When I returned from Lencois, my sneakers were so dirty,
I decided to just leave them in the plastic bag I transported
them in. On a rainy morning, a few weeks after my return,
I decided to wear my sneakers instead of the customary flip-flops.
I pulled my sneakers out of the plastic bag only to discover
little patches of white mold had grown over them. When I showed
my host, he shook his head sadly. His eyes were saying, "you
should have known better." And I should have. During my first
trip I left a beaded bracelet underneath a shelf. The humidity
combined with the darkness below the shelf made the perfect
breeding ground for mold. My Caribbean friend told me to just
clean it, but the mold was growing on the leather lining of
the bracelet, the part that would touch my skin. I was itching
just contemplating putting that bracelet back on, so I gave
it away. Weeks later, my sandals molded. Sandals, being a
more expensive and practical item than a bracelet, are not
something to mindlessly throw out. I grabbed a wet paper towel,
wiped them down, and kept wearing them for the duration of
the trip. A few weeks into my current Brazil stay, I went to the AeroClube
with my hosts. It's a huge mall, most of it outdoor, obviously
styled after American consumption. There's a plethora of fast
food restaurants, clothing stores, a concert hall, a movie
theater, and a few jewelry and import stores. We were browsing
the fast food places, looking for somewhere to eat, when we
saw a Bahiana sitting behind her table with an array of acaraje,
abara and toppings. My hosts were surprised to find acaraje
at the mall. They said, years ago, acaraje was rejected as
candomble food. The establishment didn't accept it. Now, that
acaraje has proven itself, both in a culinary and an economic
fashion, it is being co-opted by folks who wouldn't be caught
dead eating or selling it in the past. Acaraje and abara are quick, cheap, portable foods sold all
over Salvador mostly by black women in full Bahiana dress.
Some women do it to complete tasks they are given in their
religious development on the candomble path. Some women do
it to earn a living. I'm not certain exactly what goes into
the acaraje/abara mix, I think it has something to do with
cornmeal. But they mix up batch with a large wooden spoon
in a metal bowl. The acaraje is fashioned into tiny little
football shaped patties and deep fried. The abara is made
with the same mix, but it's wrapped in banana leaves and boiled.
To serve, both of these things are cut open and filled with
a salad (made of cilantro, onions, and green tomatoes), piron
(piron is a thick puree that can be made of anything: cassava,
fish stew, etc. I think the base is farina. The piron that
goes on acaraje/abara is made with shrimp), caruru (I'm not
certain about the spelling, I'm doing this from memory. Caruru
is a thick okra dish) and pepper sauce if you want it. I think the acaraje is fried in dende oil. Dende is HUGE
in Bahia. It seems like they cook everything in it. The dende
is a type of palm oil and it lends a yellowish hue to the
food. The most popular dende dish is moqueca. Moqueca can
be made with seafood or shrimp, but it's traditionally made
with fish. The stew is also made with tomatoes and onions
and other wholesome elements. A big element of Salvador cuisine
is the accoutrements. There is often a tray offered with pepper,
a green-tomato onion salad, and farina. Farina is a ground
grain that people in Salvador sprinkle on their food, specifically
on saucy food. I've seen it sprinkled on beans and rice, spaghetti,
moqueca. People seem to enjoy the taste, but it seems to me,
it's a filler, it adds more bulk to the meal, helps you fill
up faster. Brazil is a big meat country. Another big Salvador dish is
feijoada. It is a beans dish with a plethora of pork and beef
cooked in. One day when I was sitting in the kitchen I watched
my host throw five types of meat into her beans-beef, pork,
fatty bacon, sausage, and something else. "Are you making
feijoada?" I asked. "No," she said, "these are regular beans."
Of course they cook the beans with meat, but I've never seen
anyone go to that extreme. Brazil's famous worldwide for their
churrasco-meat grilled on huge skewers. You can buy a cheap
plate of churrasco and you'll get three types of meat-beef,
pork, and chicken-with rice, salad, and farina to accompany.
There's a popular appetizer called arrumadinha, which is cut
up beef, sauteed and mixed with farina and some other things.
But because Salvador is coastal, non-meat eaters don't have
to fear-seafood plays a big part in the cuisine. I'm basically
a fish-eating vegetarian, but I won't die if I have to eat
chicken. As many times as I've found myself on flights unable
to eat, you would think I would make it a practice to call
ahead and order a vegetarian meal, but I always forget and
I'm sometimes scared of other people's interpretation of vegetarian
food. So I often go on a flight banking on that chicken option.
Not on a Brazilian airline. Meat pizza, meat omelettes and
meat fritattas. Would you like beef or pasta with pork? Is
that a choice? It was a hungry flight. But once you get to Brazil there is a stunning array of fresh
fruit and cheap food. Brazil has a number of fruit I've never
heard of: acerola, umbu, caja, mangaba, siriguela. They have
all the tropical fruits: jackfruit, soursop, pineapple, mangoes,
coconut, sugar apples, star fruit. In Salvador I saw my first
cashew fruit. I have since irritated all my friends by explaining
to them exactly what a cashew fruit looks like, and how a
cashew grows. The fruit is an orangey color, it almost looks
like a small bell pepper, it hangs from the tree with ONE
cashew nut crowning it. Each fruit has one nut. How crazy
is that? Fresh fruit juice is one of the pleasures of Salvador. All
over the city are shops where they will juice any fruit they
have in stock for you. They also make banana shakes, and fruit
mixes that sometimes include beets. In Salvador, they also
make a wide variety of sweets with fruit: cocadas-a grated
coconut sweet; fudge from peanuts, milk, or coconut; guava
sweets; caju sweets. On the huge ferry boat to Ilha Itaparica
in the morning, vendors circulate selling corn or tapioca
pudding-a hot breakfast meal; beiju-ground tapioca heated
into a crepe-like shape and thinness, rolled with plantain
or coconut inside; and coixinhas-tear shaped patties with
meat or chicken inside. I guess it's sort of like sitting
on the train in NYC and people come through selling candy,
toys, and batteries. But in Bahia, these vendors are selling
home cooked food. On the beach in Barra, the selection is even more dizzying.
You can buy pastels-patties with meat inside; banana real-a
long flat pasty with plantain in it; roasted cheese-vendors
walk around with tiny tins full of live coals and a tupperware
container of cheese blocks on a stick, they roast them when
you order; shrimp on a stick; fruit salad; sandwiches; beer;
soft drinks; peanuts; and popsicles. On the edges of the beach
are women selling acaraje, coconut vendors, and fried fish
vendors. In addition to food items, the beach vendors also
circulate selling bandanas, portable mini-radios, beach wraps,
dresses, and tanning lotion. There are always opportunities to buy juices, sodas, and
sweets. On our way to the market one day, we stopped at a
man's little streetside sweet stand. We bought coconuts, a
doughnut (called heaven) with homemade jelly inside, and a
banana real. As we hung out talking, the man asked us if we
were Americans or Americanized Brazilians. We said we were
American. "All four of you?" he asked. We were four African
Americans. He said we spoke well, but there was something
different about our Portuguese. There is an interesting phenomenon
of black people all over the world thinking that they are
the only black people in the world. It seems easy to accept
white people as foreigners, but somehow it's difficult to
integrate the idea of black people living somewhere speaking
another language, living a completely different life. It may
be a commentary on diasporan black people's universal sense
of isolation. I remember during my first trip out of the country,
I stared and stared at the black people I saw speaking Spanish
in the Dominican Republic. It was like my mind couldn't register
the reality. 'What are these black people doing speaking Spanish?'
I asked myself. And certainly, the whole time I was there,
they had difficulty identifying me as American. If I was speaking
English with my friends, they accused us of putting on airs
and acting American. I would say, but I am American and they
wouldn't believe me. A few times, they would even turn to
a white person (if I happened to be with one) and say, "really,
where is she from?" Similarly, when I arrived to Brazil, my
friend and I would speak English in front of Brazilians, and
one black man in particular sat there astounded. "You speak
it so fast," he said amazed. "Well, of course," I said, "it's
my language." But the amazement is reflexive. Just as amazed
as the Brazilian was to see us speaking English, black Americans
are to see Brazilians speaking Portuguese. "I never seen so
many black people speaking another language," said a Black
American on his first visit to Brazil. After assuring the man we were American, I added, "I hope
no Brazilian would be as clueless as we are." He said "no,
there are some Brazilians who go to the States and lose their
culture. Some want to mimic the U.S. thinking it's better,
but I think everyone has to be themselves. Everyone has something
to bring to the table." As we chatted on I crunched on my
banana real and ran into the same problem I always run into.
The banana real is a flat rectangular pastry, with the plantain,
it's the perfect blend of crunchy and soft, a wonderful marriage
of flavors. Without the plantain, it's just some dried up
bread. Since this vendor was so friendly I decided to take
up my issue with him. Why, I asked him, is the banana real
so wide, but there is only one strip of plantain in it, so
that one side is tasty and the other side is dry? "Economy,"
he said, "trying to save money, but I don't think that's right.
I'm going to talk to the woman who makes them." "Oh, no,"
I said, worried that I had gotten the woman in trouble, "she
isn't the only one. Every single banana real I've had has
been like this." "I don't care," the man said, "it isn't right.
The plantain is supposed to be from one tip to the other.
This is my barraca and I have to sell quality here. I'm going
to talk to her firmly about changing that." He was smiling,
using comic hand gestures. "But not in anger or anything,"
I said. "Oh, no," he said, "but very firmly, come back Monday,
you'll see, it'll be a better banana real." It was a hilarious
exchange. He was a funny man, extremely personable and he
obviously cared about his business. He promised me I had done
nothing wrong. He said, "How many people do you think come
to my barraca and they think like you, but they just never
said anything. They just never come back because my banana
reals are dry. It's not every day that four Americans come
to my barraca, you know. And if you're not satisfied, I'll
never have the pleasure of your company again." He really
made our trip to the market fun. The market itself was a special treat. The entrance to the
market looked like a grubby little side street. There were
fruit vendors set up on either side selling bananas, watermelons,
sugar apples, yellow melons, siriguela, umbu, and more. There
was a crab vendor sprawled out, leaning back on his baskets,
holding out one crab. As he drank, he periodically poured
alcohol onto the poor thing, as if its captivity wasn't enough
suffering. It waved its muddy legs helplessly while we wondered
if a crab could get drunk. Then we came upon the meat section. Meat vendors had cow
legs hanging on hooks. The liver and other internal organs
sat in neat stacks on the counter, the meat was stowed away
somewhere. For people who are accustomed to seeing their meat
cut, trimmed, shrink-wrapped, and tagged, it's a pretty shocking
sight. Further in the market was made up of about four narrow
walkways, each one full of vendors. Walking by, we saw a plethora
of vegetable, herb, and nut vendors. Huge stacks of dried
cashews and mounds of dried shrimp rested in large flat baskets.
Braided, coiled tobacco was displayed in huge rounds. Upon
first glance it looked like some animal's dried intestines.
There were religious shops mixed in with the food vendors,
these shops were laden with ceremonial swords and crowns,
statues, religious herbs and jewelry and other specialty items
needed for candomble worship. Everywhere we looked we saw
bunches of random leaves-herbs with medicinal properties that
you needed to know how to identify to buy. We bought lettuce,
greens, tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, green onions, and vegetables.
We were forever coming upon items we couldn't identify. There
was one vegetable that was a small, pale green sperm-shaped
item, except the head was huge and the tail was tiny. The
body of it was covered in spikes. When we asked the vendor
what it was, we didn't recognize the name. He explained how
to prepare it and cut one open for us. I was surprised to
find it full of seeds and when we smelled it, it smelled like
a cucumber! The market day was a special day. A venture not
into public Bahia, but into the most regular of daily rituals
that was filled with enough newness and fresh visual stimulation
to provide us with a feast for the eyes and the nose. Be well. Be love(d). Kiini Ibura Salaam
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