The Flip Sides of Fear

I´ve come to a city with white cabs and black faces, red beans and tanned rice. The nights are the color of streetlights shining on smiling faces. Waiting and watching under a strong sun bleaches the days. The 35-cent coconuts grow in purchase from green to the paler shades of flesh and sweet water. The buildings look their age, with varying hues of paint peeling from buildings more proudly than the plain skin from much-handled onions. Beige-bricked shanties are too expensive for some, so rusted nails mix with sotted wood to form shacks. This was once a great city to colonial eyes, the capital of this rich colony. For the slaves who powered it, Salvador was a waypoint in hell. It now claims its riches from the spirit of those 70% of residents visibly descended from slavery. Slaves couldn´t copyright samba, forro, or capoeira, but they apparently bequeathed an inimitable soul to the city.

This spirit, this soul doesn´t win enough visitors to feed or house all the children or, for that matter, all the adults. So, too, wales the spirit of need. Kids beg, at first in the normal tone of a question, and, upon refusal, dramatically switch to the distended syllables of a plea. Hustlers at the same time kind and forceful push blessing bracelets and protective jewelry; buying one and loudly displaying it is the only protection from the other venders. Couples partner in the collection of cans thrown on the street. Hear the fall of the can on the street, locate, crush, bend over, pick up, place in bag. Just tonight, the poor husband was left to an angry and tired wife. She sat and pointed out cans for him to collect. Just when he´d finish a round and come back, she would point out one that he missed, just as a mother might note the spot in the bathtub missed in her son´s scrubbing. Trinkets are everywhere and are shaken at the passerby to garner attention. Many look, but few seem to buy. Rent-to-own stores whisper usurious but hopeful promises of newness. The usual bustle of grocery markets rings loudly in their absence. And, of course, there are the furtive gestures and loud, striking words of property crime--´´assalto,´´ ´´dineirho,´´ ´´camera.´´

It is this reputation for property crime that compelled my guidebook, my hostel manager, and several actual guides (who, spotting me from a mile away, offered all sorts of advice that they mistakenly hoped would not be free) to discourage gringos from taking the walk that I did this morning. I went to the Cidade Baixa (the low city) and walked about 5 miles to a famous church. I, of course, knew that the walk was discouraged, but a good walk leads itself, and I simply follow. After all, the worst that could happen was that someone would take the $15 in my pocket. If he (I´ve not heard of female muggers) were particularly sharp, they might grab the $10 from my right sock. It´s nothing personal, so I don´t much fear the emotion dimensions of robbery.

Whatever small risk in money was worth it. I ate a wonderful lunch in a spot that sees ´muito pouco´ (very few) gringos. I drank a coconut with the lovely family that sold it to me from the inside of a bare-walled building unfurnished but for the coconuts, the cooler, a few chairs, one table, and the blanket and makeshift child´s bed on the floor. The father Davy asked me whether it´s possible for Brazilians to make it and work legally in the U.S. His wife Alinni hacked the coconuts open for other customers. Their son, Matheus ran around with the curiousity of any 15 month-old. Their cousin RosaMary invited me to a particularly cool festival tomorrow (though I doubt I´ll go) and asserted, while asking her cousin to buy her another beer, that she was wonderful company.

After these nice people encounters, I had another 3 miles to go. I perceived, true or not, lots of stares, but nothing malicious. There were a couple points, though, when there were few people around and I felt a bit of fear. But, I made it safely to my church. Inside, the left wall was decorated with the picture titled ´´The Death of the Just´´ in which the dying man was surrounded by angels and loved ones. Opposite this was ´´The Death of the Sinner,´´ which prominently featured some horned creatures. And, at the head of the church, Jesus hung in all his pale glory, as white as I am. Turns out that on the far side of fear lies a white Jesus. For Christians, that may be poignant, but to my literal eyes, it was funny. The scene stripped any doubt about the emergence of black syncretic religions.

Later on that night, after a safe return to the confines of the tourist world, I went to the fourth night of the week-plus long festival of Sao Joao (St. John) of Bahia. The festival is a huge street party enveloping the whole of the downtown area with live music (four or five different stages), street food of all types, plenty of alcohol, families, young people, and the aged. It is a good time for all. People dance, preferably together, but alone as well. Whatever strange ignorance allows me to wander through dangerous parts of cities doesn´t translate into the ability to easily ask strangers to dance. I´d like to think part of it is just timidity because I don´t know these particular dances, but it´s really deeper than that. I have to will myself to the question in a way that I rarely have to do for other things. So, after much waiting and strategically targeting girls (making sure they´re not with a boyfriend, etc.), I ask. The first girl isn´t from the area and doesn´t know. A half hour passes and I get a drink. In line, I met some women from the area. One spent a couple minutes teaching me the basics and then encouraged me to ´´train´´ on the other girls nearby. I didn´t. I did manage to fall in with a group of older women and learn the basics of another step. But, mostly, I stood and watched, enjoying as best as I could a complacent gaze into the looming face of a silly but firm fear.