Ile
Aiye and Tourist-Native Relationships in Salvador
KIS.list:
FEBRUARY Week 20
Bahia, Brazil 2002
Specific
installments of the KIS.list are being included in both
online and print publications. I don't include it in the
below list, because it is not a reflection of the submission
process. So far, the KIS.list is being posted on two websites,
one list-serv, and just yesterday I was asked for permission
to reprint the carnival post in a new African publication.
The scope and reach of the internet continues to present
fresh opportunities.
No acceptances or rejections this week.
|
KIINI'S
ACCEPTANCE/REJECTION O'METER: August 2001 - present
Acceptances: publications: 4, grants/fellowships:
0, residencies/workshops: 0
Rejections: publications: 5, grants/fellowships: 0,
residencies/workshops: 0
KIINI'S ACCEPTANCE/REJECTION O'METER: August 2001
- present
|
I'm
not a person who "keeps house," but here, as in many warm
places, the necessities for cleaning are multiplied. With
so many openings to the homes -- balconies, wall openings
for ventilation, windows without screens -- dirt easily
comes in and settles on the floor. Floors need to be swept
almost daily. With the presence of insects, foremost among
them, ants, you can't afford to leave trash for too long
or leave dishes sitting too long after a meal. Sugar, cookies,
crackers, bread, any food item has to be stored in airtight
containers or the ants will find a way in. And of course,
most people on this side of Salvador (the richer areas are
another story) don't have washing machines and so, have
to wash their clothes by hand. This is something you learn
to do by trail and error.
Hand-washing
your clothes can be an hours long affair: washing, scrubbing,
rinsing three times, and finally hanging the clothes on
the line. Before you even wash your clothes, they have to
soak. I soaked all my whites together and all my colors
together, but when I went to wash them, I noticed two pairs
of underwear -- one red and one green -- had leaked dye
all over my yellow Ile Aiye tank top. It's ruined. I was
upset, but felt lucky that that was the only piece of clothing
I had messed up in my ignorance. Then I hung my clothes.
When they were dry, I pulled my white skirt down to discover
dark marks on the skirt. I was upset all over again, but
I couldn't figure out the mystery of the stain. I sat on
my bed, looking at the stain, mumbling to myself, I know
this stain wasn't here when I washed the clothes, where
did it come from? It must have happened while the skirt
was hanging on the line. Then I realized, I hung my white
skirt right next to my dark blue tennis shoes. The freshly
washed tennis shoes must have slid down the line and come
in contact with my wet white skirt. Boom, a stain is born.
Needless to say, I'm not in a rush to wash my clothes again.
The
tennis shoe thing was especially irritating because after
washing them, I wore them in the dirty streets of Salvador
during Carnaval and then used them daily during a trip to
Len�ois, a city seven hours away from the coast of Salvador
(five hours if you're driving directly in your own car).
Len�ois is a tiny cobblestoned city with two squares and
a few streets, but it is close to a large number of rivers,
lakes, and waterfalls. A few hours away is Fumaza, the largest
cachoiera (waterfall) in Brazil. In Len�ois, you take tours
up mountains, through forests, and on boats down rivers
to commune with nature. After two days there, nature was
all over my sneakers, the ones I sacrificed my white skirt
to clean. What a waste.
Len�ois
was beautiful, but we had to work to see the beauty. Besides
paying for the tours, you pay with your sweat and blisters
by climbing and climbing and climbing. The first day, we
went to a waterfall that's near the top of a mountain. The
first third of the trip was pleasant, I translated everything
the guide said for my friends, we chatted away about the
environment, expressed appreciation for certain sections
of the climb. Then suddenly we fell silent. Before we knew
it, we had begun climbing over boulders that were our height,
stepping down to shorter rocks over chasms, taking off our
shoes to wade through water while ducking under a large
overhanging rock. We climbed for hours, our guide walking
confidently ahead, refusing to baby us.
I found
it absolutely unbelievable that we'd climb for almost two
hours to get to a waterfall. We laughed about it of course.
Through our fear, through our tiredness, through our exhaustion,
through our irritation, we laughed. When we finally got
there, the guide led us up a steep climb until we were standing
on a ledge miles above the waterfall. We could see people
below, relaxing in their bathing suits, talking, swimming,
snacking. "What are we doing up here?" I asked the guide.
"For the view and to take photographs," he said. Fuck the
photographs I grumbled to myself, get me to the water.
We
swam in the river, climbed the rocks behind the waterfall,
let the roaring water whip past our faces until we couldn't
see. We sat on the edge of the waterfall and enjoyed our
own private rainbows created by the sunlight's dance with
the falling water. While we were at the waterfall, word
came to us that a tourist couple had been robbed on the
hills on the way up to the waterfall. There are a few groups
or couples who decide to navigate the climb themselves.
Watching them, it was clear to see the confusion and distress
on some of their faces. The mountain path isn't clearly
marked, so there were a few moments where they had to figure
out which rocks would lead them out. The old man who told
us about the muggings, said the tourists were without a
guide. That would never happen with a local guide, he said,
because everyone knows each other and they would certainly
be recognized and, I think, probably fussed at for stepping
on someone else's hustle.
The
next day, our bodies were aching. As our second guide took
us walking through a stream to get to a hydromassage waterfall,
I told him I'm not an eco-tourist. I fully support it, but
I'm just not the one. I began to look at even the smallest
rocks with skepticism. My muscles just didn't want to work
anymore. But the walking through the stream prepared us
for the after-lunch adventure, when we had to walk barefoot
through muddy waters to get to the boats that would take
us down a swamp river. We laughed a lot and came home one
day early with mosquito and spider bites all over our bodies.
Two days in Len�ois were enough for me. Most people stay
for a week, but those are athletic folks who come on their
vacation to physically challenge themselves. We had great
meals every night. It's funny that such a tiny mountain
town draws so many international visitors. It's like the
residents can have the best of both worlds. They can live
their quiet country lives and, through the constant stream
of tourists, have contact with the bustle that exists beyond
the boundaries of their city. The standard of living seemed
healthier in that tiny little city. The street animals were
cleaner, the people looked healthier and more content. It's
funny how cities have anything, but somehow, they often
don't provide you with the basics you need to live a simple
healthy life.
Back
in Salvador, we decided to stroll by the Fort of Santo Antonio
one day on a whim. When we neared the square where the fort
sits, we realized a few people in capoeira outfits were
entering the square. When I first came to Salvador in 1997,
the Fort of Santo Antonio was where Ile Aiye held weekly
rehearsals, Jao Pequenho (an energetic and charismatic 85
year old capoeira mestre) had his Capoeira Angola School
and there were a few other community organizations housed
there. I thought the Fort had been deserted, but apparently
I was wrong.
When
we entered the fort, I got a shiver in my belly. My cousin
asked if I thought slaves were housed here. I said I didn't
know, but I told her I was feeling something. There's some
ill energy housed in those old stones. There's an art gallery
in Salvador that contains a small room where slaves were
held. It's freaky to be back there, it's dark and smells
like piss, and it's where the owner stores his African art.
Back in the fort, we heard the sound of various berimbaus
(the stick and gourd instrument that accompanies capoeira)
and percussive instruments (drums, cowbells, and handheld
wooden instruments) and knew immediately that a capoeira
roda was in full swing. There were four benches set up for
spectators and signs everywhere that said "no filming allowed."
We took our place amongst the mixed spectators (some capoeiristas
from other schools, some interested Brazilians, some Brazilian
tourists, some foreign tourists) and watched the games.
It was like visitor's day at church (and it was indeed,
a Sunday). There were at least five, if not more, different
schools represented. And a few mestres came along as well
to play or to accompany the playing with music and/or song.
It
was wonderful to step into the fullness of the roda -- full
of people, music, and song -- and feel the energy of the
room. The capoeira Angola roda is, of course, different
from the Regional (another style of capoeira) roda. I won't
pretend to be an expert on the styles, but my friend, who
plays both, but is trained in Regional told me once he was
longing to go to an angola roda because of the fullness
of the music. It's like being surrounded by sound. The rodas
you see on the streets of Salvador are almost exclusively
regional. Regional is a flashier style -- they use more
leaps, kicks, and explosive flips. Angola is closer to the
ground and the players are closer to each other. To me,
it's like chess played with the body. You don't actually
strike your opponent, but you like to get your foot right
next to their nose or softly brushing against their ankle
to let them know, you could have kicked them in the face
or knocked them off balance if you wanted to. Angola, especially,
can be confusing to watch when you don't understand the
game. It's all about strategy. Sometimes I have to lean
over and ask a more knowledgeable person, "who's winning?"
"She is," they might say, "she's playing smarter." While
another player may have wider kicks and high jumps, the
winner of an Angola game has the most possible strikes and
when they're all twisted up on the floor, it can be hard
for the untrained eye to discern who's getting what in.
The
regional street rodas are definitely more involved with
tourism. Whereas foreigners who have studied capoeira angola
in their own countries might seek out a particular Angola
school to train with while they are in the city, any foreigner
can happen upon a regional street roda and stop to check
it out. Some groups are more aggressive than others. One
is so famously aggressive that it was written up in the
Lonely Planet. If you're walking by Mercado Modelo (the
group has since moved to Pelourinho), the guide book says,
don't stop to watch the capoeira roda unless you're prepared
to pay. These particular capoeiristas -- large, muscular
men -- are in the habit of intimidating people into giving
them money. Despite the fact that they're outside playing
capoeira in the open air, they believe you should pay them
if you become part of their audience. I have a friend who
used to play with them, he was an impish player who often
played with a huge smile on his face in stark contrast to
the grunting, angry-faced men who were his group members.
He used the few reis (Brazilian monetary unit) he got from
playing to eat a large lunch. He spoke a little English
and rather than intimidate people into paying, he charmed
them. He'd say "Hello, my name is ______. I work all day
in the hot sun (while he's saying this, he said he wipes
sweat from his body and flicks it on the tourists), I hope
you will offer me a collaboration," and he hands them a
hat or whatever container they're accepting money in.
This
same friend shocked me by revealing that the rodas are where
foreign women -- Australian, German, Italian, and I suppose,
American -- go to pick up Brazilian men. When he was 14
foreign women began propositioning him. He was young, horny
and hungry. Older women were offering him money and sex,
he thought it was the best deal he ever could have gotten.
He said one woman came to a roda and sat nearby having a
beer. When it was over, she called him over to her. She
put down three piles of money -- "this is for the beer,"
she said, "this is for clothes for you, and this is for
the hotel later." "You went with her?" I asked. "Hell yeah,"
he said. He's had menage a trois with foreign women and
has all kinds of stories from his own and his friend's experiences.
After sex was no longer a novelty to him, he stopped having
such direct money-sex relationships and began dating foreign
women. When I met him, he had recently seen a news special
on sexual tourism. As he told me about it, I said, "oh,
like you." "Me?" he said, "I'm not a prostitute." "But women
paid you to sleep with them," I said. He had never seen
it that way. He thought he was the one getting the deal.
A horny teenage boy, getting paid for something he desperately
wants. I suppose prostitution, in and of itself, can be
a simple relationship that does not have to be fraught with
negativity. The problems come in when the prostitute is
doing it out of necessity, not out of curiosity or personal
interest.
Most
of the tourists who come to Salvador can be broken down
into two groups: the cultural tourists and the sexual tourists.
The cultural tourists come to study capoeira, percussion,
dance, or some other Bahian cultural expression, the sexual
tourists come to have sex. The last time I was here, a white
man came to stay in this house (not that white men are the
only sexual tourists. A friend who traveled up to Rio told
of all the black American men down there taking advantage
of Brazil's poverty-driven prostitution). He kept bringing
prostitutes in to spend the night despite the fact that
the owners of the house told him they didn't want that to
happen. Eventually, while he was taking a shower, one of
the prostitutes came into my room and stole a favorite dress
of mine and some money. That didn't upset me so much (although
I missed the dress dearly), the hustle is about survival
and I'm sure it's routine for her to see what else she can
pick up when she does a job. But days later, she came back
claiming that she lived in my room, saying she needed to
check to see if she left anything behind. That's when I
got angry. Weeks later this man found a regular Brazilian
woman and they planned to get married. At their engagement
party, he was bragging about how when she came home from
work, she would iron his clothes and insist on cooking his
meals. She wouldn't even let him do the dishes, he said,
despite the fact that he didn't work at all. The party was
full of these type of couples white men -- both American
and European -- with their Brazilian (and sometimes Angolan)
wives and/or girlfriends. It was a very weird scene.
The
type of tourist-native relationship I'm more familiar with
are the friendships/relationships based on mutual interest,
but the environment of sexual tourism can inject paranoia
into even the healthiest of these types of relationships.
I have friends who've had different levels of relationships.
One woman fell in love with a man who lived in a hippie
village. She went home to take care of some business and
came back to find he had been completely celibate during
the months of her absence, not because she asked him to,
but because he wasn't interested in anyone else. She was
ovulating upon her return. They decided to have a child.
Their baby was born in Brazil and for a few months they
lived in a favela so they could move away from the hippie
village, yet be close to the sea. She taught English, he
took care of the baby. Now they live in Oregon or California,
a happy family
Another
friend extended a school-related stay to be with her Brazilian
boyfriend. She had run out of money and was afraid to ask
her parents for more. So she was sleeping on the floor of
his thrift shop at night, bathing in a very disgusting public
bathroom, and eating at his mom's house for months, until
she finally went home. Their relationship survived a lot,
but it ended when -- despite the fact that her wealthy father
wrote a letter stating he would be financially responsible
for her boyfriend -- he was not granted a visa to go to
the U.S. They still talk on the phone, and every time I
come back he seems to be with women who look like her.
I didn't
understand why women would proposition boys 14 and 15 years
old until I heard stories of women who tried to befriend
men, and the men pressured them into relationships they
weren't interested in. I thought every foreign woman-Brazilian
man couple I saw was out of a mutual exchange of romance
and financial support. She buys the groceries, he provides
the love. Brazilian men (at least the ones in this tourist
area) seem to be eternally ready to fall in love. Rather
than bitterly trying to avoid it, like so many of the men
I know at home, they seem to be ready to dive headfirst.
This can be quite a dizzying experience, add it to the magic
of the city, and you get a relationship of astounding emotional
proportions. Though there won't be any money exchanged,
it's understood that the foreigner will pay for meals and
drinks. That's the most basic exchange of personal resources
between a Brazilian and foreigner. It's one that can be
based on mutual respect and mutual fun. Yet somehow, some
women (I guess women without much backbone) find themselves
with men they're not so interested in, yet the man pressures
her to buy him drinks or groceries or purchase his art.
This type of pressure happens because the male-female dynamic
is still in place. Just like how a group of female strippers
are completely at the service of the men at a bachelor party,
yet a male stripper can come into a woman's bachelorette
party and dominate the space. He's still a man in a world
where men dominate women. But if a woman chooses to buy
a boy, rather than a man, she remains in control. This is
the conclusion I came to when I was on a beach in Jamaica
and I watched a skinny boy oiling the back of this white
woman. "What does she want with a boy?" I wondered aloud.
Then I thought about the character of Jamaican men, and
I immediately understood. The man would take your money
and then act like it was his from the get go.
A brief
word about Ile Aiye: Ile Aiye was founded in 1974 to bring
the presence of black people to the Bahian carnival. Before
1974, the afoxe group Filhos de Ghandy had been guaranteeing
a presence for black men in Bahia's carnival since 1949.
The exclusively male group wears all white with accents
of blue. With the name Ghandy, they intend to be a peaceful,
but powerful presence. When they spill out into the streets
it's like a huge white river flowing down the avenue. The
men attempt to break up fights (some say they start a few
by jumping in before they know what's happening) and they
carry perfume to spray beautiful women with (they spend
a lot of carnival flirting). Since I've been coming to Brazil,
Gilberto Gil has been a part of the group. Their music,
like all the music of the afoxe groups, is clearly African
-- based on percussion and remembered rhythms.
Since
Ile Aiye's founding they've fought to celebrate the beauty
of black Bahia. Based in Liberdade (one of the working poor
neighborhoods in Salvador), Ile Aiye starts off their carnival
season by parading through Liberdade before joining other
blocos in the more central areas of carnival. Today, Ile
Aiye is also a huge cultural organization committed to the
development of black Bahians. They run a school, offer professional
courses, run the band, as well as many other social projects.
Their presence -- and the presence of other afoxe groups
since inspired by Ile -- makes a huge difference in what
the Salvador carnival looks like.
The
costumes are always regal, the lyrics to the music (as well
as the music of all the afoxe bands) are more invested in
social and cultural realities, advancement and equality
for the poor, and the celebration of blackness. Most of
the young people interested in afoxe music show up for Ile
Aiye's Liberdade parade, but they actually costume with
other afoxe bands. Ile Aiye is peopled with older mature
folks, late 20s and up. They use creativity to add a few
beads here, an eyelet or lace edge there, to augment the
beauty of the costumes. All the women have high head wraps,
the men have kufis and everyone's costumes billows about
them in an expanse of African print. One proud member said
that they no longer compete at carnival for best band status
because they won so often in the past (I don't know if that's
true or not).
My
favorite memory of being with Ile Aiye was one day a few
years ago when I was participating in the band. The predominant
color of the costumes that year was red. We rolled up to
a corner, and came face to face with a pagode truck. There
were bleached blond women on top of the truck, shaking their
exposed bellies, butts, and legs with fury and abandon.
As we got closer, the pagode truck's sound system drowned
out our music. Eventually the drummers of Ile Aiye stopped
playing. The woman on top of the Ile Aiye truck -- dark
skinned, fully robed, head wrapped -- spoke into her microphone.
"Oh swingy (that's what they call the bands), oh swingy,
deixa o mais belos dos belos passar." ["Oh swingy, let the
most beautiful of the beautifuls pass."] (Ile Aiye was dubbed
"o mais belos dos belos" by a local singer Daniela Mercury
in one of many songs singing the praises of the band.) The
other band, turned off their sound system, the women stopped
gyrating and stood quietly, like disciplined children in
the presence of elders, and waited for us to pass by. Ile
Aiye's drums rose again and we danced past, tracing stiff-armed
shapes in the air in the style of Bahia's African dance.
Be
well. Be love(d).
Kiini
Ibura Salaam
=======FOR=========THE========RECORD=========
Belgium
Apologizes For Killing African Leader Lumumba
>|||<>|||///\\\///\\\|||O|||///\\\///\\\|||<>|||
H|Y|P|E Information Service
Your "Talking Drum"
www.afrikan.net/hype
[email protected]
404.767.1275
USA
Belgium
apologizes for killing African leader Lumumba
NEW YORK, USA, Feb. 11 (GIN) -- Forty three years after
independence leader Patrice Lumumba was killed for his efforts
to free the central African nation of the Congo, the European
nation of Belgium has issued an apology for their role in
his murder. For his pro-democracy efforts, the charismatic,
bespectacled Lumumba was shot by firing squad soon after
independence. "Saying sorry doesn't help. We are looking
to ask for some kind of reparations ... not only for the
family of Lumumba but also for the Congolese people," Reuters
quoted the Congolese Information Minister Kikaya Bin Karubi
as saying. "Democracy was killed with Patrice Lumumba and,
as a result, we have suffered decades of misery in this
country," he declared.
A Belgian
parliamentary commission concluded last November that Belgium
was "morally" responsible for Lumumba's death, saying the
government and Belgium's late King Baudouin knew of plans
to kill Lumumba, but did nothing to thwart them. "We would
also ask everyone else who was involved to do a similar
investigation," said Karubi. "I'm referring to the United
Nations, the United States and Russia because this country
was the theatre of the Cold War and that's what led to the
assassination of our prime minister."
Lumumba,
widely regarded in Congo as a nationalist hero, was one
of the key players in the fight against Belgium's 75-year
occupation of the country. In 1960, Belgium's King Baudouin,
in a highly-paternalistic speech, announced it would grant
independence to their former colony. Lumumba gave a powerful
speech in response: "We have known sarcasm and insults,
endured blows morning, noon and night because we were 'niggers,'"
Lumumba declared in an unapproved speech which drew thunderous
applause from the Africans and silence from the Belgians.
Lumumba was quickly branded a dangerous radical by the Belgians
and by the Americans who, it was later shown, also plotted
to kill him. His fight for independence and socialist leanings
alienated Western powers during the height of the Cold War.
The
Republic of the Congo--as the country was then called--gained
its independence from Belgium on June 30, 1960. Only five
days later, the armed forces mutinied. The UN, which sent
troops to the country to maintain order, condemned Belgium's
actions during the ensuing disorder and its support for
the secession of Katanga Province. Lumumba was imprisoned
in December and, early in 1961, taken to Katanga by his
rivals and killed.
In
his political testament, penned shortly before his murder,
Lumumba wrote: "One day, history will have its say, but
it will not be the history they teach at the UN, in Washington,
Paris or Brussels but the history they teach in countries
freed from colonialism and its puppets. Africa will write
its own history and it will be one of glory and dignity."
Lumumba's
own son does not seem to take as independent a stand as
his own father. The Associated Press quoted Francois Lumumba
as saying: "Forty-one years after the murder, Belgium has
taken its responsibility in light of what occurred. We are
ready to turn the page." But Belgium itself will take a
more activist role, setting up a Patrice Lumumba Foundation
to fund conflict prevention projects in a country still
riven by war.-- (c)2002 Global Information Network, www.globalinfo.org
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ART
IS AVAILABLE
Description: B&W; mug shot of Patrice Lumumba
Size: 7k, postage stamp size
Apx. download time with 28.8 modem: 3 seconds
How delivered: as an attachment to a separate email
TO RECEIVE: Copy only the line next below, put that line
in your subject line
lumumbaB01
ALSO:
Writers wanted for Black Person's Guides
I'm
publishing a series of Black person's guides: the first
two titles, which will be out in October, are More Justice,
More Peace: The Black Person's Guide to the American Legal
System (by a Detroit lawyer, Nedra Campbell) and The Colors
of Love: The Black Person's Guide to Interracial Relationships
(by Kimberly Hohman, who writes for about.com). I'd like
to continue the series with, perhaps, Black person's guides
to employment in the white world, to getting and maintaining
credit, to surviving a mostly white college, to breaking
into Hollywood, etc.
Do
you know any writers who might like to write a book like
these? They're written in a hip, fresh style with lots of
concrete examples, helpful advice, and valuable resources.
I really need to sign up two more books in the series in
the next few months. Pass the word!
Thanks,
and best,
Yuval
Taylor
[email protected]
ALSO:
Minority Writers Wanted
The
Academy for Alternative Journalism is looking for journalism
students ( college seniors and up ) for an eight week paid
summer residential program at Northwestern Universities'
Medill school of Journalism Chicago on Magazine style feature
writing. Participants will be paid $3000.00 plus housing
& travel allowances.
Check
this website for more info...... http://medill.northwestern.edu/aaj
or write for an application to ...
Academy
for Alternative Journalism C/O Lesa Lee
Medill School of journalism, Northwestern University
105 W. Adams Street , Suite 200
Chicago, IL 60603
