My latest discovery in the hand-washing clothes saga is,
despite Salvador's heat, anything I want to dry properly must
be hung directly in the sunshine. During my second go round
with clothes washing, I hung all my clothing at one time.
Since line space was limited, I hung half my clothes in the
sun, and the rest on the lines under the shelter of the roof,
but all of the clothes were in the open air. All the clothing
in the sun dried fine, as well as the sheets in the shade.
But the rest of my clothing-those items that were hanging
in the shade of the shelter-had the sour smell of clothing
left in the water too long. The small things I hung in my
room downstairs (for lack of clothesline space) smelled even
worse. My host says it's a fungus. Due to Salvador's ridiculous
level of humidity, everything (except things of lighter material
such as linens) must be hung in the sun. I decided to wear
the sour clothes and just put up with the smell. I hope the
fungus doesn't cause a skin rash or something. There is a black woman photographer here who is a Fulbright
fellow. Her funding is toward a photo-documentation of women
involved in candomble rituals. A couple of nights ago, she
was headed to an Oxum ceremony and invited me and a few friends
along. The terriero (place of Candomble worship) was in Engenho
Velho da Federa -- about 40 minutes away from Santo Antonio
where I live. The neighborhood was noticeably black, different
from my more mixed neighborhood. On the streets, people were
hanging out, talking, enjoying the weather. I don't remember
the name of the terriero that hosted the Oxum ceremony, but
it seemed to be pretty small compared to Opo Funja, the only
terriero I had previously been to. A brief note: "candomble" has been taken as the name of the
religion, but from what I understand, the world "candomble"
actually refers to the ceremony. I have no idea what candomble
practitioners themselves call the religion. When we arrived, the candomble was already in process. The
men were sitting on one side of the room, the women were on
the other. The place was so packed, that it was standing room
only. In the middle of the room were three thrones back to
back. The Oxum initiates were in full traditional Bahiana
costume-white pants below huge white hoop skirts, African
print or batik wrapped around their torsos and the tops of
the skirts, and beautifully crafted eyelet or lace short sleeved
tops. The predominant color was yellow for Oxum, but I also
saw a few blue-green combinations which I did see used in
reference to Oxum once or twice before. Against the far wall
in one corner was the bateria-the drum section. The bateria
was made up of all men, beating on drums with either long
flexible sticks or their hands. I noticed one drummer stopping
for a moment and opening and closing his fingers. I assume
to keep up the pace of the drumming you have to keep a tight
grip on the sticks, and keeping a tight grip on the sticks
probably causes quite a bit of hand cramping. There were various
children scattered around. Some in the audience, some dressed
hanging on the fringes of the spiritual circle. One sitting
up front with the older leaders. I noticed this boy in particular,
as he sang along. A few songs went by as I watched him, and
soon, the drummer who had stopped to flex and stretch his
fingers passed his sticks on to the little boy and the little
boy took over the drumming. In this community, it seems, the
children grow up learning important roles to the ceremonies
and therefore to the religion. On the other side of the far wall sat a few rows of older
women who had already been initiated into Oxum. They wore
Western style yellow dresses, sang along with the music, and
looked with interest as the ceremony progressed. In the front
row sat an older couple who I assume were the mai and pai
de santo-the man and woman of the most seniority, who run
the terriero. Against the remaining three walls were three
rows of simple wooden benches for interested folks to sit
and watch. We all faced the center where the beautifully dressed
initiates were being led around the circle by a woman with
a rainbow colored wrap over her baiana dress. She held a ceremonial
gold bell similar to the one Oxum holds in the many paintings
and sculptures the artists of the city dedicate to her. The
point of the ceremony, it seems, is to commune with a specific
Oxum. Not long after we arrived, two of the initiates were
visited by Oxum. As the women's bodies jerked and yellow-dressed
women came from their seats to stand close and follow them
to make sure they didn't hurt themselves while in trance,
the other initiates cheered and sat down on one side of the
circle. The women who were being ridden by the Oxum began to dance
around the circle. Their movements weren't grand or frenetic,
there were slow, measured, paced. Orixa dance is made up of
very specific motions celebrating each deity. Though they
all participated in the dance, none of the initiates seemed
to be consumed by the dance. Their movements were small, and
you needed to know which motions belong to which dance to
know which orixa was being celebrated at any given time. As
the women made their way around the circle, the people in
the audience-those who participated in or had a respect for
the religion, would lower their heads and hold up their hands,
palms outward, when the women neared them. I interpreted it
as either a show of respect or a gesture of protection as
the orixa passes. Some of the people, specifically men, even
knelt on one knee as they lowered them heads to avoid looking
directly at the women Oxum had possessed (for lack of a better
word). From time to time, the orixa or the initiate (however you
want to look at it) stops in front of someone to hug them.
Just as the way Brazilians greet each other is a kiss on each
cheek, the candomble hug is double sided-they might hug right
cheek to right cheek, then switch to the left side. Often
(well twice that night) the spirit is transferred from the
possessed to the person she hugs. After dancing to a few songs
one of the initiates who had the spirit opened her arms to
the woman with the gold bell who had been previously leading
them around. After they hugged her body jerked and she stumbled.
One of the watchers came near to help her, soon it was clear
that the spirit had entered her body. All of the initiates
gasped. Some of them even covered their mouths with their
hands in surprised delight. I didn't understand what was so
shocking about this woman in particular receiving Oxum. She
seemed to be older and have a leadership position, so I don't
know if it was more powerful that Oxum was riding her, or
if it was just totally unexpected that she receive Oxum at
this type of ceremony. After the woman with the bell got the spirit, the other two
women-who were initiates, and didn't seem to be as high up
as she was-left the room. The watchers retied the woman with
the bell's clothes and removed her head gear. She danced the
next few songs along, with her watchers shadowing her. Sometimes
she charged at the bateria and didn't look as if she would
stop. The watchers would touch her back gently and she would
stop as if reminded of her surroundings. In between dances,
she would stop in front of the bateria. When she stopped dancing,
they stopped drumming. In the pause she would rock back and
forth, and her watcher would cradle her head to make sure
it didn't fall back too far. After someone called out a new
song, the woman with the bell would start dancing again. Certain dances really excited the initiates. Specifically
when the woman threw her arms up and spun in a circle, the
initiates cheered. After dancing a few more songs-the majority
of the candomble ceremony seems to be dancing-the woman with
the bell began greeting all the initiates with hugs. They
genuflected, then climbed to their knees to hug her on one
side, then the other. As they rested their cheek on her shoulder
or chest, she rubbed the crown of their heads. After she had
hugged each initiate, people from the audience came up to
her, touching the hem of her skirt, then hugging her. On the
men's side of the room, I could see that Joshua-a friend of
ours who is a member of a Cuban Yoruba religion-had gotten
to his knees in preparation to salute her. He too got his
hug. Finally after everyone had been hugged, the woman disappeared
behind the yellow curtains into another room. When she returned,
she was dressed all in white. The celebrant's costumes are
changed according to the stage of possession or the number
of saidas (entrances). I learned this by flipping through
an artbook featuring the work of Caryb�. Before his death,
Caryb� a Brazil-based sculptor, painter, drawer, and print
maker-completed an extensive series of drawings of every element
of candomble cermonies. One of his series of drawings shows
the first saida, the second saida, and the third saida of
people during a ceremony. Only by the third saida is the person
fully dressed as the orixa-or "the saint." Based on his drawings,
Caryb� also completed a stunning series of hand-carved wood
panels of each orixa which is on permanent display at the
Afro-Bahian museum at the Terriero de Jesus. The artistry
is superb. He plays with the surfaces by carving out some
parts and building other parts up. He embeds other objects
(shells, beads, nails, metal) when necessary. The depictions
are ripe with symbolism and grace. The museum also features
African art, photos of African hairstyles and textiles and
costumes from Yoruba orixa worship. Before we left the terriero people were given handfuls of
rice. I asked what it was for. The woman next to me said to
throw on the woman with the bell when she comes out dressed
as the saint. We left before that happened. On our way out
I asked Joshua if he felt anything when he greeted the saint.
In response, he let out a huge emotional outburst. Viewing
the ceremony from the lens of his tradition-Palo Monte-he
was completely disappointed. In comparison to a Cuban ceremony,
he thought the dances were muddled, the drums were weak, and
the orixa were indistinguishable. He was appalled that there
was an audience and that people clapped and he was concerned
that an official person didn't seem to be running the order
of the songs. I think they lost the African connection, he
said in a dejected voice. Later, after he had vented, he apologized
for how he came off. He said he was wrong to be making such
judgements about something he didn't know anything about.
I told him I understood completely. I didn't get a sense that
he was trying to be mean or disrespectful He was just shocked
at the difference between what he's come to view as a ceremony
and what he saw at the candomble. The difference was obvious to me too. In Joshua's words,
a Cuban ceremony is about fire. As Joshua describes it, the
orishas at a Cuban ceremony interact with anyone in the room,
not just the initiates. There's no separation between audience
and celebrant. The ceremony is more open and vibrant, so that
even random visitors are a part of the ceremony. Everyone's
involved. The next day, he want to visit a mai de santo at
another ceremony and he backed even further away from his
previous judgements. He still was confused about the way the
candomble was run, but he no longer questioned candomble's
connection to the African roots. He could feel the woman's
realness and accepted his feeling of disconnectedness as a
consequence of his own outsiderness. He was very apologetic
about his reaction and continues to be quite respectful of
candomble, but I feel blessed to have been there during his
outburst. I told him later that his reaction added a whole
new element to the ceremony for me. It was good for me to
hear about the differences between a Cuban ceremony and a
Brazilian ceremony. We talked about the possibility of the
ceremony we saw as being something strictly for the public,
and there being other private ceremonies which may be more
similar to what he was accustomed to. He said he thought there
was definitely something else going on under the surface and
he'd definitely like to get to a closed ceremony and experience
more of what the religions have to offer. I suggested that
if Cuban Yoruba traditions are fire, then perhaps Candomble
is water, trance vs. explosion. If the Cuban traditions are
open, maybe Brazilian candomble has more hidden pockets, making
it completely different to watch a ceremony than to participate
in one. I told him about my experiences taking orixa dance
classes and promised him that those traditions weren't lost.
In classes the motions are explosive, vibrant, and very clear
but it seems to me that the participants in a candomble don't
bother to "perform" the dances. He listened to my ideas and
said he was working on reminding himself that the Brazilian
worship evolved from different traditions. Perhaps because Joshua had just shown us his film Cuba Amor
(which funnily enough deals with sexual tourism and religious
worship in Cuba), I was sensitive to other forms of orixa
worship. As I watched one of the women bow and tremble her
shoulders in a specific salutation, I thought about how differently
people from different cultures represent the orixas. We, as
humans bring so much to worship, such that even the style
with which one receives an orixa can be a cultural trait.
This difference extends to how individual humans receive artistic
inspiration, philosophy, spiritual visions, ideas for social
change-all of these things are filtered through our realities
and our identities and are impacted too by the culture and
language of the individual. Joshua speculated that perhaps the synchronism of the pre-candomble
African religion into Catholocism was more complete in Brazil
than in Cuba. Africans all over the world pretended to take
on the master's religion while worshiping their own by replacing
their saints (on the surface) with Catholic saints. In Brazil,
the synchronism was definitely profound. The other day, while
climbing the hill into Pelourinho, my host saw a friend of
his at a church. He called him over and asked him what was
going on. The friend explained that an important member of
their candomble terriero had died. They did a seven day ceremony
and on the seventh day they had a mass for him in the church.
I've seen photos of priests at a particular candomble street
festival. It seems the two religions are still extremely intertwined
in present-day Salvador. During this trip, I saw the Brazilian
film Pagador de Promesas (the payer of promises) that dealt
with how candomble is rejected by the church. They stopped
short of making it a race clash by having the main character
and his wife be white [theories abound on how mainstream filmmakers
make stories about people of color palatable (or profitable)
by having a white main character, otherwise known as the Great
White Hope]. But it dealt with a man who had dragged a wooden
cross a long distance to deliver to St. Teresa's church as
payment for a promise. At a candomble he promised Iansa (Oya
in Santeria) he would complete a huge promise if she saved
his mule. The priest of St Teresa's church welcomed him until
he realized the man made the promise to Iansa, not to St.
Teresa. The issue resulted in a citywide class as the media
escalated the issue and the candomble people and capoeiristas
got involved. The film won an award in Cannes and is an interesting
look at the clash of African and white Catholic culture in
Brazil even if it was irritating to see the black people be
used as colorful film elements rather than actual characters. Joshua's reaction to the candomble also reminded me of how
different the expressions of the African diaspora are. I remember
a Kikuya woman in an African dance class I had taken during
college. I believe she was from Kenya. Someone in class commented
that the dance moves should come naturally to her. She smiled
and shook her head. "We don't jump around like that," she
said. "Our dances are much more calm." She revealed her traditional
dance to be a quiet type of foot shuffling, rather than wide
armed leaping that we Americans have come to accept as African
dance. The majority of the African dance we see in the U.S.
is West African and so has particular stylistics. As an East
African, her traditional moves differed from the West African
styles. I was reminded of continental differences again when an Ugandan
dance troupe performed as part of Chuck Davis's Dance Africa
last summer in Brooklyn. They also, did not do much leaping,
they did a lot of marching and more cheerleader-ish arm motions,
but their buts, hips and legs twisted in acrobatic gyrations.
It was so refreshing and mind-blowing, I had never seen anything
like that before. I think it's beautiful that the diaspora
is just as varied as the continent is. Each of Africa's expressions
can be potent in its own right. At the Opo Funj� ceremony, years ago, the ceremony was similar,
but on a grander scale. There was one woman who I would never
forget. It was a ceremony to pass initiates of Xango onto
the next level. Before the ceremony began I saw this big dark-skinned
black woman with a beautiful face with features like an African
mask. She had this energy about her that kept drawing my eyes
to her. When the ceremony began, I was surprised to find her
as one of the initiates graduating to the next level. Somehow,
all the initiates got the spirit together. I remember asking
myself how they worked that out. Even surrounded by ten or
twelve entranced folk, this woman stood out. Where the others
seemed to be doing the motions of Xango's dance, she seemed
to be Xango. Between dances, she would walk around the circle
with huge loose-limbed strides, almost like she was walking
on stilts. Her grunts of possession were loud and male. Her
already formidable presence was multiplied quadruple fold.
She continued to be a dynamic force for the entire night.
When we left the terriero after the ceremony, I was surprised
to find all the initiates still in trance wandering around
the terriero with their watches following after. I felt sorry
for the watcher of the woman I had been drawn to. She was
huffing and puffing her way around the yard in a powerful
manner. It seemed there was nothing her watcher could do if
she decided to hurt herself or somebody else while entranced...
that's how powerful she seemed. Before the Candomble, we had run into a pagode party on a
tiny side street of Santo Antonio. The party looked very different
from the tourist offerings in Pelourinho. It was obviously
a Brazilian party. One look inside, revealed it to be a down-home,
wine-down type of party. Regular people grooving with good
vibes. We passed back after the candomble, but the party had
closed down, perhaps because it was a Sunday night. The next
day, after everyone had headed off to the beach, I went over
some English lessons with my host, then headed over to the
Solar do Unh�o where the Bahian Museum of Modern Art is located.
It had been three or four years since I had last been and
I couldn't remember what bus would let me off closest. I ended
up making the same mistake I made years ago. I got on a bus
in Cidade Baixa thinking it would drive straight up the coast,
instead it turned inland and I ended up having to pass up
the Solar do Unh�o before I could get off the bus. As usual, the mistake turned out to be a blessing. It was
a beautiful day, and as I walked to the coast I heard music
and voices. Over the edge of the rotorno-the road on the edge
of the coast-is a steep drop to the ocean. On this land is
a favela. In Salvador, favelas are built on steep stretches
of land no one wants to purchase because it's difficult to
build on it. People build a collection of randomly placed
homes, accessed by steep stairways. This particular favela
would seem to be hot property because it's right on the water.
The sun was shining, I could see brown bodies in the water
and in canoes, there was a bar on the favela side of the road
packed with people celebrating the beauty of the day. I was
caught up in a feeling of rapture and thankfulness. On this
day it was clear that the water and the sun was seen as a
blessing and was being celebrated as such. I made it down to the Solar and was again taken by the beauty.
This time of the museum compound. The museum is housed in
four separate buildings joined by a cobblestoned courtyard.
The area is surrounded by trees. Behind the museum compound
is a pier with tables and a restaurant. As I sat on the pier
having a watermelon juice, I noticed the middle class folks
coming through for a drink. On the other side of the museum
is a park with a small waterfall, and further beyond is a
tiny beach. Interesting how the museum neighbors the favela.
And a boatload of folks from the favela took the luxury of
rowing over from their property to the tiny beach to lounge.
Among the museum's cobblestones, I found the abandoned yellow
wing of a grounded butterfly. As I walked back to the bus
from the museum, I kept seeing wings all over the ground.
It made sense because the air that day was full of butterflies.
I see them all over Bahia, at the beach, during carnival,
while I'm standing on the balcony. I guess when they pass
on, they leave behind the obvious evidence of their deserted
bodies. As the museum of modern art, the art was modern. A lot of
it conceptual, but some of it was straight ahead. It was great
to spend an hour or two delving into another mindset. Salvador
is a very artistic city, from the stone designs on the sidewalk
which change from neighborhood to neighborhood, to the plethora
of visual artists in the Pelourinho area. Besides the regimented
similarity of the tourist art, there is a wonderful range
of art found just strolling down the street. I found the place
so inspiring that I actually started painting here. My delving
into art was a mixture of a long-held desire to paint, experiencing
Caryb�'s woodcarvings, and an artist friend who one day gave
me an old canvas and a brush and said, "paint." Painting is
a means of survival, but is also another of Bahia's various
artistic expressions. Of course Candomble and Bahian culture
are popular references. Some of the most striking pieces I've
seen are Gil Albelha's portraits of women who are part of
the Irmanidade da Senhora da Boa Morte, a group of Candomble
practitioners who are over the age of 50. In their advanced
age, they've left behind their hoop skirts for black skirts
and red shawls. I've seen Griot's orixa paintings all the
way in Washington D.C. and Bida's stylized country scenes
are included in many European collections. Yet their struggles
are the struggles of artists everywhere: trying not to get
pimped by art hustlers, needing to sell one more painting
to pay the rent or keep the gallery open, trying to ignore
political exclusion from arts events. Then there are the factory
painters: painters-one family in particular I'm friendly with-who
turn out the tourist paintings to earn a living. Because there
are so many painters, the gallery and shop owners can buy
the paintings at a low price and sell them as high as they
want. There's always another artist willing to sell. If you
are able to tap directly into an international market, you
can do pretty well. A friend who started with a stall now
spends a few months traveling to the U.S. and Europe selling
his work, but if you don't have a place to sell out of or
your work isn't foreigner friendly, art is a hard road to
travel. But what else is new? Be well. Be love(d). Kiini Ibura Salaam =======FOR=========THE========RECORD========= I recently saw an engrossing documentary Incident at Oglala
telling the Leonard Peltier stories. Leonard Peltier is one
of those political prisoners that I also hear called out as
someone we should work to free, but I never knew his story.
This documentary breaks down exactly what happened to get
him arrested-a confused attempt by the FBI to catch a petty
thief on a violent, impoverished reservation that resulted
in the death of two FBI officers and one Native American-then
goes further to examine the exact environment that defined
life on the reservation and life for many Native Americans
during that time period. It uncovers the tensions between
traditional Native Americans and conservatives-most specifically
the current tribal chief Richard Wilson, an extreme conservative
who put together a goon squad to kill and maim traditionalists
who were not in line with his conservative rule. It revealed
the FBI's shameless tactics to convict anyone of the murder
of their two slain officers. And also captures both Leonard
and one of the freed convicted Native Americans stating that
though they know who actually killed the officers, it is against
their beliefs to call him out. The film was fascinating on
so many levels and reveals how often political prisoners and
death can result from situations that were not overtly intended
to be political. ALSO: I just received in the mail my author copy of Black
Silk: A Collection of African American Erotica edited by Retha
Powers. My contribution is called "The Sexiest Seconds." It
isn't high on sex, but I hope it's still an enthralling read
in the company of such hot stories. Other contibutors are:
Eric Jerome Dickey, Lolita Files, Kim McClarin, Breena Clarke,
Bil Wright, Jaccqueline Woodson, Carolyn Ferrell, Camika Spencer,
Janet McDonald, Bernice L. McFadden and many more (I don't
get called out on the backs of books yet... I'm part of the
"many more". Bebe Moore Campbell says "Provocative.... Carnal knowledge
was never written so well." "Lyrical, funky-fingered, poetic, tongues-untied stories."-Marita
Golden "Packed with sensual stories written with wit and verve...
a must-read for anyone who wants a sexy story with real and
endearing characters." ALSO: Liz Rab and Linda Addison read at the monthly New York
Review of Science Fiction reading. Our March 2002 New York Review of Science Fiction Reading
will be held on Monday, MARCH 11, at 7:30 pm featuring LIZ
RAB and LINDA ADDISON. WHO: Liz Rab will read for us "Bitter Aspects," a vicious
little sleigh ride of a story forthcoming from Wanganegresse
Press, and Linda Addison will be reading "some words of magic
and future stirrings, an offering of songs of the alien soul
on Earth (again)" from her new volume, *Consumed, Reduced
To Beautiful Grey Ashes* (Space and Time), recently included
in the 2001 Fantasy & Horror Year's Best Honorable Mention
list. Join us! WHERE: DIXON PLACE at the VINYARD DIRECTIONS: Take the N/R (Yellow) to 28th Street stop on
Broadway or 6 WHEN: Monday, Mar. 11, 2002. Doors open at 7:00 pm, Program
begins at 7:30 PHONE FOR INFO: 212-532-1546 OR VISIT: http://www.nyrsf.com/ ABOUT LIZ RAB: As a storyteller, Liz Rab is inspired by the trickster at
the border, the revenge tragedy's excess, the beloved suite
of characters in a never-ending adventure. As an earthgirl
she sees our present and past as diverse and is committed
to creating futures--in both fiction and reality--where that
diversity is fully represented. Liz Rab was born in Seattle
the 1999 Clarion West Writers Workshop where she took a seat--each
lotus step leaving a bloody print--among sixteen other emerging
writers to study with Kress, Butler, Waldrop, Bear, Van Gelder,
and (Gwyn) Jones. In a parallel universe, Rab wrote plays
and screenplays for twenty years and even produced and directed
short films and music videos. The filmmaker's work has been
broadcast in Europe, North America and Asia and shown at the
Sundance, Seattle and Los Angeles film festivals, among others.
She has twice been named a Sundance Screenwriters Laboratory
finalist for her feature scripts. Rab sometimes smiles and
waves at this other person in the universe next door. (The
woman is currently hard at work on a documentary about the
great Norwegian painter, Odd Nerdrum.) ABOUT LINDA ADDISON IN APRIL: Also, join us on April 8, when novelists BARBARA CHEPAITIS
and STEVE SAWICKI will read excerpts from their individual
and collaborative works, *Invisible Friends,* *A Lunatic Fear,*
and *The Finite Heart.* *The New York Review of Science Fiction is celebrating its
14th Year* Sheree R. Thomas, curator
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