Oh, in Northeastern Brazil, the State of Bahia Is a Place
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In northeastern Brazil, the state of BAHIA is a place of colonial architecture, remote beaches and spicy seafood stew. David Hochman brings his appetite for all of the above. Photographs by Maura McEvoy BOhA, HIA A local street ven- dor in the doorway of Jardim das Delí- cias, in Salvador. Opposite: A pastel- splashed backdrop of colonial architec- ture in Salvador’s UNESCO-preserved Pelourinho district. 1 TOWN & COUNTRY statue of Jesus that watches over Salvador, Brazil, isn’t quite as im- pressive as the one overlooking Rio de Janeiro. Compared with the co- lossus atop Corcovado, this one, on a bald outcropping on the Atlantic waterfront, is practically human in its proportions and easy to miss. But one feature stands out. t“Notice theh hands,” our guide,e Mauro Marchesini, says with a crooked grin as we He is right on all counts. Ceramic Portu- round a corner on Avenida Oceânica. There before us is the seven-foot-tall Christ in guese tiles ornament the walls inside and white marble, surrounded by tourists aiming cell-phone cameras. “One hand points out. Pilgrims of all ages file into the stifling south,” Mauro says. “The other, to the ground. The message is: if you want to work, go Sala dos Milagres, the Miracle Room, south to Rio or São Paulo. But if you want to experience life, if you want to dance and where casts of body parts, in wax, plastic celebrate and forget the rest of the world, stay right here in Bahia.” and even gold, dangle from the ceiling as As if we needed confirmation from on high. For days my wife, Ruth, and I have been thanksgiving offerings for cures. There are in Bahia, one of Brazil’s largest states (the size of France), splitting time between the children everywhere, with vacant eyes and laid-back splendor of far-off beaches and Salvador, the pulsating and frequently unho- gnarled limbs, some begging for coins. ly capital city of 2.5 million. The extremes we’ve encountered—tropical isolation ver- Others are animatedly hawking Candom- sus urban spectacle, chic retreats versus crumbling colonial treasures, posh high-rises blé prayer beads or fitas, colorful ribbons versus unthinkable poverty—speak to the complexities here. It is little wonder that tied around the wrist for good luck. writers like the late Jorge Amado, author of Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands, and mu- The luck, it turns out, is ours: we emerge sicians from Gilberto Gil to Caetano Veloso have found endless inspiration in Bahia’s to discover young musicians in Olodum confounding dualities. Even God has to divide his attention. Drum Troupe T-shirts performing in the As we say goodbye to Jesus, Mauro taps twice on the dash- church square. Paul Simon famously incorporated Olodum’s mys- board of our black sedan; our driver, Marcos, whisks us through tical drum beats on his 1990 album, The Rhythm of the Saints. Now Salvador’s Lower City, passing hordes of locals as we go. Almost the group, like many around the city, uses its clout to help young everyone is black and dressed in white. people like these find a way out of poverty through apprentice- “Is today a holiday?” Ruth asks. ships, education programs and simply making music in the streets. “Every day is a holiday in Candomblé,” Mauro says. It’s all enough to leave us feeling charged up and hungry for more. Although Brazil is the world’s largest Roman Catholic na- “Will it be moqueca again?” Mauro asks. This is his way of tion, Candomblé is the primary faith in Bahia. The religion, teasing me. Since our first night in Bahia, I have been singularly which fuses Catholic rites with elaborate animistic ceremonies obsessed with the spicy seafood stew (pronounced moh-KAY- and offerings, is a living legacy to the millions of slaves the Por- kah), by far the tastiest emblem of Bahia’s melting-pot mojo. As tuguese brought here from West Africa over the course of three orange as a pumpkin, the dish teems with fragrant garlic, on- centuries, beginning in 1548. For generations Candomblé was ions, tomatoes, coconut milk, whatever’s fresh from the sea and practiced in shadowy secrecy, but it is now a mainstay of just red dendê oil, the local artery-clogger. After the nearly twenty- about every church in Bahia—and there are said to be 365 in four-hour trip to Bahia from Los Angeles (with layovers in Lima central Salvador alone, one for every day of the year. and São Paulo), the moqueca, served alongside piquant malague- Today is Friday, when white is worn to honor Oxalá, the Afri- ta peppers and golden manioc flour, was as potent a jet-lag rem- can deity of creation. Of course, the most lavish tributes are saved edy as I can recall. So what if it’s a cauldron of saturated fat? for Salvador’s Carnaval celebration, arguably the world’s largest; Everywhere you go in Bahia, chefs emerge from kitchens, in- sequined drummers and masked and spangled dancers party sisting that their moqueca is the finest in Brazil. With Mauro’s through the night for a week, usually in late February, in homage help, I am determined to settle that score myself. He ushers us to all manner of divine beings. into Jardim das Delícias, his favorite moquecaria in the Pelourin- “Prepare yourself for five centuries under one roof,” Mauro ho, the Unesco-preserved neighborhood of colorful facades says as we reach Bonfim Square and the neoclassical, 18th-cen- and slanted cobblestoned streets that is among the Americas’ tury Church of Nosso Senhor do Bonfim. It’s hard to know when most stunning repositories of 16th- and 17th-century colonial he’s exaggerating. Though he was born in Salvador, Mauro’s par- architecture. In the bougainvillea-shaded courtyard, I speed- ents are Italian, and he has the wry wit of an outsider. “It is a read the entrées, ignoring Ruth’s plea to try something healthful A women’s drum holy place,” he says. “Just hang on to your wallets and cameras.” for a change, and settle on a moqueca with shrimp, extra spicy. troupe, with fanciful drums—and sticks—on parade through the streets of the Pelourinho. 3 TOWN & COUNTRY The view from Convento do Carmo, a Salvador hotel, onto All Saints Bay. Below: Jardim das Delícias’s moqueca, a seafood stew. “You know this quest just might kill you,” Mauro says. He’s Opposite: Early probably right. But there’s comfort in knowing I would die happy. morning on a cob- blestoned street in the Pelourinho. MENTION TO A savvy traveler that you’re going to São Paulo and the expectation is that you’re going for business. Rio, of course, conjures up images of hedonistic parties on beaches lined with hotels. But say “Bahia” to anyone who knows it and there’s inevitably a pause, followed by a smile, followed by an envious, “Ahhh, Bahia.” Even if they don’t realize it, what those people are sighing about is the Cacao Coast. Put it this way: Salvador is the perfect place to spend several days at the start and end of a visit. It’s called the Capital of Hap- piness for good reason. The sweeping vistas from the Upper City onto All Saints Bay are stunning. Shabby old colonial man- sions are getting face-lifts; one is now the gleaming new Museu da Gastronomia Bahiana, a government-run cooking academy where women in turbans and bell-shaped dresses serve the classics of Bahian cuisine (such as xinxim de galinha, a tradi- tional chicken and shrimp stew, and quindim, a yellow-custard dessert). And we stayed in the sexiest Carmelite monastery on earth. Convento do Carmo is a fabulously reconstructed 1586 friary in the heart of the Pelourinho, where our two-floor loft apartment came with vaulted wood ceilings, multiple plasma- screen TVs, L’Occitane bath products and a pillow menu that would answer any monk’s prayers. But there is a yang to Salvador’s yin, and it lies along Bahia’s ivory-white coast about 180 miles to the south. When we touch down in Ilhéus after a short flight south from the capital, the pace is noticeably slower. On the chauffeured forty-five-minute Land Rover ride to Fazenda da Lagoa, our hardest decision is whether we want to hear samba or bossa nova on the CD player. Fazenda da Lagoa has been open only a few years, but we’d heard it was already drawing sophisticated customers like the designer Valentino and Lizzy Jagger. Then again, as we bounce along the potholed access road with darkness and the rain forest closing in around us, I suddenly wonder if we are in the right place. In fact, where on earth are we? Our driver doesn’t speak a word of English, and we’ve come to the edge of a wide, inky black river. That’s when we spot the boat—the S.S. Mucki. “Mucki” is Mucki Skowronski, a renowned artist and designer from Rio, who owns Fazenda da Lagoa with her husband, Arthur Bahia (yes, his real name). She welcomes us aboard her canopied ferry, which has bright-red cushions and pillows handsewn with colorful silhouettes of Brazil. As we cruise to the chic eco-resort, her sense of style wins out over our panic. Skowronski figured that the best way to preserve her 1,500 un- touched acres along the coast was to build minimally (there are only fourteen cabins) but with maximum taste.