Some days you get the bear, some days it gets you… Field work
January, 2016 Maranhao (Sao Luis, Santa Inez, Pindaré)
Alert: The first section on my “photo series” is a bit grumpy and personal. The second section on the real purpose of this trip, and our research in general, is a bit more interesting.
My photo series on Brazilian (Maranhão) bus stops
On this set of trips, the bear got us.
Ever since our extended bus trips to Minas Gerais in 2008 to visit the home of the baroque artist Aleijardinho, we have often found ourselves on Brazilian buses. That is, European-built buses run by various Brazilian bus enterprises. The most comfortable are the MarcoPolo buses by Mercedes. The least comfortable are the modest, shorter-haul buses that sometimes reach the capital, but often do not because of leaky radiators and bald tires.
These are the buses you get when you arrive too late for the MarcoPolo. I know… I’ve tested this over and over.
Some of the Maranhão roads are unforgiving, in spite of the state signs bragging about “more asphalt for you.” The “you” seems to be the transit interchanges and roads in main arteries of the city. This often does not include neighborhoods where roads, water and security are already problematic.
The federal highway to the south from the capital (there is only one) is wide and fast, until you run out of decent road and bobble back and forth in the bus, avoiding potholes and other vehicles. Much of the time you skirt the Valé train from Carajás which carries up to 300 freight cars full of iron ore to be shipped out of São Luis harbor (Bay of San Marcos).
São Luis is basically an island, and there is only one highway in and out of the city to the south. The first major landmarks leaving the city are the major bus station, the airport, and then Pedreiras, the notorious state penitentiary.
Returning the same way you are again on the island of São Luis and welcomed by the sign that says Isla do Amor — “Island of Love.” It looked a bit seedy a few days before when you left, and now looks like home after a few days in the interior.
More inviting to some are the signs for “Motel,” which here means a high security, discreet drive-in hourly motel. These also have names like “Island of Love,” and one even has a billboard with two young people embracing, with the message “Why not now?” They are so walled-in and guarded that spouses can be there with different people and never see each other.
The city signs are interesting because they offer a Hallmark Cards view of urban improvement — cheerful signs that tout love, more asphalt, and a better life for all. Like the bumps and holes in the road, it is easier to put up a “Danger” sign than to fix the road.
The most recent billboard advertises 61 new school buses in rural areas. I don’t know if anyone has seen these buses, but the sign comes after a three-week campaign in the local newspaper about the miseries of public transportation — including that only half of the promised buses were purchased this year.
But we have seen the signs.
There is an election coming up.
The first time along this route to the interior I was enchanted by the bus stops with their barbeque (churrasco) stands, vendors of street food, and men who peel the tough Brazilian oranges for you. There are also peddlers, panhandlers, dogs, and station agents who occasionally interrupt their conversations with other station agents to sell tickets to passengers.
One day, standing at Itapecaru-Mirim station and bracing myself to brave the restroom, I thought that I should do a photo essay.
My progress was a bit mixed.
In thinking about a photo essay on bus stations, I was wrong about two things:
The first was thinking that I wouldn’t see Itapecaru-Mirim again.
The second was a vague assumption that I would have my cameras with me.
The second assumption evaporated on the last trip when we arrived near the station. I felt for the cameras and found that the bag under my legs was strangely light.
During the night when everyone slept, someone slipped into my bag and lifted all the gear. It seems premeditated because we later reconstructed that someone got on the bus outside the São Luis station (out of range of the security cameras and without having to show proper identification), and got off a hundred yards before our stop (slipping away in the dark while all the passengers were asleep).
I marveled at the skill of someone who could lift the equipment from beneath my legs and then disappear.
What followed was a mild version of what in the U.S. is often called “secondary victimization.” In cases of robbery and assault, and especially crimes against women and gays, the actual assault is often followed by abuse at the hands of unsympathetic authorities.
In this case — by no means as serious as any of those crimes against persons — we were left with hours of cops and depositions and fatigue and sadness at missing our research trip.
While we sat in this little bus stop community with inefficient and unhelpful bureaucrats, the thief was off having a camera sale. Perhaps the thief was also planning a photo essay on bus stations, in which case I forgive him. I hope he has a good career in photography — next time perhaps I’ll carry along some of the software he will need to process the photos.
The police were solicitous, admonishing us to be more careful next time. Brazilian police are helpful like that.
We stayed in the little community (Miranda do Norte) in a bus station pousada, after waiting for the manager to sweep dozens of black beetles out of the room. It seemed to be their mating season, but we insisted that they get their own room.
The next morning we visited a police station whose waiting room/main office had two chairs, no telephone, and not a trace of paper — not even a calendar.
There was, however, an officer who was busy sweeping black beetles out of the station. The police station made the mythical Mayberry of American television a generation ago seem, well, urbane.
The local police in Miranda do Norte were also solicitous, admonishing us that travel in risky at night and to be more careful next time. The police could save themselves the time of a visit if they would simply print this on a card and pass it out routinely. To amuse us while we waited, they eventually regaled us with stories of other thefts on this bus route, which we now understand is well-known for this pattern of thievery.
So, our conclusion was that we were marked by a thief in São Luis who boarded after us and waited for everyone to sleep. Then he got off at Miranda do Norte just before the bus station (again, out of range of security camera).
The police seemed to think this was clever too.
The bus management (it is the Guanabara line, for those of you planning a trip) denied they had ever heard of such a thing. “These things happen,” as if thefts on their line were inexplicable random events like rain … and I suppose black beetles in your room.
In spite of the bus company’s serenity about the loss, Simone has been having a dialogue with the management of the bus company. The dialogue is, in turns, solicitous and legalistic (their side), and full of moral outrage and suggestions for proper responsibility for clients (our side).
As in other crimes of secondary victimization, blaming the victim (e.g., dressed too provocatively, in the wrong place, etc.) is routine police and bus company behavior. Our loss was a bagatelle compared to serious assaults against persons, but it was reminiscent of what that feeling must be.
So … the bus station photo project has slowed down a bit. I am still charmed by the bus stop culture. There is a mixture of resignation and vague desperation in the passengers who know the bus will be late, and that “such things happen.” I think hey got the message from the police and bus company.
Readers of Samuel Becket’s Waiting for Godot will understand what this is like.
There is an Eastern wisdom that tells us the obstacle is the path, and that the journey is more important than the goal The Brazilian passengers seem to have an understanding of these vagaries of the universe and impermanence of the world and its objects (especially its transportation).
Hotels and pousadas
On this trip we spent our first night in a perfectly decent hotel — it had air conditioning and running water. The next two nights that was not the case – room temperatures were somewhere in the 80s when the night cooled off. The rooms had open ceilings so that the heat (and sound) could rise and circulate.
There were even a toilet and shower not so terribly far away, down a dark hall filled with cats and unfamiliar objects. Here, the goal was more important than the journey … when there was water. As it happened, the water was inexplicably absent for our first day there — a normal fact of life that again invoked a sense of stoicism and impermanence. It reminded me of visiting my grandfather’s farm in central Illinois during a drought. I hadn’t expected Pindaré to evoke childhood memories of the “interior” of the U.S. a long time ago.
This pousada was actually my favorite place, based on the theory that there is no reason to do field work if it is going to feel like you are staying in a Motel 6. This one didn’t — and, on the positive side, it is definitely not part of a look-alike chain of hotels. You could duplicate the decor, but would need some cats and a bucket to shower with.
The charm of the place was compounded by the fact that what was called “taxi” would be an unmarked car, often old with a cracked windshield. The system makes New York Gypsy cabs look positively organized and reliable. It turns out that the most reliable transportation, and safest in the rutty roads were the mototaxis — young men with small motorcycles who would drive you about. They were more courageous than the taxi drivers, who would sometimes balk at the neighborhoods or the roads we needed to travel.
I don’t have any photos of mototaxis because I was too busy holding on to the motorcycle, my hat, my camera gear, and my composure.
Crossing the river was a somewhat more leisurely affair, though it also required some faith, and a grip on the boat.
We didn’t often have to cross the river, but doing so was a matter of catching one of the drivers of flat-bottomed boats that scurry back and forth across the Mirim. They were more numerous and reliable than the taxis.
On the way back to São Luís we missed the “good” bus and had a choice of a not-so-good bus that drove through the night, or waiting another day. We remembered that the bear had recently gotten us (and our cameras) on our last night trip — and that we had to salvage our last bits of functioning camera/video gear – – we opted to stay at a hotel called the “Palace.”
It wasn’t a palace, actually, but it was a hundred feet from the good bus the next day.
“Good” here sometimes means the bus with decent tires and a functioning toilet in the back.
No photos here either, though the bus stop was indeed colorful. I suppose it is just as well – I suspect the bus company and the State of Maranhão won’t want to use my photos and stories for their tourist brochures.
But we got there and had a very productive and fulfilling research trip.
Below is a photo of images of Santa Inez (Saint Agnes), the patron saint of the city of the same name. We stayed in this now-familiar city because we wanted to visit a spiritual leader (mae de santo) in Santa Inez. As an extra bonus we found a ceramic workshop (olaria).
We wanted to meet and interview the leader of this house as part of our study of women leaders in Maranhão’s cultura popular. These images are from her spiritual house in Santa Inez.
The final destination of the field trip was a celebration of several days involving diverse groups in the Umbanda tradition. The photos below are from that celebration in a modest neighborhood of the city of Pindaré.
The instruments in this celebration were a variety of drums that were sometimes accompanied by other rhythmic percussion. Common is the hollow gourd that is held in a net with beads or shells that rattle against the gourd when shaken. It is shaken rhythmically with the drum beat. This is a familiar instrument from African traditions and widespread in Brazil.
Another interrelated practice in the interior is the promessa, which is most commonly a celebration in honor of some blessing received. Often dedicated to a saint, it is paid for by family and friends who put on a party where the public is welcome. It is a religious act turned into a block party and community event.
The drummers and dancer in the photos below below are fulfilling a promessa to honor a dead boieiro — a member of a Bumba-meu-boi group that is performing and attending in his memory.
Some Tambor da Crioula groups exist as independent dance groups, but many are associated with a particular Bumba-meu-boi group. In the days of rural patriarchy, only men participated in the boi. In previous generations women accompanied the groups in supporting roles, or stayed home to tend the work and the family while the men were celebrating.
The Tambor da Crioula was an alternative performance/celebration practice for women — one of he few available to them apart from religious celebrations. It is an important historical dance form, strongly evocative of African forms and now listed as a national cultural patrimony in Maranhão.
The role of women has been changing significantly. Women are now increasingly playing performing and leadership roles in the Bumba-meu-boi, although the Tambor da Crioula is still danced almost exclusively by women with men providing the percussion. The familiar three-drum accompaniment shown here is also that used in many Afro-Brazilian ritual events and spiritual practices. Musicians are often active in many of these diverse practices and celebrations, crossing the imaginary boundaries among various traditions.
The middle drummer of the three pictured here is also a master embroiderer of costumes for the Bumba-meu-boi. Like many people in the interior, he practices in various Catholic, Afro-Brazilian, and community traditions like this one. This experience leads many culture intellectuals in Maranhão to speak of a total cultural network, a life-filling web of practice and community.
The Real Point of the Trip
Why would we be doing this? We are not anthropologists of the old school who relish the excitement of research on remote peoples. We are a retired political scientist and a dancer/professor.
However, after some 8 or 9 years of visiting Maranhão, we find ourselves in the midst of what we think will be two books. We also have a huge number of videos and photo images that may find themselves into a a series of photo sets and edited videos.
The first of these still-imaginary books is on women in “popular” (traditional) culture in Maranhão.
The second was originally to be based on the Bumba-meu-boi festival as it is practiced in the capital. As we have learned more, but the idea has broadened to include connections of that celebration with other religious and cultural practices in Maranhão.
The Bumba-meu-boi in our research is in the center of a network practices and social relations that still exist in Maranhão. Much of this network has been changed in the capital city where the festival has been trimmed and monetized into performances for visitors ad tourists. Finding out more of the roots of the Bumba-meu-boi in popular culture has meant going back to the interior where the festival maintains much of its heritage of cultural density and richness.
That is why we keep going to the interior of Maranhão.
In this trip the key events were the several-day-long celebration of African-Brazilian practice. This includes elements of traditions such as Candomblé, Tereco, Tambor de Minas, and Umbanda. Many of these groups gathered in Pindaré and we were there to film and photograph them, to interview some of the leaders, and to better understand this intricate cultural matrix.
It has many elements of Catholicism, but is in fact an alternative symbolic universe of entities and practices that incorporate many diverse elements.
This event was at the conceptual the nexus of our two (still) imaginary books. Women are powerful in these religious practices which are often matriarchal in their organization. Many of the practitioners are also involved in the Bumba-meu-boi and other cultural traditions in the interior. In our years of contact with the celebration, we began to feel that the Bumba-meu-boi in the capital city is sometimes dissociated from this web. We went to the interior to see more of the heritage of related practices.
One of our most important interviews was with the mae de santos (mother of saints) who is spiritual head of an Umbanda house. She is a leading religious figure in the area. In her biography, she traversed a youth in an evangelical church, but was ejected for having visions (the wrong ones). She drifted toward alternative practices and eventually founded her own house of syncretic/hybrid practices. She personifies the importance of women and the interconnected web of heritage culture.
We were privileged over and over to experience the remarkable charisma, spiritual authority, and community commitment of women such as this.
She was a dominant figure in the spiritual celebration in Pindare, but shared the authority and guidance with others (including her own mae pequena – “little mother” — who is the second in command of her spiritual house. A sign that the little mother was still on the path was that she conducted liturgies and chants in Portuguese, rather than Yoruba, one of the African languages often used in Afro-Brazilian practice.
It often takes years in these traditions to achieve full initiation and the liturgy is very complex. They are far from the preconceptions and sensationalization of “voodoo” as it is know in New Orleans. Actually, as we understand it, New Orleans voudou is related to the same African matrix of spiritual practice, but it arrived in the U.S. with Haitian immigrant in the 19th century. It took a complicated path to the southern U.S., migrating and evolving from Africa to Haiti. The practices in Brazil were carried by slaves from various parts of Africa, though some early African slaves were brought from the Azores where slavery had an earlier history. In different parts of the New World, Africa-based practices maintained elements of continuity the their African matrix, but also evolved differently in the new culture.
One of the challenges to our understanding is that each of these practices has its own combination of symbols and forms for worship and celebration. The practices and entities do not decode directly into more familiar Western (or Eastern) religions. There are similarities, but these religions are not based on a set of written rules, nor on a normative priesthood and catechism, nor on tradition of normative texts. They are transmitted through apprenticeship and practice, through dance and songs, and through oral transmission. This gives them continuity as well as flexibility (see for example, Yvonne Daniel in her book on Candomblé, Dancing Wisdom).
In Maranhão there are strong traditions, but no “orthodoxy” that is easily codified. In fact, researchers in Afro-Brazilian practice have often reported their research analysis provided a useful codification for practitioners – the anthropologists became active participants in codifying their practice.
So, our purpose in going deeper into the Afro-Brazilian practices is to understand the broader cultural matrix of religion and celebration in Maranhão. Viewing the celebrations of the Bumba-meu-boi in the city of São Luis gives a disconnected view of the celebration, showing only the cleansed and marketed version for visitors and urban celebrants. The deeper cultural matrix is in popular Catholicism, Afro-Brazilian spiritual practice, and a variety of celebrations that formed the culture heritage of the interior.