ERIC BALDAUF PHOTOGRAPHY

Salvador Da Bahia

It's sunset. I'm sitting in my favorite spot on the Praca De Se overlooking the Baia de Todos Os Santos. From here I have a view of lower Salvador, the docks, the bay, and beyond to the Isle of Itaparica. To my right, on the tip of the peninsula, I see Monte Serrat, and on the hill above it, the Igreja de Bonfim, the most important church in Bahia. At the northern end of the city are the beautiful beaches of Pituba, Piata and Armacao.

To my left, fifty metres away, are the trams that convey the Bahians back and forth between the upper and lower town. Passengers stream in and out of the carriages in an unhurried jumble. They're a gorgeous mix of blacks, whites and mulattos. They walk with a nonchalant grace as if they haven't a care in the world. Perhaps they're all bewitched like me, enchanted by this city with two names, Salvador and Bahia, captivated by its Brazilian-African charm.

I swivel around on my concrete perch and look out on the plaza. Groups of casually dressed men play dominoes and sip cafezinos. Ragged children run around, kicking footballs and splashing through puddles. Young couples stroll hand in hand. My eyes turn to a woman who has been sleeping on the pavement. She gets up and wanders in little circles mumbling to herself, then sinks back down, not on the empty bench nearby, but on the curb next to it, as if the bench is too good for her. She has on a filthy sleeveless dress with a faded flower pattern that must have been pretty at one time. She sits, curled over like a discarded ball, with dirty bare feet. She seems strong like rubber-dried and split perhaps, but unshatterable. I wonder what path has led her here? Where was she when her dress was bright and new? Did she own jewelry and make-up to go along with it? How many men has she loved? How many children have called her mama?

I twist back around to the sea. The sun is well below the horizon now. Just a hint of violet remains on the wispy dragon tails I imagine in the clouds. Venus has just appeared from her slumber, beckoning the night-time madness, setting my blood a boil.

It all started a week ago, the night before Carnival. I was sitting alone in the same spot, watching the boats come in to dock. She came and sat down to my left, distractedly flicking the remains of her cigarette over the balcony. I watched it explode in fireworks down to the Cidade Baixa far below.

She had taken off her shoes. She wore a clear nail polish and I observed the city lights reflecting on her toenails. I admired the shape of her narrow, high-arched feet. She wore a golden bracelet around her ankle, a peasant skirt that went down to mid-calf, and a pink sleeveless blouse that high-lighted her graceful, well-toned arms. Her eyes were dark, her complexion a deep honey colour. Her light brown hair fell in long wavy curls.

"Ciao," I said softly. She misunderstood. I said it again louder. She still didn't seem to understand. She smiled anyway and asked in a surprisingly deep throaty voice, "Esta do Argentina?"
"Nao," I replied, Eu sao Americano."
"From the United States?" she asked with a thick accent. I nodded my head yes.

I then managed to answer all the usual travel questions which I'd mastered with the help of my pocket-sized Portuguese phrasebook: What's your name? What do you do? How old are you?….Then the conversation degenerated into a mixture of Portuguese, Spanish and Pidgin English, lots of hand gestures, and shy giggling. The flirtation went remarkably well considering we had no common language. When we had exhausted ourselves chatting, Rita graciously offered to give me a tour of the town. It was a hot, humid night as we strolled down the Praca da Se into the heart of the old town, past the Catedral of Bahia dating back to the 1650's, to the Pelourinho District and the site of the old slave market. The dilapidated buildings had a haunting, eerie quality. The narrow, deserted streets felt claustrophobic and ghostly. I told her how I felt and she replied, "In Bahia it's not the evil spirits you need fear-it's the thieves, the drunkards and the scorned lovers.

To cool off, we stopped off at the Cantina Do Lua for a round of Antartica beer. We stood at the bar and tried to converse over the "hock and holl" of Gilberto Gil blaring from the stereo.
"Are you married," Rita yelled?
"No," I replied. "You?"
"I was-for fifteen years. I have one child."
I shook my head. "I can't hear you," I yelled. "I thought you said fifteen years. That's impossible-you're much too young,"
She wagged her finger at me. "Anything's possible in Brazil. I got married when I was five. I have a son in Sao Paulo. He's seven.
"Really!" I didn't know whether to believe her or not, but when I saw her smile I knew it didn't matter.
"I got divorced two years ago. I'm never going to remarry. I want to be free," and for emphasis she gave me a full kiss on the lips and then flashed me her beautiful smile again. It all seemed so super-real under the glare of the Cantina's florescent lights.
"Let's order some cachaca to celebrate," she shouted enthusiastically The barman soon put two generous shots down on the counter in front of us.
"To your new life," I yelled.
To Carnival!" she yelled back.

Back outside, light-headed and light-hearted, we headed back up the steep, cobble-stone streets towards the plaza. As we approached, we heard the beat of African drums and the wail of electric guitars. Rita gave a squeal of delight and excitedly explained that it must be a bloco, a local street party. The music was unmistakably Brazilian, a mixture of samba, merengue and bossa nova with a strong African back beat.

We followed our ears through the colonial neighbourhood. We rounded a corner and up on a balcony, packed fuller than a third-class bus, we saw a throng of hypnotized dancers gyrating madly. Rita grabbed my arm and pulled me through the crowd, up to the patio. We looked on in awe. Up on a small stage, the drummers and percussionists were pounding out a deafening rhythm. The long-haired guitarists were bouncing up and down like maniacs. The bare-chested vocalist was shouting at the top of his lungs into a microphone. A beautiful, dark-skinned woman, naked except for a sash, flung herself around next to him like a dervish. The packed crowd was going wild, jumping in unison to the pounding beat. It was Ecstasy without drugs, a single monster with a thousand bobbing heads-a maddening frenzy of arms, legs and half-naked torsos.

We joined in the insanity along with everyone else. The jostling was exciting and stifling at the same time. The music never stopped, but continued to increase if possible, to a more and more feverish tempo as the night wore on. Finally, before we both dropped, Rita and I tore ourselves away and staggered down the steps onto the street where we collapsed next to a taxi parked against the curb. With her head on my shoulder and her hands in my lap, we sat in a contented trance, watching the dancers, the hookers, the macho men (and the not so macho men), the exhibitionists and the other happy couples dragging themselves exhaustedly away.
"This is wild," I kept repeating.
"This is nothing, "Rita replied. "Wait until tomorrow. Wait until Carnival!"
It was after three by the time we picked ourselves up and headed back to the Praca De Se. It had turned into a lover's enclave, full of couples intimately embraced.
"We have nowhere else to go," Rita explained. "We all live at home with our families until we get married. And none of us can afford a hotel."
"Is that why you all get married at five?" I teased.
Rita just smiled and then we kissed. I thought her lips were the loveliest thing in all Brazil. When I asked Rita to come back to my hotel she politely refused.
"Not tonight…tomorrow," she whispered.
I walked her to the doorway of the apartment where she was staying.
"Tudo bem?" she asked.
"Tudo bem!" I replied. We kissed again.
"Where will we meet tomorrow?" I asked.
"Look for the trio-electrico called Papagayo. If you can find them, then I'll find you."
Then Rita gave me one last squeeze and a kiss and she was gone.

When I got back to my room at the hotel the door was open. All my things were scattered across the room. My travelers cheques, passport and camera, which had been hidden under the bed, were gone. I spent the rest of the night and most of the morning at the police station filling out forms, realizing just how woeful my Portuguese was, wondering about Rita. Little did I know it was just the beginning of a series of events that would ultimately see me arrested by the Brazilian Army and deported from the country.

But it was Carnival time and nothing could be done for the next few days. I had no choice but to go with the flow. The following four nights were like a surreal dream-a mixture of music, lust, pageantry and violence. I remember being chased down the Rua Chile by an enormous Uncle Sam effigy, dancing at 4am with a dozen glittering drag queens at the Praca Castro Alves, and going to the Afro bloco-afoxes of the O Filhos de Gandhi, where dancers in trances seemed to wriggle and writhe in mid-air.

But most of all, I remember Rita. We had met again the next night beneath the trio-electrico, Papagayo, a lively Carnival band playing from the top of a decorated float as it transversed the city. I had been dancing along with the crowd, looking for Rita everywhere, when suddenly I got lassoed by a pair of pink and white pom-poms. They waved over my eyes and danced in my hair. Then I saw her magic smile. Rita grabbed hold of me and didn't let go.

We went wild. She was dressed in a thin, sequined thong and bright billowing fuscia feathers. She danced like a woman possessed. The band's speakers blasted in our ears. The crowd thickened and seemed to be getting wilder all the time. The truck rumbled down the road and finally met with another trio electrico coming from the opposite direction. It was like getting sucked into a human whirlpool. In the ensueing chaos and crush of humanity, Rita and I clung to each othe in a desperate and sensuous embrace. Up above the music reached a thundering crescendo. It stopped. She howled! I howled!
"Bahiaaaaaaaa!!!" the singer shouted from up on the float.
"Bahiaaaaaaaaaaa!!!" the crowd shouted in response.
"Bahiaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!" I shouted again, and squeezed Rita tightly against my breast.