Pataxó Hã-Hã-Hã

(written about June 4-7, 2009; 30th-33rd days in Brazil)

This past Thursday through Sunday I went with a group of women to southern Bahia for a seminar called “Women of the Northeast in Search of Justice and Economic Solidarity and Autonomy” with the Pataxó Hã-Hã-Hãe indigenous group (indígenos). Unlike the indígenos of the Amazon region, who have received a lot of attention from the international press and subsequent support for the continuation of their cultures by the Brazilian government, the Pataxó lands were assimilated and converted to agricultural centuries ago. Thus, the Pataxó people live in a twilight zone between cultures. They work hard to try and preserve their indigenous heritage, but can’t fully return to the way of life that served them for hundreds (thousands?) of years because their land has been completely transformed into grazing land or cacao farms. Thus, they are forced to live in an economy that gives them few opportunities unless they decide to abandon their homes, families, and way of life.

Sergio drove us in his microbus, picking me up on the side of the freeway as he passed near Pirajá (unlike in the U.S., people can stand and wait on the side of the highways here). Most of the trip, about eight hours, was on a two-lane, heavily trafficked road similar to a U.S. route like route 40 or 19. Except for 5 or 6 small towns, it was rural driving all the way. There were lots of “rest stops”—churrascarias, roadside stands selling food or crafts, pousadas (b&bs)—that reminded me of what American highways were like before the 50s and the interstate highway system. Quite a pleasant trip, all in all.

After 8 hours, we turned on a smaller two-lane road winding into the mountains to the small town of Pau Brasil, which is nominally the home of the Pataxó. In reality, they live out in the country on about 53,000 hectares of land (about 200 square miles). This is where things got interesting! The sun had gone down, and some guys from the community were waiting for us in town to guide us out to the location of the meeting. We turned onto a dirt (mud) road and spent the next two hours bumping and sliding our way to the farm and community center of the Agua Vermelha branch of the Pataxó. At one point, we got stuck going up a hill. We all got out to push, but our feet had no traction in the mud (not that it would have done any good trying to push a bus!). We ended up having to dig a little before the bus could maneuver its way backwards away from the ditch that was precariously close to causing the bus to tip over. While we were stopped, someone came out of a house nearby and asked the guys who were guiding us if they would take a girl to the hospital, they carried her out to the car in agony. I have no idea what she had—dengue, malaria, tetanus—but she looked like she would die of pain any moment. They turned around and went back to town, and we relied on Patricia, a young Pataxó indígena who was accompanying us from Salvador, to guide us the rest of the way.

Once we arrived , (I thought) all the women went inside the house while Sergio and I waited on the porch. He had a few smokes and drank some wine to recover from the harrowing trip. (He wasn’t told he would have to maneuver a dirt road.) What I didn’t realize was that the women weren’t in the house, they were on their way to the farm, which was another kilometer away. In about ½ an hour, a few women (with candles set in pots held on their side to serve as flashlights) showed up to escort Sergio and me to where we would ultimately sleep for the next couple of days. We couldn’t really see where we were stepping, so we stumbled through the mud, waded across a swollen river, and finally made it to the cultural center.

Despite all the hassle of getting there, it was really great to be out in the country. The sounds of nature—frogs and other critters in the dark, running water, wind, and the relative silence of the country—always help me relax. It’s funny. I have no trouble sleeping on a concrete surface if its out in the woods. The living conditions on this trip weren’t all that different from being on the Appalachian Trail, which suited me just fine.

Things got started the next morning really early. We had breakfast in the kitchen in the house next to the community center, which I learned belonged to Maura, the matriarch, and her family. Her son, Paulo, is the leader of the Agua Vermelha branch of the Pataxó. His brother, Luiz, is a representative of the Pataxó to the federal government. (He was in Brasilia when this event started and didn’t arrive home until Saturday night after the seminar was over.) Living in the house as well were son Marcio and his 5 children. The house back up the trail on the road had more relatives. I couldn’t begin to keep track of everyone. Although the house was small for the number of people who lived there, it was very pleasant. There were beautiful plants next to the house, and the veranda was a great place to hang out and enjoy the day. The kitchen was large, and had both a gas stove as well as an open wood fire stove. Their refrigerator was mostly empty, but it worked, and someone had bought soft drinks for the occasion. There’s nothing like the smell of coffee on a rainy morning at 7:00am.

I didn’t expect to see any Pataxó ritual while I was there. I don’t know why—perhaps because it was a seminar being led by Marlene and ITEBA. But the seminar began with a ritual blessing by Paulo, accompanied by dancing and singing. Dancing and singing were a key element of the whole weekend, with five extended periods of ritual, starting and ending each day and an extra one at night to teach the young people the songs. Instead of describing it in detail, I’m including two clips of video. The first one took place in the evening of the first day, and started as a youth activity to teach the younger kids the songs. But as time passed, others joined in. This clip is about halfway through the hour ritual, and has some nice moments. The second clip (further down in this blog entry) is the morning of the second day, and includes a pretty intense segment of Paulo going into trance.

Briefly, I would describe the music and dance as a typical variant of almost all indigenous American music. They used rattles to keep a beat, and marched in short steps two to a beat. The songs were all quite melodious, and usually had a simple A-B form. The lyrics were a combination of Portuguese and Pataxó languages with periods of vocables. There was a little bit of call-response between men and women. As the ritual progressed, the dancing became more energetic, and the tonal center modulated upward until the men really had to strain to hit the notes. They didn’t use any falsetto like one would find among the Plains Indians of North America.

Attending the seminar were women from several Pataxó communities. Some had walked 40 kilometers (about 25 miles) to get there. Several of those were in their 70s or 80s. About 25 women were in attendance at the seminar. Almost all wore traditional Pataxó dress, which included decorative headbands and clothes made entirely of grass/tree fibers, including braziers. Many used special face- or body-paint in patterns. Several of the men had feather headdresses. The seminar started with the women joining in an “ice-breaker” song simulating the sifting of farinha flour (a staple starch made from manioc that they add in great quantities to beans and soup). Their behavior resembled children singing children’s songs. My impression is that women in this culture are typically so home-bound and sheltered (repressed), they have little interaction outside the family. The whole idea of this seminar, where they were encouraged to find voices to talk about their needs and problems in a safe and supportive environment, was probably a bit intimidating for them. Their participation in the song showed this moderate discomfort in that it resembled children having to perform in public—somewhat hesitant, mannered, shy.

Over the three sessions, the women were to come up with some concrete ways to find sovereignty over their own lives, both in their health needs and economic autonomy. In the first session, they were divided into three groups, and were told to make an inventory of ways they didn’t have autonomy or solidarity in their lives. The second session was devoted to identifying one thing from all the groups’ lists that was common and would be most likely to affect change. This turned out to be the creation of an association that would meet regularly and would represent women to the outside and to other organizations (some indigenous, some not). There was disagreement over the viability of creating an association. After all, how many women could take time from their responsibilities in the home to make the trek to a meeting place? What if women who weren’t at the seminar wanted to participate? What if different communities had different ideas or disagreements? The second session ended with things very much up in the air.

The next morning began with ritual, but this is when Paulo found his orixá (with the help of the substance he was smoking, which wasn’t marijuana or tobacco, but definitely had the effect of a drug) and spoke with the authority of god and ancestors to everyone gathered, including observers such as Sergio and me. His messages to a particular few were evident, despite the fact that his supernatural tongue was unintelligible. He took Patricia out of the circle for a special admonishment to remember her roots and respect her elders. He told me to take the story of his people back to America. He wept upon reaching his younger brother, who has 5 children and has a hard life. And when he reached one of the elderly indigenous women who was sick, he drew out the sickness, gagging as though it had transferred from her to him. At this point, Maura brought him more smoke. The process of going into trance and coming out of trance was painful, and a bit excruciating to watch. Like I said, it was intense!

After the special visit from the orixá, the women found common ground and consensus, and agreed to the formation of an association for the betterment of their constituency. Tears were shed by Patricia as she addressed Maura, the matriarch, directly. Tears were shed by Maura in return. Everyone from ITEBA made a speech, including me (yikes!—public speaking in a language different from one’s own is definitely a scary experience). Then several men decided that since I, as a man, was given a chance to speak, then they, too, needed to speak. They all had nice things to say in support of women and their efforts, though I wonder when it comes to brass tacks whether they will be as supportive.

Because things ran long, Sergio decided we should stay another night rather than drive after dark, which is dangerous because of highway bandits. All of the people from other communities departed, leaving only Maura and her large family (four sons were there by this time), some of the neighbors, and us. Sergio disappeared in the middle of the afternoon, going to town with one of the guys in their car to buy stuff for the night’s requisite festivities. Some of the teenagers were hanging around on the veranda drinking cachaça and singing songs accompanied by makeshift percussion instruments. I spent quite a bit of time hanging out with the younger kids, who wanted to practice their English with me. I taught them a few words, and we had fun. The adult men found me rather amusing, and liked to tease me. They tried playing a trick on me by getting me to eat some pimenta (VERY hot pickled peppers). I knew better, but took a tiny bite anyway. Of course, I love spicy stuff, so I told them how much I liked it. They found this hilarious. Then they gave me the raw pepper from which the pimenta was made, called biri-birí. It wasn’t hot at all, but was very sour. I liked it a lot, too, since I like sour stuff, and asked for a second one. They found this even more hilarious. Then they offered some cachaça to wash it down with, and I drank it straight from the bottle without touching the bottle to my mouth. This took the cake, because not only did I not spill the cachaça, I also didn’t give a glimmer of a wince at the kick of this strong liquor. From this moment on, I think they were offering cachaça to me every 5 minutes, including at breakfast the next morning.

After trekking out to the bus, Sergio managed to get it stuck in the mud again while trying to turn around in the small space, and it took the whole tribe about two hours to dig it out. I think Sergio was a bit embarrassed and mad at being stuck, so he did most of the digging. The Pataxó guys weren’t too thrilled to have to work so hard at 8:00am, wearing clean clothes and sporting hangovers. Even eight guys pushing behind a bus can’t make it move when all they have for traction is mud the texture of pudding. We ended up removing the large fence post on one side of the gate (three guys for this job) and bringing in about 50 ceramic roof tiles (three guys) which we broke and put under the wheels and on the tracks to help with traction. Finally freed, a few of the Pataxó joined us for the trip to Pau Brasil. We stopped one time and met Paulo’s father, who for some reason doesn’t live with Maura, but rather a couple of miles down the road in a VERY simple thatched homemade house.

I could go on for days describing what I saw, speculating about the culture and family dynamics, and commenting on the various attitudes towards their native culture, but I’ll let the pictures speak for me, and my speculation/impressions probably aren’t accurate enough to be in print, anyway.