Cachoeira

    We slept， woke， breakfasted， and met the man

    we'd hired as a tour guide， with a van

    and driver， for the day. We were to drive

    to Cachoeira， where the sisters live：

    the famous Sisterhood of the Good Death，

    founded by former slaves in the nineteenth

    century. "Negroes of the Higher Ground，"

    they called themselves， the governesses who found-

    ed the Sisterhood as a way to serve the poor.

    Their motto， "Aiye Orun，" names the door

    between this world and the other， kept ajar.

    They teach that death is relative： We rise

    to dance again. Locally canonized，

    they lead quiet， celibate， nunnish lives，

    joining after they've been mothers and wives，

    at between fifty and seventy years of age：

    a sisterhood of sages in matronage.

    We drove on Salvador's four-lane boulevards，

    past unpainted cement houses， and billboards，

    and pedestrians wearing plastic shoes，

    and little shops， and streets， and avenues，

    a park， a mall . . . Our guide was excellent：

    fluent in English， and intelligent，

    willing to answer questions patiently

    and to wait out our jokes. The history

    of Salvador flew past. At Tororo

    we slowed as much as the traffic would allow，

    to see the Orixas dancing on the lake

    in their bright skirts. The road we took

    sped past high-rise apartment neighborhoods，

    then scattered shacks， then nothing but deep woods

    of trees I didn't recognize and lands

    that seemed to be untouched by human hands.

    We stopped in a village， where it was market day.

    We walked among the crowds， taller than they

    and kilos heavier， tasting jackfruit

    and boiled peanuts， embraced by absolute，

    respectful welcome， like visiting gods

    whose very presence is good news. Our guide

    suggested a rest stop. We were sipping Coke

    when a man came into the shop and quietly spoke

    to our guide， who translated his request：

    Would we come to his nightclub， be his guests？

    We didn't understand， but shrugged and went

    a few doors down the street. "What does he want？"

    we asked. The club hadn't been opened yet；

    by inviting us in， the owner hoped to get

    our blessings for it. Which we humbly gave：

    visiting rich American descendants of slaves.

    For hours we drove through a deep wilderness，

    laughing like children on a field-trip bus.

    We made a side trip to the family home

    of Bahia's favorite daughter and son，

    the Velosos， Bethania and Caetano，

    in the small town of Santo Amaro.

    The greenery flew by until the descent

    into a river valley. There we went

    to a nice little restaurant to dine

    on octopus stew， rice， manioc， and wine.

    Then we crossed a rickety bridge behind a dray

    drawn by a donkey， and wended our way，

    at last， to Cachoeira， an old town

    of colonial buildings， universally tan

    and shuttered， darkly lining narrow streets.

    A tethered rooster pecked around our feet

    in the souvenir shop. At the convent

    I wondered what the statues really meant：

    Was it Mary， or was it Yemanja

    in the chapel， blue-robed， over the altar？

    Was it Mary on the glass-enclosed bier，

    her blue robe gold-embroidered， pearls in her hair，

    or was it the Orixa of the sea？

    There were no Sisters around for us to see；

    they were in solitude， preparing for the Feast

    of the Assumption， when the Virgin passed

    painlessly from this world into the next，

    Aiye to Orun. Posters showed them decked

    out for their big Assumption Day parade，

    big， handsome mamas wearing Orixa beads，

    white turbans and blouses， red shawls， black skirts.

    The man in their gift shop was an expert

    on the Sisters' long struggle to find a way

    to serve the Christian Church and Candombl .

    The eldest Sister is called "the Perpetual Judge"；

    every seventh year， she becomes the bridge

    on which the Virgin Mary crosses back，

    sorrowing love incarnate in a black

    ninety-odd-year-old woman facing death

    and saying Magnificat with every breath.

    We drove out of the valley looking back

    on lightbulbs which intensified the thick，

    incomprehensible， mysterious

    darkness of the unknown. Grown serious

    and silent in our air-conditioned van，

    we rode back into the quotidian.