE: Back home; October 7th: Our caretaker, Marcos, tells us that the Nigerian Fishing boat is stranded on Buzios Beach, two beaches south of us.

SCENE: Buzios BeacNigerian Boath, October 10th: We have driven 20 minutes south to check out this stranded fishing boat. It is pretty big and very rusty. Only onlookers are there. We stop by Pirangi Beach to see our American friend, Mary, on the way home. She tells us about her Brazilian friend Glades becoming the official helper of the African fishermen, being the first person to meet them who spoke English.

SCENE: Home office, reading this e-mail from American friend, Mary; October 12th. :

“A wonderful adventure this morning that merits recording ... an African trawler ran aground in Buzios last week, the beach just south of ours, and it quickly became a tourist attraction. I haven't gone to see it, but Glades, who just told off her boss at the travel agency and thus has some free time now, wandered up there one day and began to befriend the six stranded English-speaking Nigerians (well, one is from Benin and two are from Ghana, all employed by a Nigerian fishing company). First she translated a local newspaper article about their plight for them, and, before she knew it, she was their official interpreter regarding matters of their status and finances – in meetings with the Navy, with the bank, with the local community. She’s their hero! They call her “Mama.”

The guys are mostly in their thirties, some with wives and kids at home, whose fishing boat in Nigerian waters simply lost all power one day, and they drifted for over a month with plenty of fish to eat but scarcely any water. They arrived in various degrees of dehydration and depletion, one injured and near death. The Tabatinga Beach community housed them at first - the caretaker of one house opened it up when he saw their desperate state, till the absentee landlord found out and unkindly objected. Another resident offered his mother's vacation house, but this happens to be a holiday weekend, and she was using it.

So where did they end up temporarily ... at Glades' of course, in the bunk beds and extra rooms of her apartment!

So that's why we invited them for breakfast this morning...we quickly threw together a hefty brunch. The local market donated a bag of apples when I said we were feeding the Nigerians, who are famous now up and down the beach. Jose made something spicy with manioc and coconut milk and veggies that they all loved and said reminded them of their traditional food. One couldn’t come - a combination of wooziness and homesickness I think, and when I packed some leftovers for him later, one of the guys asked if he could take half an apple to his friend. I gave him the whole donated bag, but was struck by the humility of his request.

One guy, the captain, talked the most and was obviously the most comfortable among strangers. The others were mostly reticent, shy, but quick to smile. One limped, and when askedwith Mary why, said he was shot by pirates last year. Apparently Nigeria has the greatest incidence in the world of that particular danger. Being Sunday, no employees were here today, but three of them quickly came when called and gave the fishermen a capoeira demo and lesson, and the Nigerians said they were able to laugh today for the first time.
Even though the banks are on strike in Natal right now, the group managed to retrieve some funds their company sent to tide them over (the striking bank opened its doors after being commanded to do so by higher authorities, at Glades' insistence). Whether the boat gets repaired enough for them to navigate it home, or whether the company will decide to sell it or abandon it and fly them home is still undecided (no doubt they're hoping for the latter). The highest tide of the year is conveniently one week away, and at that time they will attempt to tow the boat up to the Natal port. selling the oil Meanwhile, IBAMA (equivalent of the EPA) ordered that the hull's oil and dirty waters be drained, to avoid an ecological disaster. But the presence of such a novelty on the beach is a huge magnet - to invasive tourists who climb aboard uninvited and to thieves, who walked off with everything of value that was left unguarded in the first days of their recovery. The clothes on their backs are all donations at this point.” [In the photo above l to r: Williams, Mary, Charlie, Leandre, Glades,Captain, Francisco]

SCENE: Our bedroom on a sunny morning, my mind in a half-sleep trying to decide how to help the African fishermen; October 15th: I come up with the idea of offering them use of our Skype computer phone, which is extremely cheap for international calls. Though they may mostly need money from us, salary cuts and the falling dollar have carved out a big percentage of our income. I later get Glades’ number from Mary and call.

SCENE: Home office and front porch; October 19th: Glades brings the Nigerian, Williams (his first name), the assistant engineer of the boat, who reaches his brother to explain his long absence, then reaches the boss of the fishing company. An e-mail with a photo of the beached boat is sent to the boss. Williams is the one who limps from the pirate gunshot in the leg, but he manages a swagger simultaneously! He has a gregarious and confident personality, is single, has become Glades’ boyfriend, and wishes to stWilliamsay in Brazil. But he is very proud of the prosperity Nigeria is currently enjoying through its resources and industries. I put some African music on the iPod and he teaches me the ‘high life’ style of dance that is popular in Western Africa. I love the economy of his moves, just like the Cubans in the “Buena Vista Social Club.”

Glades has had to sign something saying she is responsible for the fishermen, so the Brazilian government at its various levels is proving to be very slow and minimal help. Apparently a lawyer has advised them not to talk to the sometimes-harassing media after misrepresentations occurred. She has negotiated a good deal on a rental beach house for them near their boat. It is necessary for them to guard the boat around the clock from thieves who they believe could take the broken motor (about all that’s left to take, now that the compass, GPS, clothes, pots and pans, DVD player, etc. are gone). Glades says that while the six of them were staying at her apartment, they kept the place spotless and neat, cooking most meals themselves. Williams is still staying at Glades’.

SCENE: Home office and front porch; October 21st: Glades and Williams bring Nigerians Captain Franklin da Silva (l) - ironically, he has one of the most common names in Brazil…due to Portuguese colonies in Captain Franklin da Silva Africa, though he doesn’t speak any Portuguese; and Indian Gandhi (r) -the son of a tribal chief with three wives, who is the boat’s engineer. ‘Capi,’ as they call the captain, has not been able to reach his wife because her cell number changed. He reaches her brother and for the first time is able to leave the cell phone number where he can be reached in Brazil. His face reflects an incredible amount of relief and joy now that his loved ones know he is not dead and his wife will be calling soon. He has two older sons who study banking in Ghana and a small boy and baby girl by his second wife. Indian Gandhi

Indian suffered some horrible impact with something in the water when the fishermen left the boat to swim ashore. It was night and they feared the boat would capsize or crash into rocks, so they swam. Buzios has the strongest current of all the beaches in this area, so the dehydrated and depleted guys had a very difficult swim to shore. Indian had to be placed in a rubber life boat after Williams noticed him facing downwards in the water. He has spit up blood for which the local free hospital treated him and gave him some medicine that greatly helped. They all grabbed their passports from the boat, but unfortunately all but one was lost on the swim to shore. Besides suffering physically, Indian – who has a wife (“just one wife in my generation”) and four daughters - has also not reached anyone to tell them of his fate. He is particularly forlorn and homesick, knowing his family has no income. He reaches his wife’s brother and reports his surprising whereabouts and phone number; his face is then also transformed by happiness! The fishermen were not actually sure where they were when they landed, which seems strange since the sun must have clearly indicated their direction. Their battery-run compass and GPS had also stopped working. I think they may have been confused about geography because of their depleted state, thinking that the Portuguese being spoken might have been from another African country. I see that they are not ignorant people. They described huge storms at sea, where they would rise to the top of a gigantic wave and then hold on tight for the drop, or where water would powerfully wash over the deck, also requiring them to hold on for dear life. The boat is large enough that it did not threaten to tip over. They saw a pair of whales - bigger than their boat – who swam around and under them but did not present a danger.

Captain says that all the beach cafés in Buzios close at 6:00pm when it gets dark, so the fishermen are just stuck in their house all evening with no place to go. I send some playing cards home with them.

SCENE: Home office; October 27th: Williams shouts at the fishing company boss over the Skype phone for not sending any further financial help; Glades has been unemployed since right before meeting them, so there are money worries all around. Williams is trying to coordinate with the fishing company boss to pay someone to tow the boat out to sea and up to the port for sale or repair, as that highest tide proved not to budge the boat one inch.

We send a twelve-pack of beer and a stack of DVD’s home for the group.

SCENE: Zen Bar Café, Cotovelo; November 5th: We’ve invited the fishermen for an evening out at our favorite local bar, run by our friends Maurizio (Italian) and Neuma (native), who have a wealth of world music and a sylvan setting in their courtyard. We have requested African music. Only Glades, Williams and Indian show up. We’re beginning to suspect that our offerings via Glades and Williams are not making it to the group at large, among whom there is some tension about the company dealing with Williams, who is more aggressive, maybe cleverer, and more vocal - instead of Captain, plus the usual strains of people who have been through such stress. Indian was coughing up blood again and worried sick about his family back home, so he is staying with Glades also.

After some great tunes which Williams and Indian identify as from their neighboring country, Cameroon, they ask Maurizio if he has any Fela Kuti music. Of course he does and they light up to hear their favorite Nigerian, political activist/icon’s wonderful “African Beat” synthesis of jazz, protest song and traditional African rhythms. The two of them tell us all about the political turmoil, the complete adoration of the populace, and the eccentricities that defined Fela Kuti’s outsized lifeLeandre.

SCENE: Pirangi bus stop; November 6th: I run into Glades, Williams and Indian waiting for a bus to Buzios. I give them a lift to the rental beach house and finally meet the other three fishermen: Leandre from Benin, (r) amazingly pitch-black and gracious - a former farmer and French teacher with two sets of boy/girl twins, ages 10 and 7; Charlie (l),Ghanan, a charming, funny, ladies’ man with a boy, 10, and a girl, 8; and Francisco (r, below), Ghanan, painfully shy, separated with a 5-year-old boy. He speaks the least conventional English and has more trouble understanding everything. I am enchanted to see how clearly the six demeanors reveal such distinct personalities…and all just lovely guys.

They’ve managed to lug the boCharlieat’s broken generator all the way to their living room. They want to repair it and sell it since they are getting nothing from their company.

The Natal police chief has become the most helpful, and efforts have been successful to replace the lost passports with temporary ones from their respective governments in Africa, excepting Francisco who is still waiting. Charlie is the one whose passport made it to shore, and there was talk of sending him home early to try to coordinate efforts with the company to salvage the boat, but Glades thinks the police want to wait till all of them can fly back together to save money by sending only one police escort to São Paulo (from where the flight to South Africa and then their respective countries would originaFranciscote). This escort is

necessary because of their unusual/illegal status.

I now have the opportunity to invite all of the fishermen directly for the week-after-next to a simple bar in our local town which serves acarajé, an African-Brazilian dish from Bahia.

SCENE: Home office; November 8th: I ask Newton how the name of that famous Nigerian musician we heard at Zen Bar is spelled. He says “F-E-L-A K-U-T-I.”

About two hours later I see on the front page of the online NY Times a photo of African dancers with a caption of “Fela!” below it. Sure enough, a Broadway show about Fela Kuti just opened! The article is fascinating, both because the details of Fela Kuti’s life are so dramatic and because the creators of the show refused to let the usual Broadway producers touch it and commercialize it. Fela Kuti, from Lagos, Nigeria’s largest city, was educated in the UK and the US. He returned to Nigeria in the ‘70’s with the jazz rhythms he picked up, but preferred to contest the corrupt military government and the effects of colonialism by singing in the patois language of the people. (The show features supertitles over the stage like they use at the opera to translate into English.) His Mother was a feminist who the authorities threw from a window to her death; Fela had 27 wives (not feminists) who sang and danced in his shows in a large club in Lagos. They lived in a huge complex which the authorities eventually burned to the ground. Fela was jailed and beaten many times, but always came back with his signature humongous joint of marijuana and his music of protest against each subsequent version of corrupt government. The fishermen think his death “from AIDS” in the mid-‘90’s was actually caused surreptitiously by the authorities.

The creator, director and choreographer for the show is the renowned modern dance choreographer, Bill T. Jones. The producers he gathered from the art world are dedicated to an authentic depiction of Fela Kuti’s music and his life story without the usual compromises to make the show ‘marketable.’ Apparently the result is fresh, dramatic, and thrilling.

SCENE: Sampa’s Bar, Pium; later: At last we can give all the fishermen a night out! They all show up for the spicy acarajé in Pium. Mary also joins us. Williams leads a prayer before we eat, as they are all Christian and have taken to praying together throughout their ordeal. When the subject of thieves comes up, since in general what they like best about Brazil is the people they have met - they mention that thievery is also prevalent in Nigeria, even the theft of items – including Bibles – at church! A discussion ensues about when God forgives the theft of a Bible and when he does not.

The fishermen find the ‘extra pimentada’ acarajé mild by their standards. The bar plays some nice recorded samba instead of the usual forró we’re not too fond of around here, so I make the Africans try out the dance of Brazil. Glades and Mary help me pull them to their samba fate!

I love telling them the Fela Kuti coincidence about the Broadway show, and that in the meantime I’ve been able to nab some surprisingly affordable tickets to the show in late January when I’ll be in NY.

Nothing seems to be moving along with the resolution of the stranded boat and the fishermen’s passage home. The initiative to tow the boat seems to have evaporated, along with any more contact from their boss. There is a possibility that some guy could come repair the boat right on the beach. Newton and I really don’t know where they’re getting any money to live on, even though Glades may have resources from her family in Rio Grande do Sul. The guys have become friends with several people near their house and have a support system of sorts, fraught with sign-language! Captain handed over money so Newton could add credit via the internet to his cell phone SIM, by which they all communicate with their families now.

Charlie tells me that he would like to return to Brazil to study at a maritime college. He asks if I could get any information from the internet about such colleges in Brazil.

SCENE: Buzios Beach, next to the boat; some days later: Newton had arranged to meet the guys by the boat where they play a lot of soccer. Even though they are tired from the pick-up game they played for hours the day before with a revolving cast of players that showed up, Captain, Indian, Francisco and Charlie come over from the house, bearing cans of cold beer they take great pleasure in presenting to us. I am relaxing in the shade of the boat. Leandre, the most devout, is at church in nearby Tabatinga, even though it is Catholic and in Portuguese.

We learn that if the Brazilian government pays for their plane tickets back to Africa, the fishermen will be considered deported and unable to return to Brazil. They can reimburse the government at a later date and return to Brazil (since they are not allowed to work here now). Now Francisco wants to stay in Brazil, too! The siren song has worked some magic on them, even though Captain, Indian and Leandre really want to get home to their families. Charlie is ecstatic to get the information I printed out from the internet about the two branches of the maritime college in Brazil (in Rio and Belem), complete with courses and application. There is a program for foreigners with free room and board. Charlie says there is someone in Dubai who would sponsor his tuition.

As usual, many curious people come by to see the boat and what the buzz about the Nigerian fishermen is all about. Many take photos. Most do not speak English.

We invite the fishermen to come to our house soon for our very spicy chicken wings and Fela Kuti music.

SCENE: The ‘artesano’ market for tourist souvenirs in Natal; some days later: I have decided that what is needed is some gifts for the fishermen to give their wives and children when they return to Africa. I’m thinking they might even make it home by Christmas. My budget is limited, but I have some great paper dolls and scissors I brought from the US, including Obama family paper dolls. The fishermen assure me that everybody in Africa, including children, knows who Obama is! Then I have some Brazilian beads and African beads I have strung into necklaces for the wives/girlfriends. Now I need to find the cheap version of the official soccer shirts of the Brazilian national team for boys 23, 19, 10 (two), 8, and 7. It takes a grueling long while after grueling negotiations, but the store finally finds all the right sizes, thanks to their second store to which they run off a couple of times. This project puts me decidedly in the Christmas spirit.

SCENE: Our front porch; December 10th: The coconut trees in the front yard are wound with red and green tube lights, respectively. The Africans and Glades are approaching down the road from the bus stop. Newton hands me the iPod newly loaded with Fela Kuti music and I push the buttons just in time for the music to start as they approach the gate. dancin africans The next hour-and-a-half is spent with all nine of us dancing on the front porch, loads of smiles, juice/beers-in-hand, and plenty of singing along to all the Fela Kuti lyrics (often explained/translated for us). The guys are transformed into now graceful, now funny, butt-bumping, now floating, now earthbound moving mantras, all of which I’m trying to mimic. Francisco makes dancing look like rhythmic Tai-chi …utterly graceful and evocative of animals and birds. I think I'm adding him to my Fred Astaire/Baryshnikov list! When dancing, Francisco is not shy; Captain’s swollen, dislocated knee does not impede motion; Williams does not limp; Indian’s joyful animation is not limited by his lung injury; and the staid, teetotaler Leandre occasionally gets up from his chair and carefully steps to the beat. No matter how relaxed I try to be copying their moves, I can always see how much more effort I am making, how much more my arms move. Captain says ‘release’…and there’s a look at a western life. That economy and release are the story of a psychological and spiritual freedom.thursday dinner

At last we collapse onto sofa and chairs. Time to put out the chicken wings, rice and beans, and malageta hot peppers. We have a wonderful time eating and gabbing. I hand out the bags with presents for them to take back. Williams leads them in a sung blessing for us – this is so beautiful, I almost die. Their voices answer Williams’ gorgeous sung phrases in chant-like, melodic responses. It sounds more beautiful than Ladysmith Black Mambazo. I may not be religious, but I definitely know when a sublime blessing is engulfing me.

SCENE: Buzios Beach; December 13th: We arrive at 10:30am for a proposed soccer game, but the tide is higher than calculated, so the guys, other than Francisco waiting for us, are at the house. Francisco is no longer shy with us, and we run down the hill of sand hand-in-hand to the boat for photos. Alas, our camera is kaput. Cell phone camera. sign on boat Their artist friend nearby has painted “Please do not enter” on the side of the boat. We go to the house with a cooler of beer. Captain is in the kitchen working on the African lunch we’re sharing with them. Williams wants a ride to a lake in Tabatinga, so we drive him over and meet Eugenio, the Brazilian man who was the first to help them when they arrived desperate on the beach. He owns a little bar at the lake. Williams buys some beers for us. Leandre is in the yard beside the bar shelling shrimp for Eugenio after church. Williams has just heard from the long-lost boss in Nigeria, who must have realized how expensive it would be to replace that boat. Maybe now he’ll enable them financially to get it repaired to return home or sell. We return to the house for Captain’s lunch. First, a shot of scotch to open the gullet. There are pieces of chicken –separate - and a mash of beans, manioc and coconut meat to which one adds the blend of eating African tomatoes, peppers and onions sautéed in dendé (coconut oil). This is eaten with the hand, first worked all together into a ball, then held and nibbled from red-stained fingers. A bowl of water sits near-by for finger-dipping. IT IS DELICIOUS. The beer comes after and manages to inflate the bulk of deliciousness in the stomach. Very satisfying.

I comment about their perfect teeth…they all have beautiful teeth. Then they show me the ‘chewing stick’ that is commonly used in Western Africa, following the toothbrush. I believe it may be a root. This item was not stolen from the ship! One chews on the stick as a sort of flossing, except it appears to be more effective. They also said that people do not consume much sugar there. I suggest a chewing stick export business when they return!

Captain has an invitation from a woman he met who owns a bar/restaurant at the other end of Buzios Beach. Most of us pile into the car and go. We all sit under a thatch umbrella by the water and Andrea serves us beer after beer and shrimp and fish, which Williams, Captain and Indian share. We’re too full. After a relaxing afternoon conversing about Nigeria, theology and pigeon English, we all say farewell. Newton and I are off to the USA for Christmas, returning January 4th. None of us knows if the fishermen will still be here then.

I questioned my wish to know and help the Africans when there are people all around us every day who I do not help. The fishermen’s plight seemed particularly strange and desperate – whereas the poor near us are neither homeless nor abandoned and speak the same language as everyone else. Perhaps I was drawn to the local celebrity of the Africans? Or that they would be leaving and not a permanent fixture like the local poor who would never stop appearing with a hand extended if we were to succumb. Finally, I decided that if someone needs help and I wish to provide it, it is not so complicated. Getting to know them and offering what we could has been a supreme pleasure, mostly because of the sheer loveliness of each of the men and their example of dignity and ‘release.’ There is so much for us all to learn. It feels like love, but an uncomplicated version, where we offer our best mutually.

Wishing all of you a spark of connection during this holiday season!

Love,

Sandy

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Salvador Dispatch

In January of 1983 I traveled from Rio to Salvador, Bahia in the northeast of Brazil - one of the oldest cities in the New World. This is where the African slaves disembarked, bringing their Candoblé religion, their African rhythms and dances to the Portuguese colony. I had been studying Afro-Brazilian dance in New York for 5 years with Loremil, a ‘Baiano’ – a man from Bahia. Besides being an machado accomplished practitioner of caporeira - the marshal arts dance invented by slaves in Bahia after they were prohibited from fighting - Loremil was a teacher of samba and the dances of the Candoblé religion, honoring various African gods and goddesses who had to be disguised as Catholic saints by the ‘converted’ slaves. Loremil wanted me to deliver a cassette recorder to his mother, Joselina, in Massaranduba, a poor neighborhood of Salvador.




January is the month when the magic begins in Salvador (OK, December, actually) and culminates in the biggest Carnaval celebration in all of Brazil. I was immediately immersed in the mystical crackling in the air, the ubiquitous batucada of the samba on buses, street corners, and passing open trucks with entire bands on top. The city streets and beaches were filled with celebrants. Caporeira circles spontaneously sprang up on the beach. I witnessed the ‘Washing of the Church’ and the combining of Jesus and the god Oxalá into ‘Senhor do Bonfim.’

I never wrote about this visit. I arrived at Joselina’s humble house where many relatives lived, and spent a sleepless night there. My fledgling Portuguese was no match for this strange northeastern accent I could not grasp at all. This was a slum, and these generous folks were poorly educated. Joselina took me to a Mãe de Santo – a fortune teller – and I had Senhor do Bonfim ribbons tied around my wrists (for blessings), guias – strings of tiny beads - around my neck and wrists (for luck), and a big bag of special leaves to carry back to New York for Loremil to rub on himself for health. On the second day, I caught a large ferry to Itaparica island for a picnic with all these relatives I could not understand. I was to meet their cousin, ‘the English teacher,’ who hung around me in the water saying a modified version of “Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday,” etc. and nothing else in English. After swimming and eating, everyone was excited to go over to someone’s yard to ‘take a shower.’ This consisted of a bucket emptied once over each of our heads, which did nothing about the sand in my bikini. I was just exhausted and in total culture shock. But my flight back to Rio was that evening and they had a neighbor with a taxi who would drive me to the airport. Except he was nowhere to be found, so I missed the first flight. When I emerged from a later flight that night in Rio, my friends Maria Candida and Omar had persevered and were waiting for me. What they beheld is still a source of laughter to this day: a zombie - sunburned, tied-up and beaded, staggering the way one would expect with all that sand still in her bikini – carrying a big bag of leaves.

But for all the shock of Massaranduba with its dirt floors, chickens in the house, and non-flushing toilet, Salvador as a city fulfilled a complete romantic notion for me of the incomparable Afro-Brazilian culture. And the samba invented there - well, Brazil’s signature throughout the world - is a whole reason to be.

Now I’m arriving iCITY VIEWn 2009 with my husband, my best friend from my whole life and her husband - Lenna and Jon, and we’ve talked them into Salvador after their friend had described it as ‘just another big city.’ Jon had just gone to Kenya to help build a school, so the African influence in Salvador would surely resonate. Eighty percent of the city’s population are African descendants. Please, god, let this place be magical like before.



Let’s start with it was not January. And follow with the fact that tourists start to arrivePellourinho street in November-December. The city was empty of both tourists and Carnaval season celebrants. The various ‘entrepreneurs’ that prey on tourists zeroed in on little us. We started out in Pelourinho – the old colonial district that has been restored. There was a crew competing to show us where to park, then the onslaught of vicious vendors wanting to ‘bless uribonss’ with three knots around the wrist of the Senhor do Bonfim ribbons for health, love and peace. One guy wanted more money than I was handing him for the ribbon, so I untied it and handed it back, receiving quite a non-blessing expletive in English. Large ‘Baianas’ in native dress practically forced us into photos with them. Jon generously handed them more than $10 in Brazilian reais, or in what he called “Monopoly money!”

BaianasWhite baiana dress

The caporeira platform at the famous market had a couple of sluggish, overweight guys drooping around in street clothes to the wrong instruments for caporeira. Apparently, if some interested tourist pays, they throw themselves around a little more.

Luckily, we did come upon these young caporeira students in a Pelourinho plaza. Watch the video:

One rather nice guide who seemed to exist to shepherd tourists around to various bars and restaurants proved to be informative and FREE. He guided us to some bars surrounding a stage with musicians playing bad samba – or was it just the ridiculous volume through bad, static-y speakers? We found a corner as far away as possible and had caipirinhas, but it was early by Brazilian standards and no one was dancing to this scratchy samba, other than the guide and me. We later came upon a female percussion group only at the end of their street performance. We had a lovely dinner of native dishes (Moqueca of shrimp, with coconut oil and coconut milk) at a beautiful, mostly empty courtyard restaurant. We had resisted being signed up for a special tourist Candoblé ceremony. I can only imagine the fake trembling and fake voices as the participants became fake-possessed by African deities. What I’m saying is that 26 years later, the air was not crackling with folkloric mysticism in Salvador in October. But then Lenna and I were together, and Salvador, while not at its best, was definitely not Pittsburgh.

Here is the famed São Francisco church in Pelourinho with its over-the-top gold Baroque interior:

Famed elevator The upper and lower levels of Salvador are connected by this famous elevator that has been in operation since the late 19th century.

The infrastructure of this city has improved in the interim decades and seems more sophisticated than in ‘83. Whereas the mosaic sidewalks of Rio reflect the ocean waves, here the avenues running along the sea meander in wave-like curves, capturing a certain rhythm. lenna & jon Our hotel was a lovely restored colonial structure, beautifully appointed, and something one would terra cotta

readily recommend…except for this ONE THING: on the hour the church across the street delivers a shocking version of the traditional bell tones and the number of knells for the hour by way of what sounded like a highly amplified, scratchy, static recording of bells. This is from 7:00am to 7:00pm only, thank heavens! But what the hell? We were violently ripped from our dreams at 7:00am, again at 8:00am, and made a goal out of leaving the hotel after our elaborate, leisurely breakfasts before 11 of those soul-rattling repetitions. What we discovered was that there were actual bells in the belfry, but with two speakers facing each of the four directions as well – the source of the static and volume. We brushed up on our Lon Chaney impersonations. What we didn’t know is that the church takes Monday off, so while Lenna, the early bird, girded her head with pillows and braced herself in anticipation of 7:00am, the assault did not materialize. Too bad she could not go back to sleep. Newton and I merely thought in our sleeping state that the morning was taking its time.

bubbles 2 The next day we crept in weekend traffic to one of the beaches north of the city. Salvador juts out between a huge bay (“bahia”)

Cheese griller

and the ocean, with 30 miles of beaches. We chose one known for young sophisticates rather than hordes of the populace to avoid robbers. The joy of watching people and venders, Lenna buying a black and white polka-dot bikini, drinking coconut water and beer, sampling this food and that …was tainted, after all, by the theft of Jon’s wallet. Actually his entire fanny pack was lifted, probably by a vendor out of Jon’s larger bag while Jon and Newton were dozing and Lenna and I were walking along the beach admiring some handsome, buff guys. Fortunately, Jon had left most of his ‘Monopoly money’ in the hotel and had only one credit card, but also lost his driver’s license and beautiful watch. We were all bummed even more than the unflappable Jon.


Sr. do Bonfim Bonfim interior

The other most famous church in Salvador is Igreja de Nosso Senhor do Bonfim. We drove the 5-mile route that an annual procession follows on the date in January for the Washing of the Church. This tradition is so combined with Candoblé that the Catholic Church actually locks the doors of the church, wishing as they do to avoid any connection with something untoward! The people wash the steps of the church with perfumed water, dancing and chanting in Yoruba, then break into a wild party that lasts ten days. The strange room displaying the wood or wax body parts that supplicants offer for healing at the church was closed the day we visited.Sugar Cane juice

Newton bought his beloved sugar cane juice outside the church:














We managed a cloudy but dramatic sunset off the Barra point, then strolled to the fort (the Portuguese had to fight off the Dutch in the 17th century) and lighthouse for more drama: the sudden darkness that descends around 5:45pm, when the city lights come on.
Barra sunset

fortby night

The particular restaurant crowds we enjoyed observing included a private party we crashed by accident which had educated, upper middle class black people – something one doesn’t see much of in other Brazilian cities; then at our final dinner at an elegant, delicious place, we noticed that the very engaged, animated wealthy of Salvador seemed so much more interesting and relaxed than their small-town Natal counterparts.

We worked in more beach time our last morning. The phenomenon of being on a beach in Bahia with my best friend since childhood was appropriately marked by a miraculous circular rainbow around the sun! I have a couple of shells beside me on the shelf that Lenna collected that morning. She was determined to try all the native Afro-Brazilian dishes made by the Baianas on the street, so ended her stay with Salvador ‘fast food:’ acarajé.

food baiana
Acaraje

These are black-eyed pea cakes, seasoned with ground dried shrimp and onions, shaped into balls and fried in palm oil – ‘dendê,’ with spicy shrimp and onion filling when the patron is on foot, or on the side in Lenna’s case in the simple restaurant next to the Baiana. The aroma of acarajé spices and dendê is the smell of Salvador!
my buddy
We took Lenna and Jon to the airport after lunch and waved good-by till the last second like the silly girls we’ve always loved being! Newton and I returned to a beach by the airport to await our later flight back to Natal, sipping caipirinhas and catching another sunset.

Caipirinha at sunset flamingo sunset









Love,
Sandy

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Lenna Dispatch

In 1962 Lenna Baranoff and I, eighth graders, were assigned as assistants to the Wilson Junior High School office during 4th hour of classes. We assume we were competent helpers to the white-haired ladies of the office, though what we remember most about those hours is the giggling. Lenna 9th grade Sandy in 9th grade We became best friends. We had a great photo of the Beatles inside our shared locker. Even though we went to different high schools, we both went to the same church and had overnights most weekends and stayed best friends. We loved “Dr. Zhivago,” and Lenna, being half-Russian, vowed back then to name her daughter “Larisa.” We both were sent to Girl’s State from our respective high schools. I was a mayor and Lenna was the governor! (She was then sent to the Senate Youth Program in Washington DC where she met Jon Kottke of New Mexico and LBJ.) We were both crowned one kind of queen or another at our high schools. I met Jon when he came to Lenna’s graduation and prom from New Mexico…handsome, smart, great personality – check, check, check…OK! Lenna and I and her brilliant Mother went to Europe by ship for seven weeks after our graduations. (I found odd-jobs to save money for a year that my parents matched, and Lenna’s Mother required only that fabled “$5 a day” from me plus transportation.) We liked to sing Beatle’s songs on trains and balconies, and first heard the very ‘weird’ Sgt. Peppers while trying on mod clothes in London. Lenna went off to Stanford with Jon (she was later a Phi Beta Kappa there – the smartest of the smartest); I went off to Northwestern.

In the interim years we gave each other the same presents, discovered we had the same books and albums on our shelves, and were each other’s bridesmaid. Lenna and Jon moved to Boulder, Colorado, where Jon went to law school; I continued to head eastward. We had our kids. I took my family to Boulder and our two 4-year-old girls stripped naked and peed in the bushes. (Lenna and Jon have a son, Chris, who is getting his Ph.D. in pure math at MIT and their daughter, Larisa, works for a non-profit in Boston for foster/adoptive families). Lenna’s mother gave her a copy of my father’s interpretation of the Psalms because her mother was one of my father’s writing mentors.

Lenna has run a non-profit in Boulder for 18 years – “Special Transit,” which provides transportation to Boulder’s older or more fragile citizens. She has doubled the size of the operation several times over while putting together an extraordinary staff. She gives unlikely employees a chance to prove themselves and succeed.

In 2006 Lenna and I shared a room in Tulsa at the first reunion of our Wilsonlenna b-day Junior High School class – 42 years after graduating 9th grade and going off to different high schools.CorcovadoEveryone had such a fantastic time together that a second reunion just took place this month. Lenna and I were unable to attend because she had decided that what she wanted to do for her 60th birthday was to celebrate our milestone together in Brazil! Her birthday was in late August, and on my very birthday in September, Lenna and Jon emerged from the baggage section at the Natal airport in huggable 3-D! They were fresh from Rio. It was the best birthday of my life, with roses, chocolates, live music on a boat, grilled salmon, champagne, and my favorite seriously chocolate torta with my best friend.

on Ponta Negra Camaroes dinner

We had leisurely breakfasts, Cotovelo and Ponta Negra beach time, good food, and a wild day in a dune buggy in the dunes north of the city. Here’s our driver Darto and his “Jesus” buggy: Darton and the Jesus buggy I opted out of the rides “with emotion,” not being a roller coaster devotee, and closed my eyes and held on for the “without emotion” part; but Lenna was thrilled with the plunges and elliptical climbs, as well as with the “aero-bunda” ride where a harness carried her down a cable into a lake.dunes

lenna aero bundabunda lake

Lenna dunes lenna, sandra  Newt-river

I took Lenna to see the largest cashew tree in the world in the next beach town. She noticed that ‘seniors’ over 60 only pay han's flanlf to get in, so we had our first opportunity to cash in on our age. The dismissive shrug I got when I asked if any I.D. was required either indicated that we were surely trustworthy or obviously feeble!

My darling husband surprised us with flan after dinner, which he made while the rest of us were on the beach. Lenna’s darling husband washed the dishes after every meal and knew the name of the knot he used to secure the beach umbrella – cool. He is the original ‘water off a duck’s back’ guy, so flexible and sane!

On our last night in Natal the four of us went to hear live chorinho music on an inter-city street corner. The self-appointed dancing crazy lady and the staggering drunk who thought he knew the musicians added flavor. A guest trombone player added a nice twist to the traditional chorinho guitar, mandolin and cavaquinho strings and flute.

It didn’t really matter how we spent our time…I was with Lenna! Yes, her intelligence is extraordinary, the cellulite sort of intelligence that spills over into kindness, courage, sensibility and humor (we still love to giggle!). She offers a standard I cannot attain because we are so different, but it is a standard I love to bump into, like a mooring for the wind-tossed…a charm that puts all at ease, a grace that baths everyone lucky enough to spend time in her presence. You don’t realize second-by-second that you are being bathed in grace; it just dawns on you later that you have experienced a stunning immersion.

After too many late dinners for a week, Lenna, Jon, Newton and I caught an 8:00am flight to Salvador, Bahia. I had ridiculed an acquaintance of theirs for telling them it was “just another big city,” so I was feeling some pressure that Salvador would live up to the mystical, samba-infused Afro-Brazilian phenomenon I had witnessed in 1983. See next dispatch…

Love,

Sandy

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