How Democracy Works. An Ethnographic Theory of Politics

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In this book, Marcio Goldman provides an interpretation of a ‘big’ theme – the functioning of a modern political system – based on the ethnographic analysis of a ‘small’ one – the political involvement of a group of African-Brazilian people living in the town of Ilheus in the north-east of Brazil, and belonging to Afro-Brazilian religions, black movement factions, families and neighbourhoods. By giving a description ‘from the native’s point of view’ he leads us to a truly anthropological perception of modern democracies, showing how we need to take seriously the actions and the reflections of those generally viewed as passive, manipulated, ignorant and not really interested in the political game. Only this can lead us to an ‘ethnographic theory of politics’.

How Democracy Works

It is very unlikely that anthropology could ever have got going as a science by the contemplation of the politics of a small city in Brazil. This phenomenon is too familiar and too commonplace, and frankly too embarrassing to the politically idealistic. This book changes all that by applying Malinowski’s research method to Marx’s favourite aphorism, ‘Nothing human is alien to me.’ If the intellectual contemplation of collectively instituted irrationality is what got anthropology going in the first place, then it must, at some point, address such entities as politicians, and why people vote for them. Read this book and learn.  (Prof. Peter Gow, University of St Andrews) Goldman has masterfully analysed the terrain of politics in this town, illuminating not only its local specifics (which include accusations of racism, contestations over and the coopting of candomblé carnival performances, and possession by spirits), but what he calls the ‘constitutive ambiguities’ of democracy in Brazil – and indeed of democracy as a whole. In the process he robustly challenges various accepted wisdoms about poor people’s political choices, gives new life to classic anthropological ideas like ‘segmentation’, and strips away the veil that, for many of us, obscures ‘how democracy works’. He achieves this ambitious task with consummate skill, combining fine-grained detail with bold theoretical insight.  (Prof. Deborah James, London School of Economics)

An Ethnographic Theory of Politics

This shows us what may be achieved by an ethnographic analysis of the micropolitics of democracy in practice – one that realises that what counts as political philosophy and political practice remain (always) to be found out. The book has many virtues, not the least of which is to derive a genuinely dynamic model of segmentarity that renders intelligible the realities of factional political practice in a contemporary nation state. A ground-breaking work of real importance – not only to the anthropology of politics, but to the continuing development of theory and epistemology in anthropology and the social sciences at large.  (Prof. Christina Toren, University of St Andrews)

Marcio Goldman

HOW DEMOCRACY WORKS

First published in 2013 by Sean Kingston Publishing www.seankingston.co.uk Canon Pyon

© 2013 Marcio Goldman

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of Sean Kingston Publishing.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. The moral rights of the authors and editors have been asserted.

Printed by Lightning Source

ISBN 978-1-907774-15-7

How Democracy Works An Ethnographic Theory Of Politics

 Marcio Goldman

Sean Kingston Publishing www.seankingston.co.uk Canon Pyon

Acknowledgements Prologue

The drums of the dead and the drums of the living

Introduction The anthropology of politics and an ethnographic theory of democracy Chapter 1

2002 Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus

Chapter 2

1996 Research

Chapter 3

1992 Afro-Cultural Centre

Chapter 4

2000 Elections

Chapter 5

1998–9 Carnival

Chapter 6

2004 Candidacy

Glossary Notes Bibliography

For my mother and father

If in my case there was a feeling of adventure and moments of bewilderment in which I was overcome by fear or by what Freud calls the Uncanny, it was certainly not as an encounter with the irrational. It seems obvious to me that if one is trying to match oneself against irrationality one need not travel three hundred kilometres to do so: political commitments and even the most ordinary love relationships give plenty of occasion for it.

(Jeanne Favret-Saada)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Early versions of parts of this book were presented at various seminars and in several articles. The Prologue and the Introduction developed themes that had been earlier presented in the seminar Anthropology and its Methods: The Archive, the Field, the Problems, which was organized by Emerson Giumbelli and myself during the XXV Annual Meeting of the National Association of Postgraduation and Research in Social Sciences, in October 2001, as well as at the Anthropology and Politics symposium, Social Representations and Political Processes: Problematizing the Limits of Politics, coordinated by Ana Rosato during the IV Mercosul Anthropology Meeting, in November 2001. One of the first written versions was published in Revista de Antropologia (Goldman 2003). The third chapter is a development of something that had already been published (Goldman 2001b). It also develops what had been presented in the research forum Ethnographic Theories of Segmentarity, coordinated by Tânia Stolze Lima and Márcio Ferreira da Silva during the XXII Meeting of the Brazilian Association of Anthropology, in July 2000. Several passages of the book were foreshadowed in articles published in Etnográfica (Goldman 2000) and in Ethnos (Goldman 2001a). These articles derived, respectively, from presentations given in 1999 at the symposium of Brazilian Anthropologies at the Turn of the Century (upon invitation from Miguel Vale de Almeida and João Leal), and at the Friday Morning Seminar, in the Anthropology Department of the London School of Economics (upon invitation from Peter Gow and Chris Fuller). Furthermore, themes which are present in this book were developed in the course of lectures and seminars: in various activities at the Workgroup on the Anthropology of Politics (NuAP), coordinated by Moacir Palmeira from 1994 to 2003; at the State University of Campinas in 1995 and 2001, upon invitation from Márcio Ferreira da Silva, Sueli Koffes and Thomas Patrick Dwyer; at the University of São Paulo in 1995 upon invitation from Aracy Lopes da Silva; at the Brazilian Centre for Analysis and Planning (Cebrap) in 1995, upon invitation from Omar Ribeiro Thomaz; at the Institute of Philosophy and Social Sciences at the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro in 1995, upon invitation from Ingrid Sarti and in 2002 upon invitation from Olívia Gomes da Cunha; at the Fluminense Federal University in 1997 and 1998 upon invitation from Wagner Neves Rocha; at the Anthropology Department of University of Coimbra in 1999 upon invitation from Susana Viegas; at the Institute of Socio-Economic Development (IDES) and at the Institute of Higher Social Studies (IAES) in Buenos Aires in 2002, upon invitation from Pablo Semán

Acknowledgements

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and Rosana Guber; and at the Federal University of Minas Gerais in 1997 and 2004 upon invitation from Eduardo Viana Vargas. I would like to thank all those who made it possible for me to participate in these events. Furthermore, as always, this book owes much to many other people and various other institutions. Among the latter, I would like to highlight the role of the Postgraduate Programme in Social Anthropology (PPGAS), at the National Museum, Federal University of Rio de Janeiro, whose environment and working conditions greatly benefited my research. From 1997 onwards, NuAP, coordinated by Moacir Palmeira, began to work within the framework of PPGAS, which further aided my research. The support of the Study and Projects Financing Institution (Finep) was the source for part of the resources used during the research which provided the foundation of this book. For this, I also received some funding provided by The National Council for Scientific and Technological Development (CNPq) – an agency in which I am also a researcher (with a grant in Scientific Productivity). The Carlos Chagas Foundation for Support of Research of the State of Rio de Janeiro (FAPERJ) awarded me Auxiliary Funding for Research between May and December 2000, and a Scientist of Our State grant, in 2003/2004, which permitted access to key additional resources. The Coordination for the Improvement of Post-Graduate Personnel (Capes) financed my participation in many of the above mentioned events. Throughout this project, colleagues, staff members, librarians, students, friends and residents of Ilhéus contributed, consciously or unconsciously, and in very different ways, to the preparation of this book. Today, it is very difficult to remember the specific contributions of each person and, furthermore, to establish some kind of hierarchy. Thus, and also following Roland Barthes’ warning not to ‘underestimate the power of chance to create monsters’, I would like to thank everyone in alphabetical order, while giving my sincerest apologies to those who, perchance, I have forgotten to mention and, obviously, exempting everyone from any responsibility for the mistakes that I have undoubtedly committed: Adail Viveiros, Afonso Santoro, Agenor Gasparetto, Alberto Rocha, Alzimário Belmonte Vieira (Gurita), Ana Claudia Marques, Ana Paula Moraes da Silva, Ana Rosato, Antonádia Borges, Antonio Carlos de Souza Lima, Antônio Carlos Rafael Barbosa, Antúvio Costa Ribeiro (Toinho Brother), Beatriz Heredia, Carla Regina Paz de Freitas, Carla Teixeira, Catherine Gallois, Cecilia Campello do Amaral Mello, Cecilia McCallum, Celso Souza Santos, César Barreira, Christina Toren, Christine Chaves, David Rodgers, Dino Rocha, Don Kulick, Eduardo Lemgruber, Eduardo Viana Vargas, Eduardo Viveiros de Castro, Ellen Cristine Monteiro Vogas, Eliana Vieira, Élvia Magalhães, Emerson Giumbelli, Emília Wien, Fabíola Rohden, Federico Neiburg, Fernanda Peixoto, Irlys Barreira, Ivonilce Gomes (Nice), Joanna Overing, João Vasconcelos, John Comerford, Jorge Luiz Mattar Villela, José Carlos Ribeiro, José Carlos Souza Rodrigues, José Guilherme Magnani,

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Acknowledgements

José Nazal, José Sérgio Leite Lopes, Júlia Miranda, Karina Kuschnir, Levindo da Costa Pereira Jr., Lilia Valle, Líscia Fernandes, Lisonete Martins de Souza (Nete), Lourdes Cristina Araújo Coimbra, Luís Roberto Cardoso de Oliveira, Luisa Elvira Belaunde, Luiz Claudio Falcão de Albuquerque, Marcela Coelho de Souza, Marcelo Silva Maciel, Marcia Rinaldi de Mattos, Marcio Ferreira da Silva, Marcos Otávio Bezerra, Maria Auxiliadora Lemenhe, Maria Conceição Ribeiro (Vida), Maria Consuelo Oliveira, Maria da Consolação Lucinda, Maria Eduarda Costa, Maria Gabriela Scotto, Maria Izabel Wernersbach Moreira, Mário Gusmão, Mariza Peirano, Mary Ann Mahony, Michael Baran, Michael Kent, Miguel Vale de Almeida, Miriam Hartung, Moacir Palmeira, Moacir Pinho, Nelson Simões, Odaci Luiz Coradini, Oiara Bonilla, Olívia Gomes da Cunha, Otávio Velho, Paula de Siqueira Lopes, Paulo Cesar de Menezes (Cesar), Paulo Rodrigues dos Santos, Raimunda Alencar, Renato Sztutman, Rita de Souza Santos Saraiva, Ronaldo dos Santos Sant’Anna, Sérgio Pereira, Silvia Nogueira, Silvio Cesar Brandão (Silvinho), Simone Rodrigues, Stela Abreu, Susana Viegas, Tania Lucia Ferreira da Silva, Thereza Menezes, Tomas Martin Ossowicki, Valdir Silva, Vânia Lacerda, Vincenzo Cambria, Vinicius, Wagner Neves Rocha. I should nevertheless allow a few exceptions to the above-mentioned principle and thank a few people separately. Firstly, the Rodrigues family: Dona Ilza, Gildasio, Nidinha, Nete, Delson, Gilmar, Tonho, Gilvan, Vane, Marinho, Gilson, Vado, Ney, Neide, Bel, Alex, Carlinhos, Ceinha, Gal, Gleide, Litinha, Ninho, Noélia, Sonilda, Tourinho, and to all the children, too numerous to be listed here. Without them, this book would not exist, for it was their warmth that sustained my passion for Ilhéus for such a long time. To Ana Cláudia Cruz da Silva, who had the misfortune of having to share the field with her supervisor, I give thanks for so much information and countless ideas; as if that were not enough, she, alongside Silvia Nogueira, took care of me when I suffered an accident in the field. Peter Gow, Ovídio de Abreu and especially Tânia Stolze Lima were, during the last few years, the people who I, literally, exchanged most of my ideas with in relation to this book, and in relation to everything else as well. Even without realizing it, they certainly helped me write this book. Finally, it is almost impossible to thank Marinho Rodrigues and Jaco Santana enough. Beyond anything I could possibly say, they truly made me look at the world in a different way.* *

For this English version, I would like to add a few very important acknowledgements. To Deborah James, who not only encouraged me to publish the book in English, but who also put me in touch with Sean Kingston – to whom I am also grateful for agreeing to publish it. To Max Bondi and Cristina Musso Meirelles Santos for their careful translation of the Portuguese original.

PROLOGUE

The drums of the dead and the drums of the living

 Saturday night, 31 October 1998, I was in Ilhéus in southern Bahia watching the rehearsal of the Dilazenze Cultural Group, an Afro ‘block’ (bloco afro), which would be the focus of my research into relations between the local black movement and political life within the city. Dona Ilza Rodrigues is the ‘saintmother’ (mãe-de-santo)1 of Matamba Tombenci Neto, the Candomblé temple (terreiro)2 linked to the cultural group. She took me aside and explained that she needed to organize the ritual send off (despacho) of the symbolic objects belonging to of one of her ‘saint-daughters’ (filhas-de-santo) who had recently died in the city of São Paulo. She asked if I could help transport the ritual objects belonging to the recently deceased, which were to be thrown into a river. I answered that of course I would help, and she added that it would be necessary to resolve everything as quickly as possible due to the fact that the Day of the Dead was fast approaching and it would be inconvenient for the ritual to be performed after that day. We agreed that when the time came, she would send for me, and we reminisced how in 1983, when I was undertaking my first research in the terreiro, I had also helped transport a similar offering. Marinho Rodrigues, one of the saint-mother’s biological sons, ogã of the terreiro,3 as well as being one of my closest friends and my best informant in Ilhéus, told me that the recently deceased saint-daughter, whose orixá was Xangô, had explicitly declared that when she died she did not want the complete funerary ritual. It was due to this, he said, that only the send off of the symbolic objects was to be performed. Noting my surprise, he explained that some followers of Candomblé make this request, which must be respected, for one should never invoke a spirit that does not wish to be invoked. We talked further about Candomblé funerary rituals when, around

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Prologue

7.30 p.m., I was called upon to park my car in front of the terreiro’s front gate. I did this, opened the boot of the car, and Gilmar and Ney (ogãs, also biological sons of the saint-mother as well as friends of mine) brought a large, heavy box which they placed in the boot. We all got into the car with two saint-daughters who I did not recognize at the time. We set off and the ogãs gave me directions; we spoke very little and the two saint-daughters did not say a word. We arrived at the destination, a bridge on a semi-deserted highway on the old route to the nearby city of Itabuna. We stopped, got out of the car, opened the boot, and the ogãs lifted the box and headed towards the bridge with the saint-daughters. I stayed in the car, waiting and discreetly watching. Once atop the bridge they threw the box into the river; it hit the water, making a loud noise, and the two saint-daughters let forth the particular screams of their orixás. It was only at this moment that I realized they had been in a state of trance the entire time. One of the screams belonged to Iansã, the other to Ogum, two orixás that have special relationships with the dead. Gilmar, who is the ogã of the part of the group responsible for sacrifices and offerings, walked into the undergrowth and lit the candles he had brought. Next, he and Ney whispered something to the saint-daughters, who were immediately released from their trance. At that exact moment, I heard a faraway sound of beating percussion. At first, I imagined they were sacred drums of Candomblé (atabaques), though later I thought they might have been coming from a local Afro block rehearsal or something similar. We got back into the car and left, taking care to avoid taking the same route so as not to pass by the point where the offering had been thrown. We went back to the terreiro where, at the front gate, someone was waiting to perform a quick purification ritual, which even went so far as to include the inside of my car. With the matter apparently finished, I resumed my conversation with Marinho, returning to the theme of Candomblé funerary rituals. He told me that in 1994, on the twenty-first anniversary of the death of his grandmother (the old and famous saint-mother of the terreiro), he had taken a send off to the exact same place from where I had just returned. Suddenly, he said, he had ‘heard the drums start to beat’, and had asked if there were any Candomblé terreiros in the area, only to receive the reply that there were none. Back at the terreiro, he related what had happened to his mother and to other elders, and they rejoiced, as the beating drums were a good sign, which meant the dead were peacefully accepting receipt of the spirit or offering. I felt a slight chill run down my spine and told Marinho that I had also heard the drums beating; he made no comment and changed the subject. I noticed then that the drumming I had heard was plainly not of this world.

The drums of the dead and the drums of the living

5

Figure 1 Dona Ilza Rodrigues perform propitiatory rituals for the Dilazenze parade in the Carnival of 2000.

This episode, edited from a section of my field notes, had other ramifications. On the days that followed the event, I discovered that Marinho had related the story to several other people, including his brothers who had performed the ritual. Both Ney and Gilmar claimed to have heard the drumming as well, the latter adding, ‘this always happens’. On my part, I also related the episode to two amazonianists. Tânia Stolze Lima observed: ‘you are really doing fieldwork’, adding that it was very odd that I did not remember that, three years earlier, I had supervised a Master’s dissertation regarding a Candomblé funerary ritual in which what I had just described as a new thing (not the fact of having heard the drumming, but simply the ethnographic information that the dead were the drummers) was widely described and analysed (Cruz 1995). Surprised by my amnesia, I wholeheartedly agreed with her conclusion that the people of the terreiro and I heard the drums for the same reasons (Lima 1998). Furthermore, coming to terms with this strange amnesia forced me to reconsider something that I had experienced about three weeks before I heard the drums, after meeting up with Dona Ilza again after an absence of over two years. I had gone to pick her up at the bus station where she was arriving after a trip to São Paulo; after dropping her off, I got into the car on the street where both the terreiro and her home are located and felt a light-headedness which disappeared as soon as I left the area. I returned to that place twice more on that same night, and every time I turned into the street the light-headedness returned, only to disappear again upon leaving. Of course I imagined mystical causes, but I did not take the episode too seriously.

Prologue

6

The other Amazonianist to whom I wrote relating the story was Peter Gow, explaining that I was surprised because I had never experienced any such mystical inclination. He answered that he did not believe that this was the important point, and told me about a similar experience that he had experienced in the field, amongst the Piro of the Peruvian Amazon. He offered a phenomenological and almost Gestaltist explanation for what had happened to us: What is the explanation? Partly, I think that Tânia is correct. It is called really doing fieldwork: these experiences are emanating from other people. But there is more. You say you don’t have any mystical inclination, but it has got nothing to do with that. It strikes me as significant that it is music that was heard in both cases. It is possible that, in highly sensitized states, complex but regular patterns of sounds in the world, like gurgling rivers or a tropical night, can evoke musical forms which you are not conscious of having found aesthetically problematic. Because you are learning these musical styles without knowing it, you then project them back onto the world in the right circumstances. So you hear Candomblé drumming, I hear flute music. I think a similar process is happening with the people we study. Because they clearly also hear this stuff too. But they simply accept that it is a feature of the world, and don’t worry about it. But it is still impressive, and its mystery is not resolved by this explanation. What I reckon is that it means we have to radically rethink the whole problem of belief, or at least stop lazily saying that ‘X believe that the dead play drums or that Y believe that river spirits play flutes.’ They don’t believe it – it is true! It is knowledge about the world. The question then becomes how exactly people build up their knowledge of the world, and what features of it they specifically attend to and find interesting. (Gow 1998)

For a long time I kept imagining what I should do with this story, how to avoid reducing it to one of those familiar anecdotes about the mystical experiences felt by anthropologists in the field. The archetypal case is that of Evans-Pritchard (1937:34) seeing witchcraft among the Azande – which, by the way, did not stop him from writing that ‘witches, as the Azande conceive them, cannot exist’ (Evans-Pritchard 1937:56). In this respect, this book was practically ready to go to print when Eduardo Viveiros de Castro, whom I deeply thank, brought to my attention a collection of texts regarding these types of experience (Young and Goulet 1994). Although I do not wish to go into the discussions proposed by the organizers of this collection, two observations may be of interest. Firstly, it is curious that all of the experiences described in the book, without exception, are visual or

The drums of the dead and the drums of the living

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Figure 2 In a feast in the terreiro, Dona Ilza Rodrigues and Gilvan Rodrigues

ritually touch the point where the foundations of Tombency (and Dilazenze) lay.

dreamlike, whereas my own and Peter Gow’s were both auditory. Secondly, while the book concentrates on the ‘transformations’ of the ethnographers’ spiritual beliefs through their ‘extraordinary experiences’ in the field, I prefer to focus on the effects that becoming-native can engender upon the more ordinary experiences of an anthropologist, such as politics, for example. Nevertheless, in my case, I was attempting to give the drumming episode a degree of dignity in order to place it in relation to my work. This would primarily require that I dismiss in advance the two simplest explanations – both realistic in their own way – which would quickly interrupt any more serious reflection: the mystical, which affirms that the drums really were played by the dead; and the materialistic, which would say that, if I heard anything, the drums were played by the living. Truthfully, to know that the drums I heard were played by the dead (or by some Afro band, ogãs of a terreiro, or if they were the effect of the wind or whatever else), or even the fact of believing or not, is not of much importance. What is important is that, whether I wanted to or not, I took the story seriously and, even more so, I was affected by it – in the sense that Jeanne Favret-Saada (1990:7) confers to the expression. Regardless of the reasons that led me to hear the drums (maybe even in light of the traditional stories of mystical experiences felt by anthropologists in the field), the fact is that the event struck me with a force, and if not in the same way that it affected my friends, at least with the

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Prologue

same intensity. Following Favret-Saada’s (ibid.:9) terms, the force of the event allowed us to establish a form of communication, nonverbal, ‘involuntary and unintentional’, a condition, perhaps, for more discursive and conscious channels of communication to open up. Furthermore, to confer some dignity to this story of the drumming of the dead meant to be able to perceive its relationship with the work I was supposedly undertaking in Ilhéus, that is, researching politics – something that for a long time I was incapable of doing. The strange thing is that this perception only came to my mind three years after the episode, and even then in the strange form of a dream in which I very realistically relived something that had actually happened to me in Ilhéus just three days before the drum incident, on a night very similar to the one when that event occurred. The confirmation that the dream literally reproduced what had happened in Ilhéus came from reading my field notes, which I immediately referred to when I woke up from the dream. But it also revealed to me that, less than a month before the occurrence, I had spoken at length with Marinho about the sirrum, the funerary ritual in Candomblé Angola. He explained that, in part, it was a fight between the living and the spirits of the dead, who were invited to the ritual by the recently deceased: the living cannot allow the dead to play and sing louder than they do, under penalty of the dead invading the world of the living, possessing the bodies of those present and sometimes even killing them. Marinho also explained that there should be no manifestation of sadness, chiefly in the form of crying, as this would be very dangerous. All of this information is in Robson Cruz’s dissertation, which I supervised in 1995, and it was all of this, as Tânia Stolze Lima had observed, that I had simply forgotten.4 Marinho finished his story by saying that he has fortunately never seen the dead, even on the day when his mother had warned him that the spirits of his maternal grandparents were present and signalling to him during a ritual performed a long time ago in another terreiro. In the episode faithfully relived in my dream, I was having a conversation with a key politician from the local chapter of the Workers’ Party (PT)** when I made a comment about a distant drumming sound that we could both hear. The politician said something along the lines of ‘they are drumming so that they don’t have to do anything else’, which meant, referring to an old saying which I knew only too well, that the drumming was linked to a lack of political consciousness and functioned as a diversion from meaningful political action: a kind of ‘opium of the people’, as is sometimes said. Furthermore, *

Translators’ note. The Workers’ Party, or the Partido dos Trabalhadores (PT), is a Brazilian left-wing political party. The members of this party are known as petistas, which is derived from the party’s acronym ‘PT.’

The drums of the dead and the drums of the living

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Figure 3 Dona Ilza Rodrigues during the Dilazenze’s parade in the Carnival of 1999.

the fact that someone whose political conceptions and ideologies were so close to my own could suggest that the drums we heard were, in a certain sense, played by only semi-alive beings (in the sense that they were politically alienated), inadvertently established a bridge between the drums of the dead and the drums of the living, a bridge that passed precisely through politics.

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Prologue

Incidentally, upon reading a first version of the account of this last episode (Goldman 2001a), Peter Gow observed that I was excessively cruel with the politician, and this was probably due to the fact that he was, to me, a kind of shadow in the Jungian sense of the word. In other words, he clearly manifested an array of my own personal attributes that I did not like and tried to suppress. I believe that Gow is right, and I would like to add that within the political space of Ilhéus, from my point of view, this politician occupied a respectable position. When I heard the drumming of the dead, I had already spent almost two months in the field, in addition to another two months in 1996 and the three months during the now-distant year of 1983 when I was researching Candomblé, research that had already taught me to greatly admire the drumming of the living. The main activities of an Afro block are musical, and sharing their day-to-day life made me discover and admire Afro-Bahian music. Not the well-known axé-music, a musically impoverished variation, politically sterile and compromised to the demands of the media, but rather the type made by the Ilê Aiyê, by the Olodum, by the Muzenza and by other Afro blocks in Salvador, and also by the Dilazenze, by the Miny Kongo, by the Rastafiry and by other blocks in Ilhéus. Living with the block would also teach me that making Afro music was not simply a way of doing nothing; on the contrary, this activity is an essential dimension to the process of creating existential territories. These territories allow discriminated people to engender their own sense of dignity and will to live. Equally, it should be noted that although the condition provoked by the drums may seem ‘nice’ (in the sense that it is always charming to find an anthropologist who is capable of experiencing mystical things), it does not signify in any way whatsoever a glorified identification with the natives, which would go against my whole argument. The reaction of my friends in Ilhéus to two transvestites passing by on the street where they lived, screaming and yelling unpleasant things, was certainly not charming. Similarly, my fearful reaction before two strangers, though they were acquaintances of my friends, was similarly lacking in charm. These events provoked certain emotional states both amongst my friends – divided between indignation and an urge to take part in the mocking of the transvestites, between having fun and feeling awkward around me – and within myself – completely immobilized between indignation and the bonds of friendship, between the fear of being assaulted and the shame of appearing prejudiced. The fact that these situations have been the target of comments and that they provoked these emotional reactions could have been just as important to the establishment of a longlasting communication, similarly profound and involuntary, as the story of the drums.

The drums of the dead and the drums of the living

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The drums of the living and the drums of the dead are part of the same overall experience, and it was certainly the fact that I was affected by the former that opened up the possibility of being able to hear the latter. In another sense, it was perhaps necessary to have heard the drums of the dead so that the drums of the living would begin to sound differently. This is because in that moment I lived through an experience that, without necessarily being identical to the experiences of my friends in Ilhéus, had at least one fundamental point in common: the fact of being totalizing and of not separating the different existential territories that we inhabit. As Peter Gow wrote to me, it is really the idea of belief that should be put into question, insofar as it is largely responsible for the false distinctions that attempt to separate reality from that which is generally called imaginary and which, in truth, should be simply called the real, insofar as reality is always an effect of an act of creation. It is curious to note, in passing, that Lévy-Bruhl, an author I studied in between my research on Candomblé and my research on politics (Goldman 1994), was a radical critic of the notion of belief, proposing its replacement with the concept of experience. Indeed, it is this very distinction that does not have universal appeal, since it depends upon a ‘definition of experience unchallenged amongst us after a long process of secular criticism which disqualified and excluded mystical experiences from valid experience’ (Lévy-Bruhl 1949:161–2).5 Furthermore, whilst the principal activities of an Afro-block are musical, clearly this does not mean that these are their only activities. The blocks usually involve themselves with politics, whether making presentations during campaigns, explicitly supporting a candidate or receiving goods or promises in exchange for votes and electoral support. It is obvious that, as Cambria (2002:108) warns, we should not imagine that the blocks are simply using music towards political ends or to obtain some material advantage. Although this often occurs, it is also true that ‘these groups […] use “politics” to make music’, in other words, the small material advantages that are sometimes obtained relate specifically to their own musical (and other) activities. However, this is above all an attempt to avoid what Paul Veyne (1996:241) denounced as the absurd assumption of the ‘monolithic monoideism’ of human beings, their supposed ‘monomania’:6 as if each social group or each historical epoch could find itself obsessed by one central issue – witchcraft, cattle, vengeance, kinship, interpersonal relationships, honour, equality, money, religion or whatever else. Because, on the one hand, as Veyne also wrote (1995:15), ‘man is a being who has a strange capacity to fall in love with things that do not have anything to do with his own interests’ (an anthropological property highlighted by Georg Simmel). On the other hand, because ‘religion, politics, and poetry may well be the most important things

12

Prologue

in this world or any other; nevertheless, in practice they occupy only a narrow band of our existence’ (Veyne 1988:87). Regardless, it is clear that there is an empirical connection between drumming and politics; only it seems easier to take other discourses about religion or music more seriously than those regarding politics, just as it seems easier to be more relativist amongst the Azande than amongst ourselves. After all, as Michael Herzfeld (2001:118) observed, ‘evolutionist visions of politics die hard’, and, in fact, evolutionism’s power of resistance is still impressive within the political sphere – especially where the ethnographic study of the ‘intimacies of everyday life’ (ibid.:118) seems to impose itself, since the politicians ‘have a great deal to hide’ (ibid.:125). We now come to the most crucial matter: are we effectively capable of taking what the members of the blocks, terreiros or other forms of association have to say about politicians and about politics just as seriously as we do what they say about music and religion? This is, deep down, the main ambition of this book, and I hope I have managed, at least in part, to accomplish it, presenting an account that respects the sensibility of the political philosophy of the Afro-cultural militants of Ilhéus. I would like to observe that it seems significant to me that the conversation with the Workers’ Party politician – which allowed me to find a meaning for the drumming story and, chiefly, to use it towards what could be a truly anthropological approach to politics – returned to my mind in the form of a dream when this book was already in the planning stages. This could serve to discard the hypothesis of an almost insurmountable distance between the experience of fieldwork and ethnographic writing, which is still very much in fashion today. This hypothesis, derived from a shy and positivist concept of writing, conceals what any writer knows: that the act of writing modifies both that which is written and the one who is writing. In anthropology, the reading of field notes, the immersion into collected material and especially ethnographic writing itself, all revive the fieldwork and make us affected once again. On the other hand, the effect of the dream on my work also reveals that, upon being relived during the ethnographic writing, the de-territorialization suffered in the field can lead to the discovery of a new ground on which to re-territorialize oneself. This ground is represented firstly by the ethnography itself, but it can also form part of the life of the ethnographer. Although the fact of having heard the drumming does not appear to have greatly altered my relationship with the supernatural, the same cannot be said of my relationship with politics. As hard as it may be to frankly admit, I am certain that, after Ilhéus, the latter has never been the same to me.

INTRODUCTION

The anthropology of politics and an ethnographic theory of democracy

 It took a long time to write this book and it is the result of an investigation that also probably took longer than it should have done. The reasons for this delay are at least partly due to some common characteristics of much of the anthropological research that is done in Brazil: a discontinuous rhythm of fieldwork and relatively short visits interspersed over a vast period of time. I was in Ilhéus for the first time in 1982; I returned for three months in the summer of 1983, when I undertook field research in the Matamba Tombenci Neto terreiro, which supplied me with part of the material used in my Masters dissertation regarding ritual and trance in Candomblé (Goldman 1984). I never lost contact with the people from the terreiro or with the city itself, but it was only in 1996 that I returned to the field, spending almost two months in Ilhéus for that year’s municipal elections. After that, I was there for about five months between 1998 and 1999, before and after the national elections; three months between September and December 2000 for the new municipal elections; one month in December 2001; one month between February and March 2002; two weeks in 2003; and two weeks in 2004. If we add it all up, even omitting the oldest period in 1983, we would have almost one year of fieldwork – divided, however, across no less than five distinct periods. We can add to this intermittency a small accident I suffered whilst in the field in October 2000, which left me practically immobile for almost a month. The accident forced me to propose to Marinho Rodrigues that he become my research assistant, an offer he joyously accepted and performed with enviable competence. For several reasons this situation has continued to this day, which means that I continually receive information from Ilhéus, either via telephone

14

Introduction

or, more commonly, long cassette tape recordings. Given Marinho’s admirable abilities as an observer, this information is of the highest quality. I therefore possess data relating to the political involvement of the Afrocultural movement in Ilhéus over a period of 20 years, although for some of this period the information is relatively superficial. In this sense, this is an ethnography in ‘motion’, and a ‘cumulative, long-term involvement’ with the studied group, in the sense that Ramos (1990:459) gives to these expressions.7 I completely agree with Eduardo Viveiros de Castro (1999:183–6) when he affirms that this style of fieldwork is not in opposition to the ‘traditional type of Malinowskian ethnography’ nor does it completely discard it, and the idea of extended fieldwork is neither mystical nor simply ideal. On a less academic note, I have always imagined that the fieldwork techniques which I ended up using in Ilhéus, without much or even any planning, were very similar to what is termed in Candomblé gathering leaves (catar folhas): someone who wishes to learn the ins-and-outs of Candomblé should quickly give up any hope of receiving ready-made, finished lessons from some master; on the contrary, they should patiently, over many years, join together (gather) details (the ‘leaves’) that they find here and there with the hope that at some point a plausible synthesis will be produced. Thus, it was only in 2000 that I managed to carry out my first recorded interview, and only a few more would follow. Much in the same way, I never took notes in front of my so-called informants. On the one hand, this is partially because no one was merely an informant, an infamous term that anthropology shares with the police. The fact is that I was often interviewing friends (with whom I did not feel comfortable in the role of researcher), and interlocutors, in the broader sense of the word, people with whom I engaged in dialogue, agreed and disagreed with, sharing our respective points of view. On the other hand, I believe that anthropological fieldwork does not rely on these interviews, even though these may serve to complement information obtained through other channels, but this always happens at the end stages of the research, when the ethnographer already has a certain amount of control over the facts and their relationships with their informants.8 These other channels have always been the intense and almost daily shared existence with members of the black movement in Ilhéus. Furthermore, given the segmentary nature of this movement, it was necessary and inevitable that this shared existence be differentiated. The views regarding politics that this book attempts to reclaim, and with which it intends to create a discussion, do not relate to any generic native, black or working class, or people from Ilhéus or Bahia or Brazil, or a mixture of any of these. They are concerning real, concrete people, each possessing their own particularities and, above all, their own agency and creativity.9

The anthropology of politics and an ethnographic theory of democracy

15

I would also like to warn that this does not have anything to do with any kind of post-modern revelation: as José Guilherme Magnani (1986:129–30) reminded me some time ago, Malinowski, as early as 1916, not only criticized the unsustainable presupposition of the existence of a ‘native opinion’,10 but also revealed that it is precisely this diversity of opinion that allows the ethnographer to reconstruct what he termed ‘invisible facts’ (Malinowski 1935, vol. 1:317). The idea of representation is in fact problematic (Magnani 1986:127–8) and fieldwork is above all ‘the constructive or creative aspect of sociological observations’, for ethnographic facts ‘do not exist’ and we need a ‘method of discovering invisible facts by constructive inference’ (Malinowski 1935, vol. 1:317). In this sense, if history is written, as described by Paul Veyne (1984: chapter 8),11 by ‘retrodiction’ – in other words, by filling in, a posteriori, gaps in information made possible by new discoveries and by comparison – Malinowskian ethnography would be a kind of inter-diction (in the old sense of say between). Ethnographers should articulate the different discourses and partial practices (in the double sense of the word partial, meaning both incomplete and also interested) they observe, without achieving any kind of totalization or complete synthesis. Everything happens in a similar fashion to a story told by Malinowski himself. In the Trobriand Islands, different magical formulas are owned by different families, and each family possesses a limited number of these formulas. Owing to professional related duties, the anthropologist happens to collect the largest possible number of these formulas, which in this case meant that Malinowski became the owner of the greatest number of magical formulas on the islands. But this did not mean much because it is more important to have a formula that no-one else has, and this could obviously not happen with the anthropologist. In any case, this is always the way things happen in the field: our knowledge is different from ‘local knowledge’ not because it is more objective, totalizing or true, but simply because we decide a priori to attribute the same value to all of the stories we hear. This inter-diction does not mean that, in the field, we can or even should try to establish the same type of relationship with everyone. If, as we will see, the black movement of Ilhéus is marked by segmentarity, the same thing seems to happen with the relationships that I was able to build with its militants. Within the most restricted circle would be Marinho Rodrigues and Jaco Santana.12 Following them, distributed in concentric circles: Dona Ilza Rodrigues and her sons and daughters (and their respective nuclear families); some members of the local section of the Workers’ Party; other members of the Dilazenze, of Tombenci and residents of the neighbourhood of Conquista (where the terreiro is located); black militants of the Afro-cultural movement; black militants of the political faction and some professional politicians,

16

Introduction

Figure 4 From left to right: Marcio da Lua, Jaco Santana, Ninho Rodrigues (standing), Marinho Rodrigues and Ney Rodrigues (foreground).

whether black or not; and other politicians and inhabitants of Ilhéus. With some of these people, my relationships were – and some still are – very intense; with others, less so; and in some cases, they were limited to only a few superficial encounters. The research that led to this book has always aspired to the status of an anthropological investigation of the politics in Ilhéus, which I believe means that its principal claim is a search for a native point of view (and not the native’s point of view). Over the last few years, this issue has been developing into an object of controversy that is so large that we must take a moment to give it some consideration. It is likely that Clifford Geertz is mainly responsible for this controversy, with the idea, widely held today, that there is a kind of anthropological mainstream around fieldwork and ethnography. A mainstream that would sustain, in short, that fieldwork would depend on an identification of the anthropologist with the natives. This would allow the anthropologist to capture their point of view, and also – as some of Geertz’s students would add – to represent the society being studied with ethnographic authority. Going against the idea that ethnography has been conditioned by a special kind of sensibility that would allow the ethnographer to think, feel and perceive like the natives, Geertz wrote his famous 1974 essay about ‘the native’s point of view’. He argues that ethnography depends more on the capacity to situate oneself at a middle distance between more concrete ‘experiencenear’ concepts and more abstract ‘experience-distant’ ones, rather than on

The anthropology of politics and an ethnographic theory of democracy

17

the ability to make any kind of identification: ‘an interpretation of the way a people lives which is neither imprisoned within their mental horizons, an ethnography of witchcraft as written by a witch, nor systematically deaf to the distinctive tonalities of their existence, an ethnography of witchcraft as written by a geometer.’ (Geertz 1983:57). In this sense, it is an inescapable fact that the ethnographer is a foreign observer, able to grasp realities as objects to which natives are relatively, but not necessarily, blind, thus guaranteeing the possibility of ethnography. However, ethnography should consist in the investigation of mediations, which stand between the natives and their social experiences, thus allowing the analysis of different symbolic forms through which the natives express themselves.13 I confess that these conceptions of fieldwork and ethnography seem to me to be more the product of the criticism itself than of a previously existing reality. Much like absolute relativism or the authority of anthropologists regarding the groups they study, the idea of the ethnographer’s total identification with their natives appears to be one of these overly evoked figures that are actually never seen in the history of the discipline. And if the theme is in fact often mentioned – whether to signal a mortal risk to a discipline with scientific pretensions or to celebrate the merits of a humanistic endeavour – it is never accompanied by concrete examples. Nevertheless, the central problem here is not so much that ‘going native’ is impossible or ridiculous, but that it is a futile and useless idea. Geertz’s reflections are directed towards Malinowski and his participant observation. I think it is necessary to recognize that this idea is not as clear as it may seem. The celebrated Introduction to Argonauts of the Western Pacific, in fact, suggests that ‘in this type of work, it is good for the Ethnographer sometimes to put aside camera, note book and pencil, and to join in himself in what is going on’ (Malinowski 1922:21). But it is difficult to believe that Malinowski was merely saying that participant observation would consist in taking part in the “natives’ games” or dancing with them. On the contrary, by converting the old ‘veranda’ anthropology (Stocking Jr. 1983) into effective fieldwork, Malinowski appears to have initiated a movement within anthropology very similar to that of Freud in psychiatry: instead of interrogating hysterics or natives, both decided to let them speak freely. The meaning of participant observation, is much more the capture of actions and discussions in the act rather than an improbable metamorphosis into the native. And the latter, contrary to the hysteric, does not seek out nor is taken to the anthropologist’s office, and so fieldwork becomes a necessity. It is likely that the pages of Coral Gardens and their Magic in which Malinowski discusses ‘the method of field-work and the invisible facts of

18

Introduction

native law and economics’ (Malinowski 1935, vol. 1:317–40) and exposes his ‘confessions of ignorance and failure’ (ibid., vol.1:452), just as those upon which he elaborates his ‘ethnographic theory of language’ (ibid. vol. 2:3–74) and his ‘ethnographic theory of the magic word’ (ibid. vol. 2:211), are much more important to a proper understanding of the ‘magic of the ethnographer’ than those which are much more well known or at least more referenced from the Introduction to Argonauts. It is in Coral Gardens, with the notion of ethnographic theory, which seems strange at first, in which Malinowski appears to respond in advance to some of the criticism of the 1970s. An ethnographic theory, from his point of view, would neither confuse itself with a native theory (always full of life, but too stuck on the everyday vicissitudes, the necessities of justifying and rationalizing the world as it seems to be, always difficult to transplant onto another context), nor with what Malinowski would later come to call ‘a scientific theory of culture’ (whose grandeur and scope are only paralleled by its anaemic and not very informative character). In avoiding the risks of subjectivism and of partiality on the one hand, and of objectivism and arrogance on the other, Malinowski seems to have discovered ‘the great centre. Not the centre in the sense of a timid point that carefully avoids extremes, no, but a firm centre that holds both extremes in a remarkable balance’ (Kundera 1999:74). It is important not to confuse matters here. The difference between native, ethnographic and scientific theories does not rest upon a judicious allocation of errors and truths, nor upon a supposed greater coverage of the latter, but upon differences of degree and scale, of programmes of truth, as Paul Veyne would say. Veyne also says that it all comes down to a choice to explain a lot of things, but ‘badly’, or to explain ‘a few things, but to explain them well’ (Veyne 1984:170). In other words, the choice is between a historical or human explanation, which actually consists in rendering explicit, and a scientific or praxiological explanation.14 Consequently, an ethnographic theory sets out to explain (in the sense of making something explicit) many things, and the most that can be aspired to is that it is done reasonably well. The central objective of an ethnographic theory is to build a model of understanding of some social object (language, magic, politics etc.) that, even when produced within and for a particular context, can work as a matrix of intelligibility within and for other contexts. In this sense, it allows us to overcome known paradoxes of the particular and the general, just as perhaps, we can overcome those of practices against norms or those of realities in opposition to ideals. This is because we are attempting to avoid abstract questions about structures, functions or even processes, and direct them toward workings and practices.15

The anthropology of politics and an ethnographic theory of democracy

19

Thus, if the ultimate objective of this book is to outline an ethnographic theory of politics or of democracy, it is not because it limits itself to a particular city, its elections and its black movements, putting to one side the more general and abstract levels. An ethnographic theory proceeds a little in the style of Lévi-Strauss’ pensée sauvage: it employs the very concrete elements collected in the field – and by other means – in an attempt to articulate them as more abstract propositions, capable of bestowing intelligibility upon the events of the world.16 Here, then, this book attempts to develop and elaborate a matrix of intelligibility to provide a better understanding of our own political system. For this, we must certainly return to more concrete events, but also to perspicacious native theories and to more abstract formulations when they are useful. If Malinowski was able to focus on the pragmatic dimensions of human language in general, this is undoubtedly due to the fact that he elaborated an ethnographic theory of language from the Trobriand Islands material, in which the close relationship between word and magic allows the researcher to perceive, with more clarity than in other contexts, the performative character of human language. The same could be said of the relationship between a theory of reciprocity and the Kula or the potlatch, or between a theory of segmentarity and the lineages of the Nuer, Tallensi and Dinka. Within a context in which the values, beliefs and ideologies that support, obscure or neutralize the evident contradictions and dysfunctions of our political system are less distinctively marked, an ethnographic theory of politics or democracy has the virtue of being able to reveal the effective workings of the system with more clarity. Beyond this, but no less importantly, it can also help to suspend value judgements, almost inevitable when a theme so central to our lives is subjected to critical analysis. Echoes of these Malinowskian positions have always been present in anthropological discussions about the place of fieldwork and of ethnography in practice. Interestingly, these echoes have been better elaborated outside of the imaginary mainstream criticized by Geertz and later by the postmodernists, and also outside the realm of his own criticism. For, if intensive fieldwork is a requirement of anthropology, and without sounding too nominalist, I believe it is necessary to admit that ‘fieldwork’ has different meanings within the history of the discipline. For example, we can imagine it as a simple technique – a way of obtaining information that rightfully, even if not actually, could be obtained by other means (and it is this that appears to happen in the aforementioned ‘veranda anthropology’); or we could define fieldwork as a method, with the implication that this information could only be obtained in this way. But we could also follow Lévi-Strauss and say that it is the discipline’s own epistemological characteristics that demand field experience.

20

Introduction

‘While sociology seeks to advance the social science of the observer’, wrote Lévi-Strauss (1974:363), ‘anthropology seeks to advance that of what is observed’. ‘Sociology is always closely linked with the observer’ (ibid.:362) and, even when it takes a different society as its object or when it seeks ‘to interpret human experience as a whole’, it adopts ‘the observer’s point of view’ and it is from this point of view that sociology tries to broaden its own perspective. By contrast, anthropology elaborates a social science of the observed, adopting a native point of view or a ‘frame of reference based on ethnographical experience and independent both of the observer and of what he is observing’ (ibid.:362–3). It is in this sense that Lévi-Strauss can also write that the distinction between history and anthropology is due less to the absence of writing in societies studied by anthropologists than to the fact that ‘the anthropologist is above all interested in unwritten data, not so much because the people he studies are incapable of writing, but because that with which he is principally concerned differs from everything men ordinarily think of recording on stone or on paper’.17 Anthropology would develop, therefore, ‘methods and techniques appropriate to the study of activities which remain […] imperfectly conscious on all the levels where they are expressed’ (Lévi-Strauss 1974:24). It is because of this that fieldwork can not be merely considered ‘the goal of his profession, or a completion of his schooling, or yet a technical apprenticeship – but a crucial stage of his education, prior to which he may possess miscellaneous knowledge that will never form a whole’ (Lévi-Strauss 1974:373). This would represent to the anthropologist what analysis represents to the psychoanalyst: the only way of producing a synthesis of knowledge obtained in a fragmented way and the condition for a true understanding of other field experiences. This concept of fieldwork as a type of process (or work, in the psychoanalytic sense of the term) points to two issues which are generally pushed aside both by ethnographers when they reflect on their experiences, and by those who criticize them without ever having gone through such experiences. The first is that ethnographers are, or should be, modified by the experience. Limiting themselves, therefore, to commenting retrospectively on the effects of their presence upon the natives, weaving abstract commentaries about their fieldwork, they seem to reveal a certain sense of superiority: invulnerable, anthropologists traverse the ethnographic experience without seriously modifying themselves, believing themselves still capable of evaluating from the outside everything that might have happened. It would be better to heed the Lévi-Straussian warning: ‘it is never either himself, nor is it the other whom he [the ethnographer] encounters at the end of his investigation’ (LéviStrauss 1983:8).

The anthropology of politics and an ethnographic theory of democracy

21

This perspective regarding fieldwork and ethnography seems to fit in very closely with the structuralist idea that each society actualizes human virtualities that are universal and, therefore, potentially present in other societies. In this sense, natives are not simply perceived as that which we were (as occurs in evolutionism), or as that which we are not (as occurs in functionalism), or even as those who we could be (as occurs in culturalism): rather, they are what we are, even if partially and incompletely (and vice-versa, of course). Now, if we adopt a slightly different point of view, we can perhaps be more direct and say that fieldwork and ethnography should stop being considered as simple observational processes (of behaviours or of conceptual frameworks), or as forms of conversion (assuming the point of view of the other), or as a type of substantial transformation (‘going native’). Practising ethnography could be initially understood under the concept of devenir (‘becoming’) – as long as we are capable of clearly understanding what constitutes this act of becoming-native.18 In an attempt to briefly summarize the concept of becoming, which he coined with Deleuze, Guattari wrote that: It is a term relative to the economy of desire. The fluxes of desire proceed by affects and becomings, regardless of whether or not they could be folded around people, images, identifications. Thus, an individual anthropologically labelled as masculine can be traversed by multiple and apparently contradictory becomings: becoming-women coexisting with becomingchild, becoming-animal, becoming-invisible etc. 

(Guattari 1986b:288).

This means that becoming has nothing to do with similarity, imitation or identification; it has nothing to do with formal relationships or with substantial transformations: ‘This is not an analogy, or a product of the imagination, but a composition of speeds and affects’ (Deleuze and Guattari 2005:258). Becoming, in fact, is the movement by which a subject departs from their own condition by means of a relationship of affects that can be established with another condition. These affects do not quite have the sense of emotions or feelings, but simply that which affects, reaches, modifies: a becoming-horse, for example, does not mean that I have become a horse or that I psychologically identify with the animal: it means that ‘what happens to a horse can also happen to me’ (ibid.:155), and that these affects compose, decompose or modify an individual, ‘augmenting or diminishing its power to act’ (ibid.:256). It is in this sense that ‘there is a reality of becoming-animal, even though one does not in reality become animal’ (ibid.:273).

22

Introduction

It is also important to understand the status of the following two conditions: that from which one exits and that through which one exits. It is only possible to exit, or escape, from a majority; this term does not signify, however, ‘a greater relative quantity’, but ‘a state or a standard in relation to which larger quantities, as well as the smallest, can be said to be minoritarian’ (ibid.:291). In other words, Deleuze and Guattari attempt to distinguish the merely quantitative idea of a majority from the normative and evaluative idea of the ‘greater’ or the ‘majoritarian’.19 In correlation, the minority should not be confused with the minoritarian and, while the former is simply a smaller quantity, the latter is that which escapes, which deviates from the pattern, which becomes: ‘it is important not to confuse ‘minoritarian’ as a becoming or process, with a ‘minority’ as an aggregate or a state’ (ibid.). It is in this sense that becoming-native, for example, does not mean to become native, which, if possible,20 would result in simply leaving one state (the majority) to fall into another (the minority). But it is also in this sense that we realize that one can only escape from majority states by way of minorities, since, in the act of avoiding the majority, every minority behaves as a becoming-minority, even if these minorities are, principally, only ‘seeds, crystals of becoming, whose value is to trigger uncontrollable movements and deterritorializations of the mean or majority’ (ibid.:106). A becoming-native, therefore, implies a double movement: a line of flight in relation to a standard-state (majority) by means of a non-standard state (minority), without this meaning ‘one allows oneself to be reterritorialized, on a minority as a state’ (ibid.:321), and, on the contrary, being able to build new existential territories where one can reterritorialize oneself. As such, becoming is what rends us not only from ourselves but also from every possible substantial identity. It is because of this that Deleuze and Guattari (ibid.:291–2) insist upon the fact that becoming also affects the medium: that which becomes – or, to be more precise, that by means of which a becoming constitutes itself – also becomes something else, which means that becomingnative is related to a becoming-other of the native.21 In the field, everything happens as in the intense field experience of Jeanne Favret-Saada (198022) when studying witchcraft in the French Bocage. This is not simply, as the author observed, to appeal to participant observation: having always adopted a psychological and rationalist conception of participation (as identification or understanding, terms which imply distance and separation), anthropology would have been led to retain only observation, thus generating a ‘disqualification of the indigenous word’ and a ‘promotion of the ethnographer’. On the contrary, to participate – FavretSaada continues – means the need of the ethnographer to accept being affected by the indigenous experience, which ‘does not imply that he identifies

The anthropology of politics and an ethnographic theory of democracy

23

himself with the indigenous point of view, nor that he takes advantage of the field experience to feed his own narcissism’ (Favret-Saada 1990:7). This means, above all, letting oneself be affected by the same forces that affect the natives, not to put oneself in their place or develop any kind of empathy in relation to them. It does not, therefore, have anything to do with emotional apprehension or cognition of the other’s affects, but rather to be affected by something that affects them, and in this way to establish with them a certain modality of relation, granting ‘an epistemological status to these situations of involuntary and non-intentional communication’ (ibid.:9). It is precisely by not granting ‘epistemological status’ to these situations that ‘participant observation’ is more of an obstacle than a solution.23

 This book follows the intellectual and existential contingencies and choices that have marked the research from which it originated. But it also follows the choices (made explicit in the second chapter) which marked the intellectual trajectory of its author, much like the recent political history of Brazil, in relation to which this work ran in a strangely parallel way. In an academic meeting that took place early on in the research I argued, somewhat pretentiously, that the objective of an anthropological study of politics should consist, ultimately, of an elaboration of a perspective of our own political system, equivalent to that described, for example, by Evans-Pritchard regarding the Nuer, thus analysing democracy as part of what we could call Western Political Systems. I was immediately asked if this position was perhaps too risky, since it seemed to assume or advocate some kind of relativization of democracy, which, according to the person I was speaking to, would present a serious ethical and political danger.24 We should recognize from the start that this stance appears entirely understandable within a Brazilian context. After all, the recent history of the country is usually told as a difficult fight for its (re)democratization. After an unstable post-war democratic experience, the country was plunged into a two-decade long military dictatorship. It emerged, slowly and gradually, with the political liberalization undertaken by the self-same military regime, which culminated in an election, albeit indirect, of a civil president and, in 1989, with the first direct election after almost thirty years. As fate would have it, the newly elected president was soon faced with impeachment proceedings and this, in practice, meant that the 1994 elections, with the choice between an intellectual with socio-democratic tendencies and a long-time opponent of the military regime, came to be seen as the milestone of establishing full democracy.

Introduction

24

Boa Vista AMAPA

Macapa Belem Sao Luis

Manaus

Parnaiba

Fortaleza CEARA AMAZONAS

Maraba PARA

MARANHAO

RIO GRANDE DO NORTE

Teresina

Carajas

Natal

Araguaina

PARAIBA

PIAUI ACRE

Rio Branco

PERNAMBUCO

Porto Velho

Joao Pessoa Recife ALAGOAS

Palmas

Maceio

TOCANTINS

Aracaju

RONDONIA

SERGIPE

BAHIA

MATO GROSSO

Salvador

ILHEUS

GOIAS

Cuiaba

Brasilia Goiania

DISTRITO FEDERAL MINAS GERAIS

Belo Horizonte

Campo Grande MATO GROSSO DO SUL

PARANA

ESPIRITO SANTO

Vitoria

SAO PAULO

Sao Paulo

RIO DE JANEIRO

Rio de Janeiro

Curitiba SANTA CATARINA RIO GRANDE DO SUL

Map 1

Florianopolis

Porto Alegre

A political map of Brazil, with the position of Ilhéus highlighted.

The problem was that Fernando Henrique Cardoso not only allied himself to some of the forces that had supported the military regime, but also that he manoeuvred to win a constitutional amendment that would allow his re-election in 1998. As a result, some argue, true (re)democratization would only happen in 2002, with the election of Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva – trade unionist, leader of an unarguably left-wing party, and always in the opposition. However, the Workers’ Party, like its predecessor, in order to get itself elected, and principally to govern, ended up allying itself with parties and politicians which it had always striven to differentiate itself from and, furthermore, it implemented policies and employed methods that could only be reconciled with the historical positions of the party through the unbelievable rhetoric of professional politicians. It is perfectly understandable that, against a narrative backdrop woven around ‘redemocratization’, even those who believe that Brazil still does not have a perfect democratic regime distrust any attempt, real or perceived, to ‘relativize’ democracy. Of course, others oppose this type of narrative, insisting

The anthropology of politics and an ethnographic theory of democracy

Map 2

Ilhéus.

25

26

Introduction

on the antidemocratic stance assumed by the elite and the media regarding the imperfections of an outdated electoral system, the inconsistency of political parties and the lack of political education amongst the poor. Regardless, the point is that all of these narratives have a negative aspect in common, in the sense that the reasons for the detected problems always refer to the lack of some element taken as essential: ‘rationality, information, party tradition and organization, governmental efficiency, etc.’ (see Goldman and Sant’Anna 1995:22). Thus, it appears to have been necessary for a member of their group to come into power for the intellectuals to begin to realize that they could politically behave in the same way that they imagined only common voters could (justifying their vote according to the personal qualities of their candidate; rationalizing a subsequent profound change of their political positioning; defending, in the name of superior interests, certain doctrines or status quos etc.). It appears to have been equally necessary for a leftist President to be elected for us to realize that his options could be quite different from those we imagined or would like to have imagined. It is in the sense of overcoming these obstacles – in part derived from the central place that democracy occupies in the sectors of our society which, in general, the intellectuals are a part of – that an anthropological undertaking of politics should tread. This is not simply about relativizing, nor about believing or not believing in democracy. As Velho astutely observed (1995:172), the power for criticism of relativism seems very limited and it is perhaps necessary. In truth, it comes down to not being overly naive or apologetic, nor insufficiently anthropological, and to recognize that, being a political system like any other, ours is also liable to critical analysis.25 The greatest compliment that can be made of democracy is the old adage which states that it is the worst political system in existence, with the exception of all the others that have been tried. However, this does not change anything if we intend to analyse it as anthropologists, leaving us simply with the search for the best means to do so, for it is clear that this anthropological analysis of democracy can be done in different ways. If the object of investigation at the beginning of my fieldwork, from an anthropological point of view, was politics in Ilhéus, it soon transformed into politics in Ilhéus in terms of the relationships maintained with politicians by the black movement, or the way in which party politics focuses upon the black movement within the city, blurbs which appear more adequate to an anthropological study. It was necessary to take an extra step to realize that there was something more at stake and that a truly anthropological study of politics and the black movement in Ilhéus should not consist of the study of the movement itself, or of the politics of the city, nor of the study of the relations between them. Rather, it should consist of an analysis of the official politics of

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27

the city orientated by the sceptical perspective that the black movement has in regards to it. What may seem to be simple nuance is actually a fundamental issue, since it relies on crucial methodological and epistemological options – though initially somewhat involuntarily – which open other perspectives to the understanding of politics itself, as a whole and in its most official sense. If anthropology developed by seeking to study other societies from a point of view inherent to them, one of the difficulties of the discipline when returning to a study of the society of the observer seems to be its incapacity to simultaneously maintain the decentralization of perspective which always characterized the discipline and the capacity to account for effectively structuring social variables. Therefore, to be faithful to the first imperative, within the society of the analyst we look for phenomena that have some distance or alterity in the face of dominant forces. Or, on the contrary, trying to obey the second principle, we concentrate the investigation on centres of powers and strive to bring the studied facts to forms which anthropology traditionally favoured. In the first case, the ever-lurking danger is that of conferring an almost exclusive privilege to so-called marginal phenomena or dimensions, in other words, being incapable of making broader processes of organization intelligible. In the second case, we can end up adopting a perspective too attuned with the dominant one (causing the loss of originality in the anthropological approach) or beginning to treat as exotic or inessential that which is structural. In the case of studies about politics, the risks involved are the privileging of picturesque but secondary details of the political involvement of the studied groups; the mimesis of political science or even of the politicians’ points of view; and the reduction of the complex political game to rituals, cosmologies or forms of reciprocity – terms which, much as anthropologists try to deny, always tend to weaken the centrality and efficacy of certain facts when studied amongst us. It was probably Bruno Latour who most recently rubbed salt in the wound of the so-called anthropology of complex societies. Upon suggesting that anthropologists ‘show boldness towards others, timidity towards themselves’ (Latour 1993:101), Latour denounces the error of the anthropology of our own society in imagining that we can only study what remained ‘primitive’ within ourselves. But the ‘great repatriation’, he says, ‘cannot stop there’ and it is necessary to begin studying the central dimensions of our society (ibid.:100). The problem is that, in the face of this observation, an anthropologist inevitably tends to raise the question that Latour does not: central dimensions for whom?26 For the black militants of Ilhéus can perfectly recognize the importance of politics in the sense in which it affects their lives, but they would never agree to consider it central: music, religion or work would certainly be much more important. To remain faithful to a native point of

28

Introduction

view, would it therefore be necessary to renounce the capacity of providing a more global intelligibility? Or, to achieve such an intelligibility, would it be necessary to treat a native perspective as simply part of the object and explain it in terms of our own point of view, taken as superior? We can also observe that this apparently unsolvable dilemma appears with an even greater force when we take into account dimensions that we (speaking of intellectuals in general) consider central. This means that it might be necessary to recognize that if the more traditional practice of anthropologists usually puts them in confrontation with situations in which, either by conviction or simple professionalism, they should behave as sceptics who come face-to-face with people, groups or even entire societies which they conceive, to a greater or lesser degree, as believers, there are situations (and the case of politics is exemplary here) in which everything seems to happen in a very different way. What would be the effects of an inversion of this nature – when our informants show themselves to be sceptics and the anthropologists are more or less credulous, leaving aside for now the idea that credulity and scepticism are objective data, methodological assumptions or even ethnocentric projections – for the study of institutions, values or processes which anthropologists consider central to their own society? It thus seems to me that another possibility for so-called anthropology of complex societies would be to maintain the traditional focus of the discipline in institutions regarded as central and to search, by means of a kind of ‘ethnographic detour’, for a decentralized point of view. That is, if, as claimed by Herzfeld (2001:5), the characteristic of anthropology is the investigation of that which is ‘marginal’ in relation to centres of power, it is necessary to admit that such marginality could find itself not only in phenomena themselves, but also, and perhaps primarily, in the perspectives around them. Not surprisingly, the opinion of most members of the Afro-cultural movement in Ilhéus in relation to politicians is entirely negative. But that which caused confusion or even indignation in the beginning of the investigation – the often repeated assertions that all politicians and all parties are the same; the certainty that no electoral result will be capable of altering the destiny of the poor; the fact that, in exchange for small material rewards, very poor people are able to vote for, and support, the same people that exploit them – can be used in a productive way. Therefore, it is necessary instead to consider native practices (discursive and non-discursive) regarding dominant political processes as real political theories produced by observers who are sufficiently displaced from the object to produce truly alternative visions, and to use these practices and theories as guides for anthropological analysis. As Barreira and Palmeira suggest (1998:8), the proliferation of theories that we find in the field of electoral studies is provided, in general, by

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29

sacrificing native representations. Furthermore, perhaps it is necessary to expand the theoretical movement that, over the past few years, has shown the necessity to treat our theories as social representations, adding another movement capable of recognizing the reflective, and theoretical, dimension of social representations. In the nineteenth century the fact that these native theories did not present the character of closed and coherent systems could perhaps have been used to deny their truly theoretical nature. Today, however – when even the exact and natural sciences have abandoned this idea of theory, replacing it with open and flexible systems – the objection has lost its force and could only be maintained as unjustifiable prejudice.27 Furthermore, in the specific case of politics, an additional reason could be invoked in favour of the appreciation of native theories. As Michel Foucault observed, one of the great innovations which appeared in the 1960s was what he called the ‘insurrection of subjugated knowledges’ (Foucault 1980a:81), whether in the sense of the memory of certain forms of resistance that theoretical formalizations tend to mask, in favour of what they consider the only true fights (usually those caught up in the great scenarios of electoral dispute or the working-class movement), or in the existence of local knowledge which tends to be discredited by official knowledge. The ‘association between the buried knowledges of erudition and those disqualified from the hierarchy of knowledges and sciences’ (ibid.:82) would thus allow the ‘reactivation of local knowledges – of minor knowledges, as Deleuze might call them – in opposition to the scientific hierarchisation of knowledges and the effects intrinsic to their power’ (ibid.:85).

 Instead of addressing politics in itself and for itself, this is an attempt, in Foucauldian terms (1980b:101–2) to try to decode it by means of filters from other social fields. In some ways, this work of decodification could be the very definition of a political anthropology in the strictest sense, although the expression has historically meant very different things. The embodiment of politics as an object or an area within anthropology tends to be thought of as having supposedly only occurred in the 1940s. However, I think that the question of power has always been at the centre of anthropology from the very beginning of the discipline. And not just because political issues motivated what would come to be considered as founding works (Kuper 1988) but mainly because anthropology came together from a ‘great division’ separating ‘political’ and ‘non-political’ societies (see Clastres 1987, particularly chapter 1).28 The former, and particularly Western, state societies, would be territorially organized and would be founded on a contract between

30

Introduction

free individuals who would concede their sovereignty to those who would represent them. The second, ‘stateless’, ‘primitives’ etc., would be organized on the basis of blood relationships and by groups whose status rested on kinship, lineage and alliance. All of this is well known. Insofar as the incipient anthropology assigned itself as an object precisely for ‘non-political’ societies, it must be underlined that it was from this isolation of the political (in the double sense of the word, meaning both delimited and segregated) that anthropology constructed its preferential objects: kinship, the substitute for the political in stateless societies; religion, derived from kinship by means of exogamy and of totemism; and, a little later, primitive economy, deduced from exogamy by means of exchange and reciprocity. Later, anthropology could, in this way, re-encounter the political, but first defining it only by its functions and, later, by its distribution. In the first case – which passes for the foundation of a political anthropology – we have a ‘substantivist’ definition, in the sense that politics is a socially specific domain or subsystem. In the 1940s, when the British structural-functionalists asserted the existence of the political in stateless societies, they still felt compelled to find an institution – lineages – which would fulfil the political functions which in other societies would be fulfilled by the apparatus of the state. It is much easier to denounce the ‘political philosophers’ as normative, evolutionist and ethnocentric, singing the praises of the ‘scientific study of political institutions [which] must be inductive and comparative’ (Evans-Pritchard and Fortes 1940:4–5), than to effectively escape from our spontaneous philosophies that consider the state or similar institutions as the very essence of politics.­ Criticism of this systemic and macroscopic model did not take long to arrive, and in the second half of the 1950s, its announcement could be heard: from Max Gluckman to the processualists, passing by Leach and by way of Marxist anthropology, the idea of politics as a specific area of social relations is substituted with the formalist principle (in the sense of the term used in economic anthropology) that politics is an aspect of any social relationship.29 This criticism certainly made new approaches to politics possible, carried out from an anthropological point of view and without the assumption that there would be some kind of particularity in politics thought of as a specific social subsystem. On the other hand, the generally microscopic character of this conception of power produced strange effects. Firstly, there is a certain risk of losing sight of the structuring nature of politics when applying this concept to any social relationship. Or, in an attempt to avoid this trap, a distancing of the anthropological perspective and taking refuge in the macroscopic models of

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sociology and political science – next to which anthropology would be a type of lesser, auxiliary discipline. However, the risks generated by the potentially sprawling character of a formalist conception of politics are much more serious: as Georges Balandier observed (1970:23), it tends to almost inevitably become ‘maximalist’, which means confusing the political and the social (in other words, everything that human beings do). The effect of this confusion is paradoxical: while substantivist conceptions of politics have always looked to relate what they conceive as a domain within society with its other dimensions (economy, kinship, religion etc.), political formalism has the unhelpful tendency to reduce all of these dimensions to relations of power and, in this way, to not investigate the total experience of which politics is only one aspect. Over the past few decades and under the argument of ‘de-substantializing’ politics, we have been watching an unparalleled reification of the political (see, especially, Swartz et al. 1966, and Swartz 1968). We should also observe that studies of political phenomena have occupied a central position in the development of anthropology in recent years. In the case of anthropology practised in Brazil, these studies have presented notable advancements, especially in the field that, in the middle of the 1990s, we agreed to call ‘anthropology of politics’. The term, coined by Moacir Palmeira (see, among others, Palmeira 1991, 1992; Palmeira and Heredia 1993, 1995; Palmeira and Goldman 1996; Barreira and Palmeira 1998), sought to avoid conceiving politics as a specific domain or process, objectively definable from the outside. On the contrary, it was an attempt to investigate phenomena related to that which, from a native point of view, is considered as political. In this sense, this book is certainly confluent with this development, and I would merely like to add a few observations. We cannot forget that approaching politics from a native point of view does not mean becoming imprisoned by local explanations, but means producing ethnographic theories that have at least three objectives. The first is to free ourselves from extrinsic questions raised by social reformers, revolutionaries or political scientists, since the relationship of interdependence that appears to exist between political science and our political system, especially representative democracy with its elections and voting systems, is well known. As with economics, political science never managed to resolve the dilemma between being a theoretical and critical form of knowledge, or merely a technique of social intervention and engineering. Moreover, from a native point of view, that which can be defined as political is always in relation to the rest of the lived experiences of the agents, which avoids the temptation of substantializing and literalizing the political. Finally, one should at least try to avoid the normative or prescriptive use of categories, projecting questions

32

Introduction

upon the studied contexts that are not relevant to them. Our problem is one of translation, not of imposition, and this, paradoxically, becomes complicated when we undertake research in the language we speak and in the society in which we live. Politics, for example, appears to be simultaneously an object (or a ‘native category’) and a concept. In truth, it is not, at least in its purest form, either of these two things. It is a historical device that allows us to cut out, articulate and reflect, in different ways, practices and lived experiences. Our job therefore consists not only of abstractly approaching native conceptions, but of grasping them in action. In other words, grasping them in the context in which they appear and in terms of the concrete modalities of their actualization and utilization, making the effort to restore the emic dimensions of these concepts to their limits. Secondly, an anthropology of politics should carefully avoid approaches made in negative terms – those which highlight the faults, absences, ideologies and manipulations. Often we imagine that politics is or should be something, and we are surprised because this definition or conception is not shared by the agents, thus attributing to us the task of analyzing a reality seen as strange simply because it was badly cut out.30 It is much like Marx’s reaction to the neo-Hegelians who could not comprehend how the real world did not conform to Hegel’s models: theoretical or ideological criticisms against the empirical state of things, or against supposed prejudices and stereotypes, cannot lead to the utter abandonment of the real. As Châtelet observed (1975:33–4) when emphasizing the ethnographic character of Capital, the only solution for those who do not believe that ‘history cannot be right’ is the direct observation of concrete activities of human beings and the elaboration of ethnographies. It is about rediscovering the (micro)sociological dimension of politics and the (micro)political dimension of sociology, escaping both a political science that turns its back on concrete social relations, and a sociology that avoids directly confronting relationships of power.31 Finally, a true anthropology of politics denies, as we have seen, the false distinction between the central and the peripheral. To this end, it submits this dichotomy to a native perspective, proceeding by expanding the field of analysis and including what is normally excluded from politics: factionalisms, segmentarities, and certainly social networks; but also kinship, religion, art, ethnicity etc. Its job is not to disclose supposed relationships between relatively autonomous subsystems; nor is it to reveal that behind all of this reside the hidden power relations that both motivate human beings and would also be the explanation of everything that they do. The task is much more modest: to avoid, as José Carlos Rodrigues warns (1992:52), ‘theories about power becoming theories with power’; to elaborate ethnographic theories capable of returning politics to the quotidian, ‘this type of universal tedium that exists

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in all cultures’ (Veyne 1996:248–50); to reinsert it into life and carefully avoid the over-interpretations and literalizations that, ultimately, are weapons of constituted power; finally, to at least attempt to catch a glimpse of that which, sometimes silently, always escapes this same quotidian framework.32

 The composition of this book reflects the contingencies and choices, whether theoretical or not, evoked above. I tried to avoid a linear, chronological order, attempting to edit the text in the cinematic sense of the word. This procedure led to the adoption of different presentational styles, depending on the materials used in each chapter, resulting in a bit of repetition of some of the information presented in different chapters. Thus, the first chapter takes place in 2002 (year of national elections), in what should have been the end of the research and outlines, from the appointment of Marinho Rodrigues as administrator of the Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus, a type of phenomenology of relations between the black movement and municipal government. To this end, it basically utilizes public events – which, in general, celebrate successful processes of co-optation – putting the black movement in contact with politics, such as, and especially, the speeches and commentaries that populate such events. In a kind of flashback, the second chapter returns to 1996, when the research for this book began. Starting from the relatively important role that the research itself played in the relationships which the black movement held that year with the electoral process, this chapter – mainly employing material from half-public and half-private meetings and encounters – explores the articulations and manoeuvres which make up the day-to-day of politics, and in which these movements of capture are rehearsed, acted out and negotiated. Inspired by a procedure used by Alfred Hitchcock in one of his films, the ethnographer is, in this chapter, as if divided in two: in the dubious task of participant observation, Paulo Rodrigues (my research assistant at the time) got the first half, and I got the second.33 This backwards chronology continues in the next chapter: based on a kind of fieldwork that took place retrospectively, looking to reconstruct and analyse the municipal elections of Ilhéus in 1992. Elections that, as we will see, are still taken by the black militants of the city as fundamental, since they had performed a central role in decisively contributing to the victory of one of the mayoral candidates in exchange for a promise to construct the Afro-Cultural Centre of Ilhéus – an almost paradigmatic case of the processes of capture which, as we will observe, constitute a type of unifying thread that runs through this book. The material used in this chapter, consequently, comes

Introduction

34

Figure 5 Part of the Rodrigues family in front of Dona Ilza’s house (standing in the background, Nidinha Rodrigues).

from some documentation and, principally, from the memory of the agents – both that aroused by direct interrogations and, especially, that which takes place in the day-to-day as a form of interpretation or justification of current events. The fourth chapter jumps forward to 2000, concentrating on the municipal elections that took place that year. From the research point of view, these simultaneously closed a cycle opened by the 1996 elections and opened a new cycle, already geared towards the 2004 elections. The ethnographer’s procedure of duplication ended up being used again, since, as I previously described, an accident left me practically immobilized for almost a month and this resulted in Marinho Rodrigues, one of the more active agents in the participatory process of the black movement within the electoral campaign, acting as a field researcher. The material used in this chapter comes from, in a large part, the excellent work carried out by Marinho. The fifth chapter backtracks again, returning to 1998 and 1999, and resumes the mapping of relationships of the black movement with politics. Following this, the description concentrates on the preparation, realization and results of the 1999 carnival – which, from the point of view of the black militants, marked a fundamental moment in the resumption of the activities of the blocks and the black groups of Ilhéus. The material used in this chapter almost exclusively comes from the intense fieldwork that I carried out, mainly with the Dilazenze, between September 1998 and March 1999 (which includes the national elections of 1998). It clearly reveals how the processes of capture

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35

are – or become – immanent to activities of resistance, those towards which people direct their energies and desires. The sixth and last chapter (a conclusion is completely out of the question), covers the years 2003 and 2004 (this, in part, a priori), taking the possible candidature of Marinho Rodrigues as local councillor as the central node of the described and analysed plot. Having spent very little time in Ilhéus throughout this period, the ethnography employed here was almost entirely carried out ‘at a distance’, once again by Marinho Rodrigues, basically consisting of the tape recordings that he sent me and of long telephone calls during which I would talk to him and to other people in Ilhéus. Finally, there is an appendix presenting a glossary of proper names, aiming to facilitate the reading of this book, attempting to prevent the reader from becoming lost in a narrative populated by names of people, places and institutions. The reader will also observe that the dates that demarcate the chapters are election years, or years of politics, as they say in Ilhéus and other places. As Michael Herzfeld (1985:94, 1992a:99) reminds us, politics in general, and local elections in particular, offer a privileged arena for the observation and analysis of social interactions, since, within them, actions, choices and negotiations are conducted in accordance with standards and values which are clearly always ‘of someone’ and ‘for someone’. These moments are not only adequate occasions for access to innumerable dimensions of politics and social life in general, but they also reveal multiple narrative possibilities which can highlight the causes and consequences of the elections themselves; the expression of opinions, interests and values of individuals and groups; the resultant data from direct observation; and, principally, the operation of the mechanisms of power in action. Several of these possibilities will be explored here. But the reader should likewise take into account the known, albeit relative, differences between municipal, state and national elections. For it is undoubtedly true that, at least in municipalities the size of Ilhéus, the former seem to have a superior power of mobilization, due to the proximity and harassment by the candidates and electoral canvassers, the greater emphasis given to local leaders, the requirement of clear positioning on the part of the voters, the fact that in general they start well before the proper election campaigns themselves, and that they produce social reorganization through alliances and oppositions that are made with the different existential territories of the local groups. All of this should not make us forget that the state elections and even the national ones are always narrowly intertwined with the municipal ones, be it due to the local politicians working as electoral canvassers for other politicians, or because they use these elections to increase their municipal

36

Introduction

power or to reinforce their support base, or because a politician who has state or national ambitions always tends to have municipal roots. I would like to make one last observation before concluding this introduction, which is already too long. Unlike some other occasions (for example, Goldman and Silva 1998:29), this book will use the real names and real nicknames of natives, informants and colleagues. Partly because, as an anonymous reviewer from Revista de Antropologia observed – who I greatly thank – ‘the mechanical use of fictitious names’ rarely actually serves ‘to preserve the identity of the cited people’, serving mainly, it seems to me, to protect the anthropologist. Thus, in her Master’s dissertation which I supervised, Ana Cláudia Cruz da Silva modified all of the names of the people in her ethnography – ‘as is customary and, especially, in light of an ethics of ethnography that requires the anonymity of informants’ (Silva 1998:15).34 On the opposing side, but also in Ilhéus, Miguel Vale de Almeida (1999:132, note 3) draws attention to the fact that he uses real names: ‘the fieldwork was conducted without “hidden agendas”, regarding public subjects and all of my interlocutors were informed of the nature of my work’. I do not believe, however, that either of these two apparent solutions are really satisfactory. In the first case, the characters in Silva’s narrative were not only very disappointed with the absence of their names in the dissertation, but also, after a few minutes of reading, were able to identify everyone involved. The second case – and even though the author added that the option of using real names ‘brings risks, once the boundaries between the private and the public are no longer consensual’ and that, ‘for this reason I censured some statements that could wound sensibilities’ (ibid.) – is the victim of some confusion. This is because it is true that, beyond failing to necessarily preserve anonymity, the procedure of using false names threatens to eliminate any ethnographic contribution to a text.35 In the case of this book, for example, the terreiro and the Afro block which serve as a stage for part of the narrative would disappear as such, the politicians would have other names, the city of Ilhéus would not exist (why not also Bahia or Brazil?), and so forth. This would lead to a complete loss of context, introducing an artificiality that would compromise not only the reading, but any subsequent work to be carried out in this same context. On the other hand, it is also true that, on certain occasions and for a few informants, anonymity should be maintained (even though, sometimes, informants demand, clearly or discreetly, that they want their names to be mentioned). I do not believe that there is a single solution for the problem, but any option rests on the ethical commitments that the anthropologist should assume and respect, answering for their violation, before their informants, before their colleagues, and also partially sharing the responsibility with their

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37

Figure 6 Historical center of Ilhéus.

readers. I do not believe that what is at stake are the ‘boundaries between the private and the public’, nor that this is about self-censorship. The truly central question was taken to the limit with the current trend of requiring the ‘informed consent’ of the natives. Imported from the biological sciences (within which this has meaning and value), this requirement presupposes a few points that may leave the anthropologist feeling a little sceptical: in the exact moment of investigation, the researcher already knows where he wants to go; that there exists such a thing as a rational individual (something anthropology has for a long time now dedicated itself to exorcizing), clearly informed of the likewise clear intentions of their equally rational interlocutor, and who, with complete freedom, decides to agree with the proposal presented to them; finally, and perhaps most importantly, that consent can free the investigator from their ethical compromises (since anything can be said once a signed consensus is in hand). I decided, therefore, to use the real names and to eliminate or mask in my narrative the events and judgements that, stemming from my ethnographic experience, I believed could come to be considered delicate, embarrassing or even offensive towards and for my friends in Ilhéus. Furthermore, I sought to show the text to a few of the people involved so that they could point out to me what they considered inadequate. Fully aware that none of this is perfect, I would like to pre-emptively apologize for any discomfort that I was unable to avoid. I would equally like to apologize, this time to the reader, for a few discrepancies that will certainly be found in the spelling of names, dates and

38

Introduction

even in a few facts presented in this book compared with previously published articles (Goldman 2000; 2001a; 2001b) and even with the original Portuguese version of this book. My only defence is to say that these small shifts seem to be an elemental part of the memories of individuals and groups involved in the narrative. As a large part of the material used here also comes from these memories, it is inevitable that it changed and will continue to change over time. Possibly the main difference is in respect to the name of the terreiro. In the original version of this book, it appears as Ewá Tombency Neto. Ewá is the Candomblé Ketu nation’s name for the orixá to which Dona Ilza is the ‘daughter’; Tombency, the name of the terreiro of her saint-mother; and Neto, which means grandson, was added because the first Tombency was the terreiro of the saint-mother of her saint-mother. From 2006, there was a marked tendency to stop using the Ketu names of divinities (and other things), preferring the use of their respective Angola nation names. Thus, the name Ewá practically stopped being used, and was substituted by Matamba, its Angola equivalent. At the same time, for reasons unknown to me, Tombency began to be spelled Tombenci. In the case of the name of the terreiro the modification was inevitable. However, throughout this book, I have retained the names of divinities (and some other expressions) according to how they are known and used in the Ketu nation. What authorizes me to do this is not only, I believe, the fact that these are the names most used in the literature and by the public in general, but mainly the fact that, in informal situations, the members of Tombenci usually do the same.

CHAPTER 1

2002 Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus

 On 6 December 2002, Jabes Ribeiro appointed Gilmário Rodrigues Santos as administrator of the Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus, on the southern coast of Bahia. Jabes, as he is known throughout the city, was at that time serving his third term as the mayor of Ilhéus. He was first elected in 1982 for a six year term; in 1996 he won the elections again; and in 2000 he was re-elected, which means that, over the span of twenty-two years, he governed the city for fourteen. If we add that between 1989 and 1992 – while Jabes held the post of Bahia State Labour Secretary within Waldir Pires’ government and, later, the seat of federal deputy – Ilhéus was governed by fellow party member João Lírio, we can conclude that Jabes controlled the politics of Ilhéus for eighteen of the last twenty-two years. Gilmário Rodrigues Santos – Marinho, as he is widely known – was at that time president of the Dilazenze Cultural Group and ex-president of the Conselho das Entidades Afro-Culturais de Ilhéus, abbreviated to CEAC or CEACI (Council of Afro-Cultural Entities of Ilhéus). The Dilazenze constitute one of a number of groups who call themselves ‘Afro blocks’. Organized in the same way as the blocks in Salvador (of which the Ilê Aiyê and the Olodum are probably the most well known), these blocks, beyond parading at carnival, hold other functions, which range from being a social meeting point for the black youth who are looking for recreational activities, to what they call social work with poorer communities. Marinho, who had been one of the founders of the Dilazenze in 1986, had been the president of the group since 1988 and had also participated – as vice-president, president and director – on the board of these Afro-Cultural organizations since the first of these was created

40

Figure 7 The entrance to the Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus.

2002

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in 1989, which means that he has been at the centre of the black movement of Ilhéus for almost twenty years.36 The ceremony, simultaneously celebrating his appointment and taking of office, took place at the 19 March Sporting Association, located on the street of the same name, across from Itabuna Avenue, the most important access road into Ilhéus. 19 de Março Street is located relatively close to the centre of the city and is also one of the many routes that lead to the Conquista neighbourhood, one of the main areas in which the black population of Ilhéus is concentrated and home to the majority of groups which make up the black movement of the city, including the Dilazenze. Founded in the 1960s, the 19 March Association is administrated by members of the black family that created it and who still own it to this day. It is, apparently, the last remaining of various domino clubs which used to exist in Ilhéus. Dominoes is an extremely popular game in all of southern Bahia, and the 19 March Association continues to organize tournaments, still having today some 900 members (at one point, there had been almost 1,800 members). Beyond these domino championships, on Saturdays their famous feijoada** is generally served, with lots of beer and, of course, games of dominoes. The club also promotes dances and music, but the truth is that none of these activities happen with the frequency that they supposedly had in the past. Neither the family that founded and runs the association, nor its members – the vast majority of which are members of the enormous poor black population of Ilhéus – possess the resources for the proper maintenance of the building, which was in a state of utter disrepair when, in May 2000, City Hall decided to rent and renovate the ground floor of the building – the most damaged of all the floors and where events no longer took place – in order to install the recently created Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus. The creation of this Memorial, as well as the appointment of one of the main leaders of the black movement of Ilhéus to administrate it, constitutes a kind of culmination of a long process initiated almost ten years earlier, when, during the campaign for the municipal elections of 1992, there was a promise to build, and a desire to have, what was then known as the Afro-Cultural Centre of Ilhéus. This process in some ways encapsulates the relationship between part of the city’s black movement and the politicians who govern it, and, in this sense, serves as a kind of laboratory in which it is possible to observe, more generally, the particular relationships between politicians from all spheres and voters of all types. In other words, the history of the Memorial *

Translators’ note. Feijoada is a very typical Brazilian dish, and consists of a stew of pork together with beans, often served with rice. It is said to be a dish slaves used to eat.

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offers an opportunity to observe and analyse part of the empirical workings of our political system, representative democracy. And this is, ultimately, what this book is about. The appointment and swearing-in ceremony of the administrator of the Memorial was attended by several city officials, governing politicians and members of the black movement of Ilhéus. The speeches that were made on that occasion, as well as the political manoeuvres that preceded and followed the event, adequately revealed that what was at stake was not limited – either temporally or politically – to the act that was being formally fulfilled. From the start, Mayor Jabes Ribeiro personally assumed command of the ceremony: with microphone in hand, he invited people to the table and immediately began his speech in which, after the customary introductions, he declared that ‘the only thing that I cannot do is dismantle the black movement of Ilhéus’. It is worthwhile reproducing, with some edits, the mayor’s speech: Next year’s carnival is already planned and organized. The space of the black movement, the space of organized movements, is fundamental. It is the return to the street carnival, to our roots, and this is linked to all of our history. From there, the idea emerged that we should transform this space into a space dedicated to a meeting of all those who have a close relationship with this culture that is so important to our country, our state and our city. We are just starting, and it is the Council of Afro-Cultural Entities’ job to go out and search for funds, to make links and create the conditions for this to work. I want therefore to tell you that I am very satisfied that we are going to sign two acts today: a protocol of intent that aims to give a clear demonstration that we want to continue the partnership and work with the CEAC. This protocol will authorize the signing of an agreement that will be signed in January as, in accordance with fiscal responsibility laws, we cannot sign this accord in the month of December, at the end of the budgetary period. This agreement will be for twelve months, naturally extendable, but everything will depend greatly on your management and unity, on your capacity to work with us. Because when we unite, we win; when we divide, we lose. It is in this sense that I will ask the secretary to read the protocol of intentions for the Mayor of Ilhéus and the president of the CEAC to sign: ‘Protocol of intent: The Municipality of Ilhéus and the Council of AfroCultural Organizations, respectively represented by Mayor Jabes Ribeiro and by president Jacks Rodrigues dos Santos, resolve to sign the present protocol of intent for the signing of the accord in effect from January 2003, aiming to stimulate the recovery of Afro-culture in its most diverse aspects, affirming the African contribution in the formation of our Brazilian-ness and seeking to effectively build a democratic, just and binding society, where there is

Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus

Figure 8 The Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus. employment and income for everyone, respect and human dignity, without any kind of prejudice of race, religion or nationality. Ilhéus, 6 December 2002.’ We are also going to sign a decree that is only being signed now due to the authorization of the Chamber of Councillors – and here I would like, once again, to emphasize the role, the importance, of our bench, because I can only sign this here after the bench has approved the administrative reform which provides the conditions for the creation of these posts, because the posts can only be created by law. This decree attests to a decision of the CEAC, made during a meeting that took place here, which nominated Gilmário Rodrigues Santos, known as Marinho, for administrator of the Memorial of Black Culture. Within the agreement we are going to make, we also place before you the name of Professor Luiz Carilo, to assist with the advancement of the coordination of the project, with workshops – in sum, with the work we want to happen here. Because it is of no use to have the Memorial and nothing else. At this moment, I will sign the decree in which the government of Ilhéus nominates Marinho Rodrigues Santos to the post of administrator of the Memorial. This is a commissioned post, for it is a post inside the mayor’s circle of trust. I support this aim and hope that this space happens, that it succeeds. While I am mayor, I will help, whether I am mayor, whether I am here, whether I am somewhere else, I will always have this, here, as something that began with us, with the support of important people, people that want things to happen in Ilhéus. It is good to remember that, at this Memorial,

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44 both Senator Antônio Carlos, elected governor Paulo Souto, and César Borges were present. What I hope for is that the CEAC – and the CEAC represents all of the organizations, right? – will have the competency which it has already demonstrated in what it has done, in the name of unity, when developing projects and proposals for protecting the interests of our community.

With this acclamation towards unity and work, Jabes Ribeiro gave the floor to the president of the Council of Afro-Cultural Organizations, Jacks Rodrigues, who, in just a few words, thanked the mayor, congratulated the administrator Marinho Rodrigues (with whom he has no family relation) and declared his enormous happiness in seeing ‘a dream come true’ after only one year under his management as the head of the Council: ‘because this here is a dream, a dream for all these organizations, who used to be segregated’. Jacks also took this opportunity to thank the chief of the Sports Division, ‘Professor Gurita, who is black and is one of the CEAC’s advocates, and who in many meetings hears people say that he is the “advocate of our black brothers”.** And he really is!’ Gurita, who also participates in the black movement, silently thanked him and Jacks closed his speech by proclaiming that ‘the partnership with the Mayor’s office is going well and will never end!’ At this point, there was a move to take apart the tables, ending the ceremony and ushering in the Dilazenze ballet presentation and cocktails. Adriana Ribeiro, the mayor’s wife, remembered that the new administrator not only wanted to, but also should say a few words. Marinho Rodrigues, after thanking the mayor for his nomination and appointment into office, emphasized that the ‘role is of great importance and a very large responsibility’ and adopted the same tone of seeking unity as at the end of Jabes’ speech and Jacks’ intervention: This responsibility is not just mine, but belongs to me, the president of the CEAC, the presidents of the affiliated organizations of the CEAC, to all of us. Because the fight was ours and the appointment was made by you. Because you saw in me a person who has trust in you. I hope that I can truly *

Translators’ note. ‘Advogado dos negões’ in the original Portuguese. This means, literally, advocate of the ‘big blacks.’ A more accurate translation of negões, and one that would take into account both the pejorative (from an outside context) and affectionate (from a familiar context) connotations could be ‘niggas.’ However, the use of this term is perhaps unwise, as it could introduce some unwarranted connotations. For this reason, we have opted for the slightly less confrontational ‘black brothers.’

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meet all of your expectations, with all the humility and all the experience I have acquired in almost twenty years with the black movement of Ilhéus, a movement which is almost twenty-five years old in our city, since the foundation of the Lê-Guê DePá block, of the Miny Kongo block, since those bastions of Afro-culture in our city. People like Mário Gusmão and Veludo, founder of the Miny Kongo, who are not with us any more; people that are still on our side, like Professor Carilo who, suddenly, after so many years, comes back to work with the cultural movement of our city. Someone who I thank for having helped me become who I am today. Because it was at the beginning of the Lê-Guê DePá, accompanying my mother, who is present here, that I learned a lot. Luiz Carilo, a person who I have admired since that time, for his seriousness, his sincerity, his professionalism in everything that he does. So, I am certain that, with all humility, we will transform this Memorial of Black Culture into a living, active space, bringing activities which truly can provide, not only for the tourists, but mainly for the people of our city, a space for leisure, entertainment and commerce – because we’ll have small shops here, and will be open from Monday to Saturday. A restaurant as well, with typical foods, and folkloric presentations. Anyway, we intend to transform this into a living space, an active space. Proof of this is that we will now have a small presentation of the Ifá show, from the Dilazenze Afro Ballet, to brighten this night, which is a very important night and will be a distinctive marker in the history of the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus. Thank you very much.

Before the Dilazenze ballet presentation, the mayor still had time to remember that ‘in truth’, it was Adriana Ribeiro, his wife, who was the ‘great defender of the project’, of the Memorial, asking everyone to give her a round of applause and announcing the beginning of the ballet, whose presentation should be accompanied, he concluded, by ‘drinking a beer and eating something’.

 We should underscore the points emphasized by the more active participants in the ceremony. These points will allow us to follow the temporal and political network of which Marinho’s appointment is part, and will also justify the long transcriptions. We should also initially observe that the nomination is part of temporalities and politics which are relatively heterogeneous and which should, from now on, be explored in their heterogeneity. The mayor, as we saw, was keen to highlight the importance of unity within the Afro movement in Ilhéus, evoking the CEAC; he likewise emphasized the

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importance of the city’s ‘Cultural Carnival’;37 upon appointing Marinho, he mentioned that his name had been nominated by the black movement itself; he evoked the recent history of the Memorial, mentioning the names of important politicians who had passed through there; and he offered the name of Luiz Carilo to ‘help’ in the administration. The points mentioned by the new administrator (and, in part, by the president of CEAC) were almost the same, although of course they had different emphases: the history of the black movement of Ilhéus, the importance of the CEAC, the historical development of the Memorial, and compliments to Luiz Carilo. As in every ceremony, the appointment of the administrator to the Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus presents at least two complementary aspects: it was a performative act, in which Marinho Rodrigues actually began to occupy a position of trust; and a symbolic act (in the weak sense of the term), in which a series of relations, conflicts, manoeuvres, desires and powers were, at the same time, represented and disguised under the formal language of these celebrations. We can, initially, reconstruct the group of plots that both conducted, and were also enacted within, the ceremony – a reconstruction that, I hope, will help the reader to gain a better understanding and give a more complete picture of what is being presented and analysed here. The first thing to remember is that, if the 19 March Sporting Association has existed since the mid 1960s, and if the black movement appeared in Ilhéus at the beginning of the 1980s,38 it was only in May 2000 that the prospect began to emerge of this ‘space’ being utilized for the activities of black groups in the city. More precisely, this possibility was raised for the first time on 2 May 2000, during a meeting between the municipal administrative secretary and the leaders of the Afro blocks. Marinho Rodrigues was then invited to a new meeting whose aim was to discuss the subject. The meeting never took place, but three days later, during a meeting regarding a different subject, a senior official from the tourism sector of City Hall (which in Ilhéus is administrated by a company, Ilheustur, which also deals with the ‘cultural’ sector), spoke of an ‘Afro cultural centre’ to be set up in the 19 March Sporting Association. Even the strange title of ‘Memorial’ was suggested by the secretary (in an agreement with Gurita) and, when the black leaders argued that something like ‘House of Black Culture of Ilhéus’ would be better, they heard that the name had already been disclosed and therefore it would be best if it remained unaltered. On 19 May, City Hall organized a ceremony to mark the signing of a lease for the ground floor of the Association, building a platform for the occasion in front of the building. Some banners were hung in front of the site: ‘Thank you Jabes for the Centre for Black Culture’ (signed by the ‘residents of Itabuna Avenue’); ‘Memorial of Black Culture: Rescue and Promotion of the Afro World’; ‘Jabes is Axé’39 (signed by the ‘Afro organizations’); and so forth.

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In the presence of leaders of the black organizations, various Candomblé priests, municipal secretaries and several councillors, the mayor Jabes Ribeiro solemnly announced the signing of the contract. ‘All of this began in 1997 when we rescued the Cultural Carnival of Ilhéus,’ Jabes recalled, saying that this rescue affirmed Ilhéus for its history, for its culture, for the force of its people.

Ilhéus likes the ‘electric trios’ [trios elétricos**], Ilhéus likes the great singers that come here, likes Ilhéus Folia but what Ilhéus really likes is the Cultural Carnival, when the people, like true artists, parade through the streets, showing our determination, our strength, our energy, the intelligence of the people of Ilhéus built throughout a long history. Cultural Carnival of 1997, Cultural Carnival of 1998, Cultural Carnival of 1999, Cultural Carnival of 2000, the Afro blocks, the afoxés***, the beauty of a culture built up over

so many years. A culture that came from Africa, from our ancestors, from our forefathers, the culture of the black race, which represents that which is the strongest, the most powerful, in this country’s culture. But we could not simply stop with the Cultural Carnival, there needs to be more, we need to advance more. I requested to the secretary of the administration, who competently led the Cultural Carnival, if we could get everyone together who participated in this carnival, who represent that beauty which we see in the Afro blocks, in manifestations which are the most spontaneous, the most beautiful, so that they enrapture the entire population. It was necessary to get everyone together not only during carnival, but all year round. We had the sensibility of this great citizen of Ilhéus, this community leader, this simple man, but rich in his ideas, in his will to see Ilhéus grow, our friend Esmeraldo, to whom I ask for a round of applause so that here, at the 19 March Sporting Association, which has always been available for good causes, we could meet the need of having a space so that the culture of Ilhéus, expressed by all of the Afro movements, could have its own space, its own location. Because I am positive that, if the Cultural Carnival of 2000 was a success, the one of 2001 will be even more brilliant because of this initiative. And here, at the 19 March Association, I want to say to all of you that whatever I can do to help strengthen you, I will do. So that, when you go out in the streets, you can entertain, much more than you have up to *

Translators’ note. An ‘electric trio’ [trio eletrico] is the name given to a truck which is converted into a platform and equipped with a powerful sound system during carnival. ** Translators’ note. Afoxé is a street parade that takes place during Carnival, and consists of a ‘profane’ version of Candomblé rituals.

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48 now, both Ilheuseans and the tourists. Defending culture is the duty of any government, to defend culture is a compromise with life, with history, with

the past, with the present and with the future. I hope that the blocks that are here, the saint-fathers, saint-mothers, these women who create the history of Ilhéus and build the culture of Ilhéus with their art, with their religion, with their faith, with their strength […] In this blood flows the blood of the origins of so many, so many here who built this, our country. So, we are going to tell the tourists that come to this space to watch, participate, and honour this richness that Ilhéus has and which needs to be shown. I want, upon signing this accord between the Municipality of Ilhéus and the 19 March Sporting Association, I want to read only the first clause, which says that ‘the objective of this accord is to promote the use of the headquarters of the 19 March Association by organizations which represent and preserve the black culture of Ilhéus, at the same time undertaking to research and conserve culture, in all its diverse manifestations, and history, always aiming towards the social and political promotion of our Afro descendants.’ This is the fundamental clause of this agreement which I am signing. Congratulations, Ilhéus! Long live black culture! Long live the Afro movement! You have my support, and my permanent commitment.

After some more thanks, proffered by the owners of the March 19 Sporting Association and by two representatives from Candomblé terreiros, it was Marinho Rodrigues’ turn to speak. As the representative of the Afro blocks of Ilhéus (and, at that time, president of the CEAC), he recalled that the city had a ‘propensity towards the Afro issue, towards the question of Afro blocks’, called the place a ‘Cultural Centre’ and thanked the mayor, saying that he hoped that together we can explore, in the positive sense of the word, this space, and hope that it will truly come to give us much benefit. I would like to therefore thank you, in the name of all of the Afro groups of Ilhéus. I would also like to thank someone else who, alongside the leaders of the Afro blocks, has been one of the great bastions of this movement, our friend Professor Gurita, largely responsible for this accord and also largely responsible for the organization of the Cultural Carnival, which is a great victory for the Afrocultural movement of Ilhéus. Thank you so much, Mayor Jabes Ribeiro! Congratulations!

It should be noted, in passing, that in his second and shorter intervention, designed to end the event, the mayor recognized the still precarious state of the space, announcing that City Hall would take care of cleaning and any

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necessary renovation. In truth, these words indicated that, beyond the abovementioned ceremonies, other ‘inaugurations’ of the Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus were still to come. The first page of the newspaper Diário de Ilhéus (with a continuation on page 4) announced on 23 May 2000: ‘The Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus will become a reality’. Two months later, the Memorial was still referred to by almost everyone as the 19 March, even after having undergone some maintenance work. Part of the interior space had been repaired, the facade painted, with the upper part covered by drawings with an ‘African’ theme: stylized figures attempting to portray the deities of Candomblé, instruments and ornaments of the orixás, outlines of black figures in dance positions, and so on. When seen from the outside the building looked ready to be used, even though the interior was still far from presentable and in no condition for immediate occupation. It was under these same conditions that, on 23 July 2000, the Memorial, or 19 March, was used as the stage for the launch of the candidacy of Alzimário Belmonte Vieira to the post of councillor in the Chamber of Councillors of Ilhéus. This is actually the real name of Professor Gurita, whom, as we have seen, both Jacks and Marinho thanked profusely in their speeches during the ceremonies held at the Memorial. Gurita is a black man, around thirty-five years of age, with a university degree, a teacher of physical education in several schools in the region. He is the nephew of the man who is chiefly responsible for the 19 March Sporting Association and, since 1997, has occupied the role of chief of the Sports Division of the Municipal Secretary of Education in Ilhéus.40 His nomination to this role was the direct result of a political participation that began in the early 1990s. Gurita entered the political arena as a member of the PT party of Ilhéus but, in 1995, he would leave PT in favour of a tiny party which was part of Rúbia Carvalho’s political group, who intended to run for the position of mayor in the city within the next year. With the candidature made impossible due to reasons that I will return to, Rúbia moved on to support Jabes Ribeiro, a path also followed by Gurita, even though, officially, his party was on the side of another candidate for mayor, Roland Lavigne. As a candidate for councillor, Gurita obtained 354 votes in the 1996 elections, an insufficient number to elect him (he obtained fourth place in the coalition which his party was part of ), but high enough to give him credentials for a second or third-rate role in the municipal administration. In the 1996 campaign, Gurita had already looked to present himself as a representative of the black movement of Ilhéus, or at least the part of this movement designated as Afro-cultural. The task was not easy, as his participation in the Afro-cultural movement was relatively recent, coming

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after his involvement with party politics. This situation gave rise to some unflattering comments from Afro-cultural militants: that Gurita was ‘a black man who was always stuck in with the whites’, that he was more closely involved with the ‘young barons’ (barõezinhos) than with members of the blocks, that he took advantage of the actual participation of his brother, who had passed away, to get closer to some of the Afro groups, and so on. On the other hand, the evocation of the name of his brother, his proximity with one of the blocks that were about to close down their activities,41 the ‘help’ given to other blocks in difficulty and the effort to place himself as mediator between the black movement and the candidacy of Jabes Ribeiro were strategies used by Gurita in an attempt to obtain recognition for his supposed status as a candidate for the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus. This recognition did not quite happen, because, as we will see, the movement divided its support between several candidates. Nevertheless, the fact that some of the principal Afro blocks of the city had opted to stick with the failed candidature of Roland Lavigne (plus the fact that Gurita belonged to a socio-cultural class above that of most of the black militants)42 resulted in the fact that, after the electoral victory of Jabes Ribeiro, Gurita began to function as an important intermediary in the relationships between City Hall and the black movement of Ilhéus. This is the meaning of the expression ‘advocate of our black brothers’, used by Jacks Rodrigues to compliment him, and which supposedly has its origin in ironies thrown upon him by members of the city’s municipal administration. The new municipal elections of 2000 provided an opportunity for Gurita to run again for the post of councillor – this time running for the Brazilian Social Democratic Party (PSDB) – and once again he aimed to be the candidate representing the Afro-cultural movement of the city. In this sense, the fact that his candidature had been launched at the Memorial of Black Culture – a space which he was proud to have helped secure – was an almost necessary consequence of the political context in which he was involved, and stamped his candidature with the seal of the black movement. Nevertheless, it was not by chance that, during the launch ceremony of his candidature, the mayor of Ilhéus, candidate for re-election, had declared that during his second term the Memorial should come to represent what the city’s ‘rescue of the Cultural Carnival’ had signified during his first term: the recognition of the importance of the Afro-cultural movement in Ilhéus and of the support he provided to this movement, and also to all of the black population of the city (around 85 per cent of the total). The launch of Gurita’s candidacy for the Chamber of Councillors was attended by several politicians, his replacement at the head of the Sporting Division within the Secretary of Education (and one of the coordinators of

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his campaign), a representative from one of the schools where Gurita taught physical education and also the mayor of Ilhéus. The table was made up of these people, alongside Marinho Rodrigues (as representative of the Afro groups, of which six were present at the ceremony) and also the principal owner of the 19 March Association (the candidate’s uncle). Amid more than one-hundred people, and banners that stated things such as ‘In him the people trust. Gurita for councillor.’, his uncle made a point of saying that ‘As an uncle who could not be absent during the campaign: this house is open to all politicians, but you should know that our preference is Gurita.’ Marinho, in an impassioned speech that drew heavy applause from those present, praised Gurita, who had represented the black movement well during his time in City Hall. He added that Gurita’s election, alongside the re-election of Jabes Ribeiro, would certainly help the development of the Batukerê Project, a social project which the Dilazenze had developed with children from Conquista. He went on to say that he hoped that Gurita would do justice to the confidence that the Afro groups had shown in him, and concluded by thanking the mayor for the Memorial, which would soon be opening its doors to the public: ‘He was the first mayor who followed through with what he promised.’ Jabes Ribeiro made a point of highlighting Marinho’s testimony as proof that Gurita really was the true representative of the Afro-cultural movement. He promised to transform Ilhéus into the second Afro-cultural hub of Bahia and mentioned the rescue of the Cultural Carnival as one of the great accomplishments of his term in office. He withdrew, however, before the closing speech from the candidate, in which he gave thanks to various organizations that were supporting him and further related his achievements in the areas of sports and culture. Finally, Gurita stated that it had been decided, in his campaign committee, that Marinho Rodrigues should be in charge of dealing with the representatives of the Afro-Cultural movement and the Candomblé terreiros. On 27 August, one month after his launch as a candidate for councillor, Gurita set up a breakfast meeting in support of his candidacy, which also took place at the Memorial. Breakfasts as occasions for expressions of electoral support are very common political acts during campaigns in Ilhéus, at least since 1996. At the breakfast promoted by Gurita, and in addition to his direct contributors, the principal leaders of the Afro-cultural movement within the city were present – among them, Marinho Rodrigues, who arrived accompanied by a good part of his extended family and by several members of his block, the Dilazenze Cultural Group – including municipal secretaries, a few other politicians and the mayor of Ilhéus, accompanied by his wife. There were several tables scattered around the hall of the second floor of the 19 March building, as the ground floor was still unusable, around

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which different groups were seated. Marinho was invited by the mayor to sit next to him at his table, and spoke quietly with him throughout almost the entire event. This conversation, of course, revolved around the forthcoming elections and campaign, but principally around the elections for City Hall and not the campaign of Gurita for councillor. Jabes Ribeiro told Marinho that he had been missing Marinho’s support ‘in the war’, and that everyone knew that those who are in the war are the ones who, after the victory, have the ‘best slice of the cake’. Marinho answered that ‘to go to war it is necessary to be called up’ and that up to that moment this had not happened. Jabes then advised him that, from that moment on, he should speak directly to him, without any intermediary, advice that was perhaps strange, given as it was during an act of support for the candidacy of someone who intended to present himself as a representative of the black movement and, thus, as the mediator with the municipal administration. The speeches which followed exhibited the usual tone, but a small surprise still occurred during the opening speech given by the candidate for councillor: Gurita presented Marinho as the coordinator of his campaign even though, only about a month earlier – when Marinho was hoping to be chosen for this role – he had announced the name of someone else, an employee at the Sports Division, which was then under Gurita’s leadership. During the breakfast’s closing speech, however, the candidate spoke again about Marinho, but this time as ‘one of the coordinators of my campaign’.

 At the beginning of September 2000, the Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus had become, in one way or another, a point of reference for the militants of the black movement and for some other sectors of the city – even though many still called it the 19 March. Proof of this is that the traditional Women’s Assembly – apparently organized in 1982, dating back to the first election of Jabes Ribeiro – took place right in front of the Memorial. The basic rule of this assembly is that, with the exception of the candidate, only women could take to the platform and have the right to speak. One of the speakers was, in fact, Gurita’s wife, which confirmed the widely held opinion that he had gained much prestige through working alongside Jabes, and for his coordination of the PSDB campaign, despite the fact that his wife had been working on Jabes’ campaign since 1996. On 7 September, Roland Lavigne, the main candidate for the opposition, organized an assembly in Conquista, in the Santa Rita Square, a space traditionally used for these events in that neighbourhood. This assembly was merely the culmination of a series of electoral acts that started with a

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walk that began right in front of the Memorial building. After this, the Afrocultural movement decided to organize a walk in support of Jabes Ribeiro’s candidature, setting the date for the 21 of September. These walks are electoral and political acts, common to Ilhéus, and the route would run through the city’s commercial centre and end in front of the Memorial, where there would be an artistic presentation from several Afro blocks. Ultimately, only the walk was carried out, and even so with a much smaller number of people than previously thought. The presentation at the Memorial was cancelled, supposedly due to the impossibility of being able to rely on an efficient sound system, since the two systems available to the campaign were both being used in events at other locations. After the elections of October 2000, in which Jabes Ribeiro was re-elected as Mayor of Ilhéus with 33,775 votes (46.44 per cent of the valid votes) and Gurita – despite having obtained 625 votes (compared with 354 in 1996) – once again failed to secure his election to the Council, the Memorial was, finally, officially inaugurated. The renovation work done on the building was still far from complete (this would only happen much later) but, regardless, it was decided to hold this ceremony on the National Day of Black Awareness. As a result, although it was initially scheduled for 17 November, a Friday, the inauguration was transferred and held on 20 November 2000 instead. This formal ceremony to mark the creation and inauguration of the Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus was in many ways very similar to the ceremonies discussed above. Marinho Rodrigues, who was initially called in to organize the event, was replaced by a municipal undersecretary, with whom he had a small misunderstanding after finding out about the hiring of two pagode** bands to perform at the ceremony (one of them had links with Gurita’s father). The odd thing is that, after the Memorial’s inauguration, practically nothing happened for around a year and a half. Part of the renovation work done on the building was finished, and the ground floor was precariously used by some capoeira schools and for a few Afro dance lessons which, in theory, had no relation to the Memorial or the CEAC. Throughout all of 2001 however, there was much talk of the Memorial, the resumption of renovation work on the building, the Mayor’s office releasing funds and, especially, who would be the administrator of the new institution. The most frequently cited name was undoubtedly that of Marinho Rodrigues, but the role of administrator was much sought after. Not only for the prestige that came with the role, but also because it was thought that the salary was around BR$1,000 a month (more or less US$350), an amount not to be looked down upon in *

Translators’ note. Pagode is a Brazilian style of music, a sub-genre of samba, which originated in Salvador, Bahia.

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a city where unemployment, especially among the male black population, is extremely high and the few available jobs generally offer just ‘one salary’ as remuneration (in other words, one minimum wage, around US$85 in 2000). Proof of this is that even one of Marinho’s brothers – who already worked at City Hall, was candidate for councillor a few years earlier, was unemployed for a long time, and of whom I will talk about more – tried to get the job. Towards the end of 2001, on 18 November, the space of the Memorial was once again used for an event related to the National Day of Black Consciousness. The event consisted of a feijoada that marked the closing of a football championship organized by the CEAC, with funding from City Hall, as part of the commemorations for the Week of Zumbi.**

 It was in 2002 – another election year – that the already long and drawn out story of the Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus was finally, albeit provisionally, concluded. Soon after carnival, the new board of directors at the CEACI had decided to promote a ceremony at the Memorial, geared towards giving the First CEACI Trophy of Black Culture, which aimed to honour the people who had set themselves apart through their activities for the black movement of the city. The current CEACI is actually the third or fourth incarnation of the repeated attempts by the groups that comprise the black movement of the city to establish a forum that would bring together and represent them all. The initial attempt, which established a Council also usually referred to as the CEACI, dates back to 1990 and was, apparently, short-lived and unstable. In the municipal elections of 1992, the second attempt to establish the Council was undertaken. These events will be analysed in more detail in the next chapter and, for now, it is enough to note that the presidency of this second incarnation of the CEACI gave its support to one of the mayoral candidates, who managed to obtain the support of all the groups that made up the Council, promising them an agreement that involved the construction of what was then known as the Afro-Cultural Centre of Ilhéus, the first version of the Memorial of Black Culture. *

Translators note. The Week of Zumbi is an extension of the Black Awareness Day, celebrating Zumbi, the last of the leaders of Palmares, the biggest and most important of the quilombos, located in the present-day state of Alagoas in northeastern Brazil. Palmares was founded around 1605 and destroyed in 1695. In the twentieth century, Zumbi became one of the heros of the Afro-Brazilian movement and the day of his death became Black Awareness Day.

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The Centre was never built, even though the candidates supported by the black movement had won these elections. Interpreting this failure as a ‘betrayal’ perpetrated by the presidency of the CEACI against the organizations that comprised it – who had been manipulated, both politically and electorally – the leaders of the blocks dissolved the Council and tried to constitute a new organization, one that received the same name as before, but which became known by the acronym CEAC. This small variation has always served to mark the difference between this new Council and the previous one, definitively associated with the events surrounding the municipal elections of 1992. We should also note that, while the first board of directors of the new Council was elected in 1997 (bringing together fifteen groups, compared to the ten of the previous Councils), its constitution began the previous year, also an electoral year, a process which was described in detail by Ana Cláudia Cruz da Silva (1998:89–111) and which will be analysed in the third chapter of this book. For now, it is enough to say that the mandate of the board of directors, lasting two years, would end in 1999, but it was automatically renewed for another two years – since, apparently, there was no more formal act needed to extend it – ending at the beginning of 2001. It was only at this point that the acting president,43 Marinho Rodrigues, called for new elections, employing a widely used strategy, in all types of politics, when the aim is to fulfil a legal or moral obligation and at the same time ensure it does not come to fruition: he took no concrete measures towards bringing about the election. The process was thus paralyzed until Paulo Cesar de Menezes (Cesar), president of the Rastafiry Afro block, coordinator of the organization and, in practice, vice-president of the Council, decided to take it upon himself to organize the elections, scheduling a date and a place (a small bar which he owned at the time) for the events. Only one candidate, put forward by Cesar himself, presented himself and obtained the majority of the votes. The acting president, however, was deeply unsatisfied with this process which, he imagined, was aimed at taking the command of the Council away from the Dilazenze, the group to which he belonged. Arguing that the elections had been conducted in an irregular manner – in an inappropriate venue and without adhering to the correct schedule – Marinho secured the annulment of the process and the holding of new elections. There was enough time for him to draw up another list of candidates, on which his brother Ney Rodrigues, master of drums and vicepresident of the Dilazenze, appeared as a candidate for vice-president. As a candidate for president, Marinho put forward the name of Jacks Rodrigues, leader of an Afro block so small it was almost at the point of extinction, the D’Logun. With a weak president and a vice-president from his own group, Marinho certainly imagined that he would maintain control of the CEAC,

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which supposedly would not happen with a board headed by the other two large blocks in the city, the Rastafiry and the Miny Kongo (from which came the candidate for vice-president on the ticket headed by Cesar, himself of the Rastafiry). During this process, Marinho counted on the help of Gurita: I brought together the presidential ticket: I indicated Jacks as president and spoke to the groups that had confidence in me, asking that they vote for him; meanwhile, Gurita spoke with the groups that he helps and asked them to vote for Jacks. But today, both Gurita and I admit that it was not the best choice and that we are responsible for the situation that the Council is in. So we have to do something.

The problem, as we can see above, is that, as often happens at all levels of politics, things did not happen exactly as Marinho had planned or hoped. The ticket he put forward won the election but, once in power, Jacks Rodrigues began to seek a direct link with City Hall, connected by the intermediary of Gurita, who continued to occupy the Sports Division of the Department for Education. Thus, Jacks looked to organize a series of events, counting on the support, including financial, of City Hall. In exchange, and taking advantage of the fact that 2002 would be another electoral year, he openly offered the support of the CEACI to the ticket supported by the mayor of Ilhéus: Paulo Souto for governor; Antônio Carlos Magalhães and César Borges for the Senate; Fábio Souto for federal deputy; and Joabes Ribeiro (brother of the mayor and the councillor with most votes in the municipal elections of 2000) for state deputy. Worse yet, from Marinho’s point of view, all of this was carried out with the explicit support of a large part of the board of directors of the Council, including the vice-president Ney Rodrigues. Marinho disagreed with all of these positions: formally, he claimed that they were carried out without any consultation of the members of the CEACI and of the organizations that comprised it; politically, he held that the board of directors of the Council had been extraordinarily irresponsible, offering support without any guarantee of recompense for the Council and the blocks, and with the victory of the supported campaign ticket not yet guaranteed, as the elections were still some time away. From the point of view of the internal politics of the Afro movement, there appeared to be more at stake. After the end of the 2002 carnival, Marinho began a series of allegations against some of the members of the CEACI board, accusing them of diverting, for their own gain, part of the funding transferred by the Mayor’s office for events organized by the Council. These allegations and accusations went through a gradual process of dissemination, culminating with their appearance in newspapers and on radio stations in Ilhéus – which generally report this kind

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of information through interviews with both sides involved in the issue – and were referred to the public administration of the city (which preferred, of course, not to involve itself in the subject).44 It is curious to note that, during this process, Marinho re-affiliated himself with Cesar, of the Rastafiry, who he had slighted at the time of his own succession to the head of the CEAC, preferring Jacks Rodrigues, and who now unconditionally supported him in the allegations against the new board of directors. Finally, both of them, accompanied by a few more of the smaller blocks, proposed the dissolution of the board of the Council and, as this was unsuccessful, then formed a new association, Abase (Association of Blocks of the South and Far South of Bahia). Moreover, they systematically began to refer to the Council for Afro-Cultural Organizations of Ilhéus as the ‘CEACI’, rhetorically establishing a connection with the ‘traitors’ of 1992 and a disassociation with the CEAC, presided over by Marinho between 1997 and 2001. In truth, Abase never really became operational, nor did it formally exist. This relative inexistence, much like the challenge to the CEAC election in 2001 and the accusations made against the board of CEACI in 2002, called attention to a special type of relationship maintained by the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus with what we could call judicial or legal codifications. If we look carefully, the irregularities practised by the board of CEACI, the supposedly violated statutes of CEAC, and the very existence of Abase, have no formal status. Rules and statutes tend to be established in meetings, but, even when recorded on paper, often have a purely rhetorical existence. This is true as much in the sense that they only remain in the memory and discourse of certain people, as in the fact that their effective application depends on the rhetorical force of those who carry them out. Thus, it is the same reason that explains why the violation of both the CEAC statutes and the rules of the CEACI never had any serious practical consequences, and why Abase never became operational. Those who accused the board of CEACI and then formed a new Association were never strong enough to really threaten the Council’s board and, at the same time, were unable to establish, in practice, the new organization, which only existed on a discursive level. It is always the relationship with the state (in its many instances) that ends up crystallizing or providing a certain degree of consistency to the rules and associations that the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus never tires of creating. I will return to this point; for now, it is sufficient to note that it is now easier to understand why, in his speech at Marinho Rodrigues’s inauguration ceremony as administrator of the Memorial, the mayor of Ilhéus insisted so much upon the necessity for unity within the black movement of the city and warned of the risk of its division. If, at this juncture, Jabes Ribeiro was merely looking to

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avoid the outbreak of conflicts (which could potentially disrupt the ceremony), from a more structural point of view we could perhaps say that the mayor was trying to confirm the existence of a body with which the Mayor’s office, i.e. the state, could legitimately relate. However, and in spite of these efforts, the existing tensions and conflicts within the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus returned to manifest themselves on 16 April 2002, at the awarding of the First CEACI Trophy of Black Culture. Planned and organized by the board of the Council, working with the head of the Sports Division of the Department of Education and with the Municipal Administration (which, formally, is responsible for the Memorial), notification of the ceremony was only communicated to the leaders of the black organizations on the eve of the event – even though, as usually happens in a city such as Ilhéus, rumours about the event had been running rampant some days before the ceremony itself. It was only one day before the event that organizations received their invitations: personalized and nontransferable, only six of them, hand-delivered, in sealed envelopes, one to each organization’s leader. If these procedures were nothing unusual in the activities of the black movement of Ilhéus, more uncommon was the fact that, at the entrance to the Memorial, security guards hired by City Hall only gave entry to those who showed their invitations at the door. The invitations announced the ‘First Trophy for Black Culture’, while the local newspapers had divulged the award as the ‘First CEACI Trophy for Black Culture’; in a televized interview, Jacks Rodrigues had spoken of awarding the ‘Trophy for Distinction in Carnival’, a tribute to the best carnival blocks of 2002. All of this confusion, combined with a delay of almost three hours – excessive, even by Ilheusean standards – left everyone ‘dis-impatient’ (desimpaciente), as they say in the more popular neighbourhoods of the city when they want to emphasize that their impatience has passed beyond a reasonable limit. The irritation only increased when the arrival of the mayor with his entourage – coming from another ceremony, in an auditorium in the centre of town, where Jabes Ribeiro had announced which candidates he would support in the October elections – confirmed the suspicion that the delay was due to the fact that the CEACI board were awaiting these guests in order to begin presenting the trophies. Hosted by a presenter from one of the local radio stations – affiliated with Liberal Front Party (PFL), a party through which Joabes Ribeiro would launch his candidacy for state deputy – the ceremony began with the convening of a ‘table’. Whilst this is a common procedure in ceremonies such as this, the composition of this table did not follow the pattern usually employed in Ilhéus: made up of the mayor, his wife, his brother, the candidate for federal deputy

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Fábio Souto, two municipal secretaries and the mayor of a neighbouring city, the table did not include any representatives from the black movement of the city. Or, in the more explicit words of Marinho Rodrigues, ‘there was not one black man sitting at the table, and there were no representatives of our organizations sitting at the table’. Worse still, of the twenty-five awards presented, only six were given to Afro blocks that had paraded at carnival, and two or three to people who were in some way linked to the black movement – such as Gurita and Dona Ilza Rodrigues, Marinho’s mother and an important Candomblé saint-mother in Ilhéus. All of the other awards were given to politicians, public or administrative officials, and businessmen: the mayor, his wife, his brother, Fábio Souto, radio presenters, the owner of what was then the largest bus company in the city, the local television station, and so on. Some people commented, ironically, that the president of the CEACI should take home a trophy to award to himself later on. Marinho Rodrigues concluded his assessment of the First CEACI Trophy for Black Culture ceremony: So, the leaders of the blocks, those who really create culture, who keep this culture alive, were only there to applaud, and, worse still, to applaud the white people, who were sitting at a table, with the blacks applauding and them receiving awards which really should have been given to the leaders of the blocks. We thought up the event, but Jacks stole the group’s idea, which for him, politically, was great!

Across the table, however, other things appeared to be at stake. The mayor, as we have seen, had arrived from a public event in which he had announced the candidates whom he would support in the October elections: a ‘pair’ (dobradinha) comprised of his brother Joabes Ribeiro, as candidate for state deputy, and Fábio Souto (state deputy and son of senator Paulo Souto) for federal deputy; Antônio Carlos Magalhães and César Borges for the Senate; and Paulo Souto for governor. No candidate for President of the Republic was mentioned, but everyone knew, or would soon know, that Jabes supported Ciro Gomes. The alliance with Fábio Souto seemed strategic in the eyes of the mayor. Recalling the ‘historical relationships of the Soutos with Ilhéus’ – Paulo Souto’s wife was from ‘the region’; Souto himself had lived in the city during a few years of his youth; finally, soon after the municipal elections of 2000, Fábio Souto transferred his electoral title to Ilhéus, giving rise to the hypothesis that he intended to put himself forward as a City Hall candidate within the city – Jabes sought to display to the electorate the strength he would have at state and national levels. At the same time, he sought to show to his allies the electoral power they would have in Ilhéus. For this purpose, the

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Memorial and the black groups of the city appeared perfectly adequate. This means that, rather than asking whether investment in the Memorial sought to obtain votes, or resulted from them, we should assume that it is a kind of operator through which the mayor became visible to his allies above and his voters below. Votes can, certainly, result from this operation, but it seems to be sufficiently important in itself.45 Thus, after the usual greetings and, once again, reminding everyone of the importance of the Cultural Carnival of Ilhéus – as well as his own importance in its revitalization – the mayor formally announced the resumption of the work on the Memorial building and invited the president of the CEACI to sign, with him, a ‘protocol of intentions’ between the Council and City Hall, a protocol which intended to: formalize a partnership for the development of social projects, seeking social and cultural integration of the Black Movement of Ilhéus through workshops, dance competitions and music. The CEAC will provide the space, give administrative support and finish the projects, while the City of Ilhéus, through the Cultural Foundation of Ilhéus, will be responsible for planning, organizing, and disseminating the cultural projects and leisure, recreational and sporting activities of CEAC. Being in agreement, the parties sign the present protocol of intention in two identical copies in the presence of witnesses.

Once the protocol was read, Jabes invited Joabes Ribeiro and Fábio Souto to sign as witnesses, and to speak a few words. Concluding the ceremony, Jacks Rodrigues said that it is a great honour. We want to develop the black culture of Ilhéus and we won’t bow our heads and we won’t stop. This mayor is the first to support us. We have to show our competence, we have to show the people out there that we don’t only work during carnival, we work every day, all the time. So, we have to have a strong culture, not only during carnival, but when developing other work too. My concern and the concern of the directors of the Afro organizations is that this Memorial of Black Culture moves forward. This construction work will be advanced, but it will be pushed forward with a strong partnership, a partnership between the CEACI, the black groups and City Hall. Yes, we need the help of the state deputy and the future federal deputy Fábio Souto, we need them because here we have the second-best black culture in the state of Bahia, here we have the biggest Afro-cultural resistance in the region. So, we need, yes, your strength in parliament, and we need the even greater strength of the great

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representative of Ilhéus, Joabes Ribeiro, because the people who are here are those that create the cultural movement here, of our Bahia. So, we have to fight together, as one, demonstrating that this is organized by black people and that black people are also organized, that black people are also civilized and that black people also have consciousness and have culture. So, mayor, let us go into this partnership and let us be strong. Thank you very much.

On 7 May, Gurita and the mayor agreed to an interview on a radio show entitled ‘For a better Ilhéus’, a programme which is financed by City Hall, as are the majority of such programmes in Ilhéus. Both men talked about the Memorial: Gurita wanted to talk about it as a ‘space of citizenship’, which would serve as a venue for projects aiming to ‘take boys and girls off the street’, developing activities for the elderly, and housing capoeira schools which would work with children and adolescents; in addition, the space would be used for community meetings for the residents of surrounding neighbourhoods. Even more than the head of the Sports Division at the Department of Education, the mayor Jabes Ribeiro sought to emphasize the importance of the preservation of black culture in Ilhéus. He mentioned, as is customary on these occasions, the Santana Mill slave revolt,46 and what it meant in terms of the ‘appreciation of the black race in Ilhéus’; he stressed that the Memorial – with its small artisan shops, a restaurant serving regional food, studios for dance, music and the arts – would be extremely important not only for the preservation and dissemination of black culture, but also for the cultural life of Ilhéus as a whole and for the tourists who visited the city. The presenter of the programme, in turn, made a point to stress the historical importance of Jabes Ribeiro in the fight for the preservation of black culture in Ilhéus and the fact that the mayor had just received the CEACI Trophy of Black Culture, proof of the recognition of his importance by part of the city’s black movement. The construction work on the 19 March building had, in fact, resumed, but the Memorial of Black Culture in Ilhéus was only officially inaugurated on 28 June 2002. This inauguration prolonged the atmosphere and style of innumerable ceremonies which had already taken place at the Memorial, since May 2000, and it may be useful to briefly review a few of these events (including some that have not yet been discussed): 2 May 2000: Meeting of the black leaders with the Municipal Secretary of Administration: for the first time, there is a discussion about using the space of the 19 March Sports Association for the activities of the black movement in Ilhéus;

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5 May 2000: Meeting of the leaders of the Dilazenze with the director of Ilheustur, who discusses the Memorial, which he calls the ‘Afro-Cultural Centre’; 19 May 2000: Signing of the lease with the 19 March Sports Association; 23 July 2000: Launching of Gurita’s candidature for councillor in the building of the 19 March Sports Association; 20 November 2000: First inauguration of the Memorial; 18 November 2001: Feijoada, which took place after the football championship which was part of the commemorations for Black Awareness Week; 16 April 2002: Presentation of the First CEACI Trophy of Black Culture; 28 June 2002: Re-inauguration of the Memorial; 6 December 2002: Nomination of Marinho Rodrigues for the role of administrator of the Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus.

On 29 June 2002 the newspaper Correio da Bahia (from Salvador, state capital) printed the following: ‘ACM celebrates 468 years since the foundation of Ilhéus’; ‘PFL candidates bestow the honour of Mayor Jabes Ribeiro upon Governor Otto Alencar’; and ‘ACM, César and Paulo Souto take a walk with the mayor and the governor through the streets of Ilhéus’: Candidates of PFL and the parties allied to the Senate, Antônio Carlos Magalhães and César Borges, and the candidate allied to the state government, Senator Paulo Souto, yesterday accompanied Mayor Jabes Ribeiro (PFL) at the festivities celebrating 468 years since the foundation of the city of Ilhéus. The commemorations were marked by the completion of a series of building works implemented by the state government in partnership with the City Hall, and by a tribute to the governor, who was honoured with the São Jorge Order of Merit of Ilhéus. In his speech, ACM used the city’s anniversary to pay tribute to the people of Ilhéus. The PFL Candidate for the Senate highlighted a few illustrious characters that the city gave to Brazil and the world, such as the writer Jorge Amado, the commander of the Sixth Military Region, General Luiz Henrique Moura Barreto, the businessman Vagner Kepper and Senator Paulo Souto, who, even though he was not born there, spent all of his childhood and youth in the city. ‘This is a beautiful and much loved area, where everyone wants to live. Only yesterday I was saying: if some day they wish to exile me to somewhere, my preference is Ilhéus.’ he said. The people of Ilhéus threw a huge party to welcome the members of the Action, Competency and Morality Coalition, appearing in droves at the city’s airport and following, in a motorcade, the delegation to the sites of the inaugurations. ‘With this demonstration of love, it should be noted that

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Ilhéus has already chosen for their governor a man who made himself a son of this land, through his work, through his love and through his dedication to the people here; this is Paulo Souto. Ilhéus has also chosen two other men from Bahia, César Borges and I, who will go to the Senate to work for Ilhéus, for Bahia and for Brazil.’ affirmed ACM. The PFL candidate for the Senate stressed the importance of the city for the development of the state and guaranteed that, as long as it depended on Governor Otto Alencar, Ilhéus would continue to hold the prominent position it has always had in Bahia. ‘This is why I made a point of attending this tribute to Governor Otto Alencar and, at the same time, showing our programme of work for this area. We have helped this city, and we will help it further still, because this land deserves much more than this.’ he said.

In fact, 28 June is the day when Ilhéus celebrates the anniversary of its elevation to the category of city, which occurred in 1881. A public holiday, the date was used during the 2002 electoral year as an occasion for a series of inaugurations and events which were attended not only by local politicians, but also by some who held positions at state and federal levels. Thus, a large delegation from Salvador arrived in the city early in the morning, led by the politicians mentioned in the Correio da Bahia newspaper, and including a cohort of federal and state deputies, several candidates for these positions, press of all types, policemen, security guards etc. Amongst these, it is important to note the presence of Fábio Souto, as well as the fact that Antônio Carlos Magalhães was running for the same position that he had just renounced to avoid an impeachment due to what was known as the ‘electronic panel scandal’. The main purpose of the visit was the inauguration of a series of new building projects (the J.J. Seabra Square, where City Hall is located, which was renovated; the Municipal Library which was, finally, given its own headquarters in the old General Osório School; part of the ‘Jorge Amado Quarter’, a group of buildings and streets in the centre of town which, once again, would go through architectural, urbanistic, and restorative renovations), as well as the granting of the Order of São Jorge of Ilhéus. Around midday, the delegation ended up driving to the Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus to participate in its re-inauguration, or in ‘yet another inauguration’, as some of the members of the black movement called it,47 a fact that the Salvador newspaper failed to mention and which was later explained by the mayor of Ilhéus, saying that it was ‘Senator Antônio Carlos Magalhães himself ’ who had decided to go to the Memorial, having also postponed several important commitments in Salvador for this.

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The re-inauguration ceremony, however, appeared to have been prepared in advance, and, without any doubt, took into account the presence of politicians from Salvador and Brasilia. Four preparatory meetings had been organized by the administrative secretary, and they were attended by, in addition to the secretary, Adriana Ribeiro (the mayor’s wife, representing the Cultural Foundation of Ilhéus), Gurita (as representative of the Secretary of Sports and Citizenship), leaders of a few of the Afro-cultural organizations, the treasurer and the president of the CEACI. The first meeting, in particular, proceeded in a very tense environment, as it took place during conflicts within the Council and in the midst of attempts to remove their president. The administrative secretary, however, soon explained that the meeting was only to address the re-inauguration of the Memorial, and that City Hall had no intention of interfering in the internal affairs of the CEACI. In any case, conflicts prevented the nomination of two people from the Council who, alongside two representatives from the Mayor’s office and one from the 19 March Association, would make up the executive committee for the event. Thus, a small ‘parade’ was planned, composed of members from all of the blocks and other Afro organizations of Ilhéus, who, starting from within the vicinity of the Memorial, would arrive at the building in order to participate in the washing of the steps.48 Apart from the music played by percussionists during the procession, there would be a pagode band playing at the entrance to the Memorial, an idea which had been rejected by the leaders of the blocks, who do not usually consider pagode bands to be part of the Afrocultural movement nor as representative of Afro-music. However, as in other events held at the Memorial, the decision was imposed by the administrative secretary, who usually closed these discussions by saying that ‘pagode is a black thing too!’.49 Jacks Rodrigues suggested – saying that this was at the direct request of the mayor – that five trophies would be awarded, in the style of the CEACI Trophy for Black Culture, to the major personalities present at the event. Marinho was adamantly against the idea and took the opportunity to say everything that was on his mind regarding the CEACI Trophy. The ‘solution’ was to consider the awards as paying tribute to the Memorial and to delegate the responsibility of delivering the awards onto the executive committee of the event. Moreover, Marinho arranged that the small market stalls allocated to the Afro blocks inside the Memorial for ‘artisan crafts’, ‘promotional material’ and other related products would be made available in time for the re-inauguration, and they would be able to display small photographic exhibitions which related their history.

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Of the seven boxes, four had been allocated to the groups which were seen as ‘bigger’ or ‘more important’ (which actually only number three – the Dilazenze, Miny Kongo and Rastafiry; but the Zambi Axé, who maintain a close relationship with Gurita, were also included), one for the Zimbabuê, Raízes Negras and Danados do Reggae, one for the Leões do Reggae, Guerreiros de Zulu and Malês, and the last one, under pressure from the administrative secretary, for the Association of Candomblé Terreiros – which did not even exist at that time, but was, according to the secretary, in the process of formation and so should occupy a space within the Memorial. Thus, on 28 June, around midday, and after the inaugurations and commendations, the ‘ACM committee’, as everyone called it, arrived at the Memorial. A little earlier, as planned, a small procession consisting of almost a hundred percussionists from the Afro blocks, together with Bahian women from the Candomblé terreiros alongside capoeira groups, marched around the building to the steps that led to the entrance of the Memorial. Contrary to the plan, however, the washing of the steps could not be performed because, according to the organizers of the event, the governor’s protocol prohibited the use of water in an attempt to avoid the attendant authorities from getting wet and finding themselves in an embarrassing situation. Greeted by a large fireworks display, the delegation stopped in front of the Memorial. Nearby, a small crowd gathered, hoping, everyone said, to see the ‘senator’, Antônio Carlos Magalhães. A plaque with the following inscription was unveiled by the then ex-senator together with the mayor of the city: Today, on the city’s anniversary, City Hall and the Council of Afro-cultural Organizations, in the presence of the distinguished public figures Antônio Carlos Magalhães, Paulo Souto and César Borges, and Governor Otto Alencar, give commencement to the cultural activities of the Memorial of Black Culture. Ilhéus, 28 June 2002.

Under the text the symbol of Jabes Ribeiro’s government was shown, together with its slogan: ‘City Hall of Ilhéus – a better city every day’. The mayor then led everyone on a tour of the Memorial, specifically showing the boxes of the Afro blocks and the facilities of what would be the future ‘typical local restaurant’. They then went up to the second floor of the building (a space still being used by the 19 March Association), where, to the surprise of the leaders of the Afro blocks – who expected that everything would be happening on the ground floor – the ceremony to present the awards and mark the re-inauguration of the space was held. Other small surprises were still to come. Jabes Ribeiro conducted the ceremony, acting as if he were performing an act of his truely electoral campaigning:

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66 Everyone knows that we can vote for two senators. Who is one of them? ACM! And who is the other one? César Borges! That’s it! Once again: ACM and César Borges! Very good! Now I want to see who knows the answer to this. Who is going to be governor of Bahia? Paulo Souto! Very good, Paulo Souto! And here are our deputies: our federal deputy Fábio Souto and our state deputy Joabes Ribeiro.

Next, the official host invited the president of the CEACI to present the ‘Trophy Paying Tribute to the Memorial of Black Culture, to the future senator Antônio Carlos Magalhães’; ‘professor Gurita to present the trophy to our future governor Paulo Souto’; ‘the first-lady of the city, Adriana Ribeiro, to present the trophy to the future senator César Borges’; ‘the president of the Dilazenze Afro Block, Marinho, to present the trophy to governor Otto Alencar’. After the trophies were given out – and although there was still one to be presented – the host of the event, reminding everyone the popular saying that ‘those who command do so because they can; those who obey do so because they are sensible’, announced that ‘Senator Antônio Carlos Magalhães’ had decided that Paulo Souto should speak on the behalf of the whole committee. In just few words, the then senator – who, as we have seen, has personal connections with ‘the region’ – acknowledged the honour and spoke at the ‘inauguration of this highly important monument’, ‘a sign of the presence, in Ilhéus, of the black community, which is a presence in Ilhéus, a presence in Bahia, and which makes us all proud, because it is a factor of our culture, of our development’. Finally, at the closing of the ceremony, the host called Jacks Rodrigues up once again, this time to present the last trophy: ‘to him, the great instigator, our Mayor Jabes Ribeiro! And now let us celebrate, because this is a party, today is the anniversary of Ilhéus!’ A round of cocktails was then served by seven women dressed in ‘typical’ clothes (bahianas), offering freshly made typical food. There was also an announcement that beer would be served to the Afro groups; served, however, not at the Memorial but at the Secretariat of Social Work, located just a few metres away from the 19 March building. A rumour was quickly spread that the Department of Social Work – which, later, would promote the distribution of government food provisions – would be distributing free beer if those interested showed up with empty bottles, to be exchanged for full ones. The rumour and the large movement of people interested in getting the beer caused huge confusion, which resulted in fights, beatings and thefts. From Marinho Rodrigues’ point of view, all of this only confirmed the CEACI president’s inability to deal with such situations or to properly plan the activities of the black movement. The black militants of Ilhéus are extremely

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sensitive to the possibility that their behaviour, or the lack of organization at their events, could be used as an argument to reinforce certain stereotypes or prejudices of which they are victim. Jacks Rodrigues was thus, according to Marinho, being extremely irresponsible and contributing to a negative image of the city’s black movement. He was actually only ‘using’ the movement for his own purposes, to gain material advantages from City Hall, and to ‘show himself off ’, as they say in Ilhéus when they want to emphasize someone’s exhibitionism. He was thus looking to seize not only what had been the object of struggle for the black movement over the past ten years, but also the ideas of the real leaders of the movement, which he presented to the authorities present as his own. The politicians, in turn, certainly had other interests at stake. As Marinho said, The black movement of Ilhéus never saw an event like this one. We should consider and re-consider what Mayor Jabes Ribeiro, what these politicians, want with all of this, what they want from the black movement of Ilhéus, by showing what they would be doing for black culture, by showing that they are providing space for the black movement. What are they plotting, what do they want besides votes? Because it was too big an event, something unexpected, with the governor, ACM and everything, so it makes you think that they are using us, using and abusing us to gain prestige before the state government. Maybe the mayor had his sights set on being the Secretary of State, and he knows that black culture in Bahia, especially in Salvador, is the great trump card of tourism and the ACM government itself is turning back to these things. Therefore Jabes wants to tell them that he is also attuned to the issue of the black movement, of black culture, which he supports. It is a shame that the government secretaries that work for Jabes do not follow this reasoning, because he says one thing and the secretaries do another. So, it becomes difficult to reach these objectives, to achieve what happens in Salvador. Because the state government has policies geared towards the Afro groups, to the singers of Afro music. It has incentive policies for these groups, a whole cultural policy. This is something that doesn’t exist in Ilhéus because we have a lot of talk but no policies for this area of our culture. But Jabes, knowing that the government of Bahia places great importance on this area, starts doing this kind of work to gain prestige. But we are aware of this, and I was even joking the other day that I would like to be used in the way that the state government uses the Ilê, Olodum, Timbalada, Chiclete com Banana, Ivete Sangalo. Because they benefit politically and the artists benefit too, everybody wins. It is impossible to oppose the government of ACM in Salvador, because there is this entire political system and, if you are in opposition, you are outside of this cultural and artistic circuit in the

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68 city. Here in Ilhéus, we are used in a certain way, but in a kind of dirty way, because they are the only ones who benefit from it. The groups remain poor, without funding, without anything.

Marinho’s long analysis is an exemplary summary of part of the political philosophy subscribed to by most of the militants of the Afro-cultural movement in Ilhéus. According to this philosophy, it is necessary to find the points of convergence in the interests of both those in power and the black groups; it is necessary to explore these points by means of a game of exchange and reciprocal support; it is important that the final result is positive for both sides. Evidently, all militants do not explicitly express this philosophy; nor do they believe that it follows this ideal model; but it undoubtedly serves, at the same time, as both orientation and justification for a large part of their involvement with politicians and politics. And, if the interest can be considered the driving force, it cannot be forgotten that certain forms of pride and vanity are indispensable components for its operation: the Afro groups think of themselves as artists, they want to have ‘visibility’, to ‘appear’ or, to be more precise, they wish to be acknowledged.50 However, Marinho wanted to believe that Jacks’ plan would backfire. After all, Marinho was next to the delegation the entire time and spoke almost uninterruptedly with politicians; furthermore, the box of the Dilazenze was the one which created the best impression with the visitors and, eventually, he was called upon to deliver one of the trophies to the state governor, an act which, by a stroke of luck, was the only scene from the event which was aired by the local television network. ‘So,’ Marinho said, ‘it appeared that I was the president of the CEACI, it seemed that I was the administrator of the Memorial.’ (a position he would hold almost six months later). People that he didn’t know began to stop him in the street, praising his work and, sometimes, suggesting that he should run for councillor in the 2004 municipal elections. In this context, Marinho’s nomination for administrator of the Memorial – a possibility which, as we have seen, was rated highly since 2000 – began to be mentioned again. However, another name began to be put forward, one that threatened his nomination: that of Luiz Carilo. Even though he was considered white by the members of the Afro groups,51 Carilo was regarded by them as one of the pioneers of the movement in Ilhéus: a professor of classical ballet and theatre, in 1981 he was one of the founders of the first Afro block in Ilhéus, the Lê-Guê DePá, in which a large part of Marinho’s family participated (at the time Marinho was only 14 years old). The Lê-Guê DePá ceased to exist in 1988, and Carilo completely distanced himself from the black movement, becoming an adviser to the Brazilian Service Supporting Small Businesses (Sebrae) and moving outside of Ilhéus for some years.

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Hence Marinho was surprised to find him at the door of the 19 March building on the eve of the re-inauguration and, especially, to hear him present himself as the coordinator of activities and possible future administrator of the Memorial. On hearing Carilo suggest that he had been nominated for the role by the mayor’s wife, Marinho immediately deduced that this was all part of a political manoeuvre, surely headed by Jacks Rodrigues, and aided by Gurita, that aimed to remove him from contention for the role of administrator, as a result of his opposition and the allegations he was making against the president of the CEACI. The long militancy of Marinho Rodrigues within the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus, allied to the fact that he was the president of the city’s main Afro block and had worked as the executive coordinator, or president, of the CEAC over four years, made a strong case for selecting him for the role of administrator – one dating back to the time that the Memorial first began to be mentioned. In spite of this, it was only in April 2002 (precisely at the moment when Marinho made his allegations against the CEACI president) that the possibility of his nomination began to be presented as a real alternative. Soon after the end of the award ceremony for the First CEACI Trophy of Black Culture, when leaving the Memorial, Jabes Ribeiro called Marinho over for a quick conversation. The mayor once again expressed his wish that Marinho would involve himself more closely with Joabes’ campaign for state deputy and let him know that he would call on him at a later date for a more lengthy conversation. As the mayor left, Gurita, who probably overheard (or guessed at) the content of the conversation while observing it from afar, approached Marinho, saying that he had recently had a meeting with Jabes and Adriana, whom, after praising Marinho greatly, had confirmed that once the Memorial’s work began he would certainly be named as the administrator of the institution. Hiding his pride, Marinho answered that he had been waiting for this nomination for two years, and that he still lived where he had always lived and would continue waiting for the invitation. Three months after his conversation with Marinho, on 12 July, Jabes Ribeiro sent an official car from the City Hall of Ilhéus to Conquista to take Marinho to a meeting in his cabinet office. There, he participated in the meeting alongside the mayor and only one of the municipal secretaries, who had also been Jabes’ main political strategist since almost the beginning of the latter’s political life. The mayor began the meeting by directly inviting Marinho to participate in Joabes’ campaign as one of his coordinators. Marinho answered that he would accept the invitation only because of what Jabes had always done, and would continue to do, for the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus, since, as the mayor probably already knew, his brother’s name did not carry much weight, neither with the black movement, nor with the poorer members of the population,

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who generally considered him in an unfavourable light. Jabes answered that he knew this and this was precisely the reason that made him want Joabes to sit down with representatives of the black movement to discuss projects and proposals, since, once elected, he would then have a commitment to this movement and would represent them in Salvador. Before he could receive an answer, the mayor added that he could have invited Jacks Rodrigues (president of the CEACI) to the meeting, but he had preferred to invite Marinho because he, undoubtedly, was the real leader of the Afro-cultural movement in Ilhéus, and was the only person capable of uniting the movement in support for Joabes’ candidacy and of creating a connection between this campaign and the militants – something which he believed Jacks was incapable of doing. Marinho thanked him, adding that in fact there was still the issue of the CEACI, as in order to accomplish what the mayor wanted he would need the support of all of the organizations. Jabes agreed, remembering his historical relationship with the black movement (the rescue of the Cultural Carnival, the aid to support the CEAC in 1997, the Memorial itself etc.), and concluded that, even though he was not ACM, he would like to develop the same policies with the black groups in Ilhéus that were implemented in Salvador. This was the reason, he added, of taking Antônio Carlos Magalhães, Paulo Souto, César Borges and Otto Alencar to the re-inauguration of the Memorial: forcing them to make a commitment to support black culture in Ilhéus.52 Marinho argued that he believed that the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus had acquired a political consciousness far superior to that they had possessed in the past, and understood, therefore, the necessity to support candidates who were committed to black culture, which would also involve the possible launch of their own candidate for the Chamber of Councillors in the 2004 municipal elections. Jabes immediately interrupted him: ‘This candidate for councillor, Marinho, has to be you! Because you have all the qualities and you unite all the groups!’ The municipal secretary who was present at the meeting reminded them that he had already said the same thing in public, and he had done so in the presence of Gurita who, since the 1996 elections, had been unsuccessfully attempting to present himself as the representative of the Afro groups. Jabes added that he was also already thinking about the 2004 elections; Marinho asked when the construction work on the 19 March building would resume and, eventually, finish; the secretary answered that this was due to happen any day now, and Marinho took the opportunity to raise the subject of the administrator of the Memorial, saying that he had heard it would be Luis Carilo. The mayor admitted that Adriana, his wife, had put forward Carilo and a good project to make use of the space, but that, even so,

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he did not yet want to make a decision on the subject and he would like to take the opportunity of hearing Marinho’s opinion. His answer was cautious: he praised Carilo and recalled that he was one of the founders of the Afro-cultural movement in Ilhéus, a movement Marinho himself had learned a lot from; at the same time, he emphasized the fact that Carilo had spent a long time away from the movement and no longer had links with any groups in the city, a fact which could cause a certain amount of dissatisfaction on the part of the organizations that had been closely tied to the project of the Memorial, which would indicate the need to have at least one name from the movement itself working alongside him. Confirming that Marinho ‘had nothing against Carilo’, Jabes suggested that the solution could actually be a nomination of two people, Carilo and someone chosen by the CEACI; from his point of view, he went on, the latter name should certainly be that of Marinho, and he concluded that, although certain of this, the conflicts within the Council were making his decision difficult. Marinho promised that these conflicts would be swiftly resolved, and heard from Jabes that the ideal situation would be for the CEACI to indicate, besides the administrator – or co-administrator, no one knew anymore – another two names which, alongside the two nominations made by City Hall, would compose the Executive Council for the Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus. Marinho rapidly organized a meeting of the CEACI and, on 13 July, went straight to the point: he suggested the unanimous nomination of his own name for the role of administrator of the Memorial along with the names of Cesar, of the Rastafiry, and Jacks for the Executive Council. The latter should thus remove himself as president of the CEACI for three months so that the allegations and irregularities could be investigated, in order that, in October, the vice-president could conduct new elections for the board of the Council. Jacks accepted; or at least he appeared to accept, as shortly after the meeting he announced that he had changed his mind and that under no circumstance would he resign. Furthermore, and aided by Gurita, he apparently began a series of manoeuvres that aimed to promote the nomination of Carilo as administrator of the Memorial. In this context, his name and Cesar’s were replaced by those of Ney and a representative of the Miny Kongo to be members of the Advising Council of the Memorial – Marinho Rodrigues remaining as the nominee for administrator. Finally, the mayor convened a meeting with the CEACI and the other black groups, a meeting in which Adriana and Gurita also participated. Reminding everyone about the importance of the Memorial, Jabes asked if the names of the Council representatives had already been chosen. With the names confirmed, Jacks inquired of the mayor whether there was any concrete information regarding Luis Carilo; the response was dubious:

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Carilo was being hired by the Cultural Foundation of Ilhéus (led, in practice, by the mayor’s wife), to work with the administrator of the Memorial, who would be appointed by City Hall in agreement with the nomination of the CEACI. But Jabes also stated that, alongside Gurita, Carilo would be one of the members of the Executive Council nominated by City Hall and that, in addition, the 19 March Association should also put forward a name. Ney took the opportunity to ask if there would be any possibility of remuneration for members of the Executive Council, a suggestion that the mayor completely and definitively dismissed. Jacks again attempted to introduce the topic of the elections, but Jabes immediately interrupted him, reminding him that under no circumstances was he there to exchange the Memorial for possible support for his brother’s candidacy: he would greatly appreciate any support, but this could not have any connection with the Memorial. Everything appeared settled, but the fact was that, until the elections at the beginning of October, nothing concrete happened regarding the Memorial. Marinho learned the administrator’s salary would be BR$1,070 (US$360) a month, making it clear to everyone that this increased even further his interest in the job. Having been unemployed for years, and depending largely on his wife’s job (in which, even though she had completed her secondary education, she earned just over the minimum wage for working in the restaurant of a brewery) to provide for their house and daughter, he also saw the position as a chance to gain a certain degree of peace, in order to continue doing what he really liked: the organization of the Afro-cultural movement in Ilhéus, both in general and particularly for his own block, the Dilazenze. However, the level of the salary put his appointment in doubt, for it seemed too high, bearing in mind the ‘discrimination’ against black leaders. Besides this, the appointment depended on the formal creation of the position, which, alongside the creation of the position of administrator for the Cultural Centre of Olivença (a thermal spa situated around 20 km from the municipal headquarters), had to be approved by the Chamber of Councillors. In the Chamber, besides the discrimination being even greater, there were politicians from the opposition who intended, as usual, to disrupt the government’s plans. Allied to the manoeuvres that Marinho believed were being put in place by Jacks and Gurita, these other factors contributed to his growing doubts about his own nomination. Another factor which aggravated the situation was the fact that Marinho had decided to distance himself from Joabes’ campaign because he did not agree with the way he was involving the black groups in the process. To this end, he organized a petition, referring to City Hall a project to reform the Memorial, a document which was to be delivered to the mayor himself at Joabes’ electoral rally, which took place at the Santa Rita Square in Conquista

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on 7 September. With almost 200 signatures, the petition was delivered to Jabes, who immediately told Marinho that he should have spoken directly to him; at the same time, he invited him up on stage to speak at Joabes’ rally on behalf of the black movement of Ilhéus, declaring ‘you are my guest!’ The speech lasted almost 20 minutes and, largely improvized, reaffirmed the black movement’s support for Joabes due to the ‘partnership’ with the mayor, and, apparently, the speech was greatly welcomed by the politicians present. Many complimented Marinho, saying: ‘you must announce yourself as a candidate for councillor’. One of the only people who did not compliment him was Gurita, who seemed somewhat surprised at the mayor’s invitation for Marinho to give a speech at an assembly taking place in his own electoral stronghold.53 The members of the black groups and the residents of Conquista also complimented Marinho warmly when he came down from the stage. Many said that his candidature for councillor in 2004 had even been launched and, in that position, he could help solve the problem of unemployment, at least for the black militants. The jobs that they alluded to were explicitly those which could be paid for from the funds of the Advising Council and those which could be obtained through agreements with municipal departments and foundations.54 Estimating that at least ten people could find employment in this way, Marinho argued that, ‘if you find employment for the components, for the militants, for the leaders of the black movement, you stabilize the lives of these people, who acquire more respect, and a better quality of life so that they can function well within the Afro-cultural movement’.55 His performance at the Conquista rally was so good that, shortly afterwards, Marinho was invited by the chief coordinator of Joabes’s campaign (his other brother, John Ribeiro) to get up on stage once again at a rally that would take place a few days later in a neighbourhood near Conquista. Unable to attend the assembly, Marinho did make an appearance at the rally which preceded it, and, whilst receiving many compliments, he also thought himself stalked by Gurita, Jacks and Carilo who, together the whole time, seemed to not let him out of their sight. This only reinforced his suspicions that the three of them were plotting against his nomination for administrator of the Memorial. However, the information regarding the creation of the two administrative positions (for the Memorial and also for the Cultural Centre of Olivença) was very contradictory. Some said that they had already been created, while others said that they hadn’t, and that it could take a long time. Marinho appeared to believe more in the second hypothesis, as he imagined that the mayor would wait until after the elections to make the appointments, thus avoiding a situation whereby the unsuccessful candidates became unsatisfied,

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and in this way he could maintain their electoral support while the process was taking place. As a result, Marinho decided that if he was not appointed as administrator of the Memorial, he would not work under Carilo under any circumstance. He even contemplated distancing his block, the Dilazenze, from all of the activities related to the Memorial: It is a job that everyone wants, everyone is fighting for it, but I will never play the part of Carilo’s subordinate. This is not about the job, the salary. I mean, this is important, but above all there is the question of attitude, of leadership, of not bowing our heads and just accepting this kind of thing.

On the elections of 6 October 2002, almost all of the candidates supported by Jabes Ribeiro were elected. Paulo Souto from PFL, obtained 2,871,025 votes (53.69 per cent of those valid) and became governor of the state of Bahia (in Ilhéus, Souto obtained 36,427 votes, or 51.6 per cent of those valid). Antônio Carlos Magalhães, also from PFL, returned to the Federal Senate with 2,995,559 votes (30.59 per cent of the valid votes; in Ilhéus, 31.6 per cent or 40,623 votes). César Borges was the other senator elected, with 2,731,596 votes (27.9 per cent of the valid votes; in Ilhéus, 28.1 per cent or 36,103 votes). Fabio Souto was the third federal deputy in Bahia, with 236,067 votes (3.96 per cent of the total), and in Ilhéus he managed to obtain 15.5 per cent of the valid votes (11,740 in total). The exceptions were the presidential candidate Ciro Gomes and, curiously enough, the mayor’s brother, Joabes Ribeiro obtained 13,503 votes in Ilhéus (18 per cent of the total valid votes), and, in the state, just 29,654 votes (only 0.5 per cent of the total), an insufficient amount to elect him as state deputy. Notwithstanding, Jabes still had reason to celebrate. After two consecutive mandates in the Chamber of Deputies (always being among the most voted for candidates in the state), his political arch-rival Roland Lavigne (of whom I will speak about later) was unsuccessful in his re-election. One of the main contributions to his failure, openly discussed in Ilhéus, was the impressive amount of votes for a candidate called Pipa, who obtained 17.5 per cent of the votes in Ilhéus (13,212), almost the same amount obtained by Lavigne (13,467 or 17.8 per cent of the total). Even though he obtained only about 900 votes outside of Ilhéus, it was widely believed within the city that Pipa had taken enough votes from Lavigne to prevent his re-election. Finally, it is necessary to add that, in the last leg of the campaign, Marinho Rodrigues, his family and his block, the Dilazenze, decided not to vote for the federal deputy candidate endorsed by the mayor, Fábio Souto. Even though this did not signal a large-scale shift of the group’s votes (since apparently they were shared amongst several candidates), it is important to observe that

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‘officially’, it was decided that they would vote for Luiz Alberto, a candidate for PT tied to the Unified Black Movement. Luiz Alberto was re-elected as federal deputy with 62,322 votes (1.05 per cent of the total), and in Ilhéus he obtained 784 votes (or 1 per cent of the total). In addition, some of the family ended up working on the campaigns of two other candidates supported by their aunt, who, as an electoral campaigner, managed to secure some resources to pay them for this work. And, whilst these last minute changes did not seem to affect the group’s relationship with City Hall (since, as they liked to repeat, they maintained their support for the mayor’s brother), the truth is that many speculated that there would be some kind of retaliation.56 All of the above-mentioned scenarios explain the tense and insecure atmosphere on the day of Marinho’s appointment as administrator of the Memorial, endured not only by Marinho but by his family and certain elements of the Dilazenze in general. City Hall also contributed to the worsening of the situation, since no-one would officially confirm the name of the nominee. An employee telephoned Marinho on the afternoon of 6 December to obtain information such as his full name, ID number etc. But, soon afterwards, he found out that Carilo had also received a phone call with the same objective. Furthermore, having spent the entire day at the Memorial, Marinho observed a crowd around Carilo who, coincidentally, lived opposite the 19 March building. He observed that he had talked a lot with Gurita and Jacks and that, several times throughout the day, he had left and then returned home. It is therefore understandable that there was widespread joy and relief when the mayor announced that he was naming ‘our companion Gilmário Rodrigues Santos, known as Marinho as administrator of the Memorial of Black Culture’. If we also remember that the announcement was only made after the signing of the protocol of intentions between City Hall and the CEACI, we can better evaluate Marinho’s words when summarizing the event: The mayor gave a whole speech to create even more expectation. First, he performed the signing of the protocol of intentions and left the appointment for last, creating all this suspense. Then the people expressed themselves. I looked at Carilo and he practically collapsed; Gurita lowered his head; Adriana let out a little masked giggle. Other people were excited, especially the Dilazenze, everyone was applauding. At the end of the ceremony, everyone congratulated me and it was only then that I noticed that Carilo – who had given me a hug, saying that the partnership would work, that he was going to help me etc. – had not been appointed for anything at all.

After taking on his new role, Marinho discovered that, by creating the administrative positions at both the Memorial and the Cultural Centre of

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Olivença, the Chamber of Councillors had modified the salaries, reducing them by half. Or, more precisely, it approved the creation of one of the positions proposed by City Hall, dividing it in two, and did not approve the creation of the other. This strange ploy meant that, at the end of January 2003, when receiving his first formal payment in many years, Marinho discovered that instead of the BR$1,070 (US$360) he had expected, he received only BR$535 (US$180), an amount that he still considered a good salary by Ilheusean standards, but one that was, clearly, well below that he had anticipated.

CHAPTER 2

1996 Research

 On 19 September 1996, I met up again with Marinho Rodrigues after not having seen him for around eight months, although we had spoken a few times over the phone. In January of the same year, I had been in Ilhéus and had decided to focus my research on elections and voting, and this had been the main theme of our telephone conversations. Marinho appeared to be pleased with our reunion, commenting that ‘now I know that this research is for real’. His statement surprised me, although, a short while afterwards, I remembered that during our last long-distance conversation – to organize the trip – he had told me how he had announced this same conclusion to Cesar from the Rastafiry Afro block. Marinho’s scepticism, which his friendly tone of voice could barely conceal, could perhaps be explained, in part, by the fact that it is doubtless strange to admit to being the ‘object’ of someone’s research, but also because of some unusual characteristics of this particular research project, the existence of which Marinho was confirming. For, to a certain extent, it is the result of the intersection of three lines of interests and relatively distinct and independent events. The most recent chronological line pointed to the beginning of 1996, when, while on vacation, I decided that the research I had been developing since 1994 on the subject of elections should have its empirical focus in Ilhéus. During this vacation, I met up with an old university colleague after not seeing him for many years. He had abandoned the academic life to enter the Santo

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Daime** cult, having lived in the group’s headquarters in the Amazon for around ten years. After marrying a girl from the region, Paulo Rodrigues (no relation to Marinho’s family, nor with Jacks Rodrigues) decided to move back to Ilhéus, the city he was born in, but which he had left at a very young age to live in Rio de Janeiro. At the beginning of 1995, Paulo and his wife established themselves in Ilhéus and he, with the help of some of his family who still lived in the city, found a job at the library and centre for documentation at the ‘Our Lady of Pity Institute’ (Instituto Nossa Senhora da Piedade). Piedade, as it is known, is a very traditional teaching institution in Ilhéus, founded in 1916 by Ursuline nuns. Around the time of the cacao boom, the institution almost exclusively housed the daughters of landowners and local merchants. Even after starting to accept male students in the 1970s, and after the worsening of the cacao crisis in the 1980s, the school was still a haven for the Ilheusean elite. However, Paulo’s job only offered him a basic salary, barely sufficient to support himself. The invitation for him to begin working as a research assistant in my investigations of the elections in Ilhéus was, certainly, a consequence of my decision to focus my work on that area, but the possibility of his help was also one of the factors that led me to make that decision. After all, I could rely on the help of someone who had been trained at the best universities in Rio de Janeiro, and this seemed crucial to me at the time. Paulo immediately accepted the invitation, thinking not only of the allowance that he would receive, but also the fact that this work meant a return to academic activity after an absence of almost fifteen years. In any case, if the first line that led to this research, which Marinho had questioned, passed through two contingent events (a vacation and a re-encounter with an old colleague), it could only fulfil this role because it crossed a second line, marked by the fact that, at that time, I had already spent almost two years developing an anthropological investigation into voting and elections in Brazil. My initial work as an anthropologist, which took place between 1978 and 1984, concentrated on the so-called Afro-Brazilian cults; part of the fieldwork for my Master’s dissertation on possession in Candomblé (Goldman 1984; see also Goldman 1985a, 1985b, 1987, 1990, 2003; and Contins and Goldman 1984) was undertaken at Matamba Tombenci Neto, the Candomblé terreiro in which Dona Ilza is the saint-mother and to which the Dilazenze is connected. Between 1986 and 1991, I dedicated myself to work on the history of anthropological thought, more specifically the work of Lucien Lévy-Bruhl (Goldman 1994; see also Goldman 1992; 1998). This work was in full swing *

* Translators’ note. Santo Daime is a spiritual cult founded in Brazil in the 1930s. The ceremonies of the cult involve singing hymns focusing on peace and harmony, dancing, and drinking a psychoactive tea called ‘Daime.’

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when Fernando Collor de Mello’s victory in the 1989 Brazilian presidential elections made me think that, if anthropology was unable to say something important and interesting about these events, we should definitively give up any attempt to investigate our own society. However, it was only in 1994, during the new presidential elections, that the intuition I had in 1989 would begin taking the form of a project, initially put into practice as a ‘transversal’ investigation of representations constructed around the electoral process by different social strata in various contexts (see Goldman and Sant’Anna 1995; Goldman and Palmeira 1996; Goldman and Silva 1998). Between 1996 and 1997, this project became part of a broader inter-institutional programme, called ‘An Anthropology of Politics’, that brought together a number of researchers working on subjects usually seen as belonging to the political sphere, seeking to re-focus them ‘from a native point of view’. Thus, in 1996 my investigation shifted its focus to concentrate on Ilhéus (see Goldman 2000; 2001a; 2001b). My return to this beautiful city on the southern coast of Bahia is tied to a third and older line, dating back to 1981, when I was looking for a place to conduct my fieldwork on possession in Candomblé, the theme of my Master’s dissertation. I had worked throughout all of my graduate period as a research assistant for Wagner Neves Rocha in a terreiro belonging to the Angola nation, located in a suburb of Niteroi in the larger Rio de Janeiro area, but I wanted my own field site.57 Family ties made the city of Ilhéus a natural possibility. In 1981 and 1982, I made two quick trips to the region, but it was only during the third trip, at the end of 1982, that I experienced one of those strokes of luck that can transform someone’s life, leading me to Tombenci, to the Rodrigues family, and, later, to the Dilazenze. An acquaintance, knowing of my interest in Candomblé, introduced me to a great black actor, dancer and cultural entertainer called Mário Gusmão,58 who at that time lived in Ilhéus and was developing some projects in the city and in Itabuna, a city located about 30 km away. On a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, Mário took me for the first time to meet Dona Ilza Rodrigues, the saint-mother of Tombenci. Even though I can not be certain if the memories I have of this meeting really correspond with what actually happened, or if they are mixed up with numerous meetings that I witnessed between members of Tombenci and other people, my memories still seem strange and clear enough to be mentioned, as this meeting is of great importance to this narrative. The initial introductions had an atmosphere that I mistakenly interpreted as having a certain degree of distance and coldness. Later, I would learn that the Rodrigues family exhibits, to a degree only slightly higher than that of their neighbours, what Paul Veyne (1987:9) describes so beautifully as ‘popular elegance’, adopting an ethos of discretion and sobriety that very often hampers the perception of their true emotional state. The truth is that, from the

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Figure 9 Brasil Avenue (or Carilos Street).

very beginning, Dona Ilza observed that people introduced to her by Mário Gusmão could already be considered friends of the household. We sat down on the patio located at the front of the Rodrigues house, which is adjacent to the Tombenci barracão.59 Both buildings are located on Brasil Avenue in the part of the Conquista neighbourhood known as Carilos (the former name of the street and of the family that owned the region). At that time, the street had yet to be paved and was occupied by just a few houses, plots of land, many trees, plants and herbs; places and things widely used, in different ways, in Candomblé rituals and festivities. Almost fifty, but looking much younger, Dona Ilza – accompanied by her father Valentim Afonso Pereira, the principal ogã of the terreiro – quickly began to tell us about the history of her terreiro, which, to a large degree, is the history of her family and is mixed up with her own history as well. The Matamba Tombenci Neto terreiro, she told us, descends from the oldest terreiro of the Angola nation in Bahia, that of Maria Jenoveva do Bonfim (known as Maria Neném), saint-daughter of Roberto Barros Reis, an African who had received this surname as a slave belonging to a certain Barros Reis. Born in 1865 and dying in 1945, Maria Jenoveva do Bonfim founded the Tombenci terreiro in Salvador at an unknown date.60 Around the same time, in 1885, Tiodolina Félix Rodrigues founded in Ilhéus the Terreiro Aldeia de Angorô, which she led until her death in 1914. In that same period, Euzébio Félix Rodrigues, Tiodolina’s biological son, met an African named Hipólito Reis in Salvador, who would come to be his saint-father. Both frequently

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Figure 10 Conquista viewed from below. The houses in the foreground belong to the Rodrigues family.

visited Ilhéus and in 1915 Euzébio assumed control of his mother’s terreiro, which came to be known as Terreiro de Roxo Mucumbo (the Angola equivalent of the Ketu Ogum) since this was his orixá – much like Angorô (Oxumarê) was Tiodolina’s orixá. Euzébio remained at the head of the terreiro until his death in 1941, when his sister, Izabel Rodrigues Pereira, assumed control. Izabel, along with her daughters Ilza and Irani, both around six or seven years old, went through the preliminary initiation rituals with Hipólito Reis, who then returned to Africa, and could not, therefore, conclude their initiations. This led Izabel to decide that before assuming control of the terreiro, she should complete these initiations. To this end, she called upon Marcelina Plácida, known as Dona Maçu, saint-daughter of the founder of Tombenci in Salvador, the famous Maria Neném. Having completed these obligations, the terreiro resumed its activities in 1946, now in Conquista, under the name Senhora Sant’Ana Tombenci Neto: ‘Tombenci Neto’ (grandson), as it would be part of the ‘third generation’ of Tombenci (Maria Neném, Dona Maçu, Izabel Rodrigues); ‘Senhora Sant’Ana’, because Nãnã – the orixá syncretized with Nossa Senhora de Sant’Ana – was Izabel’s orixá. Izabel became known as Dona Roxa; she died on 25 October 1973 and was succeeded by Ilza Rodrigues, one of her four biological daughters (she also had three sons), who was also her ‘saint-sister’ (irmã-de-santo), since both were initiated by Dona Maçu. As often happens in Candomblé, the succession of Dona Roxa in 1973 was somewhat traumatic. Almost everyone expected that the successor would

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Figure 11 The main entrance of Tombency and Dona Ilza Rodrigues’ house.

be one of Dona Ilza’s sisters, but, after the burial and funerary rites, Dona Maçu revealed that Dona Roxa had explicitly stated her successor should be Ilza, an appointment that, as strictly required, was confirmed by the jogo de búzios.61 Her successor, however, was hesitant, uncertain of her capacity to succeed the great saint-mother, who attracted an enormous number of people to her religious festivals, and who also had numerous clients who consulted her, including politicians and members of the Ilheusean elite. It is said that her funeral was accompanied by a huge procession of cars that completely paralysed traffic in Conquista. Furthermore, the overlooked sister was not at all happy with her mother’s decision or the result of the búzios. Finally, Dona Ilza’s husband, even though he was ogã of the terreiro, would not accept, under any circumstances, that his wife should assume the leadership. With fourteen children to raise, he argued that she would not have any time for him, and threatened to leave her if she accepted the position. This argument, for Dona Ilza, was decisive in her refusal to accept the leadership of the terreiro. Dona Maçu, alongside other elders, warned her that this was not a decision she could make. Everything was already decided, and if she refused her destiny, tragedy would befall the terreiro and its followers: the older members would begin to die, others would become seriously ill and finally the roof of the barracão would collapse, bringing to an end something that began almost a hundred years earlier.62 So, Dona Ilza accepted the position, her husband left her, and when I met her, she had been the saint-mother of Matamba Tombenci Neto (Matamba being her orixá the name of the terreiro was once again slightly changed)

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Figure 12 View of Ilhéus from Marinho Rodrigues’ house.

for almost ten years. More than fifty houses grew from the terreiro (the ‘Tombenci great-grandchildren’), scattered throughout Bahia, and also in São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro. Organized in a familial structure, comprised of the saint-mother, her fourteen biological children (all initiated to varying degrees) and their respective families, Tombenci is characterized by having a strong communal life, with privileged connections to the area of Carilos and Conquista in general. In 1986, some of the younger members of the family and the terreiro (led by Vane and Marinho Rodrigues, both in their twenties) founded the Group for the Preservation of Dilazenze Black Culture, an Afro block whose main objective, according to its statutes, is ‘the preservation and dissemination of Afro-Brazilian culture in the southern region of Bahia’. After this first meeting, I stayed for two more months in Ilhéus, during which I attended, for the first time, one of the magnificent Tombenci feasts. I helped with the preparation, and began a relationship of friendship, trust and admiration that I had no idea would last so long. I wrote my Master’s dissertation without including the empirical material from the terreiro, but was fully aware that the field experience played a fundamental role in its writing. This is because, as noted in the dissertation, if my research in the Ilê de Obaluaiê, in Greater Rio de Janeiro, was influenced by some personal characteristics of the saint-father there (‘a man dedicated to mystical reflections and the construction of intricate cosmological systems’), Dona Ilza Rodrigues revealed to me ‘that Candomblé is much more than a cosmological system or even a religion, she showed me that it is also a practice and a way of life’ (Goldman 1984:3). Over the thirteen years between my research on

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Candomblé and my research on politics, I never completely lost contact with the Rodrigues family and with Tombenci, keeping in touch during my short trips to Ilhéus or on the few occasions they visited me in Rio de Janeiro. Retrospectively, it appears quite natural that I arrived at the conclusion that my anthropological interest in studying voting and elections (the second line mentioned earlier) could and should take my research to Ilhéus. I already had a great network of contacts there with people who I knew were occasionally involved with politics, and I could rely on a research assistant who seemed extremely appropriate for the task (the first line of interest).63 The research was thus put into action in April 1996. Paulo Rodrigues was responsible for the preliminary work and carried out a series of recorded interviews so that, when I arrived in the city in September to monitor the municipal elections, the field was relatively mapped out and part of the empirical material was ready to be used. However, Paulo did much more than this. As he told me much later, ‘there was great participation by the researcher, I would say perhaps a little excessive’. Actually, the problem was not just with the quantity of participation by the researcher, but principally with its quality. Not in the sense of its value, since Paulo’s work produced excellent material, but in the sense of its nature, which put people at odds with experiences, expectations and, consequently, representations of politics that were not only too heterogeneous, but, in general, conflicting. Paulo did not put much effort into resolving this situation. During his university years, he had been involved with some student political militancy in the 1970s and, later, became part of the Santo Daime cult, at the same time participating in activities and projects linked to NGOs or the so-called third-sector. Paulo’s conception of politics was marked by a reasonable dose of certainty when it came to the distinction between left and right and by the necessity for political awareness and participation (on the left, obviously). The problem is that the people who he was helping me to research in Ilhéus – the militants of the Afro-cultural movement of the city – seemingly embrace conceptions of politics, awareness, and participation which are radically different from Paulo’s and, of course, in a large part, from my own. Following my instructions, Paulo sought out Dona Ilza Rodrigues and her family in an attempt to conduct some interviews on the municipal elections in October 1996. Dona Ilza, in much the same way I had witnessed back in 1983, told him that anyone introduced by me was already considered a friend of the family, and asked her children to collaborate with anything he needed for his work. In the first interview with one of Dona Ilza’s brothers, two very important things were revealed: the existence of an Afro-cultural movement in Ilhéus, and its participation in the 1992 municipal elections. The first revelation surprised Paulo, who had lived in the city for almost a year and

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had never heard of the movement. His surprise is reasonably understandable, however, if we take into account the fact that, as noted by Silva (1998:13–14), the movement seems to have a certain invisibility to the local white middle class, who assume that the existence of black movements is restricted to Salvador. The theme of the second revelation will be the subject of analysis in the next chapter and, as a result, it is enough to reiterate here that, in the 1992 municipal elections, one of the electoral tickets in the running for City Hall managed to obtain the support of all the organizations within the Afrocultural movement by promising to construct an Afro-Cultural Centre which, ultimately, never came to fruition. The black groups – who managed to secure an estimated eight thousand votes for the winning ticket, which was decisive for the final result – felt that they had been tricked and considered the deputy mayor and the candidate for councillor, who were both black, as ‘traitors’, as they had been responsible for the controversy. They also promised that, in the 1996 elections, they would work against the candidates they had previously supported. The disillusion felt by the black groups after their participation in the 1992 elections produced two consequences. Firstly, the militants of the Afro-cultural organizations felt that the movement had become fractured and that work to reconstruct the movement was necessary, with the creation of a new Council of Organizations and with the strengthening of these groups. Secondly, there was no longer a requirement for political or electoral participation by the movement as a whole; in other words, the organizations that constituted the black movement were free to choose and support their own candidates for councillor and mayor. Thus, the meetings that the leaders of the groups wanted to organize, aiming to restructure the movement, would under no circumstances deal with their possible involvement in electoral politics. Paulo, on the other hand, thought that this was completely inadequate, and that a movement that prided itself on being able to secure eight-thousand votes in a municipal election should not give up its political participation in the next election.

 On 15 May 1995, the local newspaper A Região announced that it was ‘Starting the municipal succession in Ilhéus’, with the launch of the main campaigns. Three possible candidates were vying for the support of the government of the State of Bahia and Senator Antônio Carlos Magalhães: Gumercindo Tavares, Rúbia Carvalho, and Roland Lavigne. The first, who had never run in an election, was part of one of the most traditional cacao plantation families in

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Ilhéus, having been called by some ‘the last colonel’ – as the political leaders and chiefs used to be called in the cacao region. Rúbia, daughter and wife of wealthy cacao merchants, had run for the State Legislature in 1994, having obtained around 4,600 votes in Ilhéus which, even though it was not enough to elect her, transformed her into a potential candidate for City Hall. Roland Lavigne had followed a very different trajectory, having built his political career in the smaller municipalities of Una and Camacan, neighbouring Ilhéus. He was elected state deputy in 1990 and built up a powerful political base in the south and far-south of Bahia. In 1994, he was the fourth most voted federal deputy in the state of Bahia, obtaining over a quarter of the valid votes in Ilhéus. After his election, he began facing allegations of embezzlement of funds from the health-care system and of indiscriminate sterilization of women (I will return to this point). On 16 October 1995, A Região announced that ‘Roland is leading in the polls’, a situation which meant that, throughout the first half of 1996, the state governor and Senator Antônio Carlos Magalhães began making the decision to support Roland Lavigne. At the beginning of June, anticipating what she felt was going to happen, Rúbia withdrew from the campaign. The headline in A Região on 3 June stated ‘[Rúbia] withdraws her candidacy and guarantees support for Jabes’. After the early stages of the campaign in which she emphasized the fact of being a woman and ‘not a politician’, and of representing a ‘freshness’ in the politics of Ilhéus, she had reached almost 15 per cent in the opinion polls and had no intention of abandoning her candidacy. However, upon learning of a manoeuvre being made by the state board of her party that would invalidate the launch of her name as a candidate for mayor, she decided not only to abandon her candidacy, but to support Jabes Ribeiro as well. This was a decision that was difficult to predict, as the conservative profile of her candidacy and her long-standing ties with Antônio Carlos Magalhães’ group made it hard to believe that she could come to support Jabes. In Ilhéus it was said that the van which she used for her campaign was painted at night and, on the morning of the day in which the ex-candidate announced her withdrawal, it was already out on the streets campaigning for Jabes, a campaign in which she was directly and heavily involved. On 17 June, A Região ran the headline: ‘Decided: Roland is AO’s [Antônio Olímpio’s] candidate’ and ‘ACM [Antônio Carlos Magalhães] and Paulo Souto nominate Roland’; and, on page 7, it reported that support for Roland was officially made public by Antônio Carlos Magalhães at the Municipal Theatre of Ilhéus during a ceremony launching a series of construction projects for the city. Gumercindo Tavares, who up until that point seemed to still believe that he would be nominated, was present at the ceremony and promptly left when Roland’s name was confirmed. A Região added that ‘other people’ would

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have done the same and, on page 5, presented an interview with Gumercindo Tavares in which he said that he would maintain his candidacy. However, in the 1 July edition, the same newspaper ran the headline: ‘Gumercindo’s candidacy revoked’, explaining that the Regional Executive Branch of his party had forced the candidate to withdraw his name from contention. Roland would be at the head of a coalition which would include the parties to which Rúbia and Gumercindo belonged. The latter candidate finally resigned, left for a long trip abroad and never participated in Ilheusean politics again. On the side of the opposition, Jabes Ribeiro took up his mandate as federal deputy again after his defeat in the 1992 municipal elections in Ilhéus, while at the same time looking ahead to the next elections in 1996 by stirring up some controversy. At the beginning of 1994, he publicly announced his decision not to run for re-election to the Chamber, proclaiming his ‘historical commitment’ and his ‘preferential option’ for the city of Ilhéus. Having defined the lack of support from the left in his 1992 campaign as one of the main causes of his defeat, and looking to capitalize on his performance as federal deputy and his support for Lula, both in the second round of the 1989 presidential elections and the first of the 1994 elections, Jabes sought to forge a broad alliance and offered the role of deputy mayor to the Workers’ Party who, in the middle of June 1996, finally accepted the offer. In addition, Jabes obtained the formal or informal support of a further six parties, as well as that of several candidates for councillor (including, as we saw, Gurita), who, tied to Rúbia Carvalho, now only formally remained in the coalition that supported Roland Lavigne. In this electoral setting, and given his political beliefs and involvement in the research with the various black groups, Paulo suggested to some of his work colleagues at the Piedade, who worked for Jabes’ campaign, that it might be possible to persuade the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus to support Jabes for mayor. This, unsurprisingly, aroused the interest of those who were involved in the electoral process on the side of this candidate. More precisely, these colleagues were part of Rúbia Carvalho’s political group and had become involved in Jabes’ campaign when she had begun supporting him. In this sense, Paulo’s suggestion appeared extremely interesting because it offered Rúbia, the leader of the group, the possibility to obtain a large number of votes and, beyond this, the participation of a group which, clearly, could perform music and dance at various events, increasing the ‘visibility’ of the campaign. Rúbia saw in this a chance to show Jabes – whose candidacy she had only supported for a very short time and whose political team she would never be part of – an electoral force and a capacity for mobilization and political propaganda. This would certainly count in her favour in the event of a possible election victory, when the time came for the allocation of various positions. And of course, Jabes himself could only look kindly on this additional electoral support.

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Paulo, in turn, had perhaps glimpsed an opportunity to strengthen his relationship with a potentially influential group of people. It is clear, however, that he also believed that the Afro-cultural movement should support a leftwing candidate, chiefly because everything appeared to indicate that Jabes Ribeiro would win the October elections. From the second half of June 1996, Paulo sought to convince the Afrocultural movement that their support of Jabes, established through mediation with Rúbia, would be the best way forward. The problem is that, even with the relationship that the research had allowed him to establish between himself and Marinho Rodrigues (vice-president of the old board of directors of the CEACI and the most active of the militants in the restructuring process of the Council), Paulo was an outsider both to the black movement and to Rúbia Carvalho’s political group. On 16 June, Paulo forwarded to Marinho what was explicitly defined as a request from some of Rúbia’s advisers: a conversation between the two groups seeking to establish possible electoral support for Jabes Ribeiro. This conversation would be based on the prospective immediate completion of, at the least, three campaign events, organized in conjunction with the Afrocultural movement, that would take place in neighbourhoods that housed black groups. It was also proposed that the black movement would come to occupy a seat in the candidate’s Campaign Council – which included representatives of the different parties which made up the Popular Alliance, a coalition formed by the PSDB (Jabes’ party), PT (the deputy mayor candidate, José Henrique Santos Abobreira’s party), and three other parties.64 Paulo suggested that this conversation be preceded by the drafting of a letter of principles and demands, together with proposals for the cultural policy of the city, signed by the CEACI as a whole, and by each of the organizations within it. This letter would also serve as the basis for any agreement, or even conversation, with other candidates who might eventually become interested in the electoral support of the black movement. Marinho appeared extremely excited by the suggestion. He recalled the participation and unity of the Afro groups during the 1992 campaign, and called attention to the fact that most of the black leaders had wanted to vote for Rúbia if she had been successful in her candidacy for mayor. Finally, he authorized Paulo to proceed with the negotiations, with the aim of arranging a meeting between the two groups. However, Marinho warned him that it would be necessary to hold a prior meeting of the Afro-cultural movement, and he proposed that Paulo attend this meeting, where he would be introduced as a researcher (or, more precisely, as ‘Marcio’s assistant’) and as an adviser to Marinho. This meeting was scheduled for 20 June and, later, the meeting with Rubia’s group was scheduled for 27 June.65

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Marinho’s excitement only grew when, on 20 June, the meeting of the Afro groups finally took place: ‘after months of trying, the group finally managed to get together!’ Later, he would attribute a large part of this mobilization to Paulo’s efforts, even though, from his point of view, these efforts did not produce purely positive results. The beginning of the meeting, however, did not proceed exactly as Paulo had hoped. Even though he was introduced by Marinho, as promised, as his adviser and researcher, his presence at the meeting was openly challenged by Gurita, who was present at the meeting as a representative of the Força Negra Afro block, although he was a candidate for councillor and was himself struggling to secure the electoral support of the black movement and to direct it to the campaign of Jabes Ribeiro, who he supported. The problem was that, besides ignoring Paulo’s position in relation to Jabes, Gurita imagined (wrongly, it should be noted) that Paulo would oppose Gurita’s campaign for councillor. He argued that Paulo was an outsider, that he had not presented any credentials, and that no one was sure of his true intentions. He went on to add that Paulo wasn’t even black, and that, in a meeting of the black movement aimed at discussing sensitive issues of political alignment, his presence could only be considered undesirable. Paulo, however, responded well to the proposal to exclude him from the meeting. He reminded everyone that he was ‘Marcio’s research assistant’, someone who had maintained a close relationship with the Tombenci terreiro and, therefore, with the Dilazenze, for over ten years, which meant that ‘the trust bestowed upon Marcio, who has always undertaken anti-racist work that values the black groups in Ilhéus’ should be conferred upon him (Paulo). He also reminded them that he was a native of Ilhéus, the son of a stevedore, like many of those present at the meeting, and that his status as a ‘mulatto’, like many others there, prevented him from feeling out of place within the black movement. On the contrary, he felt perfectly at ease within a group who fought against discrimination and resisted any form of social and cultural domination. Even for those who had not followed the debate closely, Paulo’s statement, delivered in an emotional tone and with great sincerity, seemed to be very effective. Gurita immediately agreed to Paulo’s presence at the meeting; Dino Rocha (director of events for the Dilazenze) confessed that he had also doubted Paulo, but now these doubts had been overcome. Someone remarked that, after all, ‘Paulo is the same colour as Ney’ (Marinho’s brother, vicepresident of the Dilazenze) and, therefore, without a shadow of a doubt for those who were present, he was black. Paulo understood, somewhat hastily, that these speeches signified the total acceptance of his ‘membership of the group’, as well as his role as ‘political adviser’, as if agreeing to his attendance

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at the meeting was more than just this and as if the people there truly represented a group. In truth, Paulo’s relative and temporary success was due to the fact that he had been able to rhetorically manipulate some basic symbols of inclusion in the universe of the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus. Part of this manipulation appears to have been conscious or, to be more precise, semi-conscious, since the emotion necessary for this strategy to properly work would have been difficult to control entirely by the force of one’s will.66 Nevertheless, part of the process seemed to have been wholly unconscious or involuntary, as Paulo, inadvertently, triggered a series of existential dimensions which are connoted by the term ‘black’ in Ilhéus: being a native of Ilhéus, in a city where 85 per cent of the population is black; the fact of descending from a stevedore, a profession in which virtually everyone is black; his status as a mulatto, a category rarely used in the city but which clearly refers to blackness; resistance towards discrimination and domination, activities which are always associated with the black movement.67 During the meeting on 20 June, the debate over the mayoral succession soon revealed that the groups were divided in their support for two mayoral candidates who seemed to have a real chance of winning in October. The Força Negra, Zimbabuê (both represented by Gurita) and Miny Kongo (one of the three ‘big’ Afro blocks in Ilhéus) expressed their support for Jabes Ribeiro; the Rastafiry (another of the ‘big’ blocks) preferred Roland Lavigne; the Raízes Negras and the Dilazenze (also one of the ‘big’ blocks68) appeared uncertain, even though Paulo had understood that they were more inclined towards Jabes. It is important to remember that before the withdrawal of her candidacy, the majority of the leaders had intended to support Rúbia Carvalho. Paulo and Marinho had managed to convince everyone to accept the meeting with her political group (even though Cesar, of the Rastafiry, had quickly notified them that he could not be present as his block had been hired to play at a rally in a nearby town). A preparatory meeting was scheduled for 25 June and, since that date would also be used to nominate candidates for the new board of the CEAC, it was decided that it should be convened by means of a formal announcement, written by Cesar and Paulo. The question of supporting a particular candidate for councillor was again raised by Gurita, who was undoubtedly the most interested in the subject. Paulo immediately agreed that it would be very important that, in the meeting with Rúbia, the Afro-cultural groups put forward the name of the candidate that they would be supporting who, clearly, should be someone connected to the movement. On the other side, Cesar argued that the electoral process was too far along,69 and that most of the blocks had already given commitments to specific candidates. This was certainly true of the Rastafiry and the Miny

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Kongo (who had already declared which name they would support) and, in part, the Dilazenze (who, according to Marinho, were still ‘in conversation’ with a candidate). The meeting was adjourned with no decision being made regarding the forthcoming proportional elections.** At the meeting on 25 June the topic was not even brought up, and even Gurita seemed to be explicitly avoiding the subject. Nevertheless, it was he who contrived to put forward Marinho Rodrigues’ name as a candidate for president of the CEAC, proposing that Cesar – who had already expressed his intention to be president – would be vice-president. This proposal was accepted and, furthermore, the meeting with Rúbia was finally confirmed for two days later. On 27 June, six members of the Afro-cultural movement and Paulo met with Rúbia, who was accompanied by seven of her aides. The meeting took place at the Dilazenze headquarters (in other words, at the Tombenci terreiro, the Rodrigues household), but it was Gurita who spoke at the beginning of the meeting, introducing all who were present and, only afterwards, inviting the host to speak. Marinho emphasized the ‘disappointment’ of the Afrocultural movement with what had happened after the 1992 elections and the consequent ‘dismay’ and ‘demobilization’ of the black groups. He explicitly attributed to Paulo the initiative of resuming political discussions which, ‘as everyone knows’, was difficult and complicated. Paulo, in turn, invoked the ‘letter of demands’ that the movement had put together, as well as the group’s desire for a political agreement between the movement and Jabes, with Rúbia acting as an intermediary, based on the points raised in the letter.70 He also requested that Rúbia attempt to arrange a meeting between the Afro-cultural movement and Jabes. Rúbia’s answer began with a remark about ‘the importance of black people in the formation of Brazil’; she went on to recognize the relevance of the demands made and drew a parallel between the situation of the Afrocultural movement – disillusioned with politics after the 1992 elections and their subsequent betrayal – and her own situation, similarly disillusioned with politics after her candidacy for mayor had been ‘revoked’ because of the political manoeuvring and duplicity of Roland Lavigne, Antônio Carlos Magalhães and his group. She finished by concluding that the solution for both their disillusionment was the same: supporting Jabes Ribeiro. Next to speak was Gerson Marques, one of her aides, who, reminding everyone of his personal and professional relationships with the black movement of Ilhéus, reiterated that this support would be the only real alternative at this time.71 Before the end of the meeting Gurita spoke again, in an attempt to *

Translators’ note. See Chapter 4 for an explanation of the Brazilian electoral system, and the difference between proportional and majority elections.

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remind everyone of the importance of the other black groups who were not represented in the CEAC, such as the capoeira schools, the reggae groups, the dance groups etc. It should be observed that, over time, Rúbia was abandoning her more candid language – in which she had explained that her support for Jabes Ribeiro was the result, at least to some degree, of her exclusion from another political field – and was adopting a discourse that appeared more programmatic, in which Jabes was described as ‘my leader’ and also featured other similar expressions. Of course everyone knew that she had come to support Jabes because she had not been chosen as the mayoral candidate by Senator Antônio Carlos Magalhães’s group; of course, she also knew that everyone else knew, and so on. By claiming that her political migration was due to her political convictions, Rúbia followed a conventional and legitimate category of politics, thus making her discourse acceptable. As Herzfeld (1992b:79) reminds us, this appears to be one of the conditions of the efficacy of all rhetoric, since conventionality appears to guarantee the conversion of specific interests into general values, which is the guarantee of their acceptability. In this way, to make someone accept rhetoric becomes much more important than making someone believe in it (Herzfeld 1982:645–6, 657), and this appears to be a crucial operation in the world of politics. In any case, a meeting between Jabes Ribeiro and the black movement was scheduled by one of Rúbia’s aides for 5 July. To Marinho and Paulo’s surprise, this meeting was not arranged at the headquarters of the Dilazenze, as had been agreed, but instead would take place at a space belonging to the Tengão, a carnival group located in Conquista, but with no connection to the Afrocultural movement. Paulo also discovered that this had been Gurita’s idea, and that he was planning something more than just a simple meeting with the mayor: a big event to which he had invited all the capoeira, reggae and dance groups mentioned at the end of the meeting with Rúbia. Realizing that this was a manoeuvre by Gurita to transform the meeting into a display of his electoral strength among the black groups as a whole, Marinho and Paulo persuaded him to move the meeting back to the Dilazenze headquarters – which did happen – and also tried to ensure that it was limited to organizations affiliated with the CEAC, which did not happen, as Gurita took to the meeting all the groups he had invited to the Tengão event who were not part of the Council. Besides Gurita, his guests and Paulo, also present at the event were the leaders of the blocks (accompanied by some of their members), various members of the Dilazenze, the Rodrigues family and Tombenci (including Dona Ilza, who opened the terreiro for the event), Rúbia Carvalho and her group of aides, and also Jabes Ribeiro, the mayoral candidate, with his aides. Marinho opened the meeting, speaking again of the situation of the black groups and

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the CEAC, of the disillusionment of 1992 (when, in fact, they supported Antônio Olímpio against Jabes Ribeiro) and of the lack of motivation for their ‘participation in politics’, an expression that the participants of the Afro-cultural movement in Ilhéus tend to use more frequently than ‘political participation’. Whilst the latter formulation uses ‘political’ as an adjectival qualification for ‘participation’, thus emphasizing that it is possible to participate at any time and in different ways, the first formula, in which ‘politics’ is substantive, appears to denote direct involvement in electoral campaigns. What may seem like inconsequential subtlety revealed its importance when Marinho gave the floor to Paulo, who gave a speech displaying all the signs of left-wing militancy and third-sector activism: the Afro groups represented the poor communities and were chiefly responsible for the production of popular culture in the city, without, however, receiving the recognition and support of public bodies in general and City Hall in particular. He concluded, arguing that the Afrocultural movement was capable of mobilizing between five- and ten-thousand votes, and that everyone there wanted to know from Jabes Ribeiro how he viewed the possibility of making some kind of deal (or ‘commitment’) with the movement. Let us note that Paulo was brandishing a number of votes that was approximately the same as the members of the CEAC claim to have secured in the 1992 municipal elections, an amount that could even explain Antônio Olímpio’s victory, since he had defeated Jabes Ribeiro by 8,455 votes. Further to this, to the experienced ears of the mayoral candidate, this affirmation, together with the idea of a ‘commitment’, sounded unmistakeably like an offer of some kind of electoral bargain: five- to ten-thousand votes in exchange for support of something as-yet undefined, but something that obviously involved money (for the headquarters of the groups, or their social work etc.). This was a proposal that could not be made in public, since, as Villela and Marques note (2002:81–2), strategies by which politicians subjugate voters tend to take a cautious approach, in which politics and favours should not be openly mentioned. Similarly, Magalhães (1998:51) observes that, from the voters’ point of view, ‘the good candidate’ is clearly ‘the one who gives something, but disinterestedly, not only on the eve of an election’. This also seems to be true the other way round, when voters offer their votes to politicians. This does not mean, of course, that both the former and the latter are unaware that there are particular interests at stake: the impression of disinterest is not only a stylistic trait, but also allows for reasonable doubt (and in favour of the politician). Moreover, a certain amount of simulation appears fundamental to social relations and, as Herzfeld suggested, we are all still irritated when an air hostess is unfriendly to us, even though we know that her friendliness is paid for and, ultimately therefore, false.72

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Since the beginning of 1996, opinion polls conducted in Ilhéus indicated that Jabes was very likely to win the elections, as he could expect almost 50 per cent of the popular vote. He also had the support, formal or informal, of eight parties, among them PT, the party which, according to his own assessment, was primarily responsible for his defeat in 1992. In that year they refused to support him and instead, in coalition with two other parties, backed a candidate who secured 5,295 votes, more than 60 per cent of the difference between himself and Antônio Olímpio. Besides this, the support of PT in 1996 would incorporate into Jabes’ campaign another sector of the black movement in Ilhéus, a sector which neither considers itself nor is considered by others to be part of the Afro-cultural movement of the city. This is a group of organizations, of which the most significant is the local section of the Unified Black Movement (Movimento Negro Unificado, or MNU), who define themselves as a movement of the ‘political’ order. Moacir Pinho, the main leader of the MNU in the city, occupied a place within the ‘culture commission’ of Jabes’ campaign. Taking this scenario as a backdrop, Jabes responded to the demands of the Afro-cultural movement, as expressed by Paulo, with a speech in which he emphasized the ‘modern’ character of his candidacy; he stressed that he intended to develop a ‘participatory government’ that counted upon the collaboration of ‘organized society’; and above all he emphasized that he was not campaigning on the basis of ‘promises’, but of ‘commitments’, that he was not politicking ‘in the old-fashioned way, on an exchange basis, promising things in exchange for votes’; that he was there with a proposal for government, to be debated, modified, and, eventually, accepted; that it was strange that the Afrocultural movement spoke in terms of five- or ten-thousand votes when they had never managed to elect even a councillor; that the campaign committee was made up of political parties that supported him, as his participation in this space depended on the party line. He concluded that he was there with the objective of presenting his proposals, not of commenting upon each of the individual demands: ‘this one yes, this one also yes […] In truth, campaigning politicians only ever say yes’. Finally, he invited the members of the CEAC to join the campaign’s culture commission, coordinated, as we have just seen, by Moacir Pinho, who was then given the opportunity to speak by Jabes. Later on, and quite mistakenly, he told one of his advisers that Paulo seemed to want to push the black groups towards supporting Roland. Moacir, in turn, simply announced the date and location of the next meeting of the culture commission and spoke of the plan for a big event that would commemorate ten years since the restoration of the Municipal Theatre of Ilhéus, a construction work which took place during Jabes’ first term as head of City Hall. He suggested that the Afro blocks could participate

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in a commemorative parade: each block, with its members dressed in multicoloured costumes, would set off from a different point in the city, and all would meet in the square where the theatre is located. Once again, we can observe the overlap between ‘big’ and ‘small’ politics, as well as between local, regional and national politics. The need for an electoral alliance with PT, deriving from an assessment of the causes of his 1992 defeat, together with the fact that, at that time, Jabes intended to oppose himself, at the state level, to the group of Antônio Carlos Magalhães, brought the black issue and the participation of Moacir Pinho into Jabes’ campaign, particularly as the MNU had national connections to PT. This greatly hindered the potential support of the Afro-cultural movement, bearing in mind the disparate and complex relationship between itself and the political black movement.73 After short statements from Gerson, Rúbia, Gurita and Dona Ilza, Marinho ended the meeting by proclaiming that the CEAC ‘would wholeheartedly endorse Jabes’ campaign’. This affirmation – which Rúbia would later translate as ‘a vow of eternal love’ – left Paulo feeling confused and disorientated, as he considered that, from the point of view of the Afro-cultural movement, the meeting had been a total failure. For while the proposal to support Jabes, which was what he had wanted, seemed to have been successful, the manner of this victory did not correspond in any way to what Paulo had hoped for. Paulo’s bewilderment only increased when, on 8th July, at the beginning of the ‘evaluation meeting’ organized by the CEAC, Marinho told everyone that he had barely slept on the night of the meeting with Jabes, for he kept remembering and counting the ‘hidden provocations’ that the candidate had made against the Afro-cultural movement. Ultimately, he said, Jabes’ position could be summarized as: ‘come with me because, if I am elected, I will form a good government and I will give space for all of you to participate!’ This meant, from his point of view, that the candidate did not want to engage with the black groups and that, as a result, ‘it is difficult to wholeheartedly endorse the campaign’. Of those attending the meeting, only Gurita disagreed with Marinho’s position: I found Jabes to be concrete, real, objective. There are politicians like Roland who will say that they agree, they promise… But do you think they will follow through? I think that Jabes was genuine. I don’t like promises.

Cesar, of the Rastafiry, who already intended, as we have seen, to support Roland Lavigne, directly challenged Gurita: with anyone that we may work with, we have to look carefully, a little before and a little after. So it didn’t work out with Jabes? Let’s see with Roland!

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Cesar added that Cosme Araújo – a neighbour of the Rodrigues family, lawyer, candidate for re-election as councillor, and allied with Roland Lavigne – had sought him out and asked him to invite the CEAC to a meeting with the mayoral candidate on 12 July. For, just as Rúbia and her aides intended to show to Jabes their strength, bringing the black movement together to support his candidacy, Cesar wanted to show to Cosme that he was able to secure considerable electoral support, and Cosme, above all, wanted to show his own strength to Roland. In this sense, in 1996 the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus was caught up in a network of rivalries that was completely alien to it. In any case, everyone, with the exception of Paulo, agreed that a meeting with Roland was an excellent idea. Marinho took the opportunity to emphasize that the events so far had made it very clear that it would be impossible for the CEAC as a whole to support a particular candidate, whether for mayor, or for councillor: each organization should, therefore, decide its own course in the electoral process. Following on from this, Marinho concluded, Gurita should not, under any circumstance, continue to stand as a candidate of the CEAC or of the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus. Paulo agreed with the diagnosis that the meeting with Jabes had failed, but argued that a second meeting should be scheduled since supporting Roland could only end in disaster. As no-one responded, Paulo felt empowered to attempt to schedule a new meeting with Jabes, through Rúbia and her aides, which he failed to achieve, as no-one seemed to understand the point of a second meeting. For the Afro groups, they were sure that the conversation was a complete failure and that it was impossible to negotiate with Jabes; for Rúbia’s group, they felt that the meeting was a success, ending with ‘vows of eternal love’, and that, consequently, there was no need for a second meeting. The meeting with Roland Lavigne thus became a priority on the agenda of the Afro-cultural movement, even though it seemed relatively complicated. The date on which it was scheduled posed a problem: it was the same day as the commemoration of the ten-year anniversary of the re-opening of the Municipal Theatre of Ilhéus, to which Moacir had explicitly invited all of the blocks. Gurita warned that he had already promised to take the Força Negra and the Zambi Axé; the leaders of the Miny Kongo (with ties to a candidate for councillor in Jabes’ party) said that they would also be going to the parade. Cesar, however, argued that there was more than enough time to allow the representatives of the groups, after the parade, to go and meet with Roland, and so the date was kept. It was clear that the issue with the date was a pretext rather than the true problem. On 12 July, Marinho and Cesar (whose blocks would not participate in the parade) made a point of attending the commemoration, noting that the participation of the Afro blocks led by Gurita and the Miny Kongo was ‘awful’.

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‘It was good,’ they said, ‘because it will show Jabes how necessary the Afro blocks are and will embarrass Gurita, who is attempting to divide the Council’. After confirming that the parade was a fiasco, Marinho and Cesar went to Conquista to attend the meeting with Roland. Initially scheduled for the barracão at Tombenci – the Dilazenze headquarters, where the meeting with Jabes had taken place – the meeting was transferred to the house of Cosme Araújo, next to the terreiro. Paulo displayed deep irritation after learning of the change of venue, which was due to the insistence of Cosme, but was justified by Marinho, who said: ‘It’s better; it is a way of maintaining some distance with him, as he doesn’t even want to enter our space.’ Scheduled for 8 p.m., the meeting only really began around 9:30 p.m.: partly because Cosme was waiting for the arrival of Roland, who was coming from a meeting with an evangelical group in another part of the city, but also because they were waiting for the leaders of the Afro groups, as very few had arrived on time. Finally, with the presence of five Afro block leaders, Paulo, Cosme Araújo and Roland Lavigne (accompanied by a few of his aides and supporters), Marinho opened the meeting, held in a large garage by Cosme’s house, with his usual speech: disillusionment with politics and the demobilization of the Afro blocks, expressions that were reinforced by Paulo. Roland, as a few commented afterwards, ‘was super-objective’ and did precisely what Jabes had refused to do, reading, point by point, the letter of demands and saying yes to each one. Beyond this, he added some other commitments, or promises: three carnivals would take place (the official one, the ‘early’ one – which had already been happening for some time – and an ‘after-carnival’), in which all of the Afro blocks would have their own space; he would create an ‘Afro-cultural space’ in the city’s Convention Centre (which was still being built – on the main avenue in Ilhéus – in partnership with the state government); finally, he would open up space for the Afro groups to participate in his campaign. ‘I want to help the organizations that support me,’ Roland concluded, ‘but it is clear that I will not help those who do not support me’. Cosme Araújo ended the meaning, saying that he knew what had happened between the Afro groups and Mayor Antônio Olímpio, having gone so far as to warn them at the time when the agreement had been made, a warning that went unheeded, however. And, at this moment, he was warning them again: if they supported ‘the other candidate’, they would suffer for another four years, as they had been suffering since 1993. He also said that Roland, in contrast, had the necessary resources to support the black organizations, support which would be immediate and would continue throughout his term as mayor:

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way, I have already been giving to the Rastafiry and the Dilazenze. And look, people, the meeting is over, but no one should leave yet, because meetings in my house always end with a cold beer.

Cosme thus ended his speech, making explicit reference to the fact that during the 1996 carnival – when City Hall had not provided any financial support to the Afro blocks – it was only the Rastafiry and the Dilazenze that had been able to participate (though it was not an official parade in the proper sense), alongside the Miny Kongo, because he had provided t-shirts to the two groups, t-shirts which, however, had his name printed on the back. As we will see, this support had future repercussions. Like everyone else, Paulo stood up after the end of the meeting was announced but, unlike the others, he began to make his way to the exit, somewhat surprised that he was the only one to do so. He answered no when Marinho and Cesar asked if he was going to have a beer, adding that he was leaving because ‘with Roland there is just no way’. Later, he confessed that he had been completely embarrassed by the situation, angry with the leaders of the blocks who accepted the beer, and convinced that all of this signified a ‘surrender’, as everyone accepted being ‘bought out by beers and the like’. Regardless, Paulo and Marinho still called a meeting a few days later to evaluate the encounter with Roland and Cosme. This evaluation meeting, held on 18 July and extended with a brief conversation between Marinho and Paulo, definitively ended Paulo’s involvement with the CEAC and, a little while after that, his work as my research assistant. At the start of the meeting – without the presence of Gurita, as he was not at the meeting with Roland, and without the presence of any representatives of the Miny Kongo – the unanimous opinion was ‘the time is now! The man was super-objective.’ Marinho reiterated his belief that there was no way whatsoever that the CEAC could take a single, unified position and that, consequently, each organization should be free to decide who they would support for councillor and for mayor. Everyone tacitly agreed, but Paulo still risked one last proposal, suggesting, initially, a new meeting with Jabes. Everyone argued that this would be completely pointless, and Marinho sketched out a critique of the mediation work carried out both by Paulo and by Rúbia’s group, insinuating that neither the correct information nor the truthful demands of the movement had accurately reached the attention of Jabes, concluding that the failure of the meeting with him probably originated from this ‘miscommunication’. Paulo modified his proposal, suggesting an internal agreement of the CEAC to ‘march together’ in the elections: the Council as a whole would support the mayoral candidate chosen by the majority of the

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organizations that comprised the Council, leaving the councillor candidates to be decided by each individual group. The proposal was clearly based on a flawed calculation: Paulo thought that Roland only had the support of the Rastafiry, Raízes Negras and D’Logun, and that Jabes had the support of the Miny Kongo, Zimbabuê and Força Negra. Consequently, the Dilazenze would be the ‘true balance’ and, he believed, Marinho would end up leaning towards Jabes. ‘Does this means that, if the majority support Roland, the Council will support him too?’ Marinho asked. ‘Of course,’ Paulo answered, without realizing what was implicit in this question: ‘the important thing is that the unity of the group is preserved’. A new meeting was scheduled for the next week. However, upon arriving at the Dilazenze headquarters on 25 July, Paulo was surprised to be told by Marinho that the meeting had been cancelled – supposedly by Cesar – and that he would be informed when another date was arranged. Slightly disconcerted, Paulo spoke of the difficulties in meeting Rúbia and Jabes again and asked Marinho if he could be clearer about what was actually happening. Marinho, finally, confirmed what Paulo already suspected: the Dilazenze were negotiating with Roland, and the Council would stay ‘outside of politics’, both in terms of the elections for mayor and those for councillor. However, even though he already suspected this outcome, Paulo could not hide his surprise, especially when Marinho added that he believed Jabes would win and emphasized that the agreement with Roland was simply an attempt to obtain the resources which would allow the blocks to overcome the difficult situation in which they had been since 1993, which, for the Dilazenze, meant primarily the construction of their own carnival practice space, which would be essential for the rehearsals that would greatly improve their carnival parades. Paulo counter-argued – and this was the decisive moment in the end of his relationship with the Dilazenze in particular and with the Afro-cultural movement in general – that the practice space was not essential and that carnival was just a fleeting thing.74 It is true that Paulo’s position regarding carnival, and also what should be the true objective of the Afro blocks, was not new; nevertheless, this was the first time that he had put them forward so explicitly. As Silva relates (1998:127–8, 134–5), Paulo set out to establish an NGO – made up of representatives from all the Afro blocks, or at least those who were located in Conquista – that would develop social projects such as crèches or pre-school courses, activities that, he believed, could receive funding from national or international agencies. This proposal clashed with at least three areas of the everyday practice of the Afro blocks: firstly, it demanded a unified action by the groups who characterized themselves following a segmentary model (which will be discussed in detail in the next chapter);75 secondly, it suggested

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that the funding of these projects would come from agencies which were structurally very different from those which the groups were accustomed to dealing with – City Hall, the Chamber of Councillors, politicians in general – and from which they obtained, eventually, some resources, following rules and procedures very different from those adopted, for example, by NGOs; finally, it wanted the main purpose of the blocks to be the implementation of ‘social projects’, instead of what they had always focused on, ‘black culture’, with a special emphasis on carnival. In this context, it is more than understandable that Marinho became profoundly irritated: ‘if the Dilazenze forget about the block, about carnival, if we do these things instead, it will be the end of us’ (ibid.:134–5). Paulo’s stance had already manifested itself on other occasions. During the conversations which preceded the meeting to evaluate the encounter with Rúbia Carvalho, he made it clear to several leaders of the blocks that he considered the idea of an Afro-Cultural Centre misguided, a ‘deviation from the main issues’, which should consist of the consolidation of the black organizations and, principally, of ‘social works’ which each one of them should develop within their communities. In this sense, the Centre, which was supposed to be constructed in an elite area in the south of Ilhéus, would be too far removed, both geographically and socially, from the residents of the areas where the Afro blocks had their headquarters, serving only white people and tourists. The problem, of course, is that this was exactly what the black leaders wanted: a location in which they could introduce their work to the outside, obtaining, in addition, some income from the middle-class white people and tourists for their work. In the same way, ‘parading at carnival’ – and ‘parading well’ or ‘parading beautifully’ – is the principal activity of an Afro block, from which all of the other activities derive, either in parallel or simply supporting the carnival work. Having their own practice space, therefore, where they could rehearse, hold events and develop other social activities (which, in truth, is only done by the Dilazenze) is, undoubtedly, one of the biggest dreams for all the Afro blocks in Ilhéus. Furthermore, no one, except Paulo, considered the CEAC as anything more than a simple space, perhaps virtual, in which the groups could come together, whenever necessary, to increase their small level of bargaining power with City Hall and, eventually, with politicians and other state bodies. As Silva observed (1998:93–4), the Ilhéus City Hall appears to have the greatest interest in the existence of the Council, since, as a supposedly unified organization, it simplifies its relationship with the numerous black groups in the city. And it is this ‘state perspective’ that Paulo adhered to when he suggested that the blocks should only act together, completely ignoring the rivalry which marks the relationships between them, and the

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consciousness and pride possessed by each one individually. If the blocks were, as Paulo thought, ‘sick because of the state’ – that is, the root of their problems was due to a total dependence on the political machine – ‘why not be cured by the state?’, in other words, why not support a left-wing candidate, ‘putting themselves right into the heart of the local political scene and taking advantage of a good situation in the next administration?’ In summary, why not join Jabes and obtain from him what was necessary for the autonomy of the Afro-cultural movement?

 The misunderstandings between Paulo and the black leaders of Ilhéus – and even with local politicians – evidently had several origins. Firstly, his idea of participant observation was somewhat strange. Early in his first meeting with Marinho, after inquiring if he could attend the CEAC meeting to discuss the elections as a researcher, Paulo explained: We have a definition of what we call participant observation which is open to the active participation of the researcher. After all, I live here in the city, I am concerned with your struggle, I want to help and, at the same time, this will certainly allow me to speak with more authority and to do my job better.

Furthermore, from the outset Paulo used a research strategy which basically consisted of approaching people connected to the black movement and to local politics, and asking questions based on information he had obtained from other people in the same circle. Even without divulging the names of his ‘informants’, but making the origin of his information clear, Paulo became involved in what was later described to me as ‘gossip’.76 If we add to this ‘participant observation’, in which participation seems to be limitless, and to this excessive frankness during interviews and conversations, the fact that in ‘political times’ everything tends to acquire political connotations, and the assumption that it does not make any sense for someone to involve themselves so deeply in politics without being on either side, we can better understand how Paulo’s attitude was interpreted, from the point of view of the black militants, as a means of trying to influence them politically. As he worked – at the Piedade – alongside people who were closely linked to Jabes Ribeiro’s campaign, and as he never hid his preference for this candidate, who he believed to be positioned on the left, and as he tried so hard to schedule meetings with Jabes’ group, the majority of those involved had no doubt that this was the direction in which he intended to lead the Afro-cultural

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movement. Paulo’s support of Jabes was finally and unequivocally confirmed when, at the end of the meeting at Cosme Araújo’s house, he left saying the phrase ‘with Roland there is just no way’. Paradoxically, from the point of view of those who were actually close to Jabes – Gurita, Rúbia and their aides, who knew that Paulo was not part of Jabes’ campaign – the suspicion was that he meant to lead the black movement to support Roland Lavigne. More profoundly, however, the dissonance between Paulo and the leaders of the Afro blocks rested upon the fundamental differences in the way that they conceived of politics. In the poorer levels of the population of Ilhéus, and within the black groups in particular, politics can be understood differently: public, municipal, state and federal administrations make up part of politics, of course; the electoral period itself, as in many other regions, is called ‘politics’, and it is said that ‘politics’ began or ended (signalling the beginning or end of the electoral campaigns), or that ‘it is a political year’ (in other words, an election year). However, politics is also, and perhaps principally, that which ‘politicians’ do: agreements, arrangements, favours, requests, promises, disputes, manipulations, accusations, bargains, and so on. This conception is somewhat circular, since the word ‘politician’ denotes, in general, those who ‘do politics’. This circle, however, is not entirely vicious, since the classification of someone as a politician is fundamentally contextual.77 Politics is not thought of as a specific domain of social life, as it can erupt in the parade of an Afro block or in religious events, for example. But neither does it seem to be understood as an aspect or dimension of all social relations, since, at least ideally, a large number of these relations (kinship, religion etc.) should be free from politics. In this sense, the local conception of politics breaks away as much from substantivism as from formalism, which appear to share between them the principal anthropological, and academic in general, conceptions of politics. If the controversy between formalists and substantivists constituted, for quite some time, an almost obligatory chapter in economic anthropology – regarding the very definition of the object of the sub-discipline – the fact that these two ways of conceiving the object reappear in almost all anthropological fields was less well observed. Thus, if economy could be defined as a subsystem of the social system, or a specific type of social relation, it was also possible to defend the hypothesis that the economical constituted, rather, an aspect of any system or social relation. Similarly, in so-called religious anthropology, ritual can be defined either as a specific form of action or a dimension of any human action. In political anthropology, the political can be understood as a sphere of relations or as an aspect of any social relation.78 The black militants of Ilhéus, amongst others, tend, on the contrary, to think of politics in accordance with a kind of dynamism, which is above all

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conceived as an activity, which certainly has its own space and time, but, at the same time, appears to possess an invasive character which means that it frequently overstep the limits within which it should be confined (elections, government) and penetrates relations and domains from which it should be excluded (kinship, art, religion). In other words, if politics is neither an exclusive domain, nor a kind of relationship that is clearly distinct from others, this still does not mean that there are no domains and relationships in which it is seen as more legitimate, acceptable, or at least tolerable (within political parties, elections, government etc.), and other dimensions in which, to varying degrees, it is mostly unacceptable (Afro blocks, terreiros, families etc.). On the other hand, if politics is an invasive activity, even those who are not politicians can sometimes practise it, and this does not only apply in the sense of party or official politics. When it is suspected that someone is manoeuvring within an Afro block or a Candomblé terreiro, seeking to expand their sphere of influence, gain a position of greater prestige or obtain some kind of material benefit, they can be accused of ‘doing politics’ (fazer política). Likewise, ‘not politicking’ (meaning the act of being sincere, clear, or direct) is a common expression in Ilhéus.79 It was Moacir Palmeira who called attention to the fact that an anthropological investigation of politics in our own society should, necessarily, take into account the multiplicity of concepts and meanings which are contained in the term (see, amongst other texts, Palmeira 1991, 1992, 1998). Of course, this does not mean that holding up the multiple or ambiguous character of politics is enough for our problems to be resolved. It is necessary to understand these multiplicities in a more sociological or socio-political sense and to recognize that different conceptions of politics are always in coexistence, interpenetrating and opposing themselves within a hierarchical social space. Thus, voters in general tend to conceive of politics as a transitory activity (which begins and ends every two years, for example), a transcendent activity (since it is thought of as outside and above the group they are in) and a polluting activity (since it contaminates social relations with manipulation and insincerity) – in summary, a disruptive activity. On the other hand, when we approach the domain institutionally designated as politics, or when we are faced with social agents who tend to consider their actions as political, we are faced with a more substantialist and morally neutral conception, defining politics as a sphere or domain which is ideally permanent and continuous, immanent and positively valued. The fact that politics, according to the first conception, ideally possesses it own temporality – since, in practice, it is clear that the relationship between politicians and voters is permanent, though with varying degrees of intensity (see, among others, Heredia 2002 and Gay 1990:659) – refers to what Palmeira

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and Heredia term ‘political time’ (see also Palmeira 1991:118; 1992:27–30; 1996:42–7; Palmeira and Heredia 1993:73–5, 85–6; 1995:34–6; and Heredia 1996:57, 70; 2002:17, 36). 80 It should be noted, however, that this idea appears to function best when it limits itself to transcribing a native conception of voters, which tends to emphasize the temporary character of their involvement in political activity. From their point of view, this involvement is limited to the electoral process. This is not, however, a reality in itself – because political transactions occur all the time – nor a generic native representation, as it unfolds due to the different conceptions of politics present in any particular setting. In other words, there are always many ‘political times’ in connection and/or competition: that of politicians in general; that of the candidates, their advisers and canvassers; that of the regular voters and that of the more involved voters (see, for example, Kuschnir 2000b:59). These partially heterogeneous temporalities interpenetrate in a fundamentally asymmetrical way, for it is one thing to take advantage of elections to tactically obtain small advantages or temporary jobs; it is another to develop strategies for control of positions and roles that are socially perceived as very important. There is also no doubt that what is valid here for time is no less valid for space (see Barreira 1998:13). We can observe, then, that the conception of politics which Paulo tended to operate with was, undoubtedly, the same as that employed by the black political groups in Ilhéus, which think that the Afro blocks are de-politicized or, more explicitly, only want to ‘play drums, dance and raise money for carnival’. It is also the conception adopted by most professional politicians, both those who try to make citizens aware of the importance of constant political participation and an informed vote, as well as those who only engage with voters during the electoral period, but who spend all of their time involved in political activity. For their part, the militants of the Afro-cultural movement not only tend to consider these professional politicians as people who cannot be trusted – as they are only interested in ‘using’ people for their own ends – but also accuse the more politicized black groups of being ‘too political’ (largely signifying that they are committed to political parties) and have no real commitment to black culture, which is thus reduced to an instrument to help facilitate the ‘use’ of the black population for their own objectives.81

 When we met again in 1996, Marinho’s phrase (‘now I know that this research is for real’) betrayed the uncertainty and ambiguity that had characterized his relationship with Paulo. Deep down, he knew that ‘the research was for real’,

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and it was he who tried to dispel the more serious doubts raised by other black leaders – chiefly Cesar, of the Rastafiry; Gurita, of the Força Negra; and Dino Rocha, of the Dilazenze itself. The latter, for example, explicitly told me that he had ‘a flea in his ear regarding Paulo’, and had only agreed to an interview with him because of an ‘order from above’, in other words, from Dona Ilza, who had said she would help Paulo on my behalf. Marinho clearly suspected that Paulo was really a Jabes supporter, and that, given his relationships with members of Rúbia Carvalho’s group who he worked with at the Piedade, he was trying to attract the Afro-cultural movement to Jabes’ campaign. And he was doing this, of course, to gain personal advantages – a better job, perhaps – advantages that were not absolutely secure as far as the black movement was concerned. With the exception of a few groups who did not explicitly commit to an electoral position, the movement was split along the following lines: the Força Negra, Zimbabuê, Zambi Axé, Danados do Reggae, Leões do Reggae (all in some way connected to Gurita) and Miny Kongo (whose president was very close to one of the candidates for councillor from Jabes’ party) decided to support Jabes Ribeiro, who already counted upon the support of the MNU and the more political black groups; the Dilazenze, Rastafiry, D’Logun and Raízes Negras went with Roland Lavigne. Notice that these four blocks have their headquarters in Conquista, which made them more susceptible to the approach of Cosme Araújo, who acted as a representative for Roland. Even so, this electoral support is far more complicated than it appears. During the same conversation in which Marinho expressed his doubts about the research, I asked him and his brother Ney who they believed would win the elections. Without hesitation, they answered: – ‘Jabes, without a doubt.’ – ‘But you will vote for Roland, right?’ – ‘We are doing some professional work for him. Votes are something else.’

This meant, as I discovered much later, that part of the percussion section of the Dilazenze were performing at rallies, walks and other electoral events in Roland Lavigne’s campaign, and that, for each performance, the block received BR$300 (US$270). Additionally, they also received an extra amount which was to be spent on the construction of their own practice space, as Marinho revealed: Each of the blocks that is supporting Roland presented a little project; the biggest belonged to the Rastafiry, at BR$20,000 (US$18,000), and the cheapest was ours, at BR$6,000 (US$5,400). Roland then decided to pay BR$6,000 (US$5,400) to each organization, independent of the project.

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Someone later told me that the BR$6,000 (US$5,400) was to be shared between the Dilazenze and the Rastafiry, which would leave each block with BR$3,000 (US$2,700). Even later, I discovered that the BR$6,000 was to be shared between all of the organizations that supported Roland (who would therefore end up with BR$1,500 each [US$1,300]). In the end, I never found out for certain how much money the Dilazenze received. What I know is that the money was added to whatever they received for each performance, discounting the fee for the musicians, and entirely put toward the construction of the practice space.82 After the elections, both Marinho and Ney confirmed that they had voted for Roland. Both maintained that they had done so out of principle, and they could not vote for Jabes after having gone through the entire campaign working for the other candidate. Cesar, of the Rastafiry, who before the election had carefully made the distinction between ‘working’, ‘campaigning’, ‘canvassing’ and ‘voting’, also argued that all of these activities were connected and that even though he could work for one candidate and vote for another, participation in a campaign demanded a vote for it, as long as the person was not ‘shameless’ (sem-vergonha). Moacir Palmeira (1991:119–21; 1992:27; 1996:45–6) established an important distinction between voting as ‘choice’ (in theory, of individual character, depending, however, on the ‘elaboration of prior criteria’) and voting as ‘adherence’ (collective and dependent on certain loyalties deriving from ‘commitments’). I think that this distinction has, above all, an idealtypical value. On the one hand, as Palmeira warns, the ‘adherence-vote’ does not completely assume the fate of some ‘fundamental loyalty’, as each individual is involved in multiple networks of loyalties and obligations, being able to alternatively invoke them, which means that ‘adherence’ always implies ‘choice’ and this gives a great flexibility to the system.83 On the other hand, because it is clear that the ‘choice-vote’ does not presuppose the existence of a completely free and independent voter (which would contradict any truly sociological or anthropological analysis), their ‘choices’ always involve prior ‘adherence’. Thus, these two concepts correspond more to images of voting than to empirically existing types, and between them are spread the full range of electoral decision-making processes which ethnographic observation is able to record (and to which we will return). These modalities appear related to different ways of evaluating politics. One, of a deductive character, tends to stem from grand questions and transcendent values in order to arrive at, for example, a vote for councillor; the other, of an inductive character, appears to take as its starting point more immediate experiences – experiences which, as Herzfeld observed (1985:260), tend to generate ‘little faith in democratic process in general’ –

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thus proceeding by a progressive broadening of the analytical field. And, as can quickly be proved by way of contrast between the great works of political science and the reading of the political section of any newspaper, democracy can be approached both by way of its macroscopic records (its great ideals, liberty, equality, representation etc.) and in its micro-operations (negotiations, agreements, bargains).84 In August 2000, soon after I arrived in Ilhéus, Gilmar Rodrigues told me that ‘unfortunately Jabes Ribeiro will win the election for mayor, because he has the money and the machine of City Hall in his hands. And we are the ones who are paying.’ I discovered shortly afterwards that Gurita had promised Gilmar, who had been unemployed for some time, the right to operate a bar, situated in a small sports facility of City Hall, in Conquista; later on, he told him that the mayor had ordered the bar to be given to Cesar, of the Rastafiry. Two weeks later, I realized that Gilmar’s opposition to Jabes and, partially, to Gurita, had greatly diminished. I knew then that the mayor himself had told Marinho that it was necessary to meet his brother’s request, signalling a possibility of him running the restaurant inside the Memorial. One week later, responding to a survey that I had requested from Marinho (I will return to this), Gilmar said that he had already chosen his candidates (‘Jabes Ribeiro for mayor of our city and Gurita for councillor’) and that he had chosen them because they were ‘the best options’. Furthermore, he declared that he was absolutely sure that Jabes would win the election due to the ‘quality of the work that has been done in Ilhéus, always done by City Hall’. I do not believe, however, that one can oppose ‘adherence’ – or a vote motivated by particular interests – to some kind of superior consciousness, attentive to the public or collective interest. Gilmar, for example, only used an individual experience as a model for evaluating and making sense of supposedly more general issues. Thus, anyone who behaved in regard to him (or at least how he believed they had behaved) as Gurita and Jabes did could not be a good person to anyone, much less to the city as a whole or to the people in general.85 In this sense, the opposition between ‘voting’ (understood as choice or adherence) and ‘work’ (services paid for during campaign events) was not as absolute as everyone had tried to make me believe, and as everyone invariably maintained whenever the issue was raised.86 Actually, the ‘choicevote’, ‘adherence-vote’ and ‘work’ are arguments that serve as major rhetorical devices in the discursive strategies that allow each person to explain or justify their voting decision. Thus, to someone who asks me to vote on behalf of a particular ‘loyalty’, I can say that I should vote for someone else because I ‘worked’ for them during the election, or that, as voting is subject to ‘individual choice’, I would prefer not to talk about it – or vice versa, of course. It is also strange that ‘work’ is a moral value that acts as a kind of operator tying

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together votes and money: remuneration obtained for doing work that seeks to obtain votes from other people ends up capturing the votes of those doing the work, due to the idea of not being shameless (ter vergonha na cara). In 1998, Marinho told me that not only did everyone know that Jabes would win the election, but that they were also aware that a victory for Roland would be disastrous for the Afro-cultural movement. However, as with all of the black groups after 1993, the Dilazenze were going through a very delicate phase, and the construction of their practice space was essential for solving some of the block’s problems. Roland’s money and his electoral defeat had thus been one of the best things that could have happened to the Dilazenze in the 1996 elections. Everyone also emphasized that the money was not individually appropriated, but had served to build the collective well-being of the group. Apparently, this conferred legitimacy and even dignity to an electoral bargain, since the negotiation of votes to seek individual benefit is constantly criticized, which does not mean, of course, that it doesn’t happen. A vote for Roland, ultimately, seemed almost a sacrifice. It was an option for some (Marinho and Ney, specifically) derived from a sense of obligation engendered by the fact that they had worked on his campaign in order to benefit their group. Moreover, in 1998 various black militants argued that, ultimately, they knew very well that Jabes, once elected, could not ignore them, for he had not only promised a more aggressive cultural policy, but his entire career in Ilhéus was linked to culture and, as a result, to the black movement of the city. In any case, this imprecision in the boundaries that supposedly separate electoral canvassers, exit pollsters, paid militants, volunteer militants and voters, is not, evidently, specific to the Afro groups in Ilhéus.87 A very significant number of people perform, simultaneously or alternately, one or all of these functions in the city’s municipal elections, and this is also true elsewhere. A week before the elections, Ilhéus was crowded with people of all ages who, under the blistering sun, wore T-shirts and waved flags for numerous councillor candidates and the two main candidates for mayor. Each one received, it was said, BR$5 (US$4) for eight hours of work, as well as a ‘snack’, served at lunch time, which consisted in most cases of a piece of bread with butter (a ‘sandwich’) and a soft drink (‘juice’). A much smaller number of people were hired, for BR$50 (US$45) a month (plus a ‘snack’ on active days), to serve different functions throughout the campaign. On election days, especially for municipal elections, there is a somewhat festive air in the city, with many people in the streets and multicoloured flags and T-shirts everywhere. However, many people who had not managed to find ‘work’ (conducting exit polls or waving flags), or who considered the offer of BR$5 (US$4) and a snack ‘an absurdity for spending the entire day under the blazing sun’, preferred to take advantage of the free transportation that,

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against the law, several candidates offered in order to ‘spend the day visiting and enjoying time with family and friends’ in districts far away from the headquarters. If we believe that, as is sometimes said, an ‘exit poll coordinator’ – work that, generally, extends to the supervision of vote counting, and that was almost eradicated with the introduction of electronic voting in 1998 – receives BR$50 (US$45), we can get an idea of the price table for electoral services in Ilhéus. The usual practice is that half of the payment is made the day before the election or on election day and the other half afterwards. Everyone agrees that there is only some degree of assurance in receiving the second 50 per cent of the payment if the candidate for whom you work is actually elected, and even then this does not always happen. If the candidate is not elected, everyone is certain that the second half of the payment will never be made, even though sometimes this does happen. Beyond the electoral services and a few recreational activities provided by the candidates in order to gain votes, election day in Ilhéus does not appear to be particularly special, and it is perhaps necessary to admit that the direct observation of the voting process does not add much in relation to the ethnography of the electoral process that precedes it. People openly enjoyed drinking alcohol in the city’s bars, ignoring the law that in some Brazilian states restricts the consumption of alcohol on the day of an election, with the observation that ‘in Brazil, laws were made to be broken’. Supposed facts connected to the election were much discussed, such as this or that candidate being seen on the days immediately preceding the election, in this or that location in the city, openly buying votes, generally for BR$5 or BR$10 (US$4 or US$10), payable upon presentation of a voting card, whose details were carefully noted. Certain humorous aspects of the campaigns, and the election in particular, were also commented on.88 The difficulties some people had faced at the moment of voting were laughed at (generally those of older or semi-literate people, especially after the adoption of the electronic vote). Some bet on electoral results, on who would win or how many votes this or that candidate would obtain. Some people went to the beach and took advantage of the holiday. Among the members of the Rodrigues family, Tombenci and the Dilazenze, there were few who, in 1996, accepted jobs as exit pollsters, claiming that the pay was too low and that, because of this, they preferred to have lunch with their family, or drink beer and enjoy conversation. It was only then that I managed to discover the electoral position of most of them. One of Marinho’s sisters, who one week before had told me that she did not yet know who she would vote for, confirmed that she was a ‘fanatic supporter of Jabes’ and would always vote for him. Seeing my bewilderment, Dona Ilza explained, laughing, that as they had not known my electoral preferences, they preferred not to

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explain their own, seeking to avoid any kind of discussion or confrontation.89 She told me that she would also vote for Jabes, as always, and that after the victory which she considered certain, she would join the celebrations. Indeed, a few days later, she told me that she had participated in the ‘victory parade’: ‘I went!’ Furthermore, she clarified that, of the whole family, only Marinho and Ney had really opted to vote for Roland Lavigne, going as far as to ask her to take down a poster of Jabes that was hung behind the living room door, on the grounds that this could harm the political agreement with their candidate. The most she would agree to was to add a Roland poster alongside the other one (which contributed to my difficulty in guessing who had the bigger support there). Dona Ilza went on to explain that, in the case of the candidates for councillor, they had to ‘split their votes’. As there were many people they knew contesting the elections and competing for the Rodrigues’ and Tombenci votes – people who, she added, had helped them on different occasions – the members of the family and the terreiro would vote for different candidates. However, this was not an organized division of votes, led by the matriarch of a family and the saint-mother of the terreiro, and this ‘division’ seemed to suggest another justification for the fact that the family, the terreiro and the block did not have a united vote. But this, of course, does not change the outcome: the apparent impossibility to concentrate their vote on a candidate who actually ‘represents’, if not all three entities (the family, terreiro, and block), then at least one of them. The Dilazenze, for example, ended up deciding to support Dino Rocha, social director of the block, an official at the Mayor’s Office, who only one month before the election decided to take his candidacy seriously – he had launched his campaign, he confessed, only to take advantage of the license and right given to employees in the public sector to run for elective positions – and he had asked for the support of the block. Two weeks afterwards, the Dilazenze – who before had attempted to secure an agreement with a strong candidate and had also been openly courted by Gurita – decided to support him. Dino obtained 41 votes, far too few votes to be elected, to be an alternate, or even to be able to use his votes to obtain some kind of advantage. Besides him and Gurita (who obtained 354 votes, a sufficient number to guarantee a position after the inauguration of the new mayor), there were at least two other candidates who kept a close relationship with the black movement of Ilhéus. João César obtained 92 votes, and Adalberto Souza Galvão (Bebeto), who was running for re-election, obtained 397. As an indication, discounting the issue of the total number of votes, in 1996 the elected candidate for councillor who obtained the highest number of votes in Ilhéus received 1,150 votes, and the least voted candidate who was elected secured 452 votes. If we

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added all of the votes for the four candidates who were connected in some way to the black movement, we end up with almost 900 votes; in other words, an amount that only five of the nineteen elected councillors managed to obtain.90 This type of calculation is, at best, just a discursive exercise. Apart from the fact that they were all black, the candidates had very little in common: careers, projects, ideologies, party and political links in general, everything was different. The fact that all of them were running for different parties meant that, instead of contributing to each other, the votes attributed to them were effectively diluted and served only to increase the votes for other candidates. Even the connection with the black movement could not be considered a shared characteristic, as it was completely heterogeneous: Dino, in fact, was part of one of the most important organizations within the Afro-cultural movement; Gurita had only recently approached this same movement; João César had contact with people in the Afro-cultural movement, but was much closer to the MNU; Bebeto was a militant of a leftist party, more concerned with rural settlements and trade unions than with racial or cultural issues. Among ordinary voters, the days following the elections did not seem especially noteworthy. But among the politicians, and those others who were directly involved, these were days – and months – of intense activity. Those elected were preparing to take office; those unelected were analysing what had happened and trying to preserve or obtain some political space outside of the elective positions; those whose relationship with politics was more ‘professional’ (aides, advisers, managers etc.) mobilized themselves for new positions, roles and functions. As one of these professionals said, to them (and to the politicians, of course), ‘politics does not end with the elections’, on the contrary, it intensifies, which clearly reveals that what tends to be thought of by ordinary voters as a temporary and seasonal activity appears absolutely permanent and continuous to the professionals. Furthermore, it is clear that many celebrated the victory of their candidates, victories that, in many cases, signified the possibility of obtaining or keeping certain jobs and advantages. During one of these celebrations, in a house very close to Tombenci and practically opposite Cosme Araújo’s house, a huge fight broke out on 5 October, involving residents of Carilos on one side, and ‘Cosme’s people’ on the other. The owner of the house, a civil servant who, as well as supporting Jabes, saw in her candidate’s victory an opportunity to obtain a better job at the department in which she worked, noisily celebrated Jabes’ election, when Cosme’s employees began celebrating even more noisily their boss’s re-election as councillor. What appeared to be a simple staged conflict evolved into a physical confrontation in which dozens of people participated, men, women and even children, and which was only interrupted with the arrival of the police after someone brandished, without

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firing, a firearm. Some of the combatants were taken to the police station, which forced Cosme – who, in the city is sometimes accused of being a ‘jailcell lawyer’ (advogado de porta de cadeia)** or ‘defender of scoundrels’ – to go to the station in an attempt to free some of his employees. As he was not held in very high regard by the police – ‘we lock up the scoundrels and he frees them’, according to some police officers – the police chief entirely blamed Cosme’s followers for the conflict. This was a purely moral culpability, as everyone was released. Before they were freed, however, someone heard Cosme say that there was much treachery in the elections and he was going to ‘do something about the traitors’. In Conquista it was said that ever since Cosme had moved to Carilos, about a year earlier, the conflicts with him and his people had been constant. He had tried to get close to the Dilazenze and, later, with the Residents’ Association; having failed, he struggled, also unsuccessfully, to prevent the block’s rehearsals, claiming that they were too noisy. During the 1996 carnival he had offered the Dilazenze T-shirts for the drum section of the group to wear, thus allowing him to parade with them during carnival, albeit in a modest way and incompatible with what is expected from an Afro block. Marinho thought that the reference to treachery was undoubtedly related to this episode, since Cosme thought his ‘sponsorship’ during carnival would automatically imply electoral support. ‘But it is nothing like that,’ Marinho stated, ‘because we paraded in shirts with his name stamped on the back and this advertisement is just paid sponsorship’. I believe this episode could also serve as a warning against the temptations of understanding this in terms of the ‘ethnic vote’. Whatever the effects that the feeling of ethnic belonging might produce, both for the candidates and the voters, it is difficult to gauge them from the outside.91 Marinho argued that Cosme is black, praised him for having ‘hot blood, being a person who comes in and fights, who really follows through with things, who promises and delivers’, but stressed that he did not have ‘much identification with the black movement of Ilhéus’, even though he had ‘taken on all of the commitments that were signed’. And, even before the elections, Marinho explained that: we developed a three-month project with Cosme Araújo for carnival; we sat down with him, talked, and it was made very clear that this would be sponsorship, he would be a sponsor like any other, he would give us what we needed for carnival and in exchange we would promote his name: when *

Translators’ note. A ‘jail-cell lawyer’ is a derogatory term for a lawyer who looks for clients at the police station, in the same way that an ‘ambulance chaser’ is one who looks for them in a hospital.

Research carnival was over, our agreement with him was also over. The Dilazenze support for his campaign, any bigger commitments and involvement with his campaign, all of this is another issue. The Dilazenze has not decided on a candidate because we have not found anyone who has an identity with the black movement, who would really fight for our cause, for our work throughout the year, our social and cultural work. Because there are many politicians who provide money and then after the elections do not make any commitments: you look for a person who you can develop a project with, and that is the whole problem. For this reason the Dilazenze have not decided yet, there are many candidates out there. You understand?92

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Figure 13 Outdoors during the local elections of 1996 (in the background one of the ways leading to Conquista).

CHAPTER 3

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 The creation of the Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus and the appointment of Marinho Rodrigues as its first administrator, as described in the first chapter, are intrinsically linked to the story of the black movement in Ilhéus, and, especially, the ever complex relations that were established between the movement and local political powers, as discussed in the last chapter. This story of the black movement of Ilhéus could, perhaps, be summarized – and it is only summarized here, as a more detailed description and analysis can be found in Silva (1998 and 2004) – in a format very similar to that adopted by Michel Agier (1992:76), when describing what happens in Salvador. According to Agier the ‘black world’ of this city can be represented according to a genealogical model which functions by segmentation, and that has purity as its core value (ibid.:76–7): ‘each block is born from another,’ and ‘the Ilê Aiyê is … recognized as the ancestor of all the blocks’ (ibid.:61). This is because the Ilê, as it is known, founded in 1974, is seen as having given rise, through successive or simultaneous divisions, to the main Afro blocks in Salvador: Olodum (1979), Malê Debalê (1979), Ara Ketu (1980) and Muzenza (1981) – to name only the most famous ones (see Cunha 1991:290, 296; Guerreiro 1998:104–9; Lima 1998:164–6; Morales 1991:80; Risério 1981; Schaeber 1998:146; and Veiga 1998:123–4). Alternately, Agier (ibid.:73–4) observes that, together with the processes of segmentation, there is also a ‘federalizing tendency’, which works in the sense of grouping the blocks together into councils and associations. This principle also created on the national level, for example, the Unified Black Movement (MNU), created in 1978 as a unifying hub for the various black groups in the country (Valente 1986:29–30), though this ambition was apparently unrealized (ibid.:40–1). It is important to note again that the

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‘federalizing tendency’ appears to operate above all when the groups have to relate themselves to bodies which are external to them, principally the state. On the other hand, when it comes to inter-group relations, the principle of segmentation appears to operate with full force, though this point is rarely emphasized by analysts.

 Now, what is true for Salvador is no less true for Ilhéus. The genealogy of the Afro blocks is organized around a double origin. On the one hand, the Lê-Guê DePá, founded in 1981, gave rise to the Gangas (1986), which gave rise to the Malês (1992) and to the Zambi Axé (1994); this, in turn, led to the Guerreiros de Zulu (2000). On the other hand, founded in 1980 by a member of the Ilê Aiyê (the black actor and dancer Mário Gusmão), we have the Miny Kongo, from which originated the Rastafiry (1988), the Axé Odara (1984), the Zimbabuê (1985), the Força Negra (1988) and the Leões do Reggae (1997). The Rastafiry gave rise to the Raízes Negras (1990), which generated the D’Logun (1992); the Axé Odara gave birth to the Dilazenze (1986); the Zimbabuê and the Danados do Reggae (1990). Note also that, according to some black militants, the two genealogical lines of the Afro blocks of Ilhéus correspond to two distinct rhythms, or beats: the ijexá, tied to the Lê-Guê DePá (and more characteristic of the afoxés), and the samba-reggae, corresponding to the Miny Kongo.93 Some of these blocks (the Lê-Guê DePá, Axé Odara, Gangas) no longer exist; the Malês and the Força Negra have a somewhat intermittent existence; the Leões do Reggae have still not managed to fully establish themselves; the remainder (seven or eight, since the Raízes Negras and the D’Logun are constantly merging and separating) form the nucleus of the ‘black world’ of Ilhéus, alongside an afoxé, some capoeira groups and two samba schools, today practically non-existent, but always mentioned and placed at the beginning of the line of blocks that begins with the Miny Kongo.94 Each block has territorial roots: four of them (the Dilazenze, Rastafiry, Raízes Negras and D’Logun) are located in Conquista, one of the most populous neighbourhood in Ilhéus, situated on a hill close to the centre of the city, and made up of a largely poor, black population. The Zambi Axé are in the Malhado area, the Guerreiros de Zulu in Alto Soledade, the Zimbabuê in Vilela (all of these are large neighbourhoods with a predominantly black population); the Danados do Reggae are in Nova Brasília (a poor area in the middle-class neighbourhood of Pontal); and the Miny Kongo are located in the Oiteiro de São Sebastião (a hill area in the centre of the city). Some blocks also possess a familial heritage. The clearest case is the Dilazenze, in which almost all of the board and a large part of the members

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Figure 14 Front wall of the Dilazenze practice space painted by Jaco Santana.

are from the Rodrigues family. The Força Negra are also basically made up of members of the same family and almost ceased to exist when most of the brothers became evangelical Christians. Moreover, even in blocks that are not entirely family based, the presence of groups of relatives can be noted. Some blocks are associated with Candomblé terreiros. Again, the strongest case is that of the Dilazenze, which in a certain sense is part of the Matamba Tombenci Neto terreiro. The Miny Kongo meanwhile, and, to a lesser degree, some other groups, also have connections to terreiros. In Ilhéus, therefore, as had happened in Salvador (Cunha 1998), most of the Afro blocks emerged from pre-existing groups, a fact that is generally overlooked but which is very important for a broader understanding of the meaning of this kind of activity. The blocks are, in part, an extension of activities that are thought of and staged around familial, territorial, age or class dimensions, but the blocks add an ‘ethnic’ or ‘cultural’ orientation to these dimensions, and, simultaneously, tend to transform the codes that they operate under so that they are ethnically or culturally overcoded.95 Of course, as Rolnik observed, the absence of ghettos in Brazil does not mean an absence of black territories, as long as they are understood in the following sense: [as] a living space, a collective work constructed piece by piece by a particular social group. Thus, when speaking of black territories, we mean not only a history of exclusion but also a construction of singularity and the

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of wanting solidarity and self-preservation that underlies the existence of an African community on Brazilian land. 

(Rolnik 1989:30)

These territories should not be confused with purely geographical spaces, but consist of, in the sense given to the term by Guattari (2000:33), existential territories. In other words, the result of creative investments that can certainly be tied to spatial bases, but also to an infinity of other relationships (not only ethnic, but also of affiliation, alliance, generation etc.).96 It is because of this that these territories are never exclusively black. And it is also because of this that the ‘African-ness’ which is usually invoked to describe them has nothing to do with a real, imaginary or symbolic Africa, in the usual sense of these terms. ‘Africa’ is rather an existential experience, a ‘ritornello’, a refrain that ‘draws a territory and develops into territorial motifs and landscapes’ (Deleuze and Guattari 2005:323), creating existential territories and ‘binding the forces of chaos’ (ibid.:322). The ruptures that give rise to the new blocks are generally attributed to fighting amongst their constituents, often linked to financial problems and/or misunderstandings about the organization of the block – a point that tends to be avoided in reports about the blocks in Salvador. Furthermore, each group has always been, continues to be, and probably always will be, connected in some way to one or more politicians, who played a role in their foundation (for example the ex-councillor Elício, in relation to the Gangas); or who assisted in their establishment even if just for their own immediate electoral purposes (as seems to be the case of the ex-councillor Gildo Pinto with the D’Logun in 1992, and Gurita with the Leões do Reggae in 1997, and with the Guerreiros de Zulu in 2000); or who affiliated themselves in a more or less constant manner (Gurita himself, on different occasions, with the Danados do Reggae, Zimbabuê, Força Negra, Zambi Axé and Guerreiros de Zulu); or who did so only when the elections were approaching (as with Gildo Pinto in 1998, and Gurita in 2000, both with the Dilazenze). Of course, alongside these processes of division, there are examples of the ‘federalizing tendency’. The main ones, undoubtedly, are the continually renewed attempts to constitute and administer the Council of Afro-Cultural Organizations of Ilhéus. The first incarnation of the CEACI, as has already been discussed, was apparently formed between 1989 and 1990; its president, Bob Jal of the Miny Kongo, only held the position for around six months, having been deposed and replaced by the vice-president, Gilmar Rodrigues of the Dilazenze. In 1992, when the Council was said to be completely inactive, Aldircemiro Duarte (Mirinho), of the D’Logun, assumed the presidency, with

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Marinho Rodrigues of the Dilazenze as vice-president. Amid accusations that he had used the council for his own political ends (as we will see), Mirinho was replaced by Marinho in 1994, who took Paulo Cesar de Menezes (Cesar) of the Rastafiry as his vice-president; in 2001, as we have already seen, Marinho was replaced by Jacks Rodrigues of the D’Logun, with Gilsoney Rodrigues (Ney) of the Dilazenze as his vice-president; and, finally, in 2004, Jacks Rodrigues was re-elected, with Marreta of the Rastafiry as his vice-president. And, as we have also already seen, the controversies and uncertainties surrounding the Council are still very much alive today. Thus, if the principle of segmentation appears almost sovereign in respect to the relationships between the different groups, the ‘federalizing tendency’ tends to always emerge when it comes to establishing connections with exterior bodies, principally the state. As Silva observed, in 1997 the biggest ‘encourager’ of the Council was the municipal government: During his first carnival in office (1997), Mayor Jabes Ribeiro … emphasized that City Hall would no longer negotiate carnival budgets with any single group, because all of the decisions would be made and all of the carnival would be organized by the Cultural Foundation of Ilhéus in accordance with the Council, defined by City Hall as the only channel for contact with the Afro-carnival groups of Ilhéus. 

(Silva 1998:93–4)

This perception is obvious enough for those involved with the Afrocultural movement of Ilhéus and with the attempts to construct, and reconstruct, the Council of Afro-Cultural Organizations. They are almost unanimous in claiming that the central role of the Council is to serve as a mediator between the blocks and City Hall, thus on the one hand seeking to increase, however slightly, the small degree of bargaining power of the blocks, and, on the other hand, to avoid ‘excesses’, such as, for example, the formation (or resurrection) of ‘ghost blocks’ on the eve of carnival, with the sole intention of taking a slice of the already limited budget that City Hall allocates to the carnival parades.

 Even this brief description allows us to see that the genealogical origin of the Afro blocks of Ilhéus encapsulates the perception of their history in terms of segmentation and alliance, as well as the constant possibility of unifying mergers. The problem is knowing whether or not we are dealing with processes of segmentation, in the classic sense of the term, as introduced

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by Evans-Pritchard and Fortes in 1940 in an attempt to account for certain African political systems. Or, to be more precise, it is knowing whether the application of the idea of segmentarity onto phenomena such as Afro blocks (or a kind of party politics, as we will see later) allows for an increase in intelligibility and understanding. The principal difficulty comes from the fact that the idea of segmentarity emerged in anthropological thinking in the 1930s and 1940s as an attempt to explain ‘state-less societies’. In brief, the central hypothesis is that, in the absence of a state, other institutions take on the functions associated with it. The main conflict emerges from the famous evolutionary diachronic opposition, which opposed societies based on status to those centred on contract. ‘Segmentary societies’ would thus be situated precisely between these two, in which lineage acts as a kind of mediation between ‘blood’ and ‘territory’. However, in trying to establish the existence of a specific form of organization that could not be confused with kinship or the state, EvansPritchard and Fortes (1940:5–7) ultimately bequeathed to the theory of segmentarity two twin theoretical ghosts anthropology has been unable to rid itself of. Firstly, a morphologism, which aimed to determine a specific form of social organization (segmentary lineages), and secondly, a typologism, because this was a form of organization that could be distinguished from others. I believe that if we fail to rid ourselves of these ghosts we inevitably arrive at Adam Kuper’s entirely negative conclusion (1982; 1988) which accommodates the concept of segmentarity within a ‘theory of lineage’ and thus limits it to a strict sociological plane, one which is more open to criticism. This conclusion ends up refuting even the most ‘guarded defence of the model. It is theoretically unproductive, and that is the real test.’ (Kuper 1982:92). Fundamentally, this refusal means not accepting the possibility of disassociating the idea of ‘segmentary opposition’ from a ‘theory of lineage’ (ibid.:91–2), depriving itself of an important analytical tool.97 The truth is that there have been more than a few attempts to exorcize these ghosts. Evans-Pritchard always oscillated between rooting this segmentarity within social organization and formulating it such that this organization depended on a ‘principle of segmentation’, one that would permeate several organizational levels of society (Evans-Pritchard 1940:143). Even Fortes – of whom Dumont (2006:50–6) censures the strict sociologism – suggested that segmentarity could either be based on what he termed ‘technique of contraposition’, characteristic of a certain form of ‘relativism’ and of ‘segmentary thinking’ (Fortes 1945:27), or it could be the result of the existence of a ‘segmentary principle’, existent throughout a society (Fortes 1953:29).

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Moreover, much has been written from 1940 up until the present day regarding the question of segmentarity, but this is not the place to try and resume, much less resolve, this debate.98 The aim here is merely to point to the necessary dislocations, striving towards a legitimate generalization of the concept or, to be more precise, the transformations that would facilitate the migration of this concept.99 To do this, I believe it is first necessary to reject the false dichotomy between ideology and practice (or ideal principle and real organization, or whatever you want to call it), and accept, with Lienhardt (1958:106, 114), that segmentarity is, above all else, and in the strongest sense of the word, a native ‘political theory’ which simultaneously serves to explain and orientate political practice. In this sense, it informs and gives meaning to action, without having to correspond point by point to what agents and anthropologists believe they empirically observe (see Goldman 1999).100 Secondly, it is necessary to liberate the concept from its sociological or cultural bias, and repeat that segmentarity should not be confused with a specific type of society (or even with lineage),101 nor does it constitute a cultural particularity (Herzfeld 1992b:66). Moreover, liberating segmentarity from this sociological bias equally means liberating it from typology, from the great division that imprisons the concept, the opposition between segmentary systems and state systems. In fact, the latter are just as segmentary as the former (Deleuze and Guattari 2005: chapter 9; Herzfeld 1992a and 1992b), at least from the point at which we start to become more interested in processes than in forms, a movement which allows us to distance ourselves from morphology, the other imposing ghost that looms over the theory of segmentarity. Therefore, the same thing that happened to totemism would happen to segmentarity.102 Seen as an institution, it can only lead to an ‘illusion’, helping to exoticize and exorcize forms of social life considered incomplete for lacking a state (Herzfeld 1987:156) and serving to reinforce the idea of ‘European identity’ (ibid.:165). In contrast, when seen as a process, segmentarity seems to be an universal phenomenon, which is enough to ward off all attempts at typology: segmentation ‘was until recently treated as an exotic type rather than as a universal aspect of political life’ (ibid.:158). In truth, segmentation represents one of the models of ‘social relativity’ set in motion in any society: ‘segmentation is the relative deployment of political alliances according to genealogical or other criteria of social distance between the parties to a dispute’ (ibid.:156 – my italics). It is only the presence of a substantialist ideology, typical in nation states, that means that, in some societies, the level of recognition of segmentarity is much smaller than in others. It is the presence of this ideology within the anthropological gaze that makes notions such as social structure or even social organization end up being understood

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in a purely morphological sense, rather than in a functional or processual one. Segmentarity is, above all, a perspective – a ‘segmentary view of the world’, as Herzfeld put it (1985: XII, 36, 116, 257) – from which the anthropologist should also observe social reality, especially if true freedom from all atomism and all substantialism is desired. In summary, we should recognize – as the principle of reciprocity ultimately implies, that to give and to receive are the same thing – that the principle of segmentarity only means that opposition and composition are always an inextricable and indivisible totality.103 In the case of Afro blocks (and the case of Candomblé terreiros would be similar104), the central problem is knowing if the segmentation that cuts through them is really a phenomenon of a processual or purely morphological order, to use a distinction introduced by Middleton and Tait (1958:7–8). From the second point of view, the separation of groups (which the authors propose terming ‘fission’) simply means that a unit converts itself into two or more; from the processual point of view, however, this separation (or ‘segmentation’) corresponds to a reversible process, and what is merely one group on a specific segmentary level can divide itself into two on another level, while still remaining one on the previous level.105 It is in this sense that the idea of segmentarity, as proposed by Evans-Pritchard and Fortes – disregarding what they themselves said on the subject (Fortes 1945: XII) – should not be confused with the Durkheimian notion of a segmentary society, which Middleton and Tait (1958:8, note 1) proposed calling ‘segmental’. In this case, it is a purely morphological conception, a mere juxtaposition of equivalent segments, without any reference to the functional processes of their relative and continuous reunifications and separations. Finally, it is important to note that the established distinction between fission and segmentation, on the plane of separation, is not accompanied by an equivalent distinction, to be effected on the plane of reunification. Nevertheless, it is clear that the definitive association of two or more groups to make up one single group (what we could, possibly, call ‘fusion’) is entirely different from segmentary aggregation, always relative, contextual and reversible, in the same way that fission is to segmentation. The irrefutable fact that ‘every block is born from another’ (or that each terreiro is born from another) only proves the existence of a ‘segmental’ morphology, consisting of successive fissions over a long period of time. On the other hand, the fact – also irrefutable – that two Candomblé terreiros, originating from the same ancestral terreiro, tend to feel closer to each other than to other terreiros, or that terreiros from Candomblé Angola tend to be in opposition to terreiros from Candomblé Ketu and to terreiros from Candomblé Jeje (making up, in another plane, a certain unity – the world of Candomblé, closer to Umbanda than to Catholicism, and closer to Catholicism than to

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Protestantism, and so on), reveals the existence of a properly segmented structure, in the processual sense of the term. It is evident, however, that these feelings of structural proximity and distance do not work here as they do amongst the Dinka, for instance. However, Lienhardt observes that even amongst the Dinka, such feelings do not function like those of the Nuer. The Dinka, he writes, think in terms of association of lineages, linked to each other in various ways, while for the Nuer a single agnatic principle is enough to explain all significant political identification of lineage with territorial segmentation. 

(Lienhardt 1958:128, myitalics)

In truth, it appears that we need to, shall we say, de-Nuerize segmentarity. It seems to be that this Nuer model only makes anthropologists understand the pyramid form of segmentary structure, a form that, in the words of Deleuze and Guattari, could be called ‘arborescent’. The Dinka lineages, in contrast, present a rather different aspect, being closer to what these same authors call ‘rhizomatic’ (see Deleuze and Guattari 2005, specifically ‘Introduction: Rhizome’).106 Segmentation cannot, as such, be opposed to the state, not only because the state is itself permeated by segmentation, but also because there exist distinct modes of segmentation – and this is even true in so-called ‘segmentary societies’.107 In the Afro blocks, segmentarity does not function precisely as it does in the terreiros, and among the blocks the rhizomatic properties appear to be even stronger. This is because, on the one hand, there is no concept of a common mystical substance that connects the blocks of a common lineage. Thus, while some Candomblé terreiros, originating from the same ancestral terreiro, claim to come from the same ‘root’ or the same ‘axé’,108 this does not occur with the Afro blocks. Further to this, the undeniable rivalry that exists between the terreiros is, somehow, disguised under a language of fraternity and union, at the same time as the Afro blocks are competing against each other, which makes the principles of division seem much more active than those of re-unification. These do exist, however, and, as amongst the Dinka, manifest themselves ‘in various ways’. As a result, it is perhaps still necessary to follow Deleuze and Guattari (2005:208–9), distinguishing at least three different modalities of segmentarity: ‘binary’ (of type, class, age: thus, in Ilhéus, the distinction between whites and blacks, for example); ‘circular’ (from the individual up to humanity: the Conquista neighbourhood, the city of Ilhéus, the whole cacao region, Bahia, Brazil etc.) and ‘linear’ (linked to activities, ‘processes’ or ‘episodes’, concomitant or successive: family, Candomblé, block, work etc.). An Afro block such as the

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Dilazenze can unite with other groups of the same nature, insofar as they are all Afro blocks. They can also unite with an organization of a different nature – a local residents association, for example – if that organization is situated in Conquista or, better still, in the Carilos area of that neighbourhood. Or, it can join together with other types of organization: a terreiro (Tombenci) or a family (the Rodrigues family), as these are located close to the Dilazenze. If, in the first case, we have a genealogical and binary segmentarity (the type which we are more accustomed to dealing with); then, in the second case, we are dealing with territorial and circular principles; and, in the third, with an institutional and linear segmentarity. In other words, some blocks can unify themselves, genealogically, in an attempt to oppose themselves to other groups, or all of the groups can join together to negotiate with City Hall, for example (this is what Agier describes as a ‘federalising tendency’); one or more groups can join together territorially with other organizations to oppose blocks or organizations that are tied to another territory; or they can associate themselves institutionally with other organizations to oppose other heterogeneous blocks or organizations (this will be a crucial point when we revisit the principle of segmentarity, though at that point we will look at how it functions within the politics of Ilhéus).

 If the creation of the Memorial of Black Culture and the nomination of the administrator make up part of the history of the black movement and the politics of Ilhéus, its main characters are simultaneously protagonists and products of this history. As we have seen, Marinho Rodrigues has been involved with the Afro-cultural movement since the very beginning. In the early 1980s, when he was about 14 years old, he would accompany his mother and his older brothers to the Miny Kongo, Lê-Guê DePá and the Axé Odara; in 1986, after some disagreements with this last block, he founded, with a few of his brothers, the Dilazenze, and he has been the president of the block ever since. He was the vice-president on the second board of the CEAC, president of the following board, the first administrator of the Memorial and, probably, the most recognized name in the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus. In 2003, he even contributed a weekly column to one of the city’s newspapers. Jabes Ribeiro, for his part, is tied to a historical process, that of local politics, seemingly very different from that associated with the Afro blocks, but which, in a certain sense, has somewhat surprising similarities with it (and to which I will return). On the other hand, it is clear that, although they are closely interrelated, these two processes are in some way rooted in a broader and much longer so-called ‘historical context’. It is here that a few problems arise

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that are difficult to resolve, since, from a radically anthropological perspective, the idea of historical context cannot be as obvious as it appears. As Richard Handler (1988:18–9) observed, what is generally called historical knowledge – or even what are considered to be objective descriptions of particular contexts – consists, in most cases, in a conjunction of objectifying practices which look to impose interpretations as if they were supposedly objective and indisputable facts. This means that, in the face of history, the position of the anthropologist should consist either of the abstention from any attempt at describing a supposed historical and/or geographical background of the events which they mean to analyse – thus avoiding recourse, as Handler advises (ibid.:70), to ‘provid[ing] backgrounds as a prelude to some variety of synchronic analysis’; or of the incorporation of different descriptions and interpretations to the analysis, as the local or temporal contexts make up part of these events and should only appear integrated within them. In the case of Ilhéus, for example, diverse kinds of historical works can be found: some two dozen academic texts, written in the 1950s (and which, as we can easily guess, do not entirely agree with each other); around a dozen works which were commissioned or sponsored by the ‘Executive Commission for the Planning of Cacao Farming’ (Ceplac) between the 1970s and 1990s; over thirty texts written by residents of Ilhéus and the surrounding region, including memoirs, chronicles, family genealogies, tourist guides etc.; and, also, more than two dozen novels, the large part of which were written by two of the most famous contemporary Brazilian writers, Jorge Amado and Adonias Filho, both born in and tied to the cacao-farming region.109 As can be imagined, it is not only the style, but the actual content of these narratives that varies enormously from genre to genre, and even from book to book. What, then, could be the historical knowledge of Ilhéus; or the historical context of an ethnographic investigation undertaken there? Would it be a story narrated at the register of the ‘democratic’ taming of the virgin soils, led by the ‘self-made men’, as Adonias Filho proposes? Or is it the revelation of the local history of slavery – denied or suppressed by almost all of the local writers, and even by some professional historians – accomplished through the detailed work of North American historian Mary Ann Mahony? Or is it information of the kind provided to Mahony in 1999, according to whom ‘cacao came to Bahia from Africa, carried by men and women who had been sold into slavery, according to an oral tradition among rural workers in the Almada district of Ilhéus, Bahia’ (Mahony 2001a:95)? Like Mahony, I believe that ‘this tradition does not coincide with any documentary evidence on the introduction of cacao to southern Bahia’ (ibid.), and believe that the cacao fruit actually originated in Mexico, and was brought to Brazil in the seventeenth century, and to Bahia in the eighteenth century

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by the Europeans. However, this is not my concern. My interest is, rather, in the possibility of capturing this history in fieldwork and integrating it within the narrative. And it is here that the results are somewhat disappointing. The militants of the black movement of Ilhéus, much like the followers of Candomblé, seem to dedicate little if any attention to long-term historical processes, even though they are very interested in them and know quite a bit about more recent history, especially where it involves their groups and terreiros, for example. Once in a while, the ‘individualism’ of cacao cultivation is evoked to explain the difficulties of organization or of obtaining help; sometimes, the pro-slavery origins of the local rich are also discussed, but it rarely goes beyond that. The local elite, on the other hand, seem very interested in this history, but only where their families or social classes were themselves involved. In this sense, the trajectory of Mahony’s work is illustrative. Having begun researching the cacao region at the end of the 1980s, she came across a dominant version of the local history which maintained that the cacao-based economy was founded in the small estates and work of the landowners, almost without any intervention from the slave labourers. This would constitute a very unique pattern, not only in terms of the sugar-based economy of the fertile Bahian coastline, but in terms of the colonial and imperial Brazilian economy as a whole. Mahony was surprised not only by the fact that the few writers and historians who put forward a differing vision went unheard but, mainly, by the fact that the documentary evidence did not leave any doubt as to the existence and fundamental character of slavery in cacao production, which therefore exposed the dominant version as a complete historical untruth. However, after a presentation of her thesis at the Santa Cruz State University (Universidade Estadual de Santa Cruz, UESC), she not only obtained the approval of local academics, but was also interviewed by the local television station, and began to be approached in the following days by people who, seeing her on the city’s streets, claimed to know other slave stories (Mahony 2001b).110 Even though Mahony and I believe that this is the true history, an anthropologist can not fail to remember that, a long time ago, Lévi-Strauss (1966) revealed that the distinction between history and myth is much less defined than we would imagine or would like it to be. It is in this sense that I am convinced that the best anthropological approach to the history of Ilhéus should proceed from an investigation of every narrative found (every ‘version’ of the history of Ilhéus, as Lévi-Strauss would undoubtedly say), accomplished with the aid of the same method elaborated by him for the analysis of myth. In this way, we would certainly find a series of oppositions around which local history seems to be constructed, understood and exploited: between a savage and poverty stricken past and a civilized and rich present; between

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an alternative, glorious past and a somewhat mediocre present; between the region, on one side, and the state, the country and the world on the other; between a prodigal, but difficult and untamed, nature, versus culture; and so on.111 It is not my aim here to develop these points or to take on this exercise. However, unlike Handler (1988:19, who suggests to his readers interested in the history of Quebec to read books written by professional historians), and being partially sensitive to some criticism,112 I will provide a brief description of the region and of the history of Ilhéus. It will be a more or less superficial description and, I would dare to say, phenomenological, in the sense that it is one we face immediately when arriving in the city and one to which I will suspend any judgement in respect to its possible objective truth. On the one hand, I would like to provide the reader with the elements which inevitably intervene in a properly ethnographic and anthropological analysis, which is the main objective of this study; on the other hand, I would like to recognize that, if a context exists, it can only, or should only, be understood by an anthropologist from the point of view of their informants, which means that local history – and even Ilhéus – are, fundamentally, native categories, in the conventional sense. Accordingly, I will start at the present day. The city of Ilhéus is situated on the southern coast of the state of Bahia, around 400 km from the capital, Salvador, and occupies an area of approximately 1,800 km2, and had, in 2000, a population a little over 220,000 inhabitants, of which over 70 per cent live in the urban area. The number of registered voters in the 2000 municipal elections was almost 105,000 people, of which only about 80,000 actually voted.113 Over the last twenty-two years, the population has gained about 70,000 inhabitants; the number of shantytowns occupying the periphery of the city and surrounding swamp, beach, and hillside areas, grew substantially; rates of violence are on an upward curve. In a full-page article in the local newspaper A Região (23 July 2000, p. 3), it was put forward that, in a population of approximately 1,200,000, there were about 250,000 unemployed workers in the cacao-farming region. And, even in the absence of official data regarding these unemployment figures, it is enough just to walk through the city to guess that they would be extremely high. If we make a small effort towards defamiliarization of the everyday perceptions we are used to, we will notice that the sociological landscape of Ilhéus is phenomenologically strange, though it is not uncommon in Brazil, in general, and in Bahia in particular. An extremely small elite (which has, today, fairly limited economic resources) which is ‘white’ – actually, ‘whitened’, as Risério (1981: passim) suggested was the case in Salvador – resides among an overwhelmingly black majority, who mainly live in the periphery and on the

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hillsides of the city.114 This is not vastly different from the rest of Brazil and, especially, the rest of Bahia. Nevertheless, in the case of Ilhéus it is necessary to note that, unlike Salvador, the black population of the city, as well as their ‘culture’ (a native term which encompasses everything from cuisine to Candomblé, fashion, music, parties, carnival etc.) were never incorporated into the official or touristic image of the city. Salvador became almost synonymous with Bahia, which means that the mention of the state’s name metonymically evokes the images established by the city. Walking through the streets of Ilhéus and Salvador can evoke very similar sensory experiences, but this does not mean that they articulate themselves to the images externally projected by each of these cities in the same way. Ilhéus is, in general, presented and represented by means of appropriation from the books of the nationally famous writer Jorge Amado;115 Candomblé terreiros and Afro blocks not listed in tourist brochures;116 two carnivals, as we have seen, which usually take place: one ‘early’ (aimed at outside visitors and which excludes the participation of the black groups) and the other ‘cultural’ (which, allowing the black groups to participate, is fundamentally aimed at the inhabitants of the city itself );117 and so on. This does not mean, of course, that Salvador is objectively more black, tolerant or multiracial than Ilhéus; it only means that, in Salvador, the rhetoric of totality (or ‘Bahia-ness’, in this case) incorporates what is defined as black culture, which isn’t the case in Ilhéus.118 But this also does not signal an absence of real effects. If almost 85 per cent of the population of Ilhéus declared themselves to be black (negro) in the 1991 Demographic Census (in other words, identifying themselves as ‘black’ (preto) or ‘brown’ (pardo) according to the categories used in the census), only 7.63 per cent declared their colour to be ‘black’ (preto).119 In Salvador (where the percentage of blacks is under 79 per cent), 14.6 per cent declared their colour to be ‘black’ (preto). Contrary to popular belief, a census, of course, is neither neutral nor objective. The same census of 1991 revealed, for example, that in Ilhéus there were only 151 Candomblé and Umbanda adepts. Tombenci alone has more adepts than this and, as we know, Candomblé adepts see no contradiction in also identifying themselves as Catholic. In this regard, Harris et al. (1993) applied the same questionnaire used by the Brazilian Institute of Geography and Statistics (Instituto Brasileiro de Geografia e Estatística, or IBGE) to a small city in Bahia, only modifying the word pardo to moreno (a term that, unlike pardo, is commonly used in social situations). The result is that both the number of white people and the number of black (preto) people diminished due to the creation of this new category. By requiring unambiguous definitions of what may be the subject of multiple identifications and negotiations, and by employing categories far removed from actual experience, the census, as

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Herzfeld warns (1996:82–3), is an important mechanism for the crystallization of categories which are in reality much more fluid and segmented, and which constitute social reality. They tend, thus, to be more performative than descriptive, insofar as their reifying effects result from the governmental and non-governmental policies that inform them.120 Within this context, and still from a merely phenomenological point of view, an observer from another planet would certainly be surprised by the fact that the small numbers of the ‘whitened’ elite of Ilhéus have been so successful in maintaining control of practically all sectors of life in the city over the past two centuries, control which involves mechanisms of exercising power that have made domination possible and upon which it is necessary to reflect. Finally, we should observe that both this somewhat disconcerting picture and this domination, which are only unsurprising because we are so accustomed to them, seem to acquire a certain coherence when incorporated into historical narratives that seek to make sense of the present. In these narratives we can learn that, since the sixteenth century, the region of Ilhéus was the site of numerous attempts at occupation, with the exploitation of wood and the establishment of sugar mills. In 1535 the Hereditary Capitania of São Jorge o Ilhéus (Capitania Hereditária de São Jorge dos Ilhéus)** was established; it was transformed into a town thirty years later, but several difficulties led to the interruption of all of the colonization projects, culminating in the depopulation of the area and the abandonment of the initial project. From the early nineteenth century, this colonization was taken up again, especially by means of the establishment of foreign immigrant colonies which, in the large part, failed. The introduction of cacao plantations during the second half of the nineteenth century enabled the resumption and success of the project of occupying the region, but only in 1881 was the town elevated to the status of city, the moment at which the official narrative history of Ilhéus resumes, after a silence lasting almost three centuries. Thus, it is argued that, after a period of fighting over land (towards the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth century), a landowning aristocracy was established (owning, in general, cacao plantations), characteristic of a socio-economic system that reached its zenith in the 1920s, and began its disintegration in the 1980s, with what became known as the ‘cacao crisis’. If at the beginning of the nineteenth century the region was still sparsely populated, the relative presence of a population of African descent was already noticeable: around a quarter of the 2,400 residents were slaves (Mahony 1998:92). The economic expansion during the second half of the century *

Translators’ note. A capitania was an administrative division of land in Brazil during the colonial period, based on descent.

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resulted in the population doubling in just fifty years. At the same time, as the 1872 Census shows, 71 per cent of the inhabitants could be classified as ‘black’ (preto) or ‘brown’ (pardo), a percentage that, in 1890, grew to about 75 per cent (ibid.:93). With the massive internal migration sustained by the rise in cacao farming, these numbers remained in a state of constant expansion, which, at least in part, explains the current statistics: almost 85 per cent of the population of Ilhéus declared themselves to be ‘brown’ or ‘black’ in the 1991 Demographic Census (in Salvador, the percentage was 78 per cent; in Bahia, 79 per cent, in Brazil, 47.5 per cent). On the other hand, by means of a complex process of exclusion and expropriation of the black population (see Mahony 1998), this pattern of development produced a local elite who, given the almost exclusive nature of their economic activity, were known as the ‘cacao colonels’. This elite usually consider themselves – and are considered by other segments of the population – as white, and their hegemony does not appear to have been shaken either by the cacao crisis or the subsequent attempts at developing alternative economic activities, such as tourism or the electronics industry. In agreement with this pattern of socio-economic development, politics in Ilhéus has always tended to be commanded by this elite: the relatively few families who, for over a century, economically dominated the city, also exercised, whether directly or indirectly, their political power within it. Thus, until 1976, of the twenty-four administrators and mayors of Ilhéus, eighteen of them were drawn from the main local land-owning and merchant families (see Falcón 1995:122–3, 128, 139–40; Vinháes 2001:113–56; Ceplac 1982:26; and Freitas (1979). In this sense, the hypothesis put forward by Garcez and Freitas (1979:79) that the cacao elite ‘have always been sceptical or have preferred less tortuous paths when compared to the political parties themselves’ (such as the control of regional authorities like Ceplac, and others) cannot be understood literally. These same authors, in fact, remember that until the 1960s, the expression ‘the cacao bench’, referring to a group within government, was in common use, suggesting that what existed was a kind of division of political work within what they called the ‘cacao bourgeoisie’ or ‘cacao elite’ (ibid.:78–9): the producers acted within party politics, and the merchants worked within regional organizations (ibid.:82). Cacao thus appears to function as a kind of device, producing the certainty that not only the interests of the producers and the merchants are the same, but that these are also shared by the workers (ibid.:83–4). In this way, it is clear that the cacao elite were also capable of exercising their power by means of representatives, even coming from different social classes, as long as they defended the ‘common interest’. Therefore, what Garcez and Freitas (ibid.:102) believe was the abandonment

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of the field of party politics by the cacao elite in the 1960s should instead be thought of as a simple change in the way of controlling municipal power.

 The 1976 municipal elections took place under the two-party system imposed by the military regime. In Ilhéus, the traditional pattern of victory for a name connected to the cacao elite, in the broadest sense, was repeated once again: Antônio Olímpio Rehem da Silva, at the head of one of the two ‘subtickets’ (sublegendas)** of the old Brazilian Democratic Movement (Movimento Democrático Brasileiro, or MDB), won the election, defeating Herval Soledade, the candidate with the most votes from the three ‘subtickets’ of the National Renewal Alliance (Aliança Renovadora Nacional, or Arena). Soledade had already been the mayor of the city twice before, between 1955 and 1959, and between 1963 and 1967, when he was arrested by the military regime amid accusations of corruption, of which he was later absolved (Vinháes 2001:132– 3). Antônio Olímpio was the son of a farmer who, having arrived in the region as a poor man, had become rich from cacao farming and had married a woman from a more traditional family – a kind of ‘hypergamic’ marriage that became a sort of pattern in the cacao area of Bahia (see Ribeiro 2001). Soledade obtained 8,832 votes, or 36.55 per cent of the total, to which 1,261 were added from the two other ‘subtickets’, which gave Arena 10,093 votes, or 41.77 per cent of the total. However, this was insufficient to beat the total obtained by Antônio Olímpio (9,580, or 39.64 per cent of the total) and by Jorge Viana (4,492, or 18.59 per cent of the total), who gave MDB 14,072 votes or 58.23 per cent of the total. At the time, much less attention was given to the fact that in one of the MDB ‘subtickets’, headed by Jorge Viana, a young politician of only twenty-three years’ of age appeared as candidate for deputy mayor, and his name was Jabes Ribeiro. The son of a driver, he hardly fitted the normal profile of a local politician; he was a law student, and only entered the ‘subticket’ due to the fact that the logic of the two-party system was to try to accommodate different factions’ candidates within a single party, so as to attract votes from different sources. Once Antônio Olímpio was elected, the party proceeded, as usual, to allocate the positions within the municipal office, giving Jabes Ribeiro, who was also a teacher of physics and chemistry, the role of Municipal Secretary *

Translators’ note. The ‘sub-ticket’ [sublegenda] was a political mechanism that operated under the military regime in Brazil, whereby a party could nominate up to three candidates for governor in each state, and was thus a way for the Government to deal with factionalism among its supporters.

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of Education. In 1982, Antônio Olímpio freed himself from his mayoral duties in order to run, unsuccessfully, for a chair in the State Legislature. The deputy mayor, Jaziel Martins, accepted and supported Jabes’ name for mayor in the 1982 elections. With a campaign centred on themes like ‘change’, ‘renovation’ and ‘the people’, Jabes, just twenty-nine years old and affiliated with the so-called ‘authentic’ (leftist) strand of MDB, won the election by a wide margin, defeating a candidate tied to the more traditional families of the city, who at that time considered the election to be a complete disaster. This diagnosis was only exacerbated with the first measures of a government that called itself the ‘Popular Government’: the creation of a Community Council, development in the suburbs, support for black culture etc. In 1986, even amidst the economic problems stemming from the ‘cacao crisis’ and facing allegations of corruption against some of his closest advisers, Jabes launched the candidacy of João Lírio, Secretary of Finance within his administration, to the State Legislature. Lírio was elected as state deputy, which gave him enough political clout to be put forward, by the mayor, as a mayoral candidate in the 1988 elections. Victorious, Lírio took over the Mayor’s Office (with Jaziel Martins as his deputy, the same politician that had backed Jabes for mayor in 1982), while Jabes was nominated for State Secretary of Work under the Waldir Pires government. In 1989, Jabes supported the candidacy of Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva in the second round of the presidential elections and, in 1990, left his party to join PSDB in order to run for a seat in the Chamber of Deputies, securing his election with votes obtained in Ilhéus. With a mandate lasting up until 1994, it was understood that Jabes, apparently, would not run again for a municipal seat: if elected, he would have to give up two years in the Chamber and, if defeated, he would suffer a blow to his image as a victorious politician. In 1991, therefore, he launched the candidacy of his brother, Joabes Ribeiro, for Mayor of Ilhéus. However, when the opinion polls began to indicate that Joabes would not win the election, Jabes began to consider his own candidacy and eventually decided to run for one more term as mayor – a decision announced on a full page by the regional weekly paper Agora (20–26 June 1992, p. 9). After his defeat, on 30 May 1994, he declared to the newspaper A Região that he did not intend to run for re-election as federal deputy because, in Brasilia, he felt like he was ‘living with a feeling of emptiness, as a member of the Chamber of Deputies’. At the same time, the newspaper claimed that: another factor that made Jabes Ribeiro give up on his re-election – even though he was leading all of the initial voting polls in the municipality of Ilhéus, with around 48% support from the local electorate – was because it was the wrong move for his party on a national level, as he informed

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us. ‘PSDB’s alliance with PFL is not a combination, it is a mixture’, he joked, adding that this was a big mistake and, therefore, destined to fail. ‘Social-democracy and liberalism are too antagonistic to work together’, he explained’. 

(A Região 30 May 1994, p. 11)

After Jabes’ victory in 1982, and his own defeat in the State Legislature in the same year, Antônio Olímpio distanced himself from the old MDB and began a movement to become closer to the political group led by Antônio Carlos Magalhães, who soon afterwards founded the Liberal Front Party (PFL). It was with this party that he launched his candidacy for mayor of Ilhéus in 1992, in municipal elections which thus put two former allies in direct opposition to each other. Taking advantage of the negative opinion of João Lírio’s government, the state government invested heavily and directly in the elections in Ilhéus, supporting Antônio Olímpio. This operation was premised on a ‘compromise’ to transform the Municipality of Ilhéus into a Export Processing Zone (ZPE), which would generate ‘over 10,000 jobs’. This was a very attractive possibility in the context of rising unemployment nationally and the more local ‘cacao crisis’. Finally, on 3 October 1992, after a campaign in which, from the beginning of 1992, he had always been in front in all the polls, Antônio Olímpio, leading the Salve Ilhéus (Save Ilhéus) coalition (which united three other parties together with PFL, his own party), was elected for a second time as mayor of Ilhéus with 29,024 votes (45 per cent of the total) against 20,608 (32 per cent) for Jabes Ribeiro, of PSDB; and 5,295 (8 per cent) for Ruy Carvalho, candidate for Ilhéus Front, or Progressive Front, which united the left-wing parties, including PT. There were also 6,802 blank votes (10.5 per cent), 2,602 null votes (4 per cent) and almost 25 per cent of voters abstained. In fact, even to this day the people of Ilhéus are fairly unanimous in claiming that what they considered to be the bad government of João Lírio, along with the possibility of the creation of the ZPE and the corresponding 10,000 jobs, were among the main factors that determined the outcome of the 1992 election. But they are also almost unanimous in considering the second government of Antônio Olímpio to have been infinitely worse than that of his predecessor, to the point that, at the end of his term, the mayor could not even leave his house and appear in public due to the fear of being ‘stoned by the people’. The non-fulfilment of electoral promises (especially the non-creation of the ZPE),121 the physical deterioration and filth of the city, as well as alleged corruption in City Hall, were the causes of this massive rejection, which ended up pushing Antônio Olímpio to the sidelines of his own succession process in 1996. This is because the rotation of power, advocated by the democratic

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system, appears to be the cause and consequence of a strange syllogism: if the current mayor is worse than the previous one, this means that the previous mayor, as bad as he was thought to be at the time, is actually good. A good part of the information provided so far comes from the serious research work done by Agenor Gasparetto in the cacao-farming region. Amongst the factors that led Antônio Olímpio to victory in 1992, Gasparetto (1993:33–5) adds – in addition to the disapproval rates for João Lírio’s administration and the promises made by the state government – the nonestablishment, by Jabes Ribeiro, of an alliance with the left-wing,122 who, as we saw, obtained over 5,000 votes, while the difference between Jabes and Antônio Olímpio was almost 8,500 votes. The curious thing is that, unlike the story told by the militants of the black movement (which I will soon expand upon), Gasparetto’s interpretation does not make any mention of the possible participation of this movement in the electoral process, not even mentioning the name of the candidate for deputy mayor on Antônio Olímpio’s ticket, Ronaldo Santana, who, as we will see, as well as being black, played a central role in attracting the Afro-cultural movement to the campaign. Gasparetto also fails to highlight the fact that the candidate for deputy mayor on Jabes Ribeiro’s ticket was also black. Nor does the news under the headline in the 23 June 1992 edition of the Diário da Tarde, which announced the ‘party conventions for the selection of candidates’, mention the fact that the ‘union leader’ Ronaldo Santana and the ‘ex-councillor’ João Batista Soares Lopes Neto123 were black. We have here, apparently, a general property of local narratives, as identified by Michael Herzfeld (1992b:64) in the Greek context, namely the fact that variations in narrative (as well as ‘textual variants’) can be the effect of principles of segmentation, which, far from acting only on the sociological plane in the strictest sense, operate in all dimensions of social life. Thus, the narratives of the events analysed here, including my own, follow lines of segmentation which are articulated within the socio-political dimension: the same events, narrated by different agents or simple spectators, appear in a different light and with very different content. Likewise, the regional history can be narrated in different ways, emphasizing the indigenous populations, or the descendants of slaves, the migrants from Sergipe (the state to the North of Bahia), the foreign immigrants, and so forth. I do not believe, however, that we should attribute the absence of the black movement in the papers and in Gasparetto’s narrative to a simple particularity of the press or local academic production. As Herzfeld (2001:130) observed, in a completely different context, the influence of cattle theft in the election of at least one politician in Greece in the 1980s was never mentioned in any political analyses. In truth, it can appear as if different groups experience

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completely different elections. I think that there is also a widespread tendency in sociology, political science and sometimes even in anthropology itself, of denying the agency of socially non-privileged actors in these processes. In this case, what happens is a kind of passive acceptance and duplication of the ideology of representative democracy: the only effective agents are the elite and the politicians. The voters – these fictitious characters whose existence is limited to a few minutes in a voting booth or in the pages of a manual – only appear as aggregated values in tables of statistics or as objects to be manipulated. However, as noted above, since the first contact with the black movement of Ilhéus, in the electoral year of 1996, the explanation that I intended to develop a line of research about the politics of the city was, almost invariably, met with the evocation of the 1992 municipal elections, when all of the blocks and groups of the Afro-cultural movement had united around one candidate for mayor. This evocation was immediately followed by the narrative of how they had been deceived, of how this had weakened the black movement and how, in the 1996 elections, they now intended to stay outside of the electoral process. As time went on, I witnessed numerous occasions on which this almost mythical election of 1992 was invoked as proof of the risks to which the black groups were subject when they became involved with politicians or, principally, as proof that a union of all the groups is possible, in what would be another example of the ‘federalizing tendency’ that Agier discusses, once again in terms of the relationship of the movement with the state. The histories of the black movement and local, national, and probably global, politics overlap here. Fernando Collor de Mello’s victory in the 1989 presidential elections was linked to a certain rhetoric of distrust in ‘professional politicians’ or, at least, ‘traditional politicians’. The hypothesis that this rhetoric had been one of the causes of his victory will certainly not be discussed here. The fact is, however, that his rise to power tended to reinforce rhetoric of this kind everywhere. Thus, in Ilhéus in 1989, a group of people who defined themselves as ‘apolitical’ and unhappy with ‘professional politicians’ – even though several of them had previously participated in party politics – decided to create a ‘non-partisan’ or ‘apolitical’ movement, intending to act as a ‘social lens for surveillance’. According to one of its founders, the main objective was, initially, to allow ‘civil society’ to begin auditing João Lírio’s government (directly associated with Jabes Ribeiro), undertaking analyses of the municipal budget, organizing the community to participate in government, helping to create grassroots movements and so forth. The ‘Movement Ilhéus Hearts’ (Movimento Ilhéus Corações) or ‘Movement Ilheusean Hearts’ (Movimento Ilheense Corações), as it was known (it was registered under the second name, although this only happened in August

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1992), was thus intended to be a ‘civilizing movement’, which sought to give itself a ‘certain distance from macropolitics, which is the politics of the big political parties’, as described by one if its main spokespersons. However, as this same spokesperson recognized, the movement ended up being ‘monopolized by macropolitics’. The odd thing is that this process seems to have been triggered precisely by Collor’s impeachment, which, somewhat paradoxically, meant that the rhetoric of distrust in relation to professional politicians gained strength and became generalized in all directions. According to this spokesperson, the movement acquired a great deal of ‘visibility’ in the city, to the point where the decision to participate in politics became inevitable. A campaign began, seeking to ‘discover’ potential new candidates for the Chamber of Councillors and for City Hall. These candidates were selected on the basis of their resumés, collected from those who had never participated in political activities and who enjoyed a good standing in the community. At the same time, the selected names were affiliated to the Liberal Party (PL, not to be confounded with PFL), even though the majority of the members of the Movement Ilhéus Hearts were drawn from the Brazilian Socialist Party (PSB): it is said that 1,300 affiliations were presented to PL and, even though only 800 were approved, this was more than enough for the group to gain control of the party. Thus, the name of an administrative employee in the port of Ilhéus, the sociologist Ronaldo Santana, was launched for mayor, with Paulo Roberto Pinto Soares (known as Cipá) as a candidate for deputy mayor.124 Furthermore, around a dozen candidates for councillor were launched by the movement. One of them was Mirinho, a stevedore who had friendly relationships with the members of the first board of the CEACI. Mirinho ingratiated himself with the black groups, proposed the creation of a new Afro block, the D’Logun, and sought the support of the Afro-cultural movement not only for his candidacy for councillor but also for Ronaldo Santana’s bid for mayor. In 1996, the majority of the militants from the Afro-cultural groups considered that, although they were black, Mirinho and Ronaldo Santana, in particular, did not have any real connection to them: both had ‘infiltrated’ the movement seeking to simply ‘use’ the groups to benefit their own interests – ‘infiltrate’ and ‘use’ were the two verbs most used in this context. As was said at the time by Gurita, referring, in truth, to the candidate for deputy mayor: a black mayor is one thing, but a black mayor who is committed to the black community, who has already been fighting for the cause, who participates in the movement, in our work, over a period of time, is another thing entirely. The colour of the mayor may be black, but the culture of the mayor

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is not black, understand? The participation of the mayor within the black movement? None. Of Mirinho himself? None. So it was something that happened all of a sudden, for friendship, for their involvement.

In 1992, however, Mirinho’s approach was very well received, so much so that in the following year (in other words, after the elections), he became president on the second board of the CEACI. This approach was not only made possible by the ethnic affinities and the friendship that Mirinho had with the black militants; it was above all based on an idea that, throughout the following ten years, remained at the centre of the discourse and dreams of the Ilheusean black movement: the construction of the Afro-Cultural Centre of Ilhéus. The Centre would be a building designed to house, exhibit and promote local ‘Afro culture’. Inside, capoeira schools could promote their classes and put on exhibitions; the Afro blocks and the dance groups could rehearse and perform; saint-mothers and saint-fathers could jogar búzios (perform divinatory rituals) and receive clients; artisans could exhibit their products; cooks could serve their local cuisine; and so forth. All of this would take place in a space that could welcome a significant number of tourists. In this sense, beyond giving visibility to local Afro culture, the Centre would also function as an important source of revenue for the people and groups that were part of the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus, who were always facing problems of unemployment and a lack of funding. The black movement, or rather the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus, decisively entered the campaign. To this day, it is argued that Ronaldo Santana took a lead in all of the opinion polls, even though it is impossible to find any mention of his name in polls from that time. It was not, therefore, without a certain surprise that the black militants discovered that their candidate had accepted an invitation from Antônio Olímpio to be the candidate for deputy mayor on his ticket. According to the militants, in order to attract him, Olímpio had argued that, even though he was ahead in the polls, Ronaldo Santana would not manage to get enough resources to make it to the end of the campaign. The proposal was thus accepted, and Mirinho immediately communicated to the Afro-cultural movement that the new electoral ticket had incorporated the commitment to build the Afro-Cultural Centre. At that moment, the members of the movement ‘got right into’ campaigning for this new ticket, giving musical performances at rallies and asking for votes for their candidates. They repeat the story that they would go to far-off districts,125 working all day ‘for nothing’, ‘without eating’, ‘going hungry’, in search of votes

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for Antônio Olímpio and Ronaldo Santana, all under the expectation that the Afro-Cultural Centre would be built. As we have seen, this ticket won the 1992 election in Ilhéus. The difference of around 8,500 votes over Jabes Ribeiro is always cited by the militants as proof of the importance of the black movement in the campaign, since Mirinho estimated, at the time, that the Afro groups were capable of securing a quantity of votes that fluctuated between five and ten thousand. According to a slightly different version of the story, these were the numbers which Ronaldo Santana presented to Antônio Olímpio (Olímpio had not sought him out) to secure his nomination for deputy mayor. These numbers had also been presented to Antônio Carlos Magalhães, who was, ultimately, responsible for the decision to put forward the electoral ticket. Ronaldo Santana always presented himself by saying that ‘the black movement of Ilhéus is behind me; there are twelve organizations, each one is capable of obtaining between 500 and 700 votes, with a total of 6,000 to 8,500 votes’. There was talk, even, of surveys that had been carried out in communities in which there were headquarters for black organizations and which confirmed these estimates.126 Only allied with PFL during the majoritarian elections, PL, which, as we saw, harboured the candidates tied to the Movement Ilhéus Hearts, not only elected the deputy mayor, but also managed to obtain a total of 3,217 votes. This number, given the electoral quotient of 3,124 votes, guaranteed a place in the Chamber of Councillors for PL and the Movement Ilhéus Hearts, specifically for the candidate for deputy mayor on Ronaldo Santana’s old ticket, Cipá. Mirinho, who obtained 323 votes (about 60 less than Cipá), became the first alternate; Gildo Pinto, who in 1996 would be elected as councillor and would later reach the presidency of the Chamber, became the second alternate, with a little over 300 votes; Rogério Pitanga, also tied to the Movement, obtained around 190 votes and became the fourth alternate. When Antônio Olímpio took office in 1993, the deputy mayor was appointed as the Municipal Secretary of Agriculture, Industry and Commerce. Ronaldo Santana, in turn, nominated Mirinho as an adviser to this Secretary, also appointing him as cabinet secretary for the deputy mayor. Additionally, because of an ‘agreement’, Mirinho sometimes took on the role of councillor in the place left by Cipá who, occasionally, temporarily resigned from the Chamber to allow this to happen. It was at this moment, according to the black militants, that things started to change. As Gilmar of the Dilazenze said, the ‘doors’, which were always open during ‘the politics’ (meaning the campaign), began to shut:

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Closed doors everywhere you turned. When it comes to the black movement, the doors are always closed. They only seek us out during the campaign, every four years.

This meant that members of the Afro-cultural movement could not gain access to the holders of municipal power; it also meant that the language of these politicians, especially those closest to the movement, began to change. Mirinho, for example, began to argue that not all of the blocks had supported him and that, as a result, he had only secured election as an alternate. He also claimed, in an interpretation that is still found today amongst those who are not involved in the black movement, that the movement’s votes were not especially decisive for the victory of Antônio Olímpio and Ronaldo Santana, and that the councillor Cipá had only been elected with the votes from the southern area of Ilhéus (the ‘noble’ region of the city). Mirinho also failed to convene meetings of the CEACI and similarly failed to attend them, and practically removed himself from the movement. It is also said that promises for public-sector jobs for black militants, made during the campaign, were not kept. Finally, the ‘commitment’ to build the Afro-Cultural Centre of Ilhéus began to be understood by its intended beneficiaries as just another campaign ‘pledge’ and, worse than this, as a campaign pledge that would not be kept. Ronaldo Santana and Mirinho blamed the difficulties on the mayor and, principally, on his advisers, saying that ‘the deputy mayor doesn’t call the shots’, that ‘the deputy mayor doesn’t sign the documents’, that ‘we are in politics now, but we are not politicians!’ Despite some protests and pressure from the Afro groups, it was only in June 1995 that Antônio Olímpio signed a decree donating a plot of land measuring over 3,000 m2, situated in a prime area of the city, where the AfroCultural Centre of Ilhéus would be constructed. The mayor made it clear that he lacked the resources necessary for the construction of the building itself, and that this should be obtained through ‘private initiatives’. A big party was organized, therefore, for the launch of a campaign to raise the funds. The local television station was invited and, in front of the cameras, Antônio Olímpio not only handed over the deed to the land, but also signed a personal cheque for BR$ 1,000 (US$ 350), starting the fundraising campaign for the construction of the building. The enthusiasm of the Afro-cultural movement did not last long. One week after the party, the Chamber of Councillors withdrew the donation, arguing that the donated land was situated in an environmentally protected area, and was therefore inalienable. A front-page headline in the newspaper A Região on 16 October 1995 announced that ‘AO [Antônio Olímpio] uses the

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Black Movement to attack Legislature’. The text that followed explained that he had: sent the Chamber of Councillors a piece of legislation proposing the donation of an illegal area of land of 3,200 m2, situated on the Ilhéus/ Olivença highway, for the construction of an Afro-Cultural Centre. In order to send the project to the Chamber, Mayor Antônio Olímpio prepared a big party on 21 September, inviting several Afro groups, and placing responsibility on to the state Legislature, who would have to give the final approval.

The report continued, citing the councillor Isaac Albagli de Almeida, a close friend of Jabes Ribeiro, who claimed that this was a ‘green area’, an allotment, which could only be donated with the signature of all of the owners, concluding that: Mayor Antônio Olímpio wants to take advantage of the Afro groups, who have always contributed to the culture of the city, to try to play them off against the Chamber of Councillors, which is an irresponsible and desperate action.

Finally, the money donated by Antônio Olímpio for the construction of the building was supposedly used by Mirinho to finance an advertising campaign on television, seeking to raise funds for the construction project – which meant, in short, that from the point of view of the black groups, the result of their intense electoral participation was equal to zero. It is still important to note that, even in 1996, the disappointment and anger felt by the militants of the Afro-cultural movement was not directed at the mayor but rather at his deputy and, especially, at Mirinho. They were the true traitors, since Antônio Olímpio was just doing his job: ‘they used black culture as a tool to get themselves into power’, as one black militant observed. Beyond this, and despite everything, the donation of the land for the construction of the Centre seems to have done its job. Not that the people were naive and failed to realize the true nature of this manoeuvre, put into place during the run up to the new municipal elections. But this did not stop people from repeating that the mayor, at least, had stuck to his word. The problem was that the Chamber of Councillors had vetoed the proposal, and here several different interpretations were made.127 The first interpretation, of a distinctly political nature, was mainly articulated by those who were connected in some way to the group that was in power: even though they knew that the mayor had made the donation bearing

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in mind the 1996 municipal elections, it could not be denied that the land was really donated and that the electoral promise was fulfilled, though admittedly with a considerable delay. The Chamber, controlled by the opposition linked to Jabes Ribeiro, tried to stop the black movement, once again, from being co-opted by the new campaign. Those closest to Jabes Ribeiro (such as Isaac Albagli), or more distant from Antônio Olímpio, said that the mayor knew very well that the Chamber had no alternative but to veto the donation – since it belonged to an environmentally protected area – and that, even so, he had sent the project to the Chamber in order to create an embarrassing situation between the councillors and Jabes’ group on one side, and the black movement on the other. The problem for this interpretation was that there was a petrol station close to the donated piece of land, and, a little later, this other area was donated to the Army, seemingly confirming the unwillingness of the Chamber, which could be interpreted as being directed against the mayor or against the black movement. This last alternative provided a third mode of interpretation: this was about racism. Mirinho himself – who unsurprisingly denied the supposed manipulation by the mayor, saying that the land had been donated over a year before ‘politics’, and blamed the opposition within the Chamber – also raised this issue. Gurita, who found himself in the difficult position of simultaneously supporting Jabes (which hindered him from criticising the Chamber’s opposition or complimenting Antônio Olímpio) while also being a black militant, was much clearer: Racial prejudice, racial and social prejudice. Of course they are not going to say this because it compromises their re-election, but it is racial prejudice, racism. A group of black brothers performing capoeira, singing, dancing, beating their drums in the upmarket area of the city, really?

Despite this, Gurita agreed, at least in part, with the theory which Mirinho began to defend with his associates after the elections, namely that the support of the Afro-cultural movement was important, but not sufficient, to elect a councillor: the movement ‘is supportive, but doesn’t vote, it splits the vote, votes for so-and-so because of family reasons, for so-and-so because of money … there is a lack of political consciousness’. Even without using the term racism, Marinho also seemed to agree with the possibility that this had occurred, even though, from his point of view, this interpretation did not exclude other possibilities: They boycotted [the proposal], and we began to see that there really was something behind all this, that there was no interest for it to actually

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happen. I think that they were afraid, thinking: ‘hey, these black brothers are going to get stronger, soon these black brothers are going to get ambitious and maybe they can hurt our objectives in the future’. Because I think that they want us to be – and think that we should be – subservient to them our whole lives, waiting for the time when they need to knock on our doors. I think that was their objective, I think that the intention was not for us to progress, but to ensure that we would always remain powerless and they would always stay powerful, with us always there, extending a hand, asking for one thing, asking for another, a little help here, a little help there.128

Thus, even though some argued that the mayor tried to remain faithful to his campaign promise of building the Afro-Cultural Centre (not having followed through only because of the opposition he encountered in the Chamber) and others consider that he broke this promise, everyone seemed to agree with Mirinho’s words when he argued that the support of the Afrocultural movement of Ilhéus for Antônio Olímpio really had as its ‘main purpose’ the construction of the Centre: ‘we based our support on this, on a commitment made in terms of an exchange: we supported the current government and in return they would help us create the Afro-Cultural Centre of Ilhéus’. And, with the possible exception of Paulo Rodrigues, who considered the agreement a spurious form of buying votes, everyone appeared to agree that the process was entirely legitimate. On the other hand, as I have already noted, in 1996 the majority of the black militants thought that the movement was ‘used’, and used principally by Ronaldo Santana and Mirinho with the aim of launching their own political careers. This could have considerably weakened the black groups in Ilhéus as a whole, even threatening their very existence, since they had lost their credibility with the people that they worked with. For the promises made by the black militants towards other militants, sympathizers and members of the black community in general (the construction of the Centre, and also the public-sector jobs that would become available to them) were not fulfilled: ‘We wanted to work together to achieve something, but we ended up collaborating only so a particular politician could win, I mean, we inadvertently became politicians, they used us in such a way that we became politicians ourselves.’ One candidate for councillor, loosely affiliated with Antônio Olímpio and completely alien to the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus, went so far as to state that: this story represents, exemplary and faithfully, the political framework of our city. The candidate, Antônio Olímpio, offered, prior to being elected, compensation for votes given to him, under the misconception that ‘it is

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in giving that we receive’. In truth, the mayor tried to fulfil this promise, but the Chamber of Councillors, in opposition, prevented the mayor from fulfilling his promise because, if he fulfilled it, the black community would be fully supporting him today; the opposition did not want this to happen because, in fact, the opposition in the Chamber is, in fact, the many arms, the many tentacles, of Jabes Ribeiro.

 Even though the ‘exemplary’ nature of the history of the Afro-Cultural Centre of Ilhéus could be taken as somewhat exaggerated, it is undeniable that it clearly shows at least three kinds of socio-political relations which are constantly addressed by the Brazilian social sciences, namely the buying of votes, the making of electoral promises and, more broadly, the ‘weakness’ of democratic institutions in Brazil. The problem is that, in general, as I have noted, themes of this nature are discussed from an entirely negative perspective, in a double sense: they condemn, explicitly or implicitly, the analysed practices, and also try to explain them by means of problematic notions such as alienation, material deprivation, ignorance or deceit (the same notions, incidentally, that the elite tend to employ). It is true that this kind of approach is more common in electoral sociology or in political science than in anthropology, since the anthropologist, at least in theory, should make an attempt to ethnographically restore the meaning that the agents attribute to their actions, as well as trying to connect this with other dimensions of experience in a way that, generally, the agents themselves do not. And, even though this does not always happen,129 a frequent problem with anthropology is a tendency to subordinate the very concrete practices and ideas encountered in the field to general principles that supposedly account for what is observed. Thus, the buying of votes could be explained in terms of the dominant role that clientelistic values and relationships of reciprocity play in certain parts of the population. Electoral promises become intelligible because, after all, we are dealing with a social universe governed by personal relationships. And even scepticism and a lack of political participation could be attributed to a lack of adherence to democratic values characteristic of nonindividualistic cultures. The problem is that, like all culturalist approaches, explanations that privilege so-called political culture tend to be circular (see Leite 1969:45, 100, 124; Neiburg and Goldman 1998:68; Herzfeld 1980:340; and Herzfeld 1984:439), operating through a curious synecdoche: ethnographers get to what they consider to be central values from the empirical observation of

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a necessarily limited number of behaviours and ideas, and, subsequently, they seek to extract from this material some abstract principle, which they then apply indiscriminately to any observable behaviour or idea, which, in turn, begins to function as confirmation that the isolated value is really the determining factor. This circularity instils confusion, as indicated by Pierre Clastres (2010:269; see also Goldman and Silva 1998:45, note 17), between the empirical and the transcendental. For, if it is obvious that the buying of votes and the making of electoral promises are empirically observable practices and representations, this says nothing about the moral value and truth attributed to them, which constitute an open space for divergence, conflict, negotiation and changes of opinion. Converting concrete actions and symbols into categories, values or patterns, we run the risk of eliminating this entire field of variation, transmuting the exchange, for example, into a kind of transcendental reason to vote. In doing so, we lose sight of both the sociological polysemy of the terms with which we work, and also the social dynamic which we should make intelligible. Finally, as noted by Richard Graham (1997:6), ‘culture’ is not exterior determinant, ready to be invoked when one wishes to explain clientelism, authoritarianism or inflation: what we call culture is the result of a process in continual development, not a supposedly objective and extrinsic fact. In contrast to ideas of this kind – which have the bad habit of becoming master keys, supposedly capable of opening any door – I believe it is prudent to operate by way of a kind of nominalist pluralization of categories. As Paul Veyne demonstrated (1976:81–2), we need to replace grandiose and vague notions, such as reciprocity or redistribution, with a terminology that is more careful and more attuned with reality: if gift, present, exchange, barter, tribute, benefit, debt, investment, buying and selling are undeniably part of a shared socio-semantic field, it is absurd to subsume all these diverse relationships into a category such as reciprocity. Rather, we should use this terminological diversity as an instrument that can account for diverse kinds of reciprocity, thus developing a pragmatic, rather than semantic or syntactical, sociology. In this way, for example, the buying of votes is not only a consequence of clientelistic values or traditional rules of reciprocity dominant within a society or a given social stratum. It is part of a way of living and conceiving politics, and it is only its prior moral condemnation that hinders the understanding of this anthropological truism. We tend to consider it a true abomination, something that strikes against the foundations of democracy and the dignity of the vote. However, we do not really care that, with money, you can pay for advertising that, it is hoped, will result in more votes. In other words, it could very well be that the aversion we feel towards the direct buying of votes is somehow linked

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to the fact that it makes explicit – in an almost obscene manner – the very nature of a system ideally based on individual action and firmly anchored in the general equivalent, that is to say, representative democracy. Alternatively, as we have seen, in the field the buying and selling of votes appears as an element of various discursive and non-discursive strategies. We can tacitly admit that the custom exists in a general sense, and, at the same time, refute any specific complaint; but we can, equally, deny the existence of the practice and recognize any number of specific cases (attributing them, for example, to a distant past or some backwards region). We can also strongly condemn anyone buying votes, while at the same time understanding that a poor person may accept the deal; we can condemn the seller for a lack of selfrespect while understanding that, above all, a politician should seek election in any way possible; or we can condemn them both. We can accept the exchange of electoral support for the theoretical collective good, and condemn the pursuit of individual benefit. We can, also, invoke a transaction of our own vote as a form of justification of a position which is difficult to admit to (supporting a candidate considered up to that point as woefully inadequate). We can condemn those who buy votes because, ultimately, this reveals the lack of prestige of those who have nothing but money, or those who sell votes, for not voting more in terms of friendship, obedience or loyalty.130 And we can do an infinite number of things with our own vote and with the votes of others. In 1992, the successful attempt to attract the black movement to the campaign of a mayoral candidate was largely centred around the ‘commitment’ to construct the Afro-Cultural Centre. But it was only when a new electoral campaign was starting, in 1995, that the then mayor began an initiative that could have resulted in the fulfilment of this promise. However, of the many paths open to him, he chose the most difficult one: he presented a project to the Chamber of Councillors to donate a piece of land and left the construction of the building to ‘private initiatives’. The Chamber, controlled by the opposition, rejected the project, taking the gamble that, as a result, the mayor would not benefit in the future from the campaigning work and votes from members of the Afro-cultural movement. The mayor, on the other hand, could argue that he had tried to fulfil his promise or pay off his debt, and that the responsibility for the non-payment had passed, therefore, to the opposition. This means, I believe, that if from the point of view of the black movement the campaigning work and the construction of the Centre could be viewed as the elements of a ‘restricted exchange’, the same could not be said from the point of view of the candidates and politicians. For them, the commitment to build the Afro-Cultural Centre appears, rather, as a kind of debt, whose payment could be delayed or indefinitely postponed. In truth, what happened was that it was carefully put off until a time when it could be part of a new electoral

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transaction. This, in turn, was part of a new cycle of transactions, introduced in a new round of elections. This is why, in a certain sense, this kind of debt can never be paid: its open nature is the guarantee of the continuing flux of relationships and votes.131 By sending to the Chamber of Councillors the project to donate the plot of land, the mayor appeared to have been successful in transferring his debt onto the opposition, who blocked the project. The black movement, as a result, tended to blame the councillors, not the mayor, for the non-fulfilment of the promise. The deputy mayor and former president of the CEAC were also held responsible due to their position as negotiators of the deal. Furthermore, from the point of view of the black movement, they had not made the necessary effort to convince the Chamber of Councillors to approve the construction project for the Afro-Cultural Centre. As members, or quasi-members, of the black movement, they began to be considered as traitors, which does not mean that this was just another manifestation of the alleged tendency of the lower classes to blame, but not to vote for, those from their own social group.132 What is condemned in an ‘equal’ who wants to become a politician is not equality, but ambition. Or, to be more precise, what is condemned is the ‘falsehood’ of those who present themselves as equal, whilst seeking to ‘use’ their companions in order to become different, better or superior. Furthermore, the disappointment and shame of being tricked by someone who they, supposedly, knew very well, appears stronger than that of a stranger who, after all, they could not expect anything else from. We can also observe that the above-mentioned examples of buying votes do not subscribe to the common image of politicians and members of the elite as always behaving in modern ways, buying and selling in agreement with market models, while the members of the black movement, or of the lower classes in general, necessarily operate through a more traditional logic, such as reciprocity, for example. As we have seen in 1996, Cosme Araújo, who had sponsored the Dilazenze during carnival, providing T-shirts with his name printed on them, accused its members of being traitors for not supporting him in that year’s municipal elections. Cosme sought to confirm the transaction that he had established with the Dilazenze as a reciprocal relationship, which would imply a connection and future commitments. The members of the block contested this interpretation, arguing that this was just ‘business’, a ‘professional’ relationship, which was self-contained, with no consequence for the future and, therefore, carried no obligation to support Cosme in the 1996 elections. In other words, both the forms of reciprocity and the structures of the market are capable of providing alternative models, which can not only facilitate further action, but can also be rhetorically put into action by any of the parties involved in a particular relationship.

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The case of electoral promises also acquires new dimensions when these are, firstly, situated in the specific ethnographic contexts in which they operate and, secondly, viewed from a more pluralistic perspective. After all, what can you make of the fact that, election after election, the same voters are able to hear more or less the same promises, claim that these will not be fulfilled, vote for the politicians who made them and, after the elections, have their suspicions confirmed that everything was really just a lie? This is the more specific case of a more general issue that never fails to amaze those who study or believe in politics: why, election after election, do voters elect candidates who, at the very same time or soon afterwards, they consider as inadequate, incompetent or even dishonest? How is it possible to have so much clarity about the nefarious nature of politics and, regardless, to continue participating in it? Firstly, I believe it is necessary to recognize that an electoral promise is not identifiable by any inherent characteristics. It is the context, debate and negotiation that makes a proposition become a promise, a commitment, a lie or whatever else. In the elections of 1992, the construction of the Afro-Cultural Centre was primarily accepted by the black movement as a ‘commitment’; when this commitment was not met, it came to be seen as a ‘promise’ and, soon afterwards, as an ‘unfulfilled promise’. The question of whether it was a ‘lie’ (in other words, if the proponents already knew that it would be an unfulfilled promise when they made it) is an object of debate to this day. A similar process occurred during the same elections, concerning a much broader proposal: the establishment, in Ilhéus, of an Export Processing Zone that would generate ‘over 10,000 jobs’. In the 1996 campaign, both of these propositions were restated, unsuccessfully: from the very beginning they were largely defined as false and as lies. Secondly, it is necessary to observe that everyone expects politicians to make the same promises, and that it is necessary to learn how to deal with them.133 In 1996 Cesar of the Rastafiry made the following statement: here we have the custom of asking the candidate for something, but the people have to win over the candidate before the election, because afterwards they won’t give anything, and there are a lot of candidates who make promises, but afterwards don’t fulfil their promise, don’t provide anything, who just forget. In the last campaign [in 1992], before we decided to go with Ronaldo Santana, we listened to Antônio Olímpio and Jabes Ribeiro. The more substantial promises were those of Antônio Olímpio and Ronaldo Santana. They promised things, we trusted them, and we got

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In the same way, when, also in 1996, Jabes Ribeiro argued against Paulo Rodrigues, saying that he was a ‘modern’ politician, who did not make ‘empty promises’, this was interpreted negatively by the black militants, who saw it as a way to avoid taking on commitments: ‘a politician who makes promises might not fulfil the promise, but imagine if they don’t even promise anything in the first place…’. As certain linguistic philosophers (Austin 1961, 1962; Searle 1969) demonstrated some time ago, promises are not justified by an objective referent that is exterior to them and in relation to which its truth can be measured. They are, in this sense, ‘illocutionary’, which means that they establish that to which they refer. The Afro-Cultural Centre of Ilhéus is one such example, which never existed except in the speeches that promised to create it, although this is nevertheless still a form of existence. If we follow Austin’s distinction (1962:101–2), promises are also, and perhaps above all, ‘perlocutionary’, insofar as they produce ‘effects and consequences on the feelings, thoughts or actions of the audience, the speaker or other people’. This meant that some people preferred to vote for those who promised the creation of the Centre, for example.134 A promise, therefore, is an ‘order-word’, it is ‘made not to be believed but to be obeyed, and to compel obedience’, it has nothing to do with ‘plausibility or truthfulness’ and demonstrates a total ‘indifference to any kind of credibility’ (Deleuze and Guattari 2005:76). A promise is never, therefore, a lie, since this would imply a relationship with, and even respect for, the truth, since a lie generally desires someone to believe it.135 On the contrary, the discursive regime which promises are part of has no relationship at all with truth and falsity, because with these, according to Goebbels’ ghastly phrase, ‘we do not speak to say something, but to obtain a certain effect’ (in Santos 1989:148). Palmeira and Heredia (1995:47–8, 72–4; see also, Palmeira and Heredia 1993) are therefore justified in bringing together promises (including ‘programmes’, which only appear to be distinguished rhetorically from promises)136 and accusations, the other main constituent of political speeches:137 both are performative (in an illocutionary and perlocutionary sense), even though the former are more directed towards ‘communities’ and the latter towards ‘individual reputations’; both introduce channels of communication and establish connections involving ‘subjectivities’, even though promises are related to the future and accusations to the past and the present. As we have already seen, it is the abandonment of the privilege of syntax and semantics

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in favour of a pragmatic approach that allows us to avoid the false problems raised by electoral promises. Instead of insisting on the search for their ‘logic’ or ‘referents’, we should, simply, point out that promises and accusations require more acceptability than credibility (see Herzfeld 1982:645–6, 657) and that, because of this, they should be formulated following particular forms and adopting conventional categories which guarantee their legitimacy.

 If the history of the Afro-Cultural Centre of Ilhéus allows us, as I have observed, to rethink issues such as vote buying and electoral promises, it also allows us, I believe, to reflect upon some supposedly more general characteristics of the workings of the democratic system in Brazil. We all know – and, to a certain extent, share – a kind of political common sense, which often argues that the central institutions of Western democracy display, in the Brazilian context, a fluctuating character, uncertain and doubtful. Thus, political parties here do not have the ideological and programmatic consistency that characterizes parties in more traditional and consolidated democracies. Likewise, the constant and irregular movement of politicians between apparently distinct parties, the unexpected realignment of alliances and loyalties, and the ideological fluctuations and programmatic changes that are extensions of the incipient character of Brazilian democracy, in which parties are not well grounded, are such that positions and ideologies remain subject to more or less personal idiosyncrasies and conveniences. If we have any inclination here towards anthropology, we can add to this some characteristics of our ‘culture’, which would make it difficult to establish amongst us systems and ideas derived from a modernity which is individualistic and universal, amidst which we will find, undoubtedly, the idea of representative democracy. Nevertheless, whether we are optimists (assuming that the passage of time and various reforms will ensure that true democracy is eventually established here) or pessimists (presuming that resistances are too strong to overcome, rooted in this kind of second nature in to which culture has been converted), we are compelled to resort to purely negative models. If these perspectives are in fact capable of accounting for a political reality somewhere, it is certainly a matter which will not be discussed here. It is sufficient to state, for now, that a large number of researchers working within politics in societies like Brazil find themselves forced, for good or bad reasons, to relativize, or even abandon, notions such as political parties, programmes and ideologies, aiming instead to find empirical and theoretical alternatives which are apparently more appropriate to the observed reality.

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To remain with the subject of political parties, it appears to be necessary to recognize that, as much as the institution may be part of the official legislation and ideology, it never seems to correspond to an actual category or unit. Whether the analysis focuses on demonstrating the reasons for this weakness of the political parties or is skewed towards ideas considered to be more explanatory is secondary here. It is enough to note that it is no accident that many analysts have suggested other units of analysis for Brazilian politics, and the introduction of the concept of ‘faction’ in place of ‘party’ is a good example of this. Now, if this concept represents a decentring in relation to more classical models of political analysis, I believe that an additional step could be taken if we add to this the idea of segmentarity, which, as we saw previously, has no reason not to be applied to societies possessing a state, as well as to the state itself that characterizes these societies. In any case, it is clear that the use of the notion of a segmentary group only makes sense if the relevant units and processes in the political workings of our society are really of the same nature as those observed in so-called segmentary societies. Furthermore, it is only worthwhile applying this concept if we are to gain some intelligibility by its introduction. Let us emphasize, firstly, that this is not about substituting the concept of faction with that of segmentarity, but rather complementing the first with the second. This is because the two concepts do not occupy the same epistemological plane. As Palmeira wrote, there are multiple definitions of factions, but amongst anthropologists there is a certain consensus that it relates to units of conflict, whose members are recruited by a leader with varied principles. In general, the conflicts at stake are considered political (involving the use of public power). Factions are not corporate groups (they are usually thought of by the authors as almostgroups, non-corporate bipartisan groups, etc.) (Palmeira 1996:54, note 5)

This means, it seems to me, that the concept is descriptive and morphological, while the concept of segmentarity, as I have previously observed, is ultimately intended to characterize processes, rather than groups. Secondly, it needs to be stressed – and this is a crucial point – that the application of the concept of segmentarity within societies possessing a state does not in any way consist in the simple transposition of typologies that operate amongst societies or cultures on to some kind of intra-social or intra-cultural plane. In other words, we should not assume that, within state societies, the state functions in an entirely centralized way, while

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small villages, large families, Afro blocks and Candomblé terreiros obey segmentary principles. Even though the segmentary structure of the state is generally a ‘concealed segmentation’ (Herzfeld 1992a:104), it exists; at the same time, segmentary units are continually co-opted by the apparatus of the state, obeying a logic of centralization. Between segmentarity and the state, relationships are both of opposition and composition, and we must recognize the ‘necessarily segmentary character of virtually all nation-states’ (Herzfeld 1992b:63).138

 Let us, then, rephrase the political history of Ilhéus for the last twenty-five years in terms of segmentarity, as it is understood here and taking into consideration all the points that have already been made. The two-party system of the military regime, with its sub-tickets (sublegendas), trying to make sure that what was disputed at one level did not threaten what should be unified at another, is a sufficiently obvious example to dispense with the need for any additional commentary. More specifically, we can recall that Jabes Ribeiro appeared in politics as part of a particular segment that was an offshoot from another, led by Antônio Olímpio (which, evidently, had also split from a previous segment, and so on). Jabes showed himself to be strong enough to build his own segment, from which João Lírio could be one of the branches. This branch, however, and in contrast to Jabes, was not strong enough to establish its own segmentary line and ended up disappearing from the political scene. Jabes, in turn, was defeated in 1992, precisely by the person who, in a certain sense, he had ‘descended’ from.139 But this was only possible because Antônio Olímpio, using the rhizomatic properties of segmentarity, had already tried to associate and ally his own segment to another, broader segment, led by Antônio Carlos Magalhães. It was from this very segment that Roland Lavigne emerged, defeated by Jabes Ribeiro in 1996 and in 2000, with the difference being that, on this second occasion, as we will see, both Roland and Jabes proclaimed their connection (a ‘filiation’ or ‘alliance’) with the then Senator Antônio Carlos Magalhães and with the President of the Republic, Fernando Henrique Cardoso. We can thus understand that what is in opposition on one level can be perfectly in conjunction on another. Again, the case of the sublegendas is only too obvious. Also somewhat obvious is the fact that although Jabes and Roland were opposites at the municipal level, they could be united at the state level, with Antônio Carlos Magalhães, and at the national level, with Fernando Henrique Cardoso: ‘territoriality’ and ‘descent’ express themselves in such a way as to allow for alliances and oppositions. Less obvious, perhaps,

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is the tendency of politicians to unite together every time their existence or their world appears to be under threat. This is what can be observed when politicians from all sides put their disagreements aside to defend democracy (for example, when placed in danger by a coup or some other social movement), criticize the low degree of political participation by the public, or fend off generic accusations against the ‘political class’.140 In this sense, I think that the idea of segmentarity also allows for a better understanding of political (and politicians’) movements – changes of party, programmatic inconsistency etc. – by treating them as an effect of the workings of a system endowed with a certain kind of dynamic structure. This theoretical shift can avoid, perhaps, the tendency to explain this kind of phenomenon in purely negative terms (a lack of democratic experience, the relative youth of the parties, the absence of adequate legislation etc.) or individualistic terms (calculation, self-interest, manipulation etc.). These processes certainly exist, but they can only work within the framework of a broader system which it is the analyst’s job to describe and analyse. If the notion of segmentarity can help us to understand the workings of our own political system, it appears no less true that the application of the concept to this system also generates transformations at the conceptual level. In this sense, it should be noted that, contrary to what the example of the Nuer leads us to believe, the different segments of the system do not situate themselves unequivocally on uniform levels of the segmentary diagram: it can be true that, from a ‘genealogical’ point of view, Jabes Ribeiro came from Antônio Olímpio (in the sense in which a smaller lineage derives from a larger one), but this does not mean that the former is necessarily monopolized by the latter, in accordance with the model in which lower-order units can be opposed to each other, but not to a higher-order unit. Antônio Olímpio, in this case, is simultaneously the hierarchical source of Jabes Ribeiro and other politicians (which is not forgotten by voters or opponents, with differing intentions), and also acts as a unit of the same order, alongside Jabes, which permits them to oppose each other or form an alliance. Segmentation is not necessarily related to genealogy and, if the diachronic narrative can add to the intelligibility of the description, it is not strictly necessary or sufficient for this.141 In other words, if, in societies possessing lineages, the process of segmentation appears to elapse following an irreversible diachronic plan, and if, on the other hand, all of the operations of segmentation and fusion are fully formed in each instant, as is possible, then, in the case of segmentary formations in state societies, everything seems to revolve around a reversible diachronic axis, which allows separate segments to reunite, only to dissolve later on and then, eventually, reunite once again.

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Furthermore, the ‘politicization’ of the concept of segmentarity allows us to see that the logic of the famous Arab proverb ‘me against my brothers, me and my brothers against my cousins, me and my cousins against the world’ (Salzman 1978:53; Favret-Saada 1966:108) is not always put into practice. A little in the style of what happens with football supporters – in which it is common to support a more ‘distant’ team against one which is ‘closer’, which therefore has a greater potential for rivalry – in politics it is not uncommon that alliances are made that bisect the segmentary space. In this way, Rúbia Carvalho, ideologically and ‘genealogically’ much closer to Roland Lavigne, ends up forming an alliance with Jabes Ribeiro. He, in turn, breaks away from his allies on the left and aligns himself with Antônio Carlos Magalhães and Fernando Henrique Cardoso.

 The main methodological, theoretical and, eventually, political gains obtained by applying a pluralist conception of segmentarity to our own society would possibly be the increase in our capacity to make intelligible the mechanisms with which we can understand the connection between political segments and units derived from other processes of segmentation. For, contrary to what may happen when confronting other societies, the fact that we are dealing with different social logics cannot be reduced to a simple issue of alternative cultures, nor, even less, a kind of zero-sum game in which these logics are somehow equivalent. These are complementary asymmetrical mechanisms which, far from simply opposing or excluding each other, draw connections amongst themselves insofar as they are alternately activated, in different ways, by specific agents that act within precise contexts. The socio-political results derived by confronting and interpenetrating these mechanisms tend to more advantageous to some agents than to others. It is perhaps necessary to take one more step to definitively avoid the typological and morphological ghosts that, as we have seen, tend to haunt anthropology every time we involve ourselves in the unavoidable task of establishing distinctions between social formations or characterizing heterogeneous processes. In the few pages they wrote on the issue of segmentarity, Deleuze and Guattari (2005:209) raised a strange question that should, perhaps, be placed at the centre of any anthropological investigation of so-called complex societies: ‘why return to the primitives, when it is a question of our own life?’ Taking as a starting point the notion of segmentarity exactly as it was described in the 1940s by the British Africanists (to account for ‘stateless’ societies), the authors proceed through successive enlargements of the scope of the concept. Firstly, as we have seen, they enumerate three

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modes of segmentarity, binary, circular and linear (we should repeat that these modes or modulations of segmentarity do not, in any way, constitute types: on the contrary, they present a dynamic character in such a way that they pass, continuously, from one to the other, as we have seen). Then, in a move that is only temporary, they try to distinguish a ‘primitive’ segmentarity from a ‘state’ segmentarity: if, in the first case, there is a certain ‘suppleness’, in the second we have a ‘rigid’ segmentarity (ibid.:210). And, if the ‘primitive’ segmentarity is supple, this is down to the fact that the diverse centres of each domain of segmentation (territory, kinship, age etc.) never coincide. The best example of this is the impossibility of completely accommodating genealogy and territory, an impossibility which shocked almost everyone who worked with segmentarity. On the other hand, it is precisely the state that should be conceived of as a space of ‘resonance’ for all of the segmentations, which thus become ‘rigid’: the segmentarity becomes rigid, to the extent that all centers resonate in it … The central State is constituted not by the abolition of circular segmentarity but by a concentricity of distinct circles, or the organization of a resonance among centres … [State societies] behave as apparatuses of resonance; they organize resonance, whereas [primitive societies] inhibit it. 

(ibid.:211)

In summary, ‘modern life has not done away with segmentarity but has on the contrary made it exceptionally rigid’ (ibid.:210). It is only the ‘machine of resonance’ of the state that can ensure that the binary divisions can be continually reproduced without profound modifications, that the various circles which envelop everyone can appear to only have a centre, and that the different activities or institutions with which we are all involved tend towards a single form or transcendent unity. I repeat that this is not, however, to assume a new typology: there is no empirical distinction possible between supple and rigid segmentarities; they are always together, interpenetrating and transforming one another in all ways (ibid.:213–4). Michael Herzfeld, who understood this relationship well, observed that the inhabitants of the Greek village that he studied had a very particular understanding of the political relations within the nation-state. The bureaucratic state endorses a pyramidal or hierarchical model of political relations. From the villagers’ perspective, however, the relationship may instead be a segmentary one. In this model, rival kin groups unite in defense of their common village; feuding villages unite in their loyalty to a regional identity; and regions

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subordinate their competitive loyalties to the greater loyalty commanded by the all-encompassing nation. 

(Herzfeld 1985:xi)

However, whilst Herzfeld’s interpretation may be valid for Crete and for Greece, I believe that in the case of Ilhéus, and perhaps Brazil, it should be slightly adjusted. This is because the Cretian villagers seem to think of their community as a kind of small state, and the Greek state as a more inclusive segment of a segmentary system of which they were a part. Now if, from the point of view of circular segmentarity, this model is satisfactory, it is nevertheless far from exhausting all possibilities. Thus, at least in Ilhéus, this ‘arborescent’ (or ‘Nuer’) model142 coexists with a more linear and ‘rhizomatic’ (or ‘Dinka’) segmentarity, in which the state appears to be seen as a segment parallel to the others, and the fact that it is regarded as immeasurably stronger than the local segments does not necessarily mean that it is seen as all encompassing on all occasions. Thus, from the standpoint of circular segmentarity, politicians (the ‘big’ or ‘very big’) appear to subsume the regular social agents (the ‘small’), and it is felt that they are so vastly superior or powerful that it would seem useless to try and oppose them. It is better, therefore, to support those who ‘rule the city’, as Marinho and Cesar explained to me. From the point of view of binary segmentarity, however, politicians tend to appear as beings of an altogether different nature, pushing themselves around a world in which all other social agents feel that they have no power. But they are all of the same nature, which explains, in part, the feeling that ‘all politicians are alike’.143 Finally, from the standpoint of linear segmentarity, politicians form units with which it is possible to establish relationships of alliance, as well as of opposition. If the dominant feeling is one of inferiority, strangeness or aversion, and if the relationship established is one of adherence, alienation or resistance – in other words, if the system is splitting or recomposing – it depends on a number of factors that can only be discovered by ethnography. This is why resistances always and incessantly respond to the mechanisms of capture and consolidation. The segmentary formations maintain with the state (which is also intersected by segmentation) a similar relationship to that postulated by Pierre Clastres (1987, 2010) regarding indigenous South American leadership: in both cases it is, at the same time, a prefiguration of the state (since both the segments and the leadership can function as poles of unification and centralization) and also a preemption (insofar as the indigenous leadership is impotent and the segmentary formations disassemble and reassemble themselves uninterruptedly).144

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Everything falls somewhere between the famous adage attributed to Machiavelli, ‘divide and rule’, and its apparent contestation by the ‘tribes’ for whom, segmentarity is […] the consequence of the state of dissidence […] and can be expressed by its principle which contradicts the adage: ‘Divide that ye not be ruled.’ 

(Favret-Saada 1966:107)

The problem is that, in a regime of rigid segmentarity, everything resonates in (or in the direction of ) the state, and the capacity of the segments to divide tends to stop being a mechanism against the state and begins to function as a point of attachment for co-option and domination. For if, as is often said, democracy appears to be focused upon the administration of conflicts, this is not just in the sense that it is usually understood, as agreements and pacts that should help to distribute benefits amongst the largest possible number of people. It is rather, I believe, a process of distribution of its own conflicts, pitting conflicts against other conflicts in order to control and preempt the emergence of other, supposedly more serious ones, that would threaten the stability and permanence of the system. Thus, on the one hand – even though they sometimes complain about the difficulty they face in ‘uniting the blocks’ – it is the black leaders themselves who show great resistance to any attempt at unification. We saw in the previous chapter how Marinho responded in 1996 to Paulo’s efforts in this direction; in 1997, he appeared worried by what he considered the ‘invasion of the Força Negra by the MNU and PT’ and openly said that it was ‘necessary to make the leaders of the movement aware’ of the fact that ‘the MNU was climbing on top of the Afro movement’ (Silva 1998:114–5). On the other hand, these leaders appear to be aware of this characteristic of the blocks – that, as in the case of the Candomblé terreiros, they appear to work by avoiding the creation of effective supra-local powers – and thus they tend to be manipulated by politicians for their own benefit. ‘What they are seeking to do,’ said Gilmar Rodrigues of the Dilazenze, along with many others in Ilhéus, ‘is to divide the group’. Mazinho, president of the Força Negra in 1992, offered a more complete explanation: We thought about putting one of our representatives in there. We saw the negligence, the humiliation, and we saw the possibility of having a black leader in the Chamber of Councillors. That is when Mirinho’s name came up, whom we supported during João Lírio’s final year. We made a deal with Mirinho. But when the time came, politicians showed up, with

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money, and the blocks began to diverge. The blocks did not foster a political consciousness. If all of the blocks had come together, there would have been a way to put our own representative in there. They were cohesive up until a point, but when the money came, self-interest came into play and the blocks diverged. What happens when the campaign starts? You are working with a particular group, and a guy shows up and says that he has BR$25 (US$9) for you, you drop what you were doing and take this BR$25 (US$9). What happened was this: when they saw that there was a unity, money began to appear and so the blocks diverged.

What is worse is that this is a game that the Afro-cultural movement appears to have no way of winning. For, if internal divisions allow their capture by the forces of the state, the same occurs even when unity, so often celebrated, is sought. It is not by chance, as we saw, that Ilhéus City Hall seems to be more interested than the blocks are in the existence of some kind of higher authority: for it can always appeal to this authority when one block or another begins to cause difficulties (and they can also appeal to the blocks individually if the higher authority presents some form of resistance). In fact, as Herzfeld observed (1996:77), the state always looks to imprint its own form upon the groups with which it enters into relationships, and this includes those that oppose it, as well as movements which, whether voluntarily or involuntarily, try to escape it. The ‘segmentable’, as Herzfeld also says (1992b:63), is at the same time the ‘unifiable’, and contrary to popular belief, segmentarity does not consist in the division of a supposed primary unity into distinct entities, but in the conversion of multiplicities into segments, or in other words, into units simultaneously divisible and unifiable, according to multiple strategies, ranging from repression to resistance, passing through manipulation and co-option.

 The history of the Afro-Cultural Centre remained at the heart of the relationship between the black movement and local government for at least ten years. During the 1996 elections, there was a constant rumour that the governor of Bahia had signed over, ‘in secret’, the donation of land for the construction of the Centre. Mirinho, who at that time supported Roland Lavigne, was one of the main sources of this information. At the end of the campaign, it was continually repeated that, in the event that they won the election, the Centre would finally be built. In 1997, Silva (1998:90–3) noted that the subject was raised on two occasions: when Gurita promised that he would take the matter to the Chamber of Councillors if he had the opportunity

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to take on the role (as he was only an alternate candidate); and, in the Special Session of the Chamber taking place on the Day of Black Consciousness,145 when – at the end of the event – Dino Rocha demanded the construction of the building. A councillor from PT responded that he had information that the construction of the Centre was accounted for in the municipal budget for 1998. Also in 1998, when leaving his post as Manager of Cultural Action at the Cultural Foundation of Ilhéus, Moacir Pinho left five projects which were of interest to the black community, one of them being the Afro-Cultural Centre. And, still in 1998, seven Afro blocks decided to support Gildo Pinto’s candidacy for the State Legislature, a candidacy that, as everyone knew, only aimed to prepare the ground for his re-election as councillor in the 2000 elections. This support, in truth, did not translate into anything concrete, but the supporting document, signed by the representatives of the blocks, explicitly mentioned the Afro-Cultural Centre of Ilhéus: The Dilazenze, Rastafiry, Miny Kongo, Raízes Negras, D’Logun, Malês and Gangas declare their support for the candidacy of Gildo Pinto for State Deputy, in view of the attitude of the candidate towards the Afro-cultural organizations, and due to the unconstrained support that Gildo has always provided to these associations to conduct their cultural projects. Testament to the support of Gildo for the Black Movement of Ilhéus is the construction of the Afro Cultural Centre, a fundamental space to spread the cultural activities of the organizations who are signing this present declaration of support.

In 1999, the subject was only spoken of now and again, but finally, in 2000, at the time of new municipal elections, the subject gained momentum and eventually led, in one way or another, to the creation of the Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus.

CHAPTER 4

2000 

Elections

 Compared with what happened in 1996, the situation of the Afro-cultural movement during the municipal elections of 2000 – and their relationship with local government in general – appeared much less problematic. Since 1997, the groups had been participating once again in the city’s carnival and, in addition, they had also been receiving financial support from City Hall. In 1999, the competition between the various blocks had been reintroduced, and even though the award given to the winner of the parade had not been paid that year (an event that will be analysed in the next chapter), it was eventually converted into an additional payment that the Dilazenze would receive in the following year’s carnival. Finally, in the carnival of 2000, City Hall abolished Ilhéus Folia, meaning that the only carnival in the city was the Cultural Carnival, an event in which the Afro blocks occupy a central position, as we have seen. Furthermore, it is no exaggeration to say that throughout the first three years of Jabes Ribeiro’s second-term relations between the black movement and City Hall had been at least reasonable, unlike during the previous administration of Antônio Olímpio. The feared retaliation against the groups who had supported Roland Lavigne in 1996 did not materialize, and the movement certainly had easier access to the areas of the council which they needed to deal with (principally the Cultural Foundation of Ilhéus and Ilheustur). Even the dismissal of Moacir Pinho (leader of the local MNU chapter) from the Cultural Foundation of Ilhéus in 1998 – a consequence of PT’s break with the municipal government after Jabes Ribeiro announced his support for Fernando Henrique Cardoso’s re-election as President of the Republic – seemed, to the members of the Afro-cultural movement,

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Figure 15 Dilazenze Afro Ballet’s presentation in the group’s practice space.

to facilitate, rather than complicate, their dealings with City Hall and the municipal administration. We should not think of this, however, as some idyllic scenario in which the wishes and desires of the black militants were fulfilled. The Afro groups continued to feel that they were regarded with disdain, treated as inferior, and neglected on several occasions in which other groups benefited, such as the classical and modern ballet academies, which are prolific in Ilhéus,146 or attractions hired from outside the city, such as pagode groups, electric trios, and others. They also felt that the payments they were entitled to for their performances were too low, often paid after much delay and, sometimes, not even paid at all. In this context, it was clear that many blocks and militants intended, during ‘the politics’ of 2000, to undertake the same kind of ‘work’ that they always had done; working for whoever officially hired their services; canvassing votes for whoever they could establish a stable and lasting relationship with; voting along the lines of differing loyalties (personal, family, of their own group, of other groups which they were part of or even along party or ideological lines) and according to their ‘conscience’. The native concept of a ‘conscientious vote’ should not be confused with the idea that the analysis of elections must be premised on the existence of an ‘informed, attentive and conscientious citizen’ (Gaxie 1978:13), or with the idea that only an effective political conscientiousness can ensure the people vote correctly. Much as Palmeira (1991:123; 1996:47–9) and Villela and Marques (2002:65–6, 69, 97) observed in Pernambuco, to vote ‘conscientiously’, in Ilhéus, generally means to vote according to at least one of your loyalties, and

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Figure 16 Presentation of part of Dilazenze Afro Ballet in front of the groups’s practice space.

not simply for money or because someone instructed you to do so. Herzfeld (1985:111) also observed the expression ‘I have my conscience [… at rest]’ which, in Crete, basically meant to vote according to ‘custom’, and not selling your vote as a commodity, and this same meaning is noted by Banerjee (1999) in India. If we add to this the appeal made by both politicians and candidates for the ‘conscientious vote’ as a way of warning against the selling of votes (Scotto 1994:47; Villela and Marques 2002:82; among others), we can conclude that, as with other principles of participatory democracy,147 we are dealing here with local variations of themes that are seen as central by both democratic ideology and also analysts of the electoral process. This does not mean, however, that such variations are simple deviations or misrepresentations: the ‘conscientious vote’ in Ilhéus is as conscientious as in any other place or group, ultimately pointing to the importance of establishing relationships that are more durable and less immediate. On the other hand, in 2000 the insistence on the Afro-cultural movement seemed more intense, as did the effort of some candidates to win the right to put themselves forward as representatives of the movement. One of them was Gurita, who now presented himself as Professor Gurita, competing once again for a position as councillor. He argued that his defeat in the 1996 elections had been entirely predictable, because, at that time, he was only just beginning his career. Therefore the election of 2000 was the right moment in which, finally, the city’s black movement could elect a representative to the Chamber of Councillors. Marinho Rodrigues – at this moment President of

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the Dilazenze and the CEAC, and undoubtedly the most recognized name in the black movement of Ilhéus – intended to support him, but was finding some obstacles in his way. Firstly, quite a few people still remembered Gurita’s involvement in the 1999 carnival when, allegedly, he had colluded with others in order to deprive the Dilazenze of the award they were due for winning the block competition (as we will see in the next chapter). His performance in the proportional elections of 1998 – when he had been one of the coordinators of Rúbia Carvalho’s campaign for federal deputy – was also questioned, since it was said that he had not met all of the commitments and promises he had made in order to secure votes for his candidate. One of Marinho’s sisters, for example, still complained that she had not received the construction material for the renovation of her house, materials which had supposedly been promised to her. Besides, we should note that between 1997 and 2000 Gurita acted as a kind of mediator between the Afro-cultural movement and the municipal administration of Ilhéus (a theme which will be covered in detail in the next chapter). As we saw, the votes that he picked up in 1996, even though they were insufficient to elect him as councillor, still gave him a reasonable amount of political capital, and also meant that he occupied an important position in the network of relationships with the black movement. His appointment as the head of the Sports Division of the Municipal Secretary of Education had put him in a position where, supposedly, he had the ability to draw links between the Afro-cultural movement and City Hall. However, this position also allowed Gurita to become a potential scapegoat for everything that people thought had gone wrong. Following a similar logic to that found in certain systems of witchcraft, any failures were transformed into personal flaws (something was not done as it should have been or as it was expected to be), and Gurita found himself in a position sufficiently distant to be accused, and yet close enough for the accusations to have some credibility, which perhaps forced him to modify his behaviour, deepening his commitments with the groups involved rather than running the risk of losing their votes. In 1997, Gurita had changed parties, affiliating himself with PSDB, the mayor’s party, which certainly facilitated his appointment and, in theory, should have also facilitated his role as mediator. He explained this switch with the same words that could be heard from practically all militants from the Afro-cultural movement and from numerous sections of the local population: ‘in Ilhéus, there is just no other way, it is necessary to support the government, no opposition even exists here’. Of course everyone knew that there was in fact an opposition, but this speech basically reinforced the assumption that support for any individual or group who was an ‘enemy of the mayor’ would

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only provoke direct and immediate retaliation. This had not happened in 1996 only because, at that time, Jabes was not the mayor.148 Accordingly, political adherence appears related to an assessment of the strength of a candidate, a strength which, clearly, has to be publicly demonstrated throughout the whole campaign. These demonstrations of strength are, generally, responsible for the belief in the possible victory of a particular candidate – and this belief is one of the elements (though not the only one) that determines the degree of political adherence.149 This kind of reasoning extends to state and national levels, and had been widely used in 1998 to justify both supporting and voting for Antônio Carlos Magalhães and Fernando Henrique Cardoso. Moreover, this was also the justification used by Jabes Ribeiro to ally himself to PFL and support the re-election of the President of the Republic (contrary to what he had done only two years earlier, during the 1996 campaign, when he had allied himself with PT and sharply criticized both the state and federal governments). ‘Without this change in his alliances, people would be stoning the mayor in the street, since he would not even have money to clean the city’: this was the explanation that all of Jabes’ allies (as well as he himself ) gave in response to the accusations from the opposition of betrayal and breaking promises. It is curious to note that this was also the line of argument used by Antônio Olímpio in the 1992 elections, as well as Roland Lavigne in the 1996 elections: both argued that only they, who counted on the support of the state government, could run Ilhéus in an effective way. This argument was ferociously contested by Jabes, who was unsuccessful on the first occasion, but triumphant on the second. This shows, therefore, that all political speeches and arguments are part of a finite and limited stock of proclamations and statements, which continuously circulate between transmitters and receivers who not only constantly change their respective positions in the process, but use apparently identical statements to justify completely different positions, and use wildly differing statements to justify identical positions. This is all in accordance with the contexts and interests at stake, that is, with the ‘political conjuncture’, as politicians often say. This is one of the reasons why research techniques that privilege interviews seem particularly inadequate for politics: politicians and voters tend to adopt a kind of generic discourse, in which clichés, created in various situations, are quickly and continuously absorbed and repeated. Because of this, people seem to be able to say anything in respect to politics, depending on the moment, their mood, the interlocutor, and so on. This is why, also in Ilhéus, we can observe that the same accusations made by voters against politicians – that they don’t fulfil their promises, that they only think of themselves, that they are only interested in money etc. – are made by politicians when criticizing voters.150

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Thus, the breakfast organized by Gurita in the building of the 19 March Sports Association, on 27 August 2000, sought to show the representatives of the Afro-cultural movement in the city that he had the support of the mayor and that, therefore, he was ideally placed to be elected as councillor and to be the representative of the movement within the Chamber of Councillors. However, he also intended to show Jabes Ribeiro that he had the support of the black movement and, consequently, a solid voter base, which would increase his prestige in the eyes of the mayor, making his support become, perhaps, even more firm. At the start of the breakfast – where, alongside the black militants and Jabes, some other municipal authorities were also present – Gurita announced the transformation of the first floor of the 19 March building into the Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus, and added: For the first time in the city of Ilhéus, we have managed, with much hard work, and with actions, to assemble the majority of the movement together in a campaign for mayor and councillor. In previous times, the movement was greatly divided, one would support one guy, another would support another guy, and the division always remained. But, by constantly developing and taking the blows that we have sustained over the years, this campaign is now different. In this campaign, the black movement of Ilhéus has a definite candidate for councillor and a definite candidate for mayor. It is therefore necessary to ask you, starting today, to demonstrate this support, so that the people feel this support, to put your blocks out onto the street, to put your team out on the field. To put your blocks onto the street and say ‘we are with Mayor Jabes Ribeiro and we are with Gurita, who is our councillor’. It is necessary that you do this because this way we will show the entire community of Ilhéus that the black movement of Ilhéus has a political dimension, has a political consciousness and has its own candidates. Because those that think that, by supporting candidate A or candidate B, they will win anything, this is an illusion. They might win a capoeira baptism shirt, they might win a leather-skin drum, but soon that skin will wear thin, the drum will wear out and they will keep going backwards. This time, the commitment of the black movement of Ilhéus is to have a candidate for councillor in the Chamber who can develop policies for the black movement of the city, through big projects and big actions that will bring, above all, jobs and income for this movement. Because we know how much is sacrificed by this movement, this movement that develops our culture, make this culture, even as a form of employment, without making any money; we know that no-one makes money by making culture, especially here in our city of Ilhéus. But I am certain that through these

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projects, the legislative powers, together with the executive powers, will develop great projects, which will bring security to those who produce black culture here in our city.

Although in the 2000 municipal elections Gurita was perhaps the only councillor candidate who really aspired to present himself as a representative of the city’s black movement, he was far from being the only one who sought the support of this movement. As always happens in Ilhéus, some other candidates threatened his ambition, to a greater or lesser degrees.151 Elício Gomes, one of the founders of the Gangas Afro block in 1986, already having been a candidate for councillor in 1992, put forward his candidacy again, this time with a small party allied to Mayor Jabes Ribeiro. After his defeat in 1992, Elício converted to an evangelical religion, left his block and removed himself almost completely from the Afro-cultural movement. However, his past as a black militant could enable him, if not to represent the movement, at least to present himself as someone who kept historical ties with the black groups, who, therefore, could benefit from his election. This effectively came to pass: Elício obtained 652 votes (compared with around 90 that he secured in 1992 with PL) and became councillor, and candidate for re-election in 2004. Maria Lúcia Magalhães Batista was a candidate for a party that supported Roland Lavigne’s candidacy for City Hall, and appeared mainly at the rallies that took place in Conquista, the neighbourhood where she lived. Presenting herself as a member of the Dilazenze (which she had not been for many years) and as a ‘producer of black culture’ (which no one really understood), Nêga Lúcia, as she is known, was trying to gain some votes from the Afro-cultural movement, not just for herself, but principally for Roland. Her campaign, therefore, never really solidified and was never really taken seriously by the black militants, even though she ended up winning 159 votes, a number far too small to secure election but, nevertheless, enough for her to be invited by Joabes Ribeiro to work with him after the elections. This despite the fact that, during the elections, she had been on the opposing side. Besides Gurita, Elício and Nêga Lúcia, some other less well-known names appeared as potential candidates with ties to the black movement. However, the main problem that Marinho was facing in order to endorse Gurita came from his own family. One of his brothers, Gilvan Rodrigues, had decided to put himself forward as a candidate for councillor once again, for a party that also had its own candidate for City Hall. Strangely, the candidate for mayor was Cosme Araújo, the black councillor, lawyer and neighbour of the Rodrigues family, against whom, in 1996, they had been engaged in a fullblown battle. Gilvan, who had been at the centre of the conflict and who had always seemed the most averse to Cosme, was invited by the latter to affiliate

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himself with the party and to put himself forward as a candidate. Much like Nêga Lúcia, he also only usually appeared at rallies held in Conquista and the surrounding neighbourhoods, presenting himself under the slogan: ‘Gilvan Rodrigues. The Culture of Ilhéus Has a Name.’ Beyond alluding to his position as a privileged member of the Afro-cultural movement, Gilvan’s words had a single target: Gurita. Gilvan accused Gurita of being a false representative ‘of Afro culture and of Brazilian black culture’; of having betrayed the Afro blocks in the carnival of 1999; of having announced to his mayoral candidate that ‘he had the means of eliciting the vote of the black movement, the vote of the people of the Afro-Brazilian religion’; and Gilvan finished: ‘Lie! This candidate does not have any credibility, he has not provided any service to the Afro-cultural organizations of Ilhéus.’

 In August 2000, fifteen days after arriving in Ilhéus, I had a small accident which meant that it was impossible for me to leave the house for almost a month. As a result I suggested to Marinho Rodrigues that he become my research assistant, a proposal which he immediately accepted, welcoming the ‘help’ (as he ‘really needed it’), but making the point that he would have accepted the proposal in any case, not only because in this way he could also ‘help me’ but, chiefly, as this would provide the opportunity to discuss and analyse politics, something he greatly enjoyed. I never had a reason to doubt this, such was the interest and competence demonstrated by Marinho over the three years in which he took on this role. The first task I gave to Marinho was a survey of the voting intentions of members of his family, of the members of the Dilazenze, and also those who frequented Tombenci. Even though, in the end, only the first group were ‘researched’, Marinho showed great surprise at what he considered to be an excessive number of votes for Gilvan. This, of course, betrayed the obvious, that Marinho also had a vested interest in researching local politics. After all, at this stage he had already been summoned by the mayor, (‘who invited me to join his war’) and he had already decided that he would support Jabes, and also Gurita. To those who expressed their intention to vote for Gilvan – always evoking ties of kinship, but also often suggesting a degree of favouritism or of past help that had strengthened these family ties – Marinho tried to explain ‘that voting for Gilvan is a wasted vote, as he has no chance of getting elected; voting for Gurita is a chance for the black movement to finally elect a councillor’. The fact that there had been several problems with Gurita in the recent past was dismissed with the argument that, despite everything, he was someone that would, after being elected, ‘fulfil the promises he made’.

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The survey conducted by Marinho covered thirty people. All of them (with the exception of one, who said that she would spoil her vote) declared that they would vote for Jabes Ribeiro for mayor. For councillor, twelve said they would vote for Gilvan, ten for Gurita, and the remaining eight split their vote across four candidates (of which one received four votes, another received two votes and the remaining two, one vote each). In this list, it is easy to observe that members of a nuclear family tended to vote homogeneously and that, at the level of voting intentions, all were trying to please Marinho, who, as everyone knew, ‘was with Jabes and with Gurita’. The justifications for voting were redundant: for Gurita because ‘he represents the black movement’ or because ‘Marinho is with him’; for Gilvan because he is their brother, son or uncle; for others because they were closer relatives than Gilvan,152 or because, in the past, they had helped them in some way, such that they couldn’t turn their back on them now, and so would give them their vote. From this very modest sample, I believe that some points should be emphasized. Firstly, the proposition which maintains that socially privileged relationships (such as consanguinity, affinity, alliance, friendship or ‘debt and gratitude’) influence voting intentions, whilst not incorrect, entirely misses the point. For each person establishes much more than just one social relationship that can be considered privileged in a particular moment and, ultimately, it is at the moment of voting that it is necessary to choose which of those should be selected.153 The well-known phenomenon of vote-splitting within a family or group is also seen with individuals (see, for example, Heredia 1996:60; Herzfeld 1985:104; Palmeira 1991:125, 1996:51; and Villela and Marques 2002). One voter in Ilhéus explained that he would vote for a particular candidate for councillor because he had helped him in a moment of great need; the problem was that there had been another candidate who had also helped him on a different occasion; the first candidate, however, had helped him earlier; thus he decided to vote for the first candidate and show his appreciation for the second by voting for his brother, who was running for mayor. The fact that neither of them would probably ever know of the complex decision suggests that this act was aiming more to pacify the conscience of the voter than to serve any particular purpose; the fact that both candidates belonged to different parties, opposing ones even, was apparently of no importance. Another way of ‘splitting the vote’ is to vote for someone and yet campaign on another’s behalf.154 Thus, when one of the mayor’s brothers, the municipal secretary of public services, carried out the delivery of ‘basic baskets’ (cestas básicas)155 in Conquista, he asked people to vote for Gurita, who accompanied him, but he made a point of emphasizing that he, personally, could not vote for him, since, as everyone knew, his own brother was running for councillor.

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Finally, the information and explanations collected by Marinho also suggest that the vocabulary which associates any kind of political action with an economic transaction, explicitly or implicitly, should be carefully limited to those cases where any income is actually significant. The propositions that explain the vote in terms of ‘gratitude’ or the repayment of a ‘debt’ can not be reduced down to a simple creditor/debtor relationships without betraying the spirit in which they are meant. From a native perspective, ‘being thankful’ or ‘paying a debt’ are, ultimately, ways of making peace with one’s own conscience. More than as a type of generalized economics – which, after all, ends up depoliticizing politics, insofar as it avoids confronting the systems of power themselves, substituting them with economic similes and metaphors – they refer to what we can perhaps call, following Paul Veyne (1987), certain kinds of political subjectification. Thus, what Foucault (1990:25–6) revealed about ancient ethics also appears to occur in politics: in the latter, as in the former, there are not just ideal norms and real behaviours, but also modes of subjectification adjusting these two planes. In fact, in the same way in which Foucault talks about the constitution of an individual or of a moral consciousness, we could talk about the objectification of a political subject and of a political consciousness. Because, as Veyne noted (1987:7), the relationships of command and obedience necessarily pass through the agents’ consciousness, which converts subjectivity into a specific dimension, such as economics or politics in the strict sense. This subjectivity should not, however, be confused with any kind of primary subject: they are, rather, ‘components of subjectification’ (Guattari 2000:36), which articulate ways of relating to the self and to others. What we call subject is only like a ‘terminal’ for these processes of objectification.156 Democracy, then, like any political or social system, is comprised of norms and standards, but in order to function it also depends on the particular behaviours that are actually exhibited. If these two dimensions appear not to fit – for example, if a significant number of voters do not turn up to vote even in the Brazilian system, where voting is compulsory – we can build beautiful models to explain why this is not the case, imagining that somewhere else, in a different time or space, things are more fitting; we do this by appealing to the recent nature of our democracy, to the lack of political education of the masses, to the irresponsibility of the elite, to gaps in electoral legislation, to the bias of the media, etc. We can also propose changing the law or simply reactivating the old repressive system. It would be more interesting, however, to profoundly question what exactly is happening when an individual decides to vote or not to vote, or why they vote for a particular candidate.157 Even when voting is a legal obligation, the possibility of abstaining is always open and everyone knows that the sanctions against electoral

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abstention (being unable to get a passport, the suspension of the salary of public officers etc.) are mostly insignificant for poorer voters. Nevertheless, the majority of people do vote, but they do so for wildly differing reasons. As Banerjee (1999) demonstrated in India, where voting is not compulsory, voting can be seen as a duty connected to the idea of citizenship, as an expression of the condition of being a citizen, as a right which should not be renounced, as a form of self-esteem, or as a kind of weapon to intervene in the system. These formulas do not in any way exclude the tactical use of voting in order to obtain some immediate benefit. If we add to this the fact that someone may vote simply because they feel obliged to do so, or because they think they can help change the world (to a greater or lesser degree) with their vote, or because this is simply what is done on the first Sunday of October, we can now have an idea of the diverse reasons that people vote in Ilhéus, and, probably, everywhere else. Likewise, one can choose not to vote because of losing the necessary voting documents, because a change of address was not registered, or because all politicians are the same, and so on. Furthermore, voting for a particular candidate depends not only on aspects of the candidate chosen by each voter (see Goldman and Sant’Anna 1995:26), but also on dimensions of their own subjectivity that the voter may place greater emphasis upon, in that particular moment. Clearly, one could vote for De Gaulle because he was the only candidate capable of controlling the communists or in virtue of the ‘dignity of his private life’ (Veyne 1987:8); one could vote (or not vote) for Collor because he was the only candidate capable of holding Lula at bay, because he was handsome or because ‘he had something of the 1960s about him’ (Goldman and Sant’Anna 1995:25); one can vote (or not) for Jabes Ribeiro because he is an ally (or enemy) of Antônio Carlos Magalhães or Fernando Henrique Cardoso; one can vote (or not vote) for Gurita because he would be a representative of the black movement or because it would be easier to demand things of a candidate who had depended on the group’s votes. Thus, Marinho’s argument against voting for Gilvan (that voting for him would mean ‘wasting a vote’) could only work in cases in which there was some commonality between his own objectifications (those that he created and supported) and those of his interlocutors. A vote is not wasted when one votes according to ones moral conscience, or when one imagines that a candidate can still offer something, even if they lose the election. In any case, this kind of argument clearly reproduces a much more widely circulated discourse. PSDB’s radio advertisement during the 2000 elections in Ilhéus made this point fairly bluntly:158 ‘Don’t waste your vote! Vote for the one who will win the election! Vote for Jabes 45!’ Regardless of whether you consider this argument from a sympathetic or critical viewpoint, the fact is that many

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candidates employ this tactic constantly during elections in Ilhéus, and this is evidently true in state and national elections as well.159 The strange thing is that Gilvan himself appeared to agree, at least with the part of Marinho’s argument which held that he had no chance of being elected. He openly said that he knew this and that he could not do anything about it, as he did not have sufficient resources for the campaign. Furthermore, he often expressed a certain scepticism regarding his own vote; in other words, he had not yet decided if he would vote for himself. This had actually happened in 1992, when he failed to announce his candidacy to anyone and, consequentially, failed to obtain any votes, not even his own. The obvious question to ask then is why he put himself forward at all, although, in part, we already know the answer, as not every candidate has the sole objective of winning the election and getting elected; sometimes, the objective is also to obtain some slight or future advantage (whether imaginary or real).160 Gilvan himself said that his candidacy in 1992 was ‘only to fill out the party list’, but no one really believed this explanation. As a candidate in 1988 he had received a good number of votes, but he made the mistake of interpreting the result of this election as a simple electoral defeat. He then made the mistake of abandoning his political career almost immediately after the election. To this day, it is often said that Gilvan had, at the time, gained a political base that could have, and should have, been used in the following elections. This simply means that sometimes losing one election can be a way of winning another. In 2000, it was said that Gilvan’s candidacy had been planned by Cosme Araújo, aiming to take a few votes away from Gurita in Conquista, and that for this he would be receiving some ‘help’ from the mayoral candidate. In 1996 Dino Rocha openly announced that he was running for office purely to benefit from the licence that gave public employees the right to do so, even though by the end of the campaign he had changed his mind and was actually trying to win some votes. Numerous candidates in Ilhéus – Cosme Araújo and Gildo Pinto are just two examples – put forward their names in the fight for a seat as state deputy in 1998, in the full knowledge that they had no chance of actually winning it, but because a reasonable vote in the city could launch or strengthen their candidacy for councillor, or possibly even mayor, in 2000. Cosme’s own candidacy for mayor – giving up an almost-certain re-election to the Chamber in the process – was almost universally interpreted as the result of an agreement with Jabes Ribeiro, with the aim of ‘taking votes away’ from Roland Lavigne (with whom Cosme had in fact been allied in 1996, opposing Jabes). Similarly, the candidacy of Rúbia Carvalho’s to the Chamber of Deputies in 1998 (rather than to the State Legislature, in which her chances of winning were much greater) was read by many as a tactic of Jabes seeking to ‘take votes away’ from Roland, and its failure (as Roland was re-elected) did

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not prevent the mayor from repeating this strategy in 2002, putting forward a practically unknown candidate, Pipa, who secured more than 13,000 votes in Ilhéus. If the tactic did in fact exist, if it really was responsible for Roland Lavigne’s failure to win re-election in 2002, and whether Rúbia and Pipa were really aware of the tactic, are all questions that are difficult to answer, but they nevertheless signal to us an important element of electoral tactics and strategies, one that is seen in every election. The calculations of voters when deciding whether to vote for one candidate or another are one thing, and those of politicians when seeking these votes or launching their candidacies are another thing entirely different. The interests and conscious choices made by candidates running in the full knowledge that their chances at that particular moment are remote or even non-existent, and those of the people who support their candidacy, are very distinct. Not so much those who, for differing reasons, vote for these candidates – reasons such as kinship, gratitude, a promise, irony (some choose the ugliest candidates or those with the strangest names),161 or renouncement (‘not to win’, as some say) – but rather those who actually launch and, to some extent, support candidates of this kind. Now if, on the one hand, the establishment and functioning of so-called democratic political systems always depend on the simultaneous creation and operation of a series of disciplinary techniques and controls, on the other hand it is clear that the possible actions and behaviours of the agents themselves are, to some extent, constrained by the rules of the system. In summary, while formal democracy depends on certain forms of power, it is also one of the actual conditions for supposedly undemocratic practices to be put into action. Accordingly, it is irrelevant to argue about what a true democracy really is, or whether this or that particular state (Brazil, for example) is democratic or not. The issue, rather, is one of trying to confer a degree of intelligibility to processes found in national societies which are organized, at least partially, along democratic principles. For a moment, let us agree to call a democratic state one that: appeals to the principles of political democracy, whose government proceeds from free elections (in the sense that citizens can effectively choose between different candidates for power), that recognizes a clear separation between the legislative, executive and judicial powers, that, in a general sense, recognizes that there will be conflicts central to social existence and, at least in principle, asserts that negotiation is the best way to solve them, and that admits that it is a function of the Law to guarantee the freedom of the people (and their property) and their equality under the law. 

(Châtelet and Pisier-Kouchner 1981:239)

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We do not need a great deal of imagination to guess that a molar organization of this nature requires a molecular work of objectification. Foucault (1975: part 4) was probably the first to highlight this dependency with sufficient regard, when demonstrating the existence of a certain kind of power that made democracy possible as a political form: ‘The eighteenth century invented freedoms, no doubt, but it provided them with a deep, solid substratum – the disciplinary society from which we still derive’ (Foucault 1975: back cover). What we are dealing with here, as Pizzorno argues (1988:244), is the ‘hypothesis that modern democratic liberal regimes are only possible due to a long previous period of “disciplining” their citizens’.162 So, when Michel Offerlé (1993a:147) calls attention to the fact that representative democracy always appears as a ‘legal monstrosity’, insofar as it combines the ideal of direct democracy (electoral participation) with the ideal of a government composed of notables (those responsible for the workings of the system), he puts us on track towards a solution for the age-old problem of the relationship between practices and ideals, behaviours and norms, or whatever you want to call them. Even in our democracies, everything follows the pattern seen in Paul Veyne’s analysis of Greek democracy, which demonstrates that the Greek political regime relied on the coexistence and alternation of two very different models: a ‘militant’ one,163 requiring the participation of all citizens, and a more ‘realistic’ one, the government by an active minority that has a kind of general passivity in relation to political life (Veyne 1983). In the same way – while acknowledging that Greek democracy and the democracy that emerged in the eighteenth century share only a name (ibid.:57–8) – it is not hard to see that representative democracy is based on another constitutive ambiguity: on one side, political representation; on the other, the professionalization of politicians. Modern political representation, as with militancy for the ancient Greeks, is one of our ‘semi-ideals’, as Veyne would say: more than an ideology, as it is not just a simple falsification of reality or a useful lie, yet it does not quite constitute a practice, since its substantiation is continually inflected by economic, communicative and other controlling mechanisms. The professionalization of politicians, a feature of modern politics, works by determining the sphere of those that are able to participate in political life, as well as limiting the possibilities of action.164 Ideals and norms do not simply oppose themselves to practices and behaviours. On the contrary, it is only against the backdrop of this semi-ideal of representative democracy that practices can work and make sense. Similarly, it is only by relying on practices of this kind that the ideal of democracy can survive and continue to be upheld against all the evidence of everyday life. In this context, it is important to remind ourselves, even in a brief summary,

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of some of the basic rules of the Brazilian electoral system (see Porto 2000; 2002). This is because they outline a field and determine rules which, even if outdated or violated, are still some of the raw materials from which democracy is made. Brazil has a bicameral presidential system (a Chamber of Deputies and a Senate), in which general elections, taking place every four years, choose on one side the president of the Republic, the state governors and the members of the Senate, who have an eight-year mandate (these positions are called ‘majoritarian’); on the other side, the occupants of the Chamber of Deputies and State Legislatures are chosen, and these positions are called ‘proportional’. Also taking place every four years, but without coinciding with the general elections, municipal elections are held, in which the municipal mayors (in majoritarian elections) and the councillor for the Municipal Councils (in proportional elections) are chosen. In majoritarian elections, parties present a candidate at each level being contested (except when they run as part of a coalition); the voter chooses one name, and the candidate with the most votes is elected. In proportional elections, parties or coalitions present a list of candidates for each level being contested, and the voter selects only one name for each position. The valid and blank votes are added up, and the total is divided by the number of seats to be filled, obtaining the ‘electoral quotient’. Only the parties or coalitions with a number of votes higher than the electoral quotient can compete for the seats. The total votes for each one of these parties or coalitions are divided by the quotient, thus obtaining the ‘party quotient’, the number of seats which the party or coalition has won, to be filled by their candidates who won the highest number of votes. Finally, a specific formula is used to redistribute the remaining seats that were left over by the remainder of the calculation. In 1992, for example, the electoral quotient in Ilhéus was 3,124 votes and, in 1996, 3,549. In 2000, a party or coalition could elect one candidate for every 4,065 votes received, independent of the number of votes received for each particular candidate: if the party received 8,130 votes, it could elect two candidates, and so on. There were a total of 330 candidates for the Chamber, and the highest-voted councillor obtained 1,475 votes, while the councillor elected with the least amount of votes obtained just 485. The parties with the most votes in these elections received around 11,000 votes each, a number that guaranteed the election of three councillors for each of them (the ‘electoral remainder’ (sobras eleitorais) had already been calculated). PSDB, for example, obtained 10,902 votes, of which 3,181 were given purely to the party. Their three elected candidates totalled 3,472 votes, which was less, therefore, than the quotient necessary for the election of a councillor. Of the other twentythree candidates, only ten obtained more than 100 votes each (and only four

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gained more than 500). But all of this just makes explicit what any politician already knows, that in proportional elections someone’s electoral victory depends on the performance of their fellow party or coalition members, including those who are defeated in the election. In Ilhéus, these candidates – whose only function, consciously or not, is to obtain votes that allow the party to elect other candidates – are called ‘mules’, as they carry the victors on their back, or because they carry a certain number of votes to allow other candidates to be elected. The ‘mule’ phenomenon is clearly not exclusive to Ilhéus, as it is a constitutive part of any electoral system that, like the Brazilian one, has adopted proportional voting.165 In these systems, a successful politician is one who is capable, in the terms of Deleuze and Guattari, of capturing and overcoding candidates who depend on strictly local or specific interests and support, which are too diverse to ensure their own election.166 Similarly, a successful politician overcodes, for his own benefit, the different codes that make a family split its votes amongst various candidates to whom they feel they owe something or in whom they invest some kind of hope; or those that lead an Afro block to support a particular candidate in order to gain advantages that other blocks can not; or those that make a neighbourhood lend their support to someone who, supposedly, will bring improvements to their everyday lives. Channelling the multiple forms of logic that are in action, diverse personal motivations, and local oppositions and conflicts, the successful politician orientates them all in his own direction and to his own advantage, overcoding the dispersion which characterizes all these elements and processes, making these heterogeneous set of votes work together in order to guarantee their own election. Beyond this – and more obvious than the fact that these ‘mules’ are not recruited exclusively on the basis of their ethnicity – I believe that the black movement constitutes a fertile ground for the capture of these ‘mules’. Ana Lúcia Valente’s (1986) research on black participation and the role played by race relations in the São Paulo elections of 1982 proves this point. As the author demonstrates, almost all political parties are interested in putting forward black candidates in an attempt to secure ‘casual votes that can be found in the black community’, and as big as the resistance of the black militants has been, who ‘thought that the parties were only interested in using black people as pawns’ (Valente 1986:44), the parties appear to have been reasonable successful, with the launch of around fifty-five black candidates (ibid.:51–3). The majority of these, however, were making deals with other candidates who had greater resources, and for whom they ended up acting as electoral canvassers and campaigners (ibid.:80–1). Only two black candidates managed to secure election, one ex-football player and a militant with ties to

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the working class, both of whom, for obviously different reasons, thought that the question of race was politically irrelevant (ibid.:77). These two candidates were elected with the party that obtained the largest number of votes in the elections, having also managed to elect the state governor, and the party undoubtedly benefited from the votes received by the black candidates who failed to gain election (ibid.:68–9). Moreover, once in power, this party showed great resistance towards appointing any black people to important positions, and even towards treating the black issue more seriously, which it subsumed under the general category of ‘minorities’ (ibid.:98–101): immediately after he took office, the governor created the Council for the Feminine Condition (which contained no black members), but it was only two years later, and after much pressure, that the Council for the Participation and Development of the Black Community was created (ibid.:101–3). Thus, if it is true that many black candidates used racial rhetoric in an attempt to justify their political fluctuation and party switches (alleging that the fight should be ‘social’, rather than ‘political’, or that ‘what matters is not the party but the black cause’, which would thus be ‘suprapartisan’ – ibid.:49, 55), it is also no less true that, as the author concludes, political parties, orientated by definition towards ‘society in general’, tend to function as a kind of filter for the racial issue, capturing it and then subsuming it: ‘an effective instrument to undermine the potential strengths of any social movement’ (ibid.:65).167 It is clear, however, that the degree of predictability for the process of capturing, using and abandoning ‘mules’ is far from certain. The defeat of Rúbia Carvalho in 1998 was interpreted by her and her aides as a kind of sacrifice looking forward to the municipal elections in 2000, when, supposedly, her name would be put forward for City Hall or, in the worst case, for deputy mayor, if Jabes Ribeiro decided to run for re-election. This was, in fact, the option he chose, and for a few months the announcements for the position of deputy mayor was delayed, provoking rumours regarding various possible names, including that of Rúbia Carvalho. However, the fact that Rúbia now belonged to the mayor’s party meant that her name was not seen as helpful for the desired alliance with the old political enemies with whom Jabes looked to form a coalition. Eventually, in the final week of June, it was revealed that the candidate for deputy mayor would come from a party allied to PFL at the state level, as this would ‘signal a partnership’ (a term always used by Jabes to designate an alliance) between the municipal and state governments. On 28 June, Angela Maria Corrêa de Souza was announced as the candidate for deputy mayor on Jabes Ribeiro’s ticket. Soon after the announcement that her party would fill the role of deputy mayor, Rúbia Carvalho put forward her name for the Chamber of Councillors,

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and her election was taken as given by voters and also her own advisers. The latter, however, confided that she had become ‘depressed’ at Jabes’ decision and that she was not demonstrating any great enthusiasm with the campaign to become councillor. This ‘depression’ appeared to be aggravated when the name of the deputy candidate was finally announced: Angela was a woman, with ties to Christian groups and involved in activities relating to ‘social work’, having exactly the same political profile as Rúbia Carvalho. In the majoritarian elections, the Ilhéus on the Right Path (Ilhéus no Caminho Certo) coalition – led by Jabes Ribeiro and including – alongside PSDB – eight other parties – was seen as the clear favourite from the start of the campaign; its main adversary was PFL, once again led by Roland Lavigne. Unlike the events of 1996, this time both Jabes and Roland were vying for the support of the state government and of Senator Antônio Carlos Magalhães. This rivalry involved obtaining explicit declarations of support (during the campaign both the governor and the senator came out in support of both candidates) and, more importantly, convincing the voters that they counted upon this support, whether at the state level or the federal level. If Roland Lavigne could use his party affiliation and political history as an argument to gain support, Jabes Ribeiro evoked the fact that he belonged to the party of the President of the Republic, which was allied, in turn, to PFL, the party of the governor and the senator. It was all about re-presenting, at the municipal level, the alliance that had won the presidential election in 1994 and 1998. Alongside these two tickets, also disputing the elections of 2000 were the Front for Real Change (Frente para Mudar de Verdade) coalition (containing PT and three other parties), and also three other parties. On 3 October, Jabes Ribeiro was elected for the third time as mayor of Ilhéus with 33,775 votes (around 47 per cent of the valid votes); Roland Lavigne obtained 27,257 votes (a little over 37 per cent); the coalition led by PT obtained 7,304 votes (10 per cent); Cosme Araújo’s obtained 2,102 votes (3 per cent); two other parties obtained, respectively, 1,822 votes (2.5 per cent); and 473 votes (0.65 per cent). Soon after the elections, it was said that Jabes Ribeiro would be leaving PSDB to affiliate himself with another party, which was explained as either being necessary to solidify the ‘partnership’ with the state government, or as a tactic to avoid being expelled by PSDB as a result of his alliance with Antônio Carlos Magalhães’ group. Jabes eventually did not join this party (which, in the meantime, announced their support for Ciro Gomes’ candidacy as President of the Republic, in 2002), preferring to remain ‘party-less’ as is said in Brazil. Alongside Jabes, his brother Joabes, the second most highly-voted candidate for the Chamber of Councillors (with more than 1,400 votes), also abandoned PSDB. Both announced their decisions to the public on local radio, and at the same time they announced that they were leaving PSDB in the hands of Rúbia

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Carvalho, who publicly thanked them for the inheritance of the party. Roland Lavigne left PFL soon after the elections, attempted to join another party in Bahia and ended up with PSDB. Jabes went to PFL; Joabes to another party. To the surprise of many of the voters, Rúbia Carvalho only obtained 603 votes, and did not go further than being the third alternate for her party in the Chamber of Councillors. This defeat was initially interpreted by her advisers as stemming from the fact that Rúbia, certain of her victory and, at the same time, depressed at not being nominated as Jabes’ candidate for deputy mayor, had failed to run an effective election campaign. As one of her advisers said to her before the elections, she was just as likely to get ‘over 3,000 votes’ as she was to miss out on being elected. Shortly afterwards, this explanation was superseded by another: after missing out being nominated for deputy mayor, Rúbia had attempted to switch allegiance to Roland Lavigne, offering to make allegations of corruption against Jabes Ribeiro’s administration, in which she had participated. Jabes had discovered this ‘betrayal’ and attempted to make Rúbia’s candidacy more difficult in every way possible. It should be noted also that two councillor candidates for whom Rúbia had campaigned, or ‘asked for votes’, when she still imagined that she would be the candidate for deputy mayor, ended up receiving more votes than she did: one of them obtained 749 votes and the other, Gurita, 625. Both of them in a certain sense had been Rúbia’s ‘mules’, but the dynamics of the electoral process ended up transforming the situation and both surpassed the primary candidate: the first was elected as councillor and Gurita became the second alternate for his party. As one of Rúbia’s advisers commented, she ended up having to contest the election with candidates for whom, a short while earlier, she had been asking for votes, and it was ‘not at all pretty’ having to say to the voters ‘look, those votes that I asked for them, now you owe them to me’. It is true that, since 1996, Gurita had some awareness of the risk of running in an election as a mere ‘mule’, and he claimed that this was the reason that it was impossible to secure his election purely with the votes from the black movement, and that it would be necessary to diversify his support base. The tactic is well known, but carries its own risks, as seen in the example of Gilvan, who, in 1998, ended up losing the votes that he had and failing to get those that he wanted. Likewise, Gurita insisted so much on being the ‘sports candidate’ that it became necessary for Marinho to tell him, explicitly, that it was necessary for him to add to his campaign slogan (‘Professor Gurita: Time for Sports’) the expression ‘and Culture’, and that he should talk more about ‘cultural issues’ and about Conquista in his speeches at the rallies. After his second defeat in 2000, Gurita, whose family is evangelical, turned himself increasingly towards the electoral bases of these religious denominations (from where, in fact, the other candidate supported by Rúbia came from,

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and who ended up securing election). This change has clearly hindered his relationships with the Afro blocks and, especially, with those who practise Candomblé. On the other hand, the fact is that Gurita had really been acting as a ‘mule’ for other candidates since the elections of 1996. His implicit function had always been the obtainment of votes from the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus and also, clearly, from Conquista, his local neighbourhood and where his electoral base is situated. His status (whether real or merely desired) as the ‘representative’ of the black movement should therefore be understood in at least two ways: as an intermediary (in both directions) in the relationship between the movement and municipal power, clearly; but also as a kind of channel through which votes deriving from the black militants would flow, votes which, even when actually given to Gurita himself, would serve to elect other candidates. If, in proportional elections, politicians like Gurita take on this role of channelling votes, in majoritarian elections his role becomes that of a canvasser or campaigner, directly asking for and obtaining votes for the mayoral candidates. Of course, mechanisms of this nature are also in full effect during state and national elections. From Cosme Araújo’s point of view, for example, putting himself forward as a candidate for state deputy in the elections of 1998 had as its objective the obtainment of a certain number of votes that would strengthen his position for the municipal elections of 2000; for other candidates in the same party, it was about getting a quantity of votes for the party itself which, therefore, could secure their own election; for candidates for the Chamber of Deputies – with whom Cosme would make ‘deals’ – as well as for candidates to majoritarian seats in the Senate and state and federal governments, his role was to campaign and canvas for votes, as he was able to exercise an influence on more than 8,000 votes in the Ilhéus municipality. This means that every politician tends to be, simultaneously, a candidate, mule and canvasser, while also having their own mules and their own canvassers. If there is a difference between the regular voter, the voter who influences the choice of other voters, those who work in elections, canvassers, political professionals and the actual politicians themselves, then this difference, even when conceived of as a difference in their nature (‘he became a politician’ for example), does not hinder the movement and transition between these diverse positions, nor does it suggest that someone cannot occupy more than one position at the same time.

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Another multi-functional position is that of pollster, or more accurately someone specifically recruited to conduct opinion polls during election campaigns. During the 2000 elections, amongst the members of Dilazenze it was revealed that Jabes Ribeiro’s campaign committee was recruiting ‘researchers’, who would distribute questionnaires, receiving BR$5 (US$3) for each completed. Several people attended the recruitment centre: those who were not voters in Ilhéus or who did not have a voter’s registration card were immediately sent away; the rest were told that, in addition to undertaking the ‘research’, there was also a possibility of being selected to work in the exit polls on election day – receiving the usual BR$10 (US$6) paid for this kind of work – but in any case they first had to have some training. This process, which lasted for seven straight hours, included the application of psychometric tests and the completion of an essay on the subject of ‘Jabes Ribeiro’. At the end, the attendees listened to one of Jabes’ speeches and were explicitly asked to vote for him. Only then was their performance in the training process and their essay about the mayor evaluated, and the final selection was made. The questionnaire was presented under the heading ‘Ilhéus Coalition for the Right Path. Let Your Voice be Heard Project.’ Following this there was the subtitle ‘Research’ and the text: ‘I am here at the request of Mayor Jabes Ribeiro, and I would like to know if you could make some suggestions for his government programme. It should take no longer than five minutes. Firstly, I will ask a few questions in order to complete the questionnaire.’ Finally, above the date and the name, number, and signature of the pollster, came the questions to be answered: - What is your full name? - What do most people call you? - Sex - Age - Address - What is your main profession? - Permanent employment - Temporary employment - Housewife; retired - Student - No profession/unemployed? - Do you think that current administration of Jabes Ribeiro is better, the same, or worse than that of Antônio Olímpio? - What kind of work or improvement do you think is necessary for your neighbourhood or street? - And for our city, what work or improvement do you think is most necessary?

2000

180 Public security – police on the streets Health – fully working Health Clinics Education – schools for everyone Basic sanitation – sanitary sewage system Streets and pavement – construction of stairwells Good, affordable public transport Freely accessible shows and other cultural activities Land subdivisions – public housing168

These types of questionnaire are widely used in Ilhéus during every election.169 Furthermore, this signifier ‘research’ operates in other ways. Firstly, of course, as a subject or arena for disputes. In 2000, many different polls were undertaken, with very different results; those which put opponents in advantageous positions were accused of being false or fake; other polls were mentioned that no-one really knew where or for who they had been carried out, and so on. In 1996, at the end of September, the centre of Ilhéus was inundated with glossy pamphlets proclaiming the results of a ‘poll conducted by IBOPE’** which gave 44 per cent of the projected vote to Roland Lavigne, and 43 per cent to Jabes Ribeiro. At a political rally, Jabes denounced what he referred to as ‘fraud’, even threatening prison for those who were merely distributing the pamphlet. Three days later, Roland obtained just over 27 per cent of the vote, and Jabes was elected mayor of Ilhéus with almost 58 per cent of the vote. At the beginning of September 2000, the magazine Isto É undertook a broad opinion poll carried out by Brasmarket Institute which indicated, in Ilhéus, a technical tie between Jabes and Roland (34 per cent and 30 per cent of the projected vote, respectively). Jabes’ team, who up until that point were absolutely sure of their victory, boasting about the possibility of an advantage of around 20 percentage points, showed some concern, but put forward the explanation that the poll had been conducted over the telephone and only in the centre of the city. Roland, on the other hand, could not publicize the result too heavily, for he had been openly spreading opinion polls that suggested he had over 50 per cent of the vote: how could he now brandish 30 per cent? One of the local radio stations, in fierce opposition to the mayor, constantly questioned how it was possible that Jabes only had 34 per cent of the projected votes, when he had been boasting that he had 70 per cent. In fact, the radio station was ‘confusing’ (in the double sense of being confused and also causing confusion) the poll of voting intentions with another poll, on *

Translators’ note. IBOPE is a multinational company, well-known in Brazil, specializing in media, market and opinion polls.

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the approval rating of the municipal administration, released a few days earlier. The fact is that, on 1 October, the difference between the two candidates was a little over eight percentage points (42.5 per cent for Jabes, 34.3 per cent for Roland), which would guarantee the re-election of Jabes Ribeiro. Furthermore, the result also revealed that if we take into account the ‘margin of error’, the Brasmarket poll was neither especially right nor especially wrong, and this appears to be the case for most of these polls. On 30 June, the newspaper A Região announced that the numerous ‘opinion polls’ for the forthcoming proportional elections for councillor were completely false and that only fools believe in them. Nevertheless, candidates, advisers and canvassers widely used the results from the polls in an attempt to reinforce or undermine particular candidates. Marinho told me that one of the candidates supported by the Dilazenze clearly said that it was necessary to spread the news throughout the city that there was a poll of voting intentions that placed him highly. A rumour such as this was very easy to spread, according to Marinho, since it was sufficient to disclose it to two or three people in the square where City Hall was located (a location particularly known for political gossip and rumour). Over the course of a few hours, the news would be known throughout the city. The same candidate also repeated that the mayor had told him he had commissioned a poll that would guarantee his election as councillor. Poll results are also used in order to propose, explain or justify electoral support and alliances, especially when these may appear strange from a strictly party-driven or ideological point of view. It is very common for one candidate to suggest to another – or others – that they all launch their candidacies together and that, a certain time before the election, they commission ‘an opinion poll’, aiming to determine who has the highest popularity rating, with the leading candidate then supported by all of the others, who would have to renounce their own candidacies. Members of PT said that this strategy had meant that, in 1992, the party had supported a candidate from PSB in the election. In the same way, we have already seen that the Movement Ilhéus Hearts explained their alliance to Antônio Olímpio in these same elections for similar reasons. In 1998, it was an opinion poll that ‘explained’ Rúbia Carvalho’s candidacy for the Chamber of Deputies, rather than for the State Legislature, which she apparently preferred. In July 2000, Cosme Araújo proposed that the four ‘weakest’ candidates formed an alliance, with three of them supporting whoever was seen as the most popular in a poll that was to be commissioned. These opinion polls, therefore, are not simply neutral instruments for measuring a reality that is exterior and objective. They are an integral part of this reality, functioning as mechanisms of capture and as fundamental rhetorical forms in the very fight which, supposedly, they are restricted to

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analysing.170 Of course, even my own research was usually seen as more of a weapon than a camera. Since the suspicion, in 1996, that Paulo was using the research as a pretext to lead the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus towards the candidacy of Jabes Ribeiro, up until the invitation made in 2003 by a few of Marinho’s brothers, for me to act as ‘adviser’ for the future candidacy of Marinho Rodrigues for the Chamber of Councillors, my friends, acquaintances and informants in Ilhéus tended, at least partially, to interpret what I was doing there in these political terms.171 Polls function in a similar way to the so-called electoral debates. Their stated function is to inform the voter about the proposals, ideologies and positions of the candidates, as well as forcing the candidates to make statements on a number of themes and issues seen as important, with the intention of ensuring the ‘correct’ vote. In other words, this would be a vote that, in the words of political scientist Leôncio Martins Rodrigues (1994:3), proceeds by an ‘appropriate match between the interests and values of the voter and of their chosen candidate’.172 In reality, the electoral debates usually operate – much like the political rallies described in Palmeira and Heredia’s analysis (1993) – as a platform for the expression of political and electoral force. This force can reside in the rhetorical ability of the candidate, in the way in which they stand up to, corner or humiliate their opponent, or even in their capacity to turn the debate into a true electoral event. In the 2000 municipal elections in Ilhéus, only one debate – which took place at a local radio station well known for their opposition to Jabes Ribeiro – placed all six mayoral candidates face-to-face. A second debate, which took place at the Santa Cruz State University (UESC), situated within the municipality of Ilhéus, but near Itabuna, did not include Roland Lavigne, whose absence was symbolized by an empty chair. The Ilhéus Shopkeepers’ Club (Clube dos Dirigentes Lojistas de Ilhéus) organized a series of debates featuring all the candidates, but they faced the audience separately and on different days. In all of these cases, it was extremely rare for the questions raised to be actually answered. The focus, rather, was on accusing other candidates, directly addressing the voters (in the manner of an election campaign, and asking for their votes), of announcing electoral events (such as rallies or walks) or of mobilizing the audience present (at the only debate that had an audience, which took place at UESC). This debate took place on 18 September 2000, in front of large crowd in the main auditorium of the university (also a theatre), which was practically full, meaning that there were around a thousand people in attendance. On stage there was a table where the five candidates were seated, an empty chair representing Roland Lavigne’s absence and, in the centre, two members of the Association of Teachers, the group which was promoting the event. After the

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initial presentations – in which everyone gave an outline of their own lives, professional activities and political experiences – each candidate had five minutes to put a question to any other candidate of their choice. The chosen candidate then had five minutes to respond, followed by a further three minutes for a rejoinder from the original questioner. Jabes (of PSDB) chose to question Cosme, who in turn chose to question Jabes; Nelson (of PT) chose to question Maria Adise, who questioned Nelson; Oldeck was left out, and this provoked a reaction from the public, who suspected that the questions sought, above all, to ‘return the ball’ to the questioner, or raise the possibility of self-promotion during the rejoinder. Later on, the public was given the opportunity to ask questions. In the responses given, what seemed to matter was not so much the content or information contained within the answer, but rather the rhetorical force of the argument. In this context, Jabes and Nelson ended up polarizing the debate, and cared less and less about answering what had actually been asked, instead focusing on providing a retort to their opponent’s previous statement. Nelson accused Jabes of being a traitor and an opportunist; Jabes said that he knew PT, and knew that PT was one thing in theory and another in practice, and that they were opportunistic. Suddenly, very personal questions began to be raised regarding Cosme and Adise, insinuating the former’s corruption (who supposedly received BR$700,000 (US$380,000) in order to put forward his candidacy for mayor and take votes away from Roland Lavigne) and hinting at some crime committed by a family member of the latter. At the same time, the audience began to express themselves more forcefully. On one side of the auditorium, groups wearing promotional campaign T-shirts for councillor or mayoral candidates, especially for Jabes, had clustered. There were also many children, dressed in their school uniforms, from a school close to UESC. It became increasingly clear that some of the people who were seated in the first rows of seats were instructing those sitting behind them, encouraging applause for Jabes and boos for the other candidates, particularly for Nelson. On the other side of the auditorium, the public seemed to be made up of teachers, municipal secretaries, broadcasters and a few families, but the inclination of the majority of the audience towards Jabes was fairly clear. After a question from the audience, asking where the money for his campaign was coming from and if he had paid people to come to the debate, Jabes took great offence, declaring that he would not answer ‘this stupid question’, and he resumed his criticism of Nelson and PT in general, warning that, as he had said at the start, he would have to leave at nine o’clock to attend a campaign event. Even though it was still ten minutes to nine, the coordinators of the applause at the front began to clap and stand up, initiating a standing ovation, as well as gesturing to part of the audience, who quickly stood up

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and began to applaud and shout Jabes’ name. Immediately, the candidate, his advisers, the ‘coordinators’ and the members of the audience who had been shouting support began to leave the auditorium, leaving the room at only a quarter of its capacity. Outside, three buses picked up Jabes’ supporters, and it was noted that these were the same people who received BR$10 (US$4) to wave flags for a whole day. Marinho commented that the organization of Jabes’ campaign was always admirable, but he was not interested in discussing whether the tactics of emptying the auditorium, as well as bringing children from a school to an electoral debate, were legitimate. Indeed, this admiration for good organization, regardless of which candidate is responsible, appears to be a recurring theme in the elections of Ilhéus.

 If Jabes Ribeiro’s campaign for re-election appeared to be going well in the debates and in the polls, this did not preclude his making a more direct investment in the so-called local black culture. Some support for Gurita’s candidacy on the part of City Hall, as well as several attempts to attract the black movement as a whole and Marinho Rodrigues in particular, seemed to bear witness to this effort. It is true that, as we saw, Jabes always liked to remind people that throughout his entire political career he had always had a special relationship with the Afro-cultural movement, and this relationship proved his commitment to the black issue as a whole. This supposed proximity appears, in fact, to have increased during the municipal elections of 2000. In a conversation with Marinho, during the breakfast to show support for Gurita on 30 August, the mayor not only summoned the Dilazenze and Marinho to ‘the war’, but also said that he intended to make Ilhéus ‘the second largest cultural centre of Bahia in terms of black culture’. He suggested, at the same time, the organization of a committee for the Afro-cultural movement, along the lines of the existing Women’s Committee and Youth Committee. Like these committees, the basic role of the Black Committee (or Committee 45: Black Movement of Ilhéus) would be, clearly, to support Jabes’ candidacy. Although these committees were exclusively aimed at the majoritarian elections (seeking to avoid conflicts with, and between, the candidates in the proportional elections), in this case, added the mayor, the committee could also support Gurita’s campaign for councillor. As one of the mayor’s closest advisers emphasized however, this could only happen on the condition that ‘it does not look like it’s Gurita’s committee’, because it should not give the impression that Jabes was ostensibly supporting a particular candidate for councillor at the expense of other candidates who also supported him, as this would imply a degree of electoral prejudice.

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It is clear that the fact that Gurita was black explained the exception which the mayor was proposing. In any case, the committee was not only to express the support of the Afro-cultural movement for Jabes, but they were also to organize some electoral events. Nevertheless, the only event that ended up being scheduled was a ‘walk’, which was to be followed by a ‘public event’ in front of the Memorial, on 19 September. The event did not happen, allegedly because City Hall did not provide the necessary buses, sound system, lighting, stage, T-shirts or the fee of BR$600 (US$200) that had been requested. The walk was attended by a very small number of people, and the idea of Committee 45: Black Movement of Ilhéus was put to one side. Although the relationship between the Afro-cultural movement and the mayor (and candidate for re-election) appeared to be going well, one event, which took place in the second half of July 2000, but whose effects were felt right up until the elections, threatened to complicate this relationship. The mayor’s brother, a municipal secretary, became involved in a conflict with a state deputy of PT from Bahia, who was taking part in a meeting with municipal officials. What actually happened is very difficult to say, and the case was so controversial that the best way to understand it is perhaps to examine the exchange of pamphlets, articles and news stories that followed the event. Shortly after the conflict, a number of organizations, headed by the MNU, distributed a pamphlet throughout the city titled ‘Stop Racism’: STOP RACISM! State Deputy Paulo Anunciação, of PT, was violently attacked in the Operational Park while participating in a meeting with officials. The aggressor, the secretary of public services, John Ribeiro, brother of the current mayor, attempted to grab a gun and called Paulo Anunciação a ‘shameless black bum’, a ‘black fag’ and a ‘deputy of shit’. The distinguished secretary did not expect that a black man, who was a former street sweeper and Rastafarian, could be the state deputy. The event caused great anger in the state of Bahia, particularly within the black community which, through this pamphlet, publicly denounces and rejects the barbarism of Mr John Ribeiro who, in any other city in Brazil, would have been fired and jailed for such a racist crime. If the mayor decides to turn a blind eye to his brother, as he has up until now, he will be compromising the image of his government, which will come to be seen as a racist government. ILHÉUS, BLACK CITY, DEMAND JUSTICE! Comprising the great majority of the population of Bahia and over 60% of the population of Ilhéus, black people live in the most deprived neighbourhoods in the city, are the most neglected population, and work

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positions of public power to try and silence us instead. In Ilhéus, at the start of a the new century, it is no different. The mayor’s brother, disrespecting his own roots, has committed one of the most abominable acts of racism in the city’s recent history. Moreover, this poor black city still does not know the power that it wields! We, the representatives of black organizations and trade unions throughout the Ilhéus region, should add our voices to the thousands of organizations throughout the country who are, at this precise time, rejecting and denouncing the attitude of the current secretary of Public Services in Ilhéus. STOP RACISM! WE DEMAND THE DISMISSAL OF JOHN RIBEIRO! This is the only way for the municipal government to prove that they stand against racism and barbarity! [Signed by The Movimento Negro Unificado (MNU), Força Negra Afro block, and several other organizations]

The event appeared to mobilize Jabes’ campaign team. On 30 July 2000, a few days after the note was distributed by the MNU, an article appeared on the fourth page of the newspaper A Região, paid for by Ilhéus City Hall and signed by John Ribeiro (as secretary of Public Services), which sought to respond to the allegations: ILHÉUS MUNICIPAL CITY HALL Secretary of Public Services Clarification Note

*

Translators’ note. During the period of slavery in Brazil, the Capitães-do-Mato (literally ‘Captains of the Bush’) were responsible for capturing escaped slaves, and the Feitores were the overseers of the trading posts in Africa, often taking on the role of slavemasters.

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Given the party political games being played by certain elements of PT, which seek to gain an advantage in the forthcoming elections by exploiting an event which occurred at the headquarters of the Office of Public Services on 20 July 2000, I have come out in public in order to repudiate the behaviour shown by those elements and to provide clarification for the community of Ilhéus. On the date in question, I was informed by telephone, at around 8 o’clock, that the headquarters of the Office of Public Services had been invaded by a group of pamphleteers and councillor candidates from PT. 01. As this kind of political activity is prohibited on the premises of public offices, and considering that this location functions as the department of operations for City Hall – which requires security measures to be in place – I went to the office and asked the group to withdraw to the entrance. 02. Accompanied by the State Deputy Paulo Anunciação, the group refused to leave and began to aggressively insult me, using coarse language such as: ‘shameless fascist’ and other unprintable terms, which led me to request the support of the Military Police. In this context, I registered a complaint with the Civil Police and denounced the public minister, in order to allow a full enquiry to be made into these events. 03. After the episode, this group has sought to exploit the event, accusing me of brandishing a firearm and of having a racist attitude. This accusation is a lie. Those who know me, know the story of my life, as a black man and a working man, know that I would be incapable of such an attitude. In light of these unfortunate events, I reaffirm my commitment in the struggle for a more egalitarian society, and I renounce once again the unethical and opportunistic behaviour of the people involved, who demonstrate how unprepared they are to perform the duties of public life. Regards, JOHN RIBEIRO Secretary of Public Services.

Furthermore, on 27 July, Gurita had hurried to convene a meeting with the Afro groups, a meeting attended by very few of the organization’s representatives. It is possible that some of them, such as Marinho Rodrigues of the Dilazenze, avoided the meeting because they felt that it was a ploy aimed at ‘using’ the black movement to shore up support for Jabes and John, proving that the latter was not racist. Regardless, a few days later Gurita distributed a pamphlet entitled ‘The Black Movement is with Jabes’, in which the names of the CEAC, eight Afro blocks, reggae bands and four capoeira academies were listed, as well as a mysterious ‘Black Movement of Ilhéus’. The pamphlet,

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printed on glossy paper, featuring a watermark and colourful drawings in a supposedly ‘African’ style, read: THE BLACK MOVEMENT IS WITH JABES We, the ILHÉUS BLACK CULTURE MOVEMENT, express our unconditional support towards the campaign of JABES for mayor of Ilhéus. We have no doubt that JABES is ILHÉUS ON THE RIGHT PATH. His actions have been fundamental for the advancement of the black movement in our region. This can be seen in the support that he has always given towards all of the political, cultural, economic, social and religious aspects of the black population of Ilhéus: He created the Cultural Carnival, opening up a space for all kinds of cultural events in the city; He created the Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus; He supported all the events organized by the black movement, including Black Beauty Night, Capoeira Baptisms and the Festival of the Terreiros; He organized a seminar to discuss employment and income generation within the activities of the black movement; He supported all of the activities of NATIONAL BLACK CONSCIOUSNESS DAY; and he created the Council for Assistance to the Black Communities. In light of this, we ask for your support towards the candidacy of JABES for mayor. The election of JABES for one more term is the consolidation of all of the work that he has done to support the black movement of Ilhéus and all sections of the population. Ilhéus, July 2000. [Signed by ‘Black Movement of Ilhéus’, Council of Afro-Cultural Organizations (CEAC), all the Afro blocks, with the exception of Força Negra, and several other Afro groups]

After finding out about the pamphlet, Marinho was deeply irritated. Not only because the name of the Dilazenze appeared amongst the signatories, but also because the CEAC, an organization of which he was president, practically led the names of the alleged supporters. When questioned, Gurita responded that the meeting which Marinho had not attended had agreed the support, and that because ‘everyone is with Jabes anyway’, he saw no problem with putting the names on the pamphlet. This, however, seemed to overstep the mark that Marinho, as a black militant, had established in terms of making political alliances and showing political support. Ultimately, it came down to defending someone who, allegedly, had committed a serious act of racism,

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and this was a matter that was too serious to be the object of arrangements and deals. Recalling that Gurita had always insinuated the existence of racism amongst some of the municipal secretaries – who, ironically, called him the ‘advocate of the black brothers’ (advogado dos negrões) – Marinho asked him how a candidate who said he was part of the black movement could be on the side of the aggressor, and not on the side of the one attacked, in a clear case of racism. At the same time, Marinho feared that any declaration on his part would be interpreted by the mayor as a sign of opposition and that this may result in retaliation against the Dilazenze, the CEAC and the Afro-cultural movement as a whole. Echoing the appeal from Jaco Santana that something should be done, I offered to write a note that, without attacking the mayor, would make it clear that the CEAC and the organizations that made up the Council had not participated in the writing of the pamphlet and did not condone the racist act: COUNCIL OF AFRO-CULTURAL ORGANIZATIONS – CEAC The Council of Afro-Cultural Organizations of Ilhéus (CEAC), surprised at the distribution of a pamphlet entitled ‘The Black Movement is with Jabes’, would like to clarify some things for the population of Ilhéus. 1. Whilst recognizing the efforts and actions of Jabes Ribeiro’s administration in favour of the city’s black movement, the CEAC has not yet taken an official position in regards to the 2000 municipal elections in Ilhéus. This is because there has been no opportunity to have a discussion with the candidates, no opportunity to have a discussion within the Council, and because it is the tradition of the Council to only take a political position when there is a consensus amongst the constituent groups; when this is not possible, the Council leaves the choice of candidate at the discretion of each organization, who are free to choose their own position however they see fit. 2. The CEAC finds itself surprised at the distribution of a pamphlet that uses its name and the names of several constituent groups, without the Council being consulted and without being able to discuss this particular subject. 3. The CEAC requests, therefore, that its reputation and importance are respected, and requests that its name is not used except in the regulated instances that can be found in its statutes. Gilmário Rodrigues Santos Executive Coordinator of the CEAC

Marinho agreed to the text, but still argued that there were no funds to have it printed. I offered to pay the BR$50 (US$20) necessary for this, and

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members of the Dilazenze distributed the pamphlet throughout the city. As they said later, ‘this had repercussions’: several supportive telephone calls, including one from Moacir Pinho, of the MNU, acknowledgements from people in the street, and comments that the pamphlet had ‘shaken up the city’. Probably due to these repercussions, on the following morning Gurita arrived at Marinho’s house, with the pamphlet from the CEAC in one hand and demonstrating that this was, undoubtedly, the work of the MNU and PT. Marinho responded, saying that the document really was produced by the CEAC, and that Gurita should not have acted as he had done, a criticism that Gurita eventually acknowledged. In any case, the pamphlet from the CEAC weakened Gurita’s position within Jabes’ campaign, compromising his supposed status as the representative of the city’s Afro-cultural movement. Furthermore, in the afternoon of the day after the publication of the pamphlet, City Hall released the first instalment of a grant which had been pledged to finance a social project that the Dilazenze were running with children from Carilos, known as the Batukerê Project. Even though the money only represented 10 per cent of the total amount promised, the payment was interpreted as being a direct result of the pamphlet and, by some, as a sign that it really was worth ‘shaking things up’, and perhaps in this way they could secure the rest of the funding for the project. Gilvan wanted Cosme Araújo to denounce Gurita’s pamphlet during a session in the Chamber of Councillors, but Marinho flatly refused this. Gilvan had to settle for including the pamphlet episode in his harsh criticism of Gurita that he made at Cosme’s rally taking place in Conquista. This episode actually forms part of a wider series of events amidst a diverse group of relationships. During the commemoration of Black Consciousness Day in 1998, Gurita’s position on the issue of race relations appeared a little uncertain. Invited – alongside Moacir Pinho, of the MNU – to take part in an interview on local radio, he avoided the question when asked if there was racism in Ilhéus. Moacir, on the contrary, answered a decisive ‘yes’ and made a strong speech on the issue. Around the same time, Gurita, with the help of the CEAC, was partially responsible for organizing an event, to be held on 19 November, that would form part of the commemorations for Day of Zumbi (20 November). Attempts to bring people in ‘from outside’ failed – since City Hall refused to cover the necessary expenses – and so a round-table event was organized instead, which would feature Gurita, Moacir, Marinho, a commanding colonel from the local army division, a member of a capoeira group and ‘the anthropologist who has been researching black culture in Ilhéus for a long time’. Both Moacir and I agreed with the assertion that racism existed; the colonel (who, alongside me, was the only other white person in front of an audience of over fifty people) tried to deny the existence of any kind

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of racial discrimination, if not in Brazil as a whole, at least within the Brazilian Army. And, while Moacir drew attention to the risk of demobilization in the argument made by a national magazine which denied the very existence of human races, the colonel insisted that, in the army, there was only one race, ‘the Brazilian race’. The speeches from Gurita and the representative of the capoeira group were somewhat different. Without denying the existence of racism, they insisted on the importance of individual initiative, of ‘doing your best’ (correr atrás), as they say in Ilhéus, of being personally successful, thus serving as an example for others by galvanising their own ‘self-esteem’ (perhaps the most used expression of the night). Challenged by a militant who was present – who questioned if the talk of a ‘lack of self-esteem’ was just another way of blaming black people themselves for the discrimination they suffer – Gurita responded that he only wished to call attention to the importance of emphasizing ‘the progress made by black people’, which was nevertheless still a way of expressing large collective issues by way of personal experiences, interests and ambitions. For the Dilazenze, and the other blocks, the issue of racism is hugely complicated. Firstly because, as I quickly learned in Ilhéus, while it is relatively easy to talk about racism in an abstract sense – arguing and acknowledging that it clearly exists, that it manifests itself in Ilhéus in the worst possible way, in other words, in a covert way, that the ‘bourgeoisie’ are racist, and so on – it is very difficult to broach the subject in a more concrete or specific manner. This difficulty speaks as much to the question of who would be the source of this racism as to who would be the target: I very rarely heard anyone accused of racism, and if so they would always be absent; it was equally rare that someone else, also absent, would be mentioned as the actual victim of racial discrimination. Insisting on the matter led to, at the very most, the recognition that this was really something ‘shameful’, in other words, something that provokes shame in the victim of racism and also the person that just talks about it.173 During the commemorations of 7 September 1998, the Dilazenze and the Afro-cultural movement in general became involved in an episode that had racial overtones. The episode occurred at the end of the parade, during the Grito dos Excluidos (literally, ‘Cry of the Excluded’) – a protest organized by the Catholic Church, and sometimes including the participation of civil society organizations – which, for several years, had been marking the end of the Independence Day parade in various Brazilian cities. Moacir Pinho made a point of raising the subject while we were talking in a bar, after the round-table event of 19 November. He said that he had been saddened by the actions of the Afro blocks, and that he had needed a great deal of time to forgive and forget.

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Ilhéus City Hall, keen to disrupt the demonstration, which they thought would only benefit PT, had hired an electric trio and various Afro blocks to play after the parade, in addition to promoting acrobatic demonstrations by firemen and military personnel, thus drowning out the slogans of the demonstrators, who could hardly be heard amongst the thousands of people who filled Soares Lopes Avenue (the parades of 7 September are hugely popular in Ilhéus). Marinho, who had told me this story just a few days earlier, saying that he was only there to receive a fee, felt obliged to agree with Moacir – continually emphasizing the fact that black people were discriminated against and excluded – and concluded that he felt very bad about what had happened. Moacir sought to end the discussion, accepting that perhaps the blocks had not known what was at stake, but that everything had been carefully prepared by certain municipal secretaries who were known to be racist. His target was now Gurita, who was also with us, and who partially acknowledged the guilt of some of the secretaries, but only in order to exonerate the mayor. This difficulty in talking about racism was also apparent during the municipal elections of 2000, if we consider that, despite the fear of Jabes’ advisers, the John Ribeiro episode was barely exploited during the election campaign – if it was exploited at all – by the person who, in theory, stood to gain the most from it: Roland Lavigne. This was not only because he was, once again, the main opposition candidate for mayor of Ilhéus, but also because he had been accused of racism, and even genocide. Since the beginning of the campaign, a pamphlet had circulated throughout the city with high quality graphics and printed on high-grade paper, which announced: DEPUTY ROLAND LAVIGNE INVOLVED IN CRIMES AGAINST INDIANS The allegation published by the O Globo newspaper (on 30 August) and by other state and national media, that Federal Deputy Roland Lavigne is engaged in a serious crime of genocide against the first known indigenous tribe of Brazil, the Pataxós Hã Hã Hãe, has shocked Brazil and the world. According to the report, which has had international repercussions, ‘a generation of Pataxós were sterilized. All of the women of childbearing age in the village had their (fallopian) tubes tied during the election campaign of ‘94, without authorization from FUNAI.’ According to O Globo, ‘The Pataxós claim that the tube tying operations were supported by the doctor and Federal Deputy Roland Lavigne (PFL), who at the time was in charge of the hospitals in the region.’ Roland Lavigne’s situation was exacerbated by the fact that this genocide, denounced by the Pataxó Indians to the UN and to FUNAI, was carried out with money from the Unified Health System (SUS) in exchange

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for votes. Furthermore, the crime is bound up with the dispute of farmers in the region for possession of lands belonging to the Pataxós. Ever since the discovery of Brazil, the Pataxós have been gradually pushed inland from the coast, around the area of Santa Cruz de Cabrália. The Minister of Health, José Serra, the Public Minister, the Health Secretary of Bahia and the Regional Council of Medicine are already investigating the case and say that measures will be taken. However, we, the voters in Southern Bahia, representatives of civil society, should not be satisfied with this. This is not just a crime of electoral corruption or any other regular crime. A crime of this nature goes beyond criminal law. It attacks the right to life. The right to exist of a race, of a people. It is a practice comparable to the worst crimes against humanity and deserves a fitting punishment. The existence of a network of fraudsters within the SUS, with Roland Lavigne the most notable one, was widely denounced by the press, but no action was taken. Nothing was done to punish the criminals who, now, in this new campaign, have resumed the practice of sterilizing women with public money in exchange for votes. If that was not enough, they use a truck transformed into an ambulance to exploit the needs of the poorest to try and re-elect a federal deputy with the slogan ‘health is life’. This is shameful. We have had enough of crimes against humanity. We want an inquiry into these crimes and punishment for the criminals. MOVEMENT FOR ETHICS IN POLITICS

It is difficult to explain precisely why Roland Lavigne ignored the John Ribeiro episode, and, in doing so, failed to exploit a potentially explosive issue in a city where almost 85 per cent of the population identify themselves as black, and where his main opponent explicitly sought the support of the black movement. Perhaps he calculated that the electoral rewards from this episode would be minimal; perhaps he feared reviving the accusations of racism that hung over his own head; perhaps he decided that the best thing to do, when dealing with an issue such as racism in Brazil, is to avoid the subject completely, either because it would be irrelevant, or because no one can predict which direction the controversy will take. The fact is that, on 24 August 2000, there was still much discussion around the case of John Ribeiro. An appointment had been scheduled by John Ribeiro and Gurita with the parents of children who were taking part in Batukerê, the social project developed by the Dilazenze in Carilos. The objective of the meeting was, in theory, to explain the reasons for the delay in transferring the funds from City Hall to the project. It was decided therefore that the ‘meeting’

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– which ended up, of course, being a campaign event – would also be an opportunity for distributing ‘basic baskets’ to the families present, who would thus be included in a wider programme of food distribution. The distribution of ‘basic baskets’, as noted earlier, has become in recent years, and throughout the whole country, an important way of obtaining political support and votes. Regardless of the source of funds – from the countless municipal, state and federal programmes, but also from the private and third sector – the distributors themselves tried to, at the very least, imply that they were responsible for the supply. In Ilhéus, voters often made comments linking the supposed growth in popularity of a mayoral or councillor candidate in a particular area of the city with the distribution of ‘basic baskets’, as well as a hypothetical fall in popularity linked to the cessation of this service. The candidates waged rhetorical, legal, and sometimes physical battles around the issue of the ‘basic baskets’. They would proclaim that the distribution was their own initiative and accuse their opponents of trying to impede them or of irregularly distributing the baskets, as Jabes did with Roland; they would appeal to the courts or call the police in order to stop distribution which they claimed was illegal, as Roland did at an event led by John in a district of Ilhéus (which then allowed Jabes to accuse him of attempting to stop the food from getting to the mouths of the public). The selection and registration of the regions and families that would benefit from these distributions depended on, at least in the run-up to an election, the divisions of political power, the participation of canvassers and the list of those registered for the elections.174 Taking place in the rehearsal space of the Dilazenze, the delivery of the ‘basic baskets’ to the ‘parents of Batukerê’, as the beneficiaries were called, ended up being a campaign event, in which Gurita and Jabes – represented by his brother and Municipal Secretary John Ribeiro – were the main stakeholders. Gurita did not mince his words: soon after introducing himself and recalling his work for the black movement and the neighbourhood of Conquista, he got straight to the point: I am campaigning for councillor, as everyone knows, and we need to win this election for councillor and mayor. We need to win and my time here is really to ask you for your votes. I did not come here to beat around the bush. I came to clear up some things, have a chat, carry on with my support and ask for your votes, each one of you, your friends, your neighbours, your family. Because we need to elect a councillor who is committed to Carilos, to Conquista, who is committed to the popular culture of the city, to the sports of the city.

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When it was his turn, John Ribeiro, in a tone somewhere between irony and caution, began by saying that he would ‘not dive in head first like Gurita, asking for votes right at the beginning. I only ask at the end!’ And, immediately, he thanked the Dilazenze for their support ‘because some events recently occurred in my life and the members of the Dilazenze never asked me if the events were actually true or if they were a lie, but they simply supported me. For this, I am publicly thanking this group.’ At the end of his speech, he asked for a ‘vote of confidence’, emphasizing that this was not a ‘vote of confidence for Jabes’: I’m not the best person to ask for votes for Jabes because, besides working in the municipality, I am his brother. It is Jabes’ track record that asks for your vote, your vote which relies on your conscience. But I want to ask for votes for this black brother here. I’ll call him black brother because he knows that we are a family. A vote for Gurita is a vote for yourselves, it is a vote for someone who will represent you, represent our race, who is from this area, a person who not only deserves our vote, but who is our brother, who is here, who will not fail us, who will not disappear afterwards.

It is clear that John Ribeiro was referring, surreptitiously, to his conflict with the PT deputy, as well as other allegations of racism that were made against him.175 Completely ignoring the CEAC pamphlet, he thanked the Dilazenze for their support expressed in Gurita’s pamphlet, the same one that Marinho had vehemently repudiated. Nevertheless, Marinho remained silent the whole time, and, the following day, when reporting the event, he pretended not to have understood what John had been talking about. Faced with my surprise, he smiled and said that, fortunately, the people present had not understood that part of the speech. He also concluded that, regarding the actual objective of the meeting – the municipal funds for the Dilazenze’s Batukerê Project – nothing had happened. Finally, in a tone of dismay, he added that there had been ‘too much politics’. The evocation of Gurita’s status as ‘representative of you, of our race’, replicated part of an article, signed by John, that had been published on 30 July, in which he wrote that ‘those who know me, know my life story, as a black man and a worker’. When facing a largely or exclusively black audience, his brother Jabes sometimes maintained a similar position. We have also seen how, even without claiming to be black, the colonel present at the ceremony on 20 November 1998 defended, against the MNU representative, the existence of ‘a single race, the Brazilian race’. In the special session of the Chamber of Councillors of Ilhéus for Black Consciousness Day, it was very common for councillors to evoke, in their speeches, their status as black people. But

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they always tend to do so by relating their particular condition with a kind of situation that is general to the country, or at least a state or region, in which everyone, in some way or other, is black, or has some ‘black blood’ (and also ‘Indian blood’).176 In 2003, this same Chamber of Councillors appointed a committee that would draft a ‘booklet on black consciousness raising’, five-thousand copies of which would be distributed to schools and other institutions on 20 November. The committee, formed by five councillors, invited some representatives from the black movement to a series of meetings, that would aim to prepare the text of the booklet. Only one actually took place and, at this meeting, councillor Joabes Ribeiro, the mayor’s other brother and also a member of the committee, solemnly declared: the purpose of this booklet is for us to construct a new movement which asserts a racial consciousness raising in this city, a city with a population that is 70% black by colour and the other 30% black by race. We want a booklet of affirmative action, that shows how black people should behave, how black people should act, what their rights are, and helps them realize that they are the majority, that they are dominant. And I did this because I am tired of being semi-white in an Afro-country, I can’t take it anymore. My concern is not votes, my concern is that Ilhéus can, one day, be ruled by the black majority, and this is what is right. But this is not just ruling for the sake of ruling: it is ruling because this is the reality of our entitlement, and this is right. No more can the black look to the white and call them baron. We can’t have that anymore! Every black person looks at a white person and calls them doctor or boss. We need to stop this! What we want is equality, but to have equality we need a consciousness raising. This is the idea of this booklet, which is not just a simple document, but an instrument to be there in sight of all the community of Afro-descent, who are a majority who want to play a role in the history of this city. This is the Chamber’s idea.

The booklet, as far as I know, was never produced. Instead, on 20 November 2003, City Hall sent a vast quantity of pamphlets to the Memorial of Black Culture (most of which ended up being used as scrap paper) which were to be distributed among the black groups. Very similar in style to the pamphlet used by Gurita in 2000 to support Jabes, it is summarized in the following text: 20 November. Black Consciousness Day.

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There was once an enchanted city, which was so beautiful and welcoming that it sheltered people from diverse places. Among them, there were many Afro-descendants who built a rich and powerful culture and consciousness: black consciousness. The samba, Candomblé, and cuisine that they brought with them began to form part of our everyday lives. And to show appreciation for all of this, Mayor Jabes Ribeiro has taken action, and created the Cultural Carnival and the Memorial of Black Culture. The Afro groups were thankful. The city as well. Axé. [see note 40]

This rhetoric of ‘we are all black’ is sometimes viewed by the black militants with irony, sometimes with irritation, but always with the acute awareness that it is used very deliberately, principally to facilitate closer ties with the Afro-cultural movement in order that they can be used for purposes which are not their own. On the same 20 November when the Chamber had planned the booklet on black consciousness raising to be distributed, and when City Hall distributed the pamphlet reproduced above, the Council for Afro-Cultural Organizations and the Memorial of Black Culture organized an event commemorating the Day of Zumbi, which was to feature presentations from the Afro blocks in front of the 19 March building. Surprisingly, Jacks Rodrigues, president of the CEAC, arrived on the scene accompanied by a district administrator who planned to run for the municipal elections in 2004, and who used the slogan ‘100% Alcides’ (a clear reference to ‘100% Black’, which adorns many T-shirts and stickers in Ilhéus and elsewhere). As the different groups made their presentations, this candidate, together with his advisers and Jacks himself, distributed campaign T-shirts and beer to those who came down off the stage. Outraged – mainly, as he explained to me later, because it was Day of Zumbi – in his speech Marinho warned of one of the risks that the black movement always ran in Ilhéus, that of being ‘used’ by people who had nothing to do with the black struggle, and who were only thinking of their own interests and personal objectives: ‘we do not need capitães-do-mato’, concluded Marinho, using a strong expression that is sometimes used by black militants as a thinly veiled complaint (as those accused are almost never named, even though everyone knows who they are) against what they consider to be racist attitudes. Later on, the candidate approached Marinho and told him that he did not understand his irritation ‘because I am also a black brother’. Marinho, who considered him to be completely white, responded: ‘OK, but then why are you only saying this now?’ In March 2003, a resident of Ilhéus, white and middle-class, decided to celebrate his birthday with an ‘Afro night’, held at the Ilhéus Social Club, the most exclusive club in the city, situated at the end of Soares Lopes Avenue. In addition to inviting the most well-known families in Ilhéus – and the

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invitation called for ‘Afro attire’ – the host also invited many members of the city’s Afro blocks. Despite some criticisms of the music at the party – which, supposedly, should have been Afro but, in reality, was axé-music – they greatly enjoyed themselves, not only because of the party itself, but, mainly, by seeing ‘the bourgeois’ parade around in clothes that they considered to be ‘Afro’. In any case, the celebrations were the setting for an agreement between the Miny Kongo Afro block and the host, who had supposedly worked as a carnival organizer for a few samba schools in Rio de Janeiro. He became part of the board of the block and set himself the task of leading the block to victory in the 2004 carnival. Since the competition between the blocks was re-introduced in 1999, the Dilazenze had won every carnival, earning the unprecedented title of five-time champions of the Ilhéus Cultural Carnival. Stopping this winning streak became a question of honour for the other blocks, especially for the two other ‘big’ blocks, the Rastafiry and Miny Kongo. The collaboration with the ex-carnival organizer was therefore well received by the members of the Miny Kongo, and the fact that he was considered white did not cause any problems, since the presence of non-black people in the Afro blocks of Ilhéus – and even their participation in the running of these blocks – is not a problem in itself, even though it is fairly rare for reasons that would best described as statistical. As we will see in the last chapter, the Dilazenze ended up parading ‘hors concours’ in the 2004 carnival, and the Miny Kongo, in fact, won the title. On 13 May 2004, during the ceremony to award the Fourth CEACI Trophy for Black Culture, the carnival organizer was given one of the awards. In his acceptance speech, he attacked the Dilazenze head-on and boasted that he alone had managed to defeat them. When receiving the award for the participation of his block in the parade, Marinho Rodrigues made a point of responding to the attack. He argued, once again, that the greatest danger that threatens the Afro blocks in Ilhéus is being ‘used’ by people who have no real relationship with them; that these blocks do not need ‘capitães-do-mato’ to tell them what to do; and that, if he considered himself the only winner at the carnival, the carnival organizer was offending not just the Dilazenze, but the Miny Kongo themselves and the older members of the block. The speech was very well received and even members of the Miny Kongo complimented Marinho on his words.

 This series of events and speeches indicate several different things. We have observed from the outset that if, in Ilhéus, the position of agents regarding race relations and racism can be expressed in a more direct language than that to which the middle-class is used to in Brazil, this does not mean that

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these positions are of a different nature to those found in other locations and contexts, or even to the most common positions found in the academic field. As we know, the debate that appears to haunt Brazilian academic life has long manifested itself in the famous question over whether or not there is actual racism here. In other words, whether the discrimination and exclusion that, at least in principle, everyone acknowledges, possess a racial or ethnic basis, or if they have a strictly social or socio-economic origin. To the extent that these inequalities persist, becoming even more obvious, together with the fact that their correlation with ethnicity became more and more difficult to deny – whether in sophisticated academic works, or by simple observation with the naked eye – the debate seems to have undergone a small transformation. Even though the outright denial of the existence of racism in Brazil undoubtedly persists in certain circles or in particular situations, it has become a much more common recognition that, if some kind of racial discrimination exists, it appears in softer forms, perhaps, than those found in other national or cultural contexts. It is, in fact, very difficult to find anyone today who continues to openly admire Brazilian racial democracy, in comparison with the terrible discrimination found in North America; but it is much easier to find someone who will argue that, in Brazil, at least, this discrimination and any associated conflict does not reach the severity and omnipresence that it does in, for example, the United States. This perspective even permeates the attitude of many of those who, in order to better denounce racism amongst us, emphasize the perverse nature of the disguised prejudice that we are familiar with, as opposed to the open discrimination found in other parts of the world, which does, at least, allow direct and open struggle. We are not entering into this debate here, of course, which is far too complex and would require its own specific work. But I believe it is possible to argue that, ultimately, the apparently quantitative nature of the points of view that are found here (more or less racism, better or worse racism etc.) rest on judgements which primarily focus on supposedly qualitative differences between what tend to be considered as distinct kinds of racism, linked, in turn, to different ways of classifying individuals according to their ‘race’ or ‘colour’. For, on one side, there supposedly exists a race prejudice of ‘origin’, present in societies and cultures where there is a clear line of separation between colours or races, even going so far as to constitute a binary system. On the other side, there is a race prejudice of ‘mark’, prevalent in socio-cultural contexts which privilege more fluid classifications, tending towards a model of continuity, in which individuals can be more or less white or black (see Nogueira 1998). A more recent controversy between Michael Hanchard (1996) and Peter Fry (1995) clarifies this point. The former suggests that ‘racial democracy’ is nothing more than an ideology that seeks to hide, with dwindling success, the

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undeniable socio-economic inequalities based on race. The latter responds, firstly arguing that ‘ideologies’ or ‘representations’ are no less real than ‘reality’ itself and, secondly, that the ‘bipolar model’ of racial classification is typical of the United States, or of the Anglo-Saxon world, and cannot simply be projected onto other contexts (ibid.:13). At the same time, he admits that, in Brazil, we are dealing with the coexistence of both models: ‘the ideal of racial democracy and the brutality of racism coexist in such a way that it is the situation […] that determines which will prevail’ (ibid.:135). The problem, as Pétonnet (1986) demonstrated, is that this bipolar model does not stand up to a solid ethnography, and this is true as much for Ilhéus as for Harlem, where she conducted her fieldwork: underlying any dual classification there are always other classificatory models to be found, models that are not only multiple, but are, principally, used in distinct ways. As we saw in chapter two, in the first instance Paulo Rodrigues was accepted by the Afro-cultural movement in Ilhéus by triggering signifiers which, in the city, connoted the black condition: being from Ilhéus, having a father who was a stevedore, a particular skin colour (‘mulato’, as he described himself ), the fight against prejudice. Later on, other existential dimensions – such as culture, an affinity for music and dance, a disposition for parties and carnival – became more important, and he was completely excluded from the movement. We also saw, in the previous chapter, how Gurita acknowledged the ‘colour’ of the candidate for deputy mayor as black but his ‘culture’ as non-black. The question, therefore: but, ultimately, is he or isn’t he black? could only really appear in the census or the mind of a naive anthropologist. Again, this means that the abandonment of a syntactic or semantic perspective in favour of a more pragmatic one – a position also advocated by Fry (1995:125–6) – appears to be the condition of possibility for a more sophisticated understanding, not only of racism, but of other related notions, such as the idea of race, ethnicity, identity, etc. It is from this standpoint that John Galaty proposed a replacement of the semantic analyses of ethnicity – concerned with the identification of groups denoted by ethnic markers – with a pragmatic perspective that not only takes into consideration the changing contexts of action and the position occupied by the agents within them, but, above all, also takes them as its starting point. In this sense, ethnic markers function as linguistic shifters, connoting categories whose borders are fluid and unstable. This does not mean, of course, that everything is possible, but only that the limits of inclusion and exclusion are not fixed and cannot be known prior to empirical investigation (Galaty 1982:16). Of course, within each pragmatic context, one, or several, of the markers tend to predominate; but this domination, which is local and variable, cannot be confused with the overcoding function that, in specific regimes, one marker

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can exercise over others. Using the words of Deleuze and Guattari (1983), it is perhaps necessary to distinguish between modes of classification, and even types of racism; those which are ‘savage’ and those which are ‘despotic’. In the first case, we are dealing with polysemous codes which are alternatively triggered; in the second, with an overcodification of these codes on the part of a signifier that is seen as privileged. Skin colour, genealogy, genetic inheritance or even cultural heritage matter little in the face of this overcodification. Both the ‘savage’ and ‘despotic’ classifications are segmentary: someone is black, in a particular situation, always with, for, and in opposition to someone else. Accordingly, there is no distinction between discontinuous and continuous systems, but there is a distinction between the two modes of segmentarity. From the flexible point of view, the codes that allow us to decide if A is with B in opposition to C, or if A is in opposition to B and C, are of many kinds and are in a state of continuous change.177 The ‘rigid’ systems are just as segmentary as the others, but in them, to use Herzfeld’s expression (1992a:104), segmentarity is ‘concealed’ and presents itself as a fixed opposition. This is one of the processes which Herzfeld (1996:76) terms ‘literalization’: associations, which in local languages are more ‘styles’ than ‘identities’, clearly operating as shifters (I, who am ‘I’ to myself, but am ‘you’ to you, can also be white to one person and not to another), tend to be crystallized in the form of ethnic or national identities (ibid.:74–7; 80–1; 93). Far from being the foundation upon which state formations are built, they actually result from them.178 I would like to emphasize again that what we are dealing with here is not an opposition between ideological forms or individualized social forms, but rather with unstable processes in a regime of continuous variation. It follows that the anthropologists who frequently like to imagine their role as one of simply de-reifying that which the social agents reify should be more modest, as it is in fact the opposite that often occurs. Anthropology should, in fact, fight against this literalization, but their approach can not be a denouncement of what people think they are doing. On the contrary, as an ethnography of practices and as a form of pragmatism, the discipline can only be based on the flexible character of everyday classifications in its attempts to confront the apparent rigidity operated by the state and other institutions. It is only this which we can call contextualization and relativization. I have briefly observed, above, that racism can be viewed either as prejudice, or as an empirical fact which is, as we say, statistically measurable. The first option carries with it a difficulty for, as Herzfeld (1997:11) reminds us, the possibility of the ethnographer accessing people’s ‘innermost thoughts’ is, at the very least, dubious. And, at least in Ilhéus, some people appear to agree with this, so that when they are asked if anyone is racist or not, they tend to avoid the question, preferring to discuss the existence of racism in general

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within the city, or citing concrete examples of attitudes which they consider to be racist. On the other hand, if statistical figures can be interpreted in many different ways – and it is doubtful that any statistics will ever really serve as a definitive argument about anything – they at least have the merit of pointing us in the real direction of the problem. For racism, rather than just a prejudice or an ideology, is above all a practice, and, more precisely, a form of power: The specificity of modern racism, or what gives it its specificity, is not bound up with mentalities, ideologies, or the lies of power. It is bound up with the technique of power, with the technology of power. 

(Foucault 2003:258)179

Now, this ‘modern racism’ that Foucault mentions is, undoubtedly, racism of the state. Not in the sense that it is only practised by the state, but rather because it possesses a state-like form, a form which, as we have seen above, proceeds by way of a kind of ‘domestication’ of savage or wild racism (in the Lévi-Straussian sense of the term), overcoding its codes and submitting them to the rule of a central value or criteria. What happens is that, at the same time as it reinforces the local codes, this operation, rather than making them more flexible, makes them much tamer: European racism as the white man’s claim has never operated by exclusion, or by the designation of someone as Other […]. Racism operates by the determination of degrees of deviance in relation to the White-Man face, which endeavors to integrate nonconforming traits into increasingly eccentric and backward waves, sometimes tolerating them at given places under given conditions […] sometimes erasing them from the wall, which never abides alterity […]. From the viewpoint of racism, there is no exterior, there are no people on the outside. There are only people who should be like us and whose crime it is not to be.\ 

(Deleuze and Guattari 2005:178)

Succumbing to a process of axiomatization, racism can even become differential, appealing, for example, more to the idea of culture than to the idea of race.180 This is not because, as people sometimes tend to imagine, the concept of culture suffers from an inherent defect which means it is, necessarily, used in the same terrible way as the latter. In truth, we are dealing with different ways of treating race or culture, and the struggle hangs precisely on these modes of treatment. The cultural-based ‘racism’ is only the result of an overcoding by culture, in the same way that a biological basis is the result of an overcoding by nature. It is nevertheless true that culture appears better

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equipped for the process of axiomatization, causing unequal positions to exist within the system, but not permitting something truly different to exist, outside the system. This means that contemporary racism does not operate ‘in terms of binary divisions and exclusion but as a strategy of differential inclusion’ (Hardt and Negri 2000:194), and that ‘racial exclusion arises generally as a result of differential inclusion’ (Hardt 1998:147). The mechanisms of this device will be partially analysed in the next chapter.

Figures 17 and 18  Presentation of part of the percussion section of the Dilazenze in the groups’s practice space.

CHAPTER 5

1998–9 

Carnival

 After a tense two days awaiting the results of the carnival parade from the 1999 Ilhéus Cultural Carnival, we received the news that the Cultural Foundation, together with Ilheustur, would announce the general classification of the competition to the press on the afternoon of Friday 19 February, at the Municipal Theatre. We thus obtained the results, which confirmed the rumour that the Dilazenze were, for the first time ever, the carnival champions, but at the same time this also revealed a series of discrepancies with what had already been disclosed by word-of-mouth. Neither the final score received by each group, nor the classification of the blocks from second place onwards, corresponded to what had been heard throughout the city since Ash Wednesday. In front of the Municipal Theatre we ran into Moacir Pinho, who, even after stepping down as manager of Cultural Activities at the Cultural Foundation of Ilhéus after his party, PT, had severed ties with the municipal government, had been invited to participate in the organizing committee of the 1999 carnival. As a juror of the competition, he had also helped judge the parade. Marinho, suspicious of what was going on, showed Moacir the official results and he, apparently surprised, immediately confirmed that this was not the result that had been agreed by the judging committee on the Sunday of Carnival, because even though each group had paraded on two different days, it had been decided by the committee that only the first parade would be considered when allocating points for the various aspects of the parade. Moacir suggested that, even though the Dilazenze had remained as champion, their score had been reduced in an attempt to lessen the distance between first and second place, and that there had been a reversal of some

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of the positions: the Rastafiry, one of the city’s more traditional blocks, had been bumped up from third place into second, to the detriment of the Zambi Axé, a block founded only four years earlier and who had paraded for the first time at carnival that year. Urging Marinho to condemn the alterations, Moacir argued that the Dilazenze were the only group with the ‘credibility’ to make the denouncement, since they were the champions, and he, personally, would attest to the irregularity once this denouncement had been made. ‘They did politics with the parade’, Moacir concluded, and even though he was not a native of Ilhéus, the expression ‘did politics’ was marked and pronounced with the unmistakable intonation which, in the city, is almost always used when the subject is broached, and which unfailingly conveys to the listener the total contempt held for political activity and the distance that should be kept from it. As I have already noted, carnival is undoubtedly the most important activity for an Afro block. It was Paulo’s unwillingness to grasp this point that led to the disagreements between him and the militants of the Afro-cultural movement in 1996, and it is certainly this same factor that seems to be at the heart of the conflict between the black movement which describes itself as ‘cultural’ and the movement which considers itself ‘political’. The 1999 carnival, however, appeared to present some extra dimension, which conferred upon it, in the eyes of the Afro-cultural militants, a kind of additional importance. The history of carnival in Ilhéus can not be described as a welldocumented subject, but we have some evidence, at least, that the celebration is very old. The historian Silva Campos, in his Crônica da Capitania de São Jorge dos Ilhéus (1937) – written under commission from City Hall in order to commemorate the 50th anniversary of Ilhéus being awarded city status – suggests that the first proper carnival in Ilhéus took place in 1889, ‘burying once and for all the harmful and stupid amusement of the old time carnival’ (Silva Campos 1937:275). In 1936, City Hall had helped ‘the carnavalesque groups to add a bit of sparkle to the popular celebration’ (ibid.:504), even though, according to Silva Campos, the ‘most popular profane celebration’ was not the carnival, but ‘Mi-Carême’ (mid-Lent), or ‘second carnival’ – taking place, as the name suggests, in the middle of Lent (ibid.). Ultimately, this ‘Mi-Carême’ – which is the origin of contemporary micareta, a carnival that takes place out of season in various cities in Brazil – ‘conquered all the towns of the inland rural areas’, while, during carnival, ships were chartered to head to the celebrations in Salvador (ibid.:471). The testimony of Vinháes (2001:308–16), who personally attended many carnivals in Ilhéus, dating back to the 1920s, suggests that until at least 1950 the carnival which took place in the city centre, and in a few of the clubs, was basically entertainment for the white elite; notably, nothing is recorded

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regarding the activities of the vast black majority during these festivities. However, in 1950 – in the wake of the spread of various afoxés in Salvador, after the creation of Afoxé Filhos de Gandhi in 1949 – one of the most famous saint-fathers in Ilhéus, Pedro Farias, created his own afoxé, Filhos da África, which was to parade without interruption until 1970 (alongside at least one other afoxé, Filhos de Aruanda, a group which was short lived). In the 1960s, these afoxés were already mixing with the samba schools that had been emerging throughout the decade, schools which, alongside non exclusive groups or ‘blocks’ (anyone can join them) of people (blocos de arrasto) seem to have been the main players in the Ilheusean carnival up until 1980. From that moment on, there has been a dual process which has characterized the celebrations in Ilhéus to this day. On one side, as I have already noted, there was the emergence of the Afro blocks, which locally replicated the process which, in Salvador, Risério (1981) termed ‘the re-Africanization of carnival’. On the other side, there was the introduction of the ‘electric trios’ (trios elétricos) and, later on, the blocks that accompany, the ‘trio blocks’ (blocos de trio). According to the account of the black militants, the first Afro block to parade at the Ilhéus carnival were the Lê-Guê DePá in 1981. Three years later – and a little over thirty years after their emergence in Salvador – Ilhéus City Hall (during Jabes Ribeiro’s first administration) assembled a trio (carnival float) so that the inventors of the electric trio, the famous Dodô and Osmar, could parade in the city, ‘livening up the days of carnival’ (Vinháes 2001:313). In 1990 (during the administration of João Lírio, Jabes Ribeiro’s successor and fellow party member) the first blocos de trio finally emerged, also inspired by the model created in Salvador, and which Vinháes (ibid.:313–4) himself calls the ‘rich blocks’ or ‘elite blocks’. These blocks are actually large crowds of people – which can number several hundred in Ilhéus – who go out onto the main avenue of the city, gathered around a large truck with powerful amplifiers and speakers, and on top of which stands the electric trio. The group is surrounded by ropes held up and pulled along by security guards, who are also responsible for making sure that only those dressed in the block’s shirt and shorts can enter the reserved space. As in Salvador, this costume is called ‘abadá’, in an interesting appropriation of the Yoruba term, which was used to identify the tunics worn by slaves, and later, a garment worn by followers of Candomblé. The members of the Afro blocks mention, in a shocked tone, how in Salvador an abadá could cost up to BR$700 (US$400); in Ilhéus, the price varied between BR$100 (US$55) and BR$200 (US$110), which still puts these blocos de trio completely out of reach for the vast majority of the poor, local black population. With the exception, it must be said, of the ‘pretentious black poor people’, who are capable of borrowing for an entire year with the sole purpose of parading in these blocks.

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Due to their origin and structure, the blocos de trio are called ‘baron blocks’ (see Cambria 2002:23, note 28) or ‘white blocks’ by the black militants. And because of the success that these blocks were having in Ilhéus, Cesar of the Rastafiry said, in 1996: the black movement has been suffering for fourteen years in Ilhéus: ever since Antonio Olímpio’s first administration; then came Jabes Ribeiro, who gave way to João Lírio; then Antônio came back again; and now Jabes Ribeiro is back. In these fourteen years, the black organizations in Ilhéus have been struggling even to parade at carnival. Because the custom is to receive a donation to parade. But they only gave it to us in the first year so they would receive our support, after that they didn’t give us anything and they even excluded the organizations so they wouldn’t parade. They don’t help at all and they continue to ostracize the organizations. And we are suffering! Because for fourteen years now the black movement has suffered in Ilhéus! I have even thought about leaving and I am only here because of the Rastafiry and the black movement of Ilhéus, which I want to defend.

Cesar was referring both to the emergence of the electric trios and the trio blocks (during Jabes Ribeiro’s and João Lírio’s administrations, respectively, as we have seen) as well as, and perhaps chiefly, to the fact that, after 1994 (in other words, during the second year of Antônio Olímpio’s second administration – for which, from the point of view of the black militants, he secured election with the help of the Afro blocks), the Ilhéus carnival suffered a great deal of uncertainty regarding its structure, location, and even the dates when it would occur. In 1994, taking advantage of that fact that building works were taking place on the city’s main avenue – Soares Lopes Avenue, which ran along the coastline where the elite resided and had been the site for carnival parades for decades – City Hall transferred the festivities to the Malhado neighbourhood, a little further away from the city centre, and this was considered inadequate for the parade of the Afro blocks, from both a physical point-of-view and also from a social point-of-view, as it marginalized such an important event. It was even said that the change of location was linked to the prejudice of the rich – and white – residents of Soares Lopes, who wanted to avoid the presence of poor black people in front of their homes, even if only for four nights. Furthermore, and for the first time, the ‘early carnival’ was celebrated: copying the idea from the mayor of Itabuna, Antônio Olímpio brought forward the carnival in Ilhéus by three weeks, arguing that this advancement would facilitate the hiring of ‘outside attractions’ (big bands and trios), since it would avoid double-booking with the more famous carnivals – principally those of Porto Seguro and Salvador – which would make the fees for the best

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bands far too high, dramatically increasing the organizational costs of the carnival in Ilhéus. From the viewpoint of the Afro blocks, however, the early carnival only served to hasten the process of reducing the increasingly tight space which they occupied in the Ilhéus carnival. Furthermore, the ‘outside attractions’ were actually hired by the blocos de trio, who had constituted themselves as permanent associations, and whose headquarters were mainly located on Soares Lopes Avenue, often in old houses belonging to relatives of the directors, since almost all of them came from traditional cacao farming families. There were some five blocos de trio in Ilhéus, and one of them was led by one of the sons of Mayor Antônio Olímpio, which reinforced the suspicion that there were strong ties between City Hall, the blocos de trio, and the white elite in general, ties which would secure large profits from carnival for the interested parties and eliminate the presence of the Afro blocks from the event altogether. In truth, this process was not exactly new. It merely extended something that had been happening since the administration of João Lírio (allied to Jabes Ribeiro, remember), who, in 1991 and 1992, deprived the Afro blocks of the traditional financial support from City Hall, which had been provided for many years to help them parade at carnival. With what little resources they did have, or with some money obtained from local businesses or local politicians, some blocks did still manage to parade in these years, but, obviously, there was no competition and their parades were considered very feeble. In 1993 and 1994 (the first and second carnivals of Antônio Olímpio’s administration), the official support was re-established only to be withdrawn again in 1995 and 1996, when the carnival continued to take place in the Malhado neighbourhood. As a result, few blocks paraded, and those that managed to do so could only parade wearing T-shirts instead of costumes, with no particular theme, or theme music – as levadas, as they say in Ilhéus. It was openly said that the money that should have been given to the Afro blocks had been given to the blocos de trio instead. After Jabes Ribeiro’s election in 1996, the victorious group strongly emphasized the theme of ‘rescuing the carnival of Ilhéus’ and, to this end, began planning and organizing two carnivals. In 1997, shortly after taking power, the mayor decided to keep the ‘early carnival’ (newly-christened as Ilhéus Folia, a name apparently copied from Cabo Folia, from Cabo Frio, in the state of Rio de Janeiro), which took place in January on Soares Lopes Avenue once again, but with the same structure used under the previous administration, supported by the blocos de trio. At the same time, City Hall organized a small ‘Cultural Carnival’, which has since come to be known as the official carnival, even without having a parade, but which has a stage set up at

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one end of Soares Lopes Avenue, which features performances from the Afro blocks (who receive some financial support from City Hall) and other ‘local attractions’. In August 1997, City Hall also organized the ‘First Round of the Seminar Series for the Preparation of Carnival 98’, aiming to explore the ‘rescue of the Cultural Carnival of Ilhéus’ and reintroduce the Afro blocks to the centre of this event (Silva 1998:94, 104). Indeed, in 1998 – and despite retaining the model of two separate carnivals – the Afro blocks went back to parading on Soares Lopes Avenue and receiving financial support from City Hall. In 1999, the competition was re-established between the blocks. In 2000, Ilhéus Folia was abandoned, but the carnival – continuing to be called the ‘cultural’ one, even though it was the only one – continued to follow the pattern of the two previous years: Afro blocks in a competitive parade, more unorganized blocks (blocos de arrasto), stages with ‘local attractions’ and the ‘old carnival’, which took place in the Folias de Gabriela Circus, a space closed off under a tarpaulin and also situated, like everything else, on Soares Lopes Avenue. Up until 2003, this structure and programme were maintained, but in 2004 the only carnival was the early one again, taking place at the beginning of February, and the attractions from the previous years were retained, in addition to, once again, the electric trios and ‘outside attractions’ hired by City Hall. The blocos de trio – which evidently underwent a process of decay during the two consecutive terms of Jabes Ribeiro, and only two of which survived – returned to the parade with more strength in the 2004 carnival.

 As a result of all these events, it is perhaps possible to imagine that the insistence of Jabes Ribeiro and his team in their discourse around the ‘rescue of the Cultural Carnival’ could be thought of, by them at least, as a kind of attempt to reproduce, by the apparatus of the state, the more spontaneous process which occurred in Salvador in the beginning of the 1970s, named by Risério (1981) ‘the re-Africanization of carnival’. From the point of view of the Afro-cultural movement, however, the contempt shown towards the Afro blocks, alongside what we could perhaps call, ironically, the ‘de-Africanization’ of the Ilhéus carnival, had not begun with Antônio Olímpio (against whom the supporters of Jabes Ribeiro thought they were reacting), but rather in the previous administration, that of João Lírio, or even earlier, in the first term of Jabes Ribeiro. Then, the black militants say, the afoxés and samba schools were abandoned – to such a degree that they never fully recovered – at the benefit of the electric trios, which led to the development of the trio blocks, which came to undermine the work of the Afro blocks.181

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It was this, in truth, which lay behind the words of Cesar of the Rastafiry, and also those of Gilmar, of the Dilazenze: The people here, the members of the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus, basically only make any money in two periods, during elections and during carnival. But we have great difficulty in working with the carnival, because both the public and the private sector have no interest in sponsoring the Afro organizations. I mean, we survive on the few things that we make and the few friends that we have. There is no interest on the part of City Hall to keep the Afro blocks on the street. There is more interest in maintaining the blocos de trio which gentrify the carnival in Ilhéus, and that’s the truth. The carnival in Ilhéus has been made elitist, the ones running the carnival are the young barons, the sons of the mayor, the sons of the mayor’s ministers, they are the ones giving out orders in the Ilhéus carnival.

However, it is clear that, as is often the case, the opinions of the Afro block leaders regarding Ilhéus Folia can be quite varied and, sometimes, even conflicting. On one side, they tended to consider it as a ‘white carnival’ (Menezes 1998:82, 84), a perversion of the true celebration, that they, above all, knew how to perform; on the other side, they inevitably felt attracted to the possible material and financial benefits and also to the ‘visibility’ that the event could provide to them, given that tourism from outside the city had been much more pronounced at the early carnival than at the cultural one (ibid.:89). In 1999, CEAC worked hard to participate in Ilhéus Folia. They proposed to City Hall that they finance, to the tune of approximately BR$35,000 (US$20,000), a bloco de trio organized by the Council, and this block would count on the participation of all the Afro blocks in the city. This block, significantly called the Os Quilombolas Afro Block,** would perform two parades on Soares Lopes Avenue, with an identical structure to that of the usual blocos de trio. The response from City Hall, unsurprisingly, was that it would be very interesting for Ilhéus Folia to include the presence of a block of this kind, but at the early carnival it was a task for the blocks themselves to secure the necessary funds, and they should finance their parades by obtaining funds from sponsors (making use of laws that aimed to encourage and promote culture) and selling abadás to those who wished to take part in the parade. Since it was obviously impossible to sell anything at all to the members of the Afro blocks, or to obtain sponsorship for a block like Os Quilombolas *

Translators’ Note: quilombola is the name given to a resident of a Quilombo, a settlement founded by slaves who escaped from slave plantations. It is the equivalent of the Maroons of the Caribbean.

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(and also to develop a project that could compete for the state and federal cultural incentives), the idea was soon abandoned by the directors of CEAC. We should note, once again, how the unity of the Afro-cultural movement in Ilhéus is almost always established by its relationship with the state. It was only the idea of being able to participate in Ilhéus Folia, in the event that funding was provided by City Hall, that allowed for the development of this strange idea of a single block formed by the members of all the separate blocks. Furthermore, it can also be seen that it is not only economic inequalities that establish barriers preventing the black movement from participating in an essentially ‘white’ event such as Ilhéus Folia. It is true that the impossibility of selling abadás to poor people played a role; but it is equally true that the difficulty in obtaining sponsorship was directly linked to the far smaller level of goodwill shown by traders and businessmen towards black leaders than that shown to members of the elite who led the blocos de trio; and it is also true that the requirement to present a detailed project plan in order to access the state cultural incentives immediately excluded those who can only just read and write.182 Before 1999, the Dilazenze were already planning to parade at the early carnival with their band (in other words, part of the percussion section and without the traditional sections of costumed revellers which make up an Afro block). At the meeting to organize the event, Marinho discovered that there was a rule regarding a fine for the blocos de trio who failed to comply with the established schedules. He argued that his block lacked the financial resources to cope with any possible penalty, but this was met with no response. A short while afterwards, he was embarrassed to hear the leaders of the blocos de trio suggesting that they actually offered jobs to the poorer people in Ilhéus – as both security guards as well as those who held the ropes to keep the block separate from the rest of the crowd (cordeiros) – and that this was, in fact, already a way of allowing these people to play and participate in the early carnival. The Dilazenze did not parade in Ilhéus Folia. If, for the Afro blocks as a whole, the 1999 carnival – featuring the return of the competition between the blocks, together with supposedly more substantial financial support – represented a significant moment in their history, for the Dilazenze in particular this carnival was absolutely pivotal. Considered, according to their members, the best Afro block in the city, they had never won the title of Carnival Champions of Ilhéus, and their members were forced to listen to all manner of jokes and provocations from the members of their arch-rival the Rastafiry (who were champions in the last competitive parade, in 1988). It is true that some members wavered between regarding the competition as a healthy way of encouraging the blocks to improve and condemning it as a harmful way of stirring up the well-known

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rivalries that existed between the blocks. I suspect, though, that this perhaps had more to do with the fear of defeat than the fear of division. Once it was decided that there really would be a competition, everyone in the Dilazenze was immediately and completely focused on the absolute necessity of winning carnival for the first time, thus consolidating their position as the principal Afro block in the city. To achieve this victory, which they saw as fundamental, no expense would be spared, within the realm of possibility, of course. The distribution of support from City Hall was incredibly complicated. Making available a total budget of BR$22,000 (US$12,000), the carnival organizing committee delegated to CEAC the tricky task of apportioning the money between the different groups which made up the Council of Afro-Cultural Organizations. The three blocks considered to be the largest – the Dilazenze, Rastafiry and Miny Kongo – argued that they should receive a higher amount, since their costs would be higher. However, the smaller blocks (the Raízes Negras and D’Logun, who paraded together, and the Zambi Axé), the Levada da Capoeira (a group formed by Capoeira fighters from one of the city’s academies), the Danados do Reggae (a new block that would also parade as a ‘levada’), the Afoxé Filhos de Ogum and Embaixada Gêge-Nagô (a group formed of children and youths, who parade by rhythmically hitting small sticks of wood together (pauzinhos), which gave the name by which the group is most wellknown) argued that the remaining amount would be insufficient for them. After a great deal of confusion, BR$4,000 (US$2,200) was given to each of the three large blocks; BR$2,000 (US$1,100) to each of the smaller blocks and the Afoxé; BR$1,500 (US$800) to the Embaixada Gêge-Nagô; and BR$1,250 (US$700) to the Levada. The Dilazenze, however, spent a little more than they received, using native systems of credit.183 These expenses were higher still because City Hall took much longer than expected to release the money, with the funds only reaching the blocks three days before carnival. This forced everyone to buy their supplies in a rush at the local market (which, it should be noted, usually waits with a great deal of anxiety for this money to be provided to the blocks, and then raises prices accordingly), without having the time to look for better prices outside of Ilhéus. Marinho believed that the difference between the money that was spent and the money that they had could be covered by the award money that was promised for the carnival champions, which would be 20 per cent of the funding received by the winning organization, which, in the case of the Dilazenze, would be BR$800 (US$450). This would be sufficient not only to pay off any debts, but also to cover the victory feijoada, to be accompanied by plenty of beer, which would take place on the Saturday following the announcement of the results.

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The problem was that, shortly after meeting Moacir and suggesting that ‘they did politics with the parade’, Marinho ran into Gurita and, after enquiring about the prize that Dilazenze would be entitled to, he was surprised to learn that there would in fact be no prize money, but only a trophy, and Gurita suggested that he had probably misunderstood the rules of the competition. Slightly upset by this, Marinho began to raise suspicions about Gurita’s role in what he considered the disappearance of the prize, as well as speculating on the effects that this behaviour could have on Gurita’s candidacy for councillor in the 2000 elections. One result of all this confusion was the decision to cancel the victory feijoada, a decision which was taken amid great consternation. I even suggested that maybe it would be possible to offer just the feijoada itself, and to ask members of the block to bring their own drinks, as was customary at many private parties. It was then explained to me that ‘it is not beautiful to not have any drinks, particularly to the percussion members’, and that this was not the first occasion that there had been difficulties organizing the feijoada. In the previous year, even without the formal competition, the Dilazenze had been considered the best block at the Cultural Carnival, and because of this they had decided to offer a feijoada. They had no money, but as 1998 was a ‘year of politics’ (in other words, an election year), the money was ultimately obtained from two local politicians, who wished to put forward their names as candidates for federal and state deputy. Thus, not only were there debts incurred from spending money that they thought would be repaid with future prize money, 1999 was not a ‘year of politics’ and therefore the situation was much more complicated, leading to the cancellation of the feijoada. One of the politicians who ‘helped’ with the 1998 feijoada was Gildo Pinto, ex-member of the Movement Ilhéus Hearts, defeated in the elections of 1992, but who secured his election in 1996, even reaching the position of president of the Chamber of Councillors. In 1999, he was also asked for help in an attempt to solve this financial problem, but the result was completely different, serving as a good example of the kind of relationship that is often established between blocks and politicians. One of the debts incurred by the Dilazenze in the 1999 carnival was with a beer distributor. The BR$200 (US$110), paid with a pre-dated cheque by one of Marinho’s brothers, who at the time was employed, now needed to be deposited in the account in order to ‘back the cheque’. Marinho appealed to Gildo Pinto, who, after helping the block in 1998, had received their support in his campaign for state deputy (an election in which he was defeated, but, as everyone knew, this election really had the purpose of securing his candidacy for re-election as councillor in 2000) and who, furthermore, owed BR$30 (US$17) to the block’s bar, money that had been spent to buy beers for his

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fellow party members during the campaign. When Marinho found him, Gildo said that obviously he could not withhold his support for the Dilazenze but, later on, he said that he could not obtain the money because ‘things are bleak’. Ultimately, the cheque could only be backed with some money given by one of Marinho’s friends. Some time before appealing to Gildo to back the cheque, Marinho had sought him out with the objective of getting a job as a janitor in a local school. The councillor had argued that it was ‘very difficult’ to get this position, which led Marinho to conclude that he did not want to take this request to City Hall because he ‘did not want to owe anything to the mayor’. Very reluctantly, Marinho made the same request to Gurita who, while making a point of appearing very surprised to hear the story of Gildo’s response – since he had heard that Gildo secured jobs for many of his fellow party members, and even some family members – promised to get Marinho the job. Shortly afterwards, Marinho confessed that he deeply regretted having sought out Gurita, and claimed that he had only done so because of the pressure his wife was putting on him and the fact that he had been unemployed for several years, which meant that the basic wage she received from working in a petrol station cafe was the only source of steady income to support their daughter and their household, as the money earned from Dilazenze performances was minimal and infrequent. The problem, Marinho said, is that if he got the job and, later on, decided not to support Gurita in his campaign for councillor, he ran the risk that Gurita, or someone close to him, would ‘throw back in his face’ the fact that he had found him a job when he was ‘going hungry’ and that he was now acting ‘ungratefully’: ‘politicians always act like this, they think they are doing favours for you and then they throw it back in your face’, Marinho concluded. Gildo Pinto was also the main character in a somewhat unusual scene that I witnessed while the Dilazenze were still preparing for carnival in 1999. In late afternoon on the day that the 8th Dilazenze Music Festival (‘Femadila’), was taking place after some years of interruption, when they were choosing the group’s theme music for the parade that would happen four days later,184 Gildo arrived at the samba court where the event was being prepared. Accompanied by one of his ‘advisers’ – who was black, a personal friend of Marinho’s, and a member of the D’Logun (created in 1992, remember, to support the campaign of some members of the Movement Ilhéus Hearts, including Gildo Pinto) – he asked to speak privately with Marinho. After a few minutes of speaking and gesturing, they first went to Marinho’s house and then from there they left. I watched this scene unfold from a distance with everyone else, and we imagined that Gildo was offering some kind of help for the group in carnival, bearing in mind the support that he had received in the elections of the

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previous year and the support that he hoped to receive the following year. We were therefore very surprised to discover that, knowing that City Hall’s budget was allocated for the group, he was actually ‘cashing a cheque with the Dilazenze’, loaning money in return for a cheque that could be deposited at the bank after carnival, when he would have already received his ‘councillor’s salary’, since, as an employee of the Ilhéus dock workers’ union, of which he was president, Gildo already received other remuneration. We were even more surprised when we realized that Marinho would not only ‘cash the cheque’, but had also invited Gildo to be part of the jury for that night’s festival, an invitation that he regrettably declined due to ‘unavoidable appointments’. Reciprocity may very well be a fundamental structure of human existence in society or an element of calculation in specific social relations. None of this, however, eliminates the fact that, from the point of view of social agents, it is a somewhat dangerous operation that is fraught with risk. Its activation or invocation can certainly, in some cases, allow for the obtainment of advantages, but it can also, and perhaps principally, compromise the debtor in such a way that they become imprisoned in a web of relationships from which they cannot free themselves even should they wish to. This could also explain the fact that voters – at least the poorer ones – tend to prefer ‘short cycles’ of reciprocity, in other words, those in which the benefits materialize as soon as possible. We saw this in the conflict between the Dilazenze and Cosme Araújo in 1996, but we can also see it more generally in the kind of transaction understood by the term ‘vote buying’. Politicians, by contrast, appear to prefer longer cycles of reciprocity, in which the interval between the instalments may cause the repayment to appear as a debt, which becomes, progressively, more and more difficult to repay, even in some cases reaching the status of ‘unpayable debt’, as is sometimes said. This is true both when politicians find themselves in the position of creditors – and the process is certainly clearer in these situations – as well as when they find themselves in the position of debtors. In this case – as with the Afro-Cultural Centre of Ilhéus in 1992 – the non-payment of the debt by politicians prolongs the relationship with the supposed creditors, so that those who are expecting to receive their counterpayment fear a breakdown in the relationship, which would inevitably imply the non-payment of the ‘debt’.185 Gildo Pinto never paid his debt of BR$30 (US$17) that he owed at the Dilazenze bar, but he ‘backed’ the cheque which was cashed on the eve of carnival. After this, he kept his distance for some time, and only returned to find the group at the end of 1999, when he was preparing the campaign for his re-election in the following year’s municipal elections. Gildo was accompanied by Jacks, the future president of CEACI and, at that time, leader of the D’Logun and worker in the dockworkers’ union (where Gildo, who had secured the job

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for him, worked). He was in the same role as the adviser who was present during the episode with the cheque and who, once again, was accompanying the councillor. The purpose of the visit was to propose to Marinho that he worked on Gildo’s campaign. However, what was, from a certain point of view, a request for political support was, in truth, presented as an offer of employment: Marinho would become one of Gildo’s ‘advisers’. This term, as I have already noted, has a broad range of meanings in Ilhéus, designating both an official position (a paid advisory job) as well as an auxiliary, or informal, role and even extending to anyone who supposedly helps or gives their opinions on politics. As we saw in the first chapter, in Ilhéus some councillors hire as many as twenty advisers, which obviously means that the salary of each one is greatly reduced.186 The ‘adviser’ in the episode of the cheque actually worked as a doorman or elevator operator at the Chamber of Councillors, and received a salary that was not only very low, but also variable and inconsistent. In 1996, Paulo Rodrigues was classified as an adviser of CEAC for political affairs; and, when Marinho considered campaigning for councillor in 2004, I was even invited to be his campaign adviser. This imprecision in the definition of what an adviser really is has its benefits. Gildo offered Marinho a ‘job’, but failed to mention a salary. Directly questioned by Marinho, the councillor vaguely mentioned a ‘basic basket’ (which constituted, apparently, the payment for the adviser who was accompanying him) and, given the surprise expressed by Marinho, he went on, saying that it would not be ‘just any “basic basket”, but the “basic basket”’ or ‘a super “basic basket.”’ In fact, the ‘basic baskets’ appear to have been transformed, in Ilhéus at least, into a kind of special monetary unit or, to be more precise, a kind of currency used principally – but not exclusively – as payment for electoral services. Introduced in recent years through several government welfare programmes, they also clearly signify the situation of need and dependence on the part of the beneficiary in relation to the supplier. Upon hearing Marinho’s response, saying that he would think about it, Gildo ended the conversation, stating that he would like it very much if Marinho accepted the job, for that way he would know that he was helping and that, in the future, it would make him very happy to visit Marinho’s house to ‘have a barbecue paid for out of his own pocket’.187 Marinho, who organized small barbecues at his home at least once a month, said nothing, but, after the visitors had left, he spoke angrily of how they were trying to ‘humiliate’ him, suggesting that he was ‘going hungry’ and that he could not even ‘pay for a barbecue’. He also added that this was the style of the politicians in Ilhéus when they spoke to ‘poorer people’, a style which we can summarize as seeking to superimpose the politician’s position of superiority on to the position of

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relative inferiority in which those who are asking for something generally find themselves. This style and this rhetoric of humiliation are very evident in Ilhéus, even to the naked eye. However, they are not limited, as Marinho suggested, to local politicians, being present in almost all relationships that bring into contact agents from distinct social levels. They involve a tone of superiority, an expression of detachment and a feeling of hastiness, which seem intended to produce an image of someone who wants to ‘help’, never imposing or asking for anything. ‘Help’ is the central term in this kind of relationship: it is used as a request by a beggar asking for spare change, as well as being used, in the form of an offer, by a politician who offers money, or by those who, like Gildo Pinto, try to hire someone for a job or particular service. The term is equally used, however, and with great frequency, in the relationships between municipal public power as a whole and the black movement of Ilhéus.188 In October of 1998, Ilheustur (the municipal body responsible for generating tourism in the city) contacted the Dilazenze to ask the block to perform ten presentations as part of the so-called ‘receptive tourism’: presentations made by a dance group for tourists arriving at the port of Ilhéus, which serves as one of the stopping points for luxury cruises travelling along the Brazilian coast. The Dilazenze presented a budget of BR$6,000 (US$5,000) to which Ilheustur immediately made a counter offer of BR$3,000 (US$2,500), the maximum amount, they claimed, that they could provide, and only two-thirds of which would be paid beforehand, with the rest only after the final presentation was made, which would not be until December. Furthermore, this advance payment of BR$2,000 (US$1,670) would not be paid in cash, but in the form of musical instruments, whose value, moreover, would have to be calculated by the group and taken to a meeting with the president of Ilheustur. The president planned to complete the payment for the instruments on time, but ran into one difficulty: no specialist store would sell in this way to Ilhéus City Hall, which was, they said, well known for failing to honour its debts. Thus, at a very awkward meeting, the president of Ilheustur suggested that the Dilazenze themselves could acquire the instruments with a ‘borrowed credit card’, and then pay the credit-card bill in instalments, using the monthly amounts which they would receive from Ilheustur. Accustomed to the usual delays in these monthly payments of municipal money, and also wary, principally because of a debt of BR$2,000 (US$1,670) that Ilheustur already had with the Dilazenze, dating back almost three years, Marinho hesitated to accept the proposal. The tone of the president of Ilheustur, already one of superiority and command, rose a little when he said: ‘I want to help you, but in this case, the only thing left to do is abort the project.’ – the same expression used by the treasurer who, called into the meeting room, explained

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the impossibility of buying the instruments upfront. Finally, Marinho agreed to receive the money in instalments and decided that he would buy the instruments as the money was given to the Dilazenze, meanwhile using the group’s old equipment as well as some borrowed instruments. The deal was finally closed, but the president of Ilheustur, once again, made a point of stressing the ‘helpful’ character that the agreement, in his eyes, possessed. In a seminal work, Richard Graham showed that the true meaning of elections, frequently and uninterruptedly taking place throughout the Second Empire of Brazil, was less one of responding to the effective choice of rulers on the part of the people (as the electoral results were almost always the object of fraud or the target of the open use of violence) than of functioning as a kind of ‘theatre’ in which the ‘participants used the language of social rank to distinguish among voters, rather than to exclude them’ (Graham 1997:108–9), in other words, to exhibit and ratify a highly stratified and elitist social order. After the reform of 1881, this ‘electoral theatre’ had stopped working and the author raises the question of the destiny of these practices of ostentation and status, aimed at ‘clearly separated the few who conducted elections from the many who merely voted’ (ibid.:158). I believe that, far from having disappeared, these practices seeped into the everyday relationships between politicians and voters, becoming particularly visible during electoral campaigns. In other words, if it is true that ‘political time’ opens or intensifies channels of communication between different social strata, it needs to be recognized, equally, that this does not necessarily mean that there is a greater permeability between these layers. On the contrary, it can represent a highly appropriate occasion for the exhibition of status and for the reaffirmation of all social hierarchies. In this sense, by establishing, every two years, a space where these dramas will play out, which combine participation and exclusion, elections actually construct this domination, but not in the way we might imagine. For this is neither the simple institution of legitimate rule, nor the mere legitimation of pre-existing forms of domination. It is more a mechanism of power, in the material and Foucauldian sense of the expression (and not in the bourgeois or Marxist sense). In elections and in ‘politics’, there is much more than just the political: there are powers, subjectivities and agencies, elements that an anthropology of politics cannot put aside.

 On 12 February 1999, Mayor Jabes Ribeiro officially opened the Ilhéus Cultural Carnival. In the document they had signed in order to receive their funding from City Hall for the parade, the Afro organizations had all made

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a commitment to send at least part of their percussion section to attend the opening ceremony, which took place on Friday night, the day before carnival, on Soares Lopes Avenue. The problem was that Gurita, the mastermind of the proposal, warned that transport for the musicians and the instruments – a problem that arises every time an Afro group performs – would be the responsibility of the black groups, which from their point of view made their attendance impossible, as they would have to allocate part of the already sparse funds provided by City Hall in order to pay for transportation. Furthermore, especially for the Dilazenze, the preparation required for the parade on Sunday was enormous, mainly because, due to the delay in receiving the funding, there was very limited time available. As a result of this, the blocks politically closest to Gurita, together with those whose headquarters were near the city centre, were the only ones who sent any musicians, resulting in the opening of the Cultural Carnival being considered as a ‘very poor’ ceremony. Visibly angry, Gurita repeated to everyone that there would be repercussion and even punishments, since the mayor had specifically requested the presence of the blocks, and they had all formally signed a binding agreement. Later on, one of the members of the carnival’s organizing committee said that the mayor had not said anything about the matter, and nor did he seem to care about the non-appearance of the blocks, which confirmed the general impression that, once again, Gurita was trying to ‘show off ’ or make himself known. In other words, everyone suspected that Gurita only wanted to exhibit the blocks in front of the mayor or, specifically, to show Jabes that he did have control of the blocks and that he really was, as he liked to proclaim, the ‘representative’ of the black movement to Ilhéus City Hall. In any case, on the Saturday and Monday of carnival, the following groups paraded: Levada da Capoeira, Raízes Negras (who paraded together with D’Logun), Rastafiry and Zambi Axé. On Sunday and Tuesday, it was the turn of the following groups to parade: Embaixada Gêge-Nagô, Afoxé Filhos de Ogum, Danados do Reggae, Miny Kongo and Dilazenze. The Sunday of carnival, 14 February 1999, was a day of intense activity and a fair amount of tension at the headquarters of the Dilazenze Cultural Group. They had been working from very early in the morning to make everything ready in time for the parade, despite the delay in buying some of the material as a consequence of the late arrival of the promised funding from City Hall. Another kind of delay, incidentally, was one of the major concerns of the group. The organizing committee had decided to include ‘punctuality’ as one of the criteria for judging the parade, and the Dilazenze were renowned for having problems showing up on time. People remembered that their loss to the Rastafiry in the last competitive parade had occurred because of an enormous delay when entering the Avenue for the parade. Marinho, who

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reluctantly admitted that it was almost impossible for them to show up at the scheduled time, therefore decided to accept my suggestion (I was perhaps the person most concerned with the issue), and told the members of the block that the Dilazenze parade would begin at 7.30 p.m., when it would actually only begin an hour later. This small lie ended up working out fairly well, and at 7 p.m. – a perfectly acceptable time for a parade that began at 8.30 p.m. – the block, stationed between the Dilazenze headquarters and the Tombenci terreiro (buildings which stood opposite each other), was ready to begin the march to Soares Lopes Avenue. All of their sections were ready and ordered, the truck, which served as a float carrying a model of a quilombo and two notable figures representing Zumbi dos Palmares and his wife Dandara (the chosen theme was the same one that Marinho had tried, unsuccessfully, to use for the early carnival, the Quilombolas), was ready to set off. At that moment, something very serious appeared to happen, as the departure of the block was interrupted by lots of people running from one side to the other and Marinho, who was very nervous, kept repeating ‘now it’s getting ugly’.189 Moments before the departure of the block, one of Marinho’s sisters – the ‘little-mother’ (mãe-pequena) of the terreiro (in other words, the main assistant to the saint-mother – in this case one her biological daughters), one of only two members of the fourteen siblings to have, alongside Gilvan, the ‘gift’ of being able to be possessed by the orixás – went into a trance, possessed by a feminine version of Exu.190 As Pombagira, amidst bawdy laughter and with the somewhat vulgar vocabulary which characterizes this kind of spirit, she immediately declared: ‘I know that you thought I wouldn’t come, but I came. Because there are a lot of sexy men here today.’ Directly afterwards, people noticed that the spirit was not only there for fun and games. In a style that an English friend defined as ‘Shakespearean’, the Pombagira proclaimed: ‘it seems like you are sleeping with the eyes of others so as to not see what is happening, so as to not see that they have done and sent something big against you’. What Nidinha’s Pombagira had announced was that the Dilazenze had been the victim of a curse, undoubtedly cast by their rivals, suffering from a deep jealousy due to the group’s success over the last few years, and who wanted to stop, at whatever cost, the block from winning the carnival parade. Harshly reprimanding Marinho for having ‘forgotten’ to buy the ingredients which, the night before, should have been used in a sacrifice for Exu, Dona Ilza tried to improvise an offering for the deity who serves as an intermediary for all other orixás, ‘opening pathways’ and guaranteeing the success of human endeavours. Seven small cakes made from flour and palm oil were baked and left at seven crossroads, one of the dwellings of Exu, located near to the terreiro. Next, the saint-mother blew large quantities of white pemba – a powder which, in Candomblé, is used for purification and serves

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to ‘unload’ (descarregar) or, in other words, to ward off negative vibrations and bad influences – over all of us and decreed that, from that moment, the block could go out and parade on the avenue. Marinho also said that he felt the presence of the ghosts of his maternal grandparents, old and powerful leaders of the terreiro, and that their eyes were filled with tears, but he was able to ‘hold himself together’ by thinking about the parade and the necessity of winning. Fireworks were set off, some white doves were released,191 and the block went out onto Brasil Avenue, which used to be Carilos Street, heading towards the hill that would lead to the city centre. Playing and singing the carnival theme music with great power and emotion,192 we paraded, first through the streets of Conquista, the pavements filled with people singing and applauding the block. In some ways, this was the high point of carnival and, more than for those who were watching the parade on Soares Lopes Avenue, it was for their neighbours and, ultimately, for themselves, that the members of the Dilazenze prepared their carnival parade.193 We went down the slope of Ladeira da Coelba, so steep that it forced the musicians to interrupt their playing and the revellers to tread very carefully. At the foot of the hill, crossing the busy Itabuna Avenue, the first incident occurred: a car went through a red light, also ignoring the traffic officer who was protecting the block as they passed through. Someone knocked on the window of the car and the officer immediately put his hand on the gun strapped to his waist. Everyone ran towards the police officer, amidst a huge outcry; the members of the percussion section, holding their instruments above their heads, threatened to throw them at the officer; one of Marinho’s brothers told the officer that, if he drew his weapon and shot, he would also die; another said that he would make a formal complaint against him at the Military Police Station; finally, Marinho managed to calm everyone down and appease the situation, and the block continued on its route down Soares Lopes Avenue. This episode, along with two or three minor conflicts that happened during, or immediately after, the parade, came to be remembered as evidence of the dangers brought about by the curse invoked against the block. Everyone repeated that, if Nidinha’s Pombagira had not voiced her warning, and if Dona Ilza had not performed the protective ritual at the last minute, the Dilazenze’s carnival would undoubtedly have ended on Itabuna Avenue, with a great tragedy. In any case, and to my enormous surprise, as the delays in setting off for carnival and the incident with the police officer had convinced me that any hope of punctuality was a lost cause, we entered the avenue at exactly 8.30 p.m. Furthermore, we got there before the Miny Kongo, one of the Dilazenze’s biggest rivals, who should have paraded an hour earlier, but had been delayed. This delay not only took points off the block’s overall score, but allowed the

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Figure 19 Dilazenze’s parade in the Carnival of 1999.

Dilazenze to parade accompanied by the best sound system available, while the Miny Kongo ended up parading without any sound system at all, which reduced their score even further. All of these events served to prove what everyone already openly suspected: that the origin of the curse invoked against the group was the Miny Kongo, the only Afro block of Ilhéus – other than the Dilazenze, of course – which has, among its leaders, a Candomblé saint-father. Not that anyone believed that this saint-father, or even his block, were the only ones responsible for the curse: it was thought that the third largest block in Ilhéus, the Rastafiry, had also been involved in the plot, but there could be no doubt as to who had been the mastermind of the work. It was in their direction, therefore, that the misfortune, duly avoided by the intervention of Nidinha’s Pombagira and by Dona Ilza, ended up being diverted. The secondto-last place which was awarded to the Miny Kongo at the 1999 carnival, and the fact that the Rastafiry only secured the runners-up spot due to the ‘politics’ surrounding the parade results, were constantly mentioned after carnival as irrefutable proof of their culpability regarding the curse. Notwithstanding, of course, the fact that they were considered to be ‘incompetent’ blocks, ultimately unable to compete on equal terms with the Dilazenze.194 It was also repeated that the source of the problem could be found, unquestionably, in the ‘jealousy’ that the Miny Kongo and the Rastafiry felt in regard to the Dilazenze, jealously which was so deep-seated that it made them capable of radically inverting the truth of things, spreading rumours throughout the city that the block’s success and victory were only due to the magic and witchcraft performed by Dona Ilza.

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Figure 20 Dilazenze’s parade in the Carnival of 1999.

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 From the point of view of the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus, the 1999 carnival, despite all of the problems faced, actually did represent the ‘rescue of Cultural Carnival’ which the city’s mayor had repeatedly alluded to. Everyone recognized that, even though he had not received the movement’s support in the 1996 elections, since he had taken office Jabes had made great efforts to ensure the success of Cultural Carnival. At the beginning of 1997, he had allowed the performance of blocks even if they were not going to parade; he separated the carnival from the blocos de trio and re-established the parade of the Afro blocks in 1998, as well as providing some financial support; in 1999, he reintroduced the competition between the Afro blocks and, at least in theory, the prize given to the winner of carnival; and, in 2000, he restored the single carnival, on the official date and with a prominent place for the Afro blocks. This situation, as with others described throughout this book, is clearly bound up with an old and difficult question: are organizations such as Afro blocks (but also Candomblé terreiros, carnival groups, capoeira academies and suchlike) ultimately forms and focal points of resistance, or, on the contrary, are they privileged groups and targets for the efforts of co-option undertaken by the state and by politicians in general? In the literature that focuses on these organizations, this appears to be a delicate point, as the researchers in question generally have an obvious level of personal and political involvement. Thus, Agier (1992; 2000), for example, simply does not touch the complex issue of the relationships between the Afro blocks and political parties.195 Siqueira (1996:139, 141–2) appears to consider that at least some blocks (and the Ilê Aiyê, as always, are the special case) represent ‘nuclei’, endowed with a ‘specific function and autonomy’, thereby constituting an ‘ethnic organization’ that would be a form of ‘contemporary political-cultural resistance’. Morales (1988:267, 270–3; 1991:84) seems to agree with this position, though she tries to demonstrate that in-so-far as they become ‘cultural groups’ and seek to develop activities tied to their neighbourhood or social group, the blocks become part of the game of political clientelism. In this sense, the Ilê Aiyê are opposed to the Afoxé Filhos de Gandhi as examples of the respective poles of greater and lesser resistance (or of lesser and greater degrees of co-option). McCallum (1996; 1997) and Cunha (1998) appear to adopt an analogous position, arguing that attempts at resistance or efforts to control internal tensions and differences – characteristic of organizations based on politics of identity – tend to bestow upon these organizations a greater malleability in respect to forming alliances with political forces of another order, and, consequently, a greater potential of co-option.

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In truth, it is not difficult to realize that ‘culture’ – a term that serves as a common denominator for the forms of sociability discussed here – seems to form part of the arsenal of apparatus of capture available to the state and the powerful. A concept coined by Deleuze and Guattari (2005:424–73), ‘apparatus of capture’ essentially designates the devices of appropriation of heterogeneous and continually varying human action and their conversion into homogeneous, controllable and mutually comparable activities.196 It is in this way that the conversion of exploited territories into productive land (becoming the first lands which are comparable and appropriable) is an apparatus of capture which, simultaneously, allows for ‘ground rent’ and is the correlate of the objectification of ownership and the landowner (ibid.:440– 1).197 Likewise, ‘work’ and ‘money’ are further apparatus of capture, acting under continual variation and change, aimed at the worker, profit and taxes (ibid.:441–3). As there is obviously no reason to assume that the list of apparatus of capture is finite, we can apply the concept to any device which operates in a homologous manner to those which were identified by Deleuze and Guattari. Indeed, it is the authors themselves who call attention to the fact that it is the state, as a whole, that could be considered the apparatus of capture par excellence, always acting through the conversion of the forces that capture, and utilizing, for this, a wide variety of specific devices of which rent, work and money are only three particular cases which appear, in fact, to work more powerfully at the time of the historical constitution of capitalism than in its more advanced stages. If we add to this the fact that by state we are not merely designating an institution, but a mode of operation and a form of power, we understand why ‘we call this interior essence or this unity of the state “capture”’ (ibid.:427). In other words, we understand that there is no state which captures, but rather that capture is the state and vice versa. This means that, from this perspective, the difference between the apparatus of the state itself and that of so-called non-governmental organizations, for example, is completely irrelevant. Finally, I would like to observe that Deleuze and Guattari (ibid.:388, 426) also isolate what they call the ‘two poles’ of the state, as it operates both by ‘magic capture’ as well as by ‘judicial contract’. This means, firstly, that if legal organization is undoubtedly one of the arms of the state, the ability to attract, promise and seduce is the other; and, secondly, that the continuous and permanent oscillation between explicit codes and unmentionable deceit and trickery is the same mode of operation of this kind of power.198 It no longer remains difficult, therefore, to see that ‘culture’ works, in Ilhéus and perhaps everywhere, as a powerful apparatus of capture. This is, in fact, the meaning of Guattari’s proposition, according to which:

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the concept of culture is deeply reactionary. It is a means of separating semiotic activities […] into spheres […]. Such activities, thus isolated, are standardized, potentially or actually instituted, and capitalized for the dominant means of semiotization – in other words, simply severed from their political realities. 

(Guattari 1986c:15).

In ethnographic terms, the definition of the ritual practices performed by a saint-mother, or the music performed by Afro-blocks, as ‘culture’, has the ability to simultaneously capture these actions, isolating them from the lives of those involved, and also to eliminate the religious or aesthetic force which characterizes them,199 converting them into homogeneous activities, comparable to countless others, so that they can be offered up in the general market: ‘just as capital is a mode of semiotization that allows there to be a general equivalent for economic and social production, culture is the general equivalent for the production of power’ (ibid.:24). Well-intentioned purism, which would argue that this notion of culture has nothing to do with whatever it is that anthropologists work with, is of no use here. As Guattari also demonstrated, the three meanings of culture – ‘value-culture’, ‘collective-soul-culture’ and ‘commodity-culture’ (ibid.:17) – may well have appeared successively over time, but this does not mean that they do not function together and at the same time (ibid.:19).Thus, in Ilhéus, black culture (as ‘collective-soul-culture’) can only ‘develop’ (in other words, achieve the status of ‘value-culture’) by transforming itself into ‘commodity-culture’ (in other words, by beginning to function according to the rules of the universal equivalent to be displayed, and, literally, sold in a market). Culture is, at the same time, a ‘trap-word’ (ibid.:17) and an apparatus of capture, possibly the one most well-adapted to the demands of the controlling society that characterizes contemporary capitalism. This also seems to be the conclusion of Michael Herzfeld (1992a:99, 107; 1996:26–7), when he suggests that it would be characteristic of state formations to promote a kind of translation of the social to the cultural, triggering semiotic-political mechanisms which convert ‘indexical relations’ that are local (or ‘social’, per se, as they involve mutual acquaintance, produce fine distinctions between people and groups, and depend to a great degree on their contextuality) into ‘iconic’ or ‘cultural’ relations (which tend to literalize symbols, disconnecting them from their pragmatic contexts). An image of cultural unity appears to obscure social relativity; the ‘generic’ seems to superimpose itself upon the ‘genealogical’. It is in this sense that the state is nothing more than the set of operations concerned with the essentialization, naturalization and literalization of social experiences which are always

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multiple and polyphonic: no one is allowed to have more than one religion, place of belonging, ethnicity or colour; ‘styles’, always motile and contextual, are converted into ‘identities’, which are crystallized as ‘ethnicities’, which in turn tend to solidify into ‘nationalities’ (Herzfeld 1996:42–3); the ‘semantic lability of local values’, which makes family, group, ethnic and even national identifications work as true shifters (ibid.:22, 82), tends to be eliminated or limited by the state. At the same time, once they are substantialized, these variables (henceforth ‘values’ or even ‘things’) return to everyday social life and foster hatred, discrimination and even massacre. From this perspective, it is possible to observe that democracy is not necessarily synonymous with tolerance and a lower degree of essentialism: the opposite may occur, in-sofar as diversity can also be condemned in the name of equality (ibid.:109–10). I believe that these considerations also allow us to revisit an issue raised by Peter Fry in a very famous text, appearing for the first time in 1976. In this text, Fry dedicated himself to analysing the fascinating process of the ‘conversion of ethnic symbols into national symbols’ (Fry 1977:47). His basic argument is that, contrary to what had occurred in countries such as the United States, for example, in Brazil ‘the producers of national symbols and mass culture chose cultural items that were produced by dominated groups’ (ibid.): To be honest, I find it difficult to answer these questions. One possibility is that both Candomblé and samba constituted the most original cultural products of Brazil and were, therefore, capable of symbolically distinguishing Brazil from other Latin American nations and from the developed world. Another possible interpretation, and one which I really prefer, is that the adoption of such symbols was politically convenient, a tool to ensure domination masquerading under another name […]. The conversion of ethnic symbols into national symbols not only hides a situation of racial domination, but makes the task of denouncing it incredibly difficult. When symbols of ethnic ‘boundaries’ are converted into symbols which affirm the limits of nationality, something that was originally dangerous is converted into something ‘clean,’ ‘safe’ and ‘domesticated.’ Now that Candomblé and samba are considered to be chic and respectable, they lose the power that they once possessed. There is no soul food in Brazil. 

(ibid.)

Twenty-five years later, Fry republished his text on soul food, adding an introduction and addendum (‘time passes’), in which he expresses a radical change of opinion and position. Not, he observes, towards adopting the first possibility that he put forward in the text quoted above, but, seemingly, towards the omission contained in the very question that he raised. In-so-far

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as he discovered, in Brazil, ‘a society in which everyone shares basic cultural concepts and premises’ (Fry 2001:50), he began to argue for the need to abandon a dualistic perspective, excessively characterized by Anglo-Saxon contexts, which views Brazil as a fundamentally divided society.200 Unlike the author himself, I do not believe that his original theory should be so quickly abandoned. It is undoubtedly true that his central mistake consisted in adopting an excessively dualistic standpoint; however, opting for a unitary perspective, which is also excessive and rigid, does not seem to lead us very far, and, in fact, runs the risk of throwing the baby out with the bathwater. The process isolated by Fry in 1977201 is crucial, and it is enough to substitute the dualism with some kind of pluralism for the author’s thesis to regain its force and vitality. For what is doubtful is that feijoada, Candomblé, samba or Afro music can be definitely and permanently raised from the condition of minoritarian signs to that of majoritarian symbols. In truth, it is as if the semiotic value of each one of these oscillates according to the segmentary level which is being crossed. Thus, the central political problem of the elite is not so much the simple appropriation and displacement of symbols, but the elimination of their ambiguities, causing them to acquire an unequivocal meaning – literalizing them, as Herzfeld says – an undertaking which, of course, can never be entirely successful. It was therefore no coincidence, as Fry notes (1977:46) that in 1973 the newspaper O Estado de S. Paulo harshly criticized the São Paulo government for organizing a huge public celebration of Umbanda. The internal misunderstanding of the São Paulo elite can perhaps be explained if we acknowledge that, while the governor was addressing himself towards a higher segmentary level – at which Umbanda and other similar forms can function as representations of Brazil as a whole – the newspaper was addressing a less inclusive segmentary level, at which members of the elite and followers of Umbanda can only ever be in opposition to each other. That why the question raised above regarding the character (conservative or resistance) of minoritarian forms of organization cannot be unequivocally answered. If, on the one hand, we should avoid all romanticism and admit that, very often, these forms lend themselves to the process of capture and join together with the state or majoritarian forces, on the other hand it is necessary to reject any kind of pessimism or fatalism: these various captures and conjugations always respond, ceaselessly, to connections, lines of flight and resistances.202 The only problem is that these should be understood in a slightly different sense from the ones we are more accustomed to: as Zourabichvilli emphasized (2000:353), ‘resisting is distinct from reacting’, and in a strictly micropolitical and molecular sense, resistance is always primary

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to capture, since it can only have as its starting point the forms of life and vital forces that continuously fight to persevere in their being.203 It is in this sense that, when analysing ‘the view of the Bahian press’ towards the Afro blocks, Cunha (1989:180) could show how the inaugural parade of the Ilê Aiyê in 1974 revealed the possibility of an entirely subversive use of so-called black culture. This subversion was, at first, violently contested (with accusations of racism being made towards the Afro block, as they refused to allow white people to participate in their carnival parade) but, shortly afterwards, it was the subject of attempts at neutralization through mechanisms of segmentary reappropriation similar to those described by Fry: black culture as everyone’s heritage, the parade only as folklore and aesthetics, not as politics and resistance. But you would have to be very naive or stubborn to believe that this reappropriation could be absolute and fully exhaust the phenomenon. On the contrary, it is rather an infinite set of challenges, responses, counter-responses and so on: ‘which for diverse groups is the site of resistance that presents itself in the pages of magazines as exotic’ (ibid.). Likewise, when analysing the Bahian celebration of 2 July, Cecilia McCallum (1997) showed that the fact that the ‘caboclos’204 celebrated at this festival, appears as a symbol of ‘Bahia-ness’ does not mean that they are this always and at every level. On the contrary, they are able to appear as a character who embodies popular resistance (rather than simply Brazilian), who characterizes Afro cults (but not ‘Bahia’) and who is connected to black and mixed-race people (not just to people from Bahia). Again, the political problem for the elite and the powerful is to abolish this continuous segmentary variation and to try to make caboclos or ‘baianas’ who sell ‘typical’ food work only on one specific level, which is of course the most inclusive one.205 The same author also shows (McCallum 1996:207) that the fact that this kind of encompassment at the highest segmentary level occurs on particular occasions (such as football, for example) does not necessarily signify the triumph of an entirely positive sense of nationality. On the contrary, this ‘local nationalism’ coexists with entirely negative feelings about the state and even the nation. And this is only possible because the two reactions occur not only on separate segmentary levels, but also according to different forms of segmentarity: one circular, passing from the individual to the nation, the other binary or linear, which means the victory celebrations ‘does not negate hierarchy and inequality, but merely temporarily displaces it’ (ibid.:222). By insisting on the existence of a ‘dialectic of “hegemony” and “resistance”’ (ibid.:208) and directing attention to the politics of resistance,206 McCallum observes that even successful electoral co-option does not signify total capture, and notes that the well-known popular scepticism around politics could be seen as a form of resistance or, to be more precise and avoid any confusion

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with a simple ‘reaction’, as one of the effects of a fundamental resistance: ‘the electoral process is no absolute measure of hegemony’ (McCallum 1997:27).207 As we have seen, there is no doubt that in Ilhéus, and perhaps everywhere in Brazil, different political segments seek to capture factions of the black movement and associate themselves with them; this movement, at least in part, functions according to an equally segmentary logic. In a more general sense, we could perhaps then argue that the diverse forms of segmentation that dissect the Afro groups, the poorest sectors of the Ilhéus population, and even the city as a whole, function as reference points for politics in its widest sense, or better still, for the diverse segments that are housed under this label. Therefore, a candidate able to take advantage of these segmentary divisions can not only prevent the blocks from unifying around a particular candidate, but, at the same time, can ensure a reasonable number of votes for their own election. On the other hand, it is crucial to remember and emphasize that members of black organizations do not usually meet with success when they become directly involved with party politics. This is not just true in Ilhéus, where, as already noted, the black movement continuously laments the fact that they have never managed to elect a councillor. In Salvador in 1988, for example, the president of the Afoxé Filhos de Gandhi only managed to obtain 242 votes in the elections for the Chamber of Councillors, and the candidate for Ilê Aiyê only obtained 781 votes, even though each organization had approximately 4,000 members (Morales 1991:86). In Ilhéus in 2004, Gurita obtained just under 800 votes, an insufficient number, once again, to secure his election as councillor. Elício Gomes failed to secure his re-election, even though he obtained over 1,400 votes compared with the 652 he received in the 2000 election; João César only received 68 votes; Bernadete and Edson Ferramenta, both for PT and associated with MNU, obtained 141 and 121 votes respectively; Nen, affiliated with the D’Logun, only managed to get 126 votes; Cláudio Magalhães, leader of the indigenous movement of Olivença, also failed to secure election, despite his 521 votes. Likewise, candidates associated with the black movement or the ‘cultural movement’ tried, unsuccessfully, to win election as councillors in cities such as Caravelas, Nova Viçosa and Belmonte.208 It is clear that, in all of these cases, the candidates affiliated with black or ‘cultural’ movements captured and channelled flows of votes for other, more successful, candidates. In other words, they acted as electoral mules. We should observe, however, that it is not only votes that are tapped in this way: it is the entirety of the social relations of those involved, their cultural activism, and ultimately, their lives, which are captured and overcoded in this process. And it is in this sense that it is worth asking whether elections in general, and

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politics as a whole, should be viewed, always and everywhere, as apparatus of capture. Citing sociologist Térmico Sampaio Ferraz, Valente (1986:110) notes that: the election is a vital mechanism in the absorption of protests, by offering a great opportunity for expressing dissatisfaction, with relatively little risk for the structure of the system, since a candidate chosen as a result of protest is not necessarily elected, or ‘if they are elected, does not necessarily need to influence the decisions of the political machine.’

Richard Graham reached the same conclusion in his study of Brazilian politics in the nineteenth century. Obsessed with reconciling elections, legitimacy and order, the Brazilian elite was making a conscious effort to channel any kind of protest or opposition to the innermost parts of electoral politics: ‘constant efforts to legislate fair elections demonstrate a concern to open up politics to men of diverse opinion, so they would not turn against the regime’ (Graham 1997:73). In other words, as shown by Michel Offerlé (1993a:139–40), the establishment and functioning of a democratic system requires, as its counterpart, the production of a certain kind of social agent, the ‘voter’. This is not a fictitious creation whose existence is limited to a few minutes in a voting booth or the pages of a manual, but a very specific product, the result of an entire process of ‘domestication’, or ‘social orthopaedics’, which aims to produce a subject who is not excessively passive – or the system would lose its support or legitimacy – but who, at the same time, does not become too active, consenting to their participation in the political process only in the instances and moments that are seen as appropriate.209 It is due to this that Clemenceau’s proclamation – ‘the principle of universal suffrage does not allow for any compromise. It grants the same right to the wise as to the ignorant: it grants this as a natural right’ (ibid.:141) – can be answered with the cynicism of Ledru-Rollin: ‘the logic of equality is a means of preventing revolution’ (ibid.). And Sartre (1977:206) can ask ‘why am I going to vote? Because I have been persuaded that the only political act in my life consists of depositing my ballot in the box once every four years?’ He concludes: ‘but that is the very opposite of an act’.

 If the year 1998 represented, for the Afro blocks, a kind of renaissance, it was also the moment in which Jabes Ribeiro initiated a profound change in his political alliances and, perhaps, even in his own ideological position. Early in

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the year, the mayor gave signs that he was pushing for a detente with the state government, made possible, it was said, due to his good relationship with the son of Antônio Carlos Magalhães, who had recently passed away. And even though Jabes had personally guaranteed to some members of PT in Ilhéus (which held the deputy-mayor seat and played an active role in the municipal administration, occupying several positions) that he would never support the political forces linked to Senator Antônio Carlos Magalhães, his left-wing allies began to sense that he would. As a result, in early June they began to attack him, with the main politician of PT in Ilhéus publishing an article in the 3 June edition of the Diário da Tarde which harshly criticized Fernando Henrique Cardoso’s government and his project of re-election as President of the Republic. On 6 June, the newsletter of the Municipal Directory published a pamphlet entitled ‘Shame! Jabes Betrays Again!’, accusing the mayor of benefiting from his stance opposing Antônio Carlos Magalhães in 1996, whereas now he was ‘aligning himself with Antônio Carlos Magalhães’.210 Soon afterwards, when his support for the state government and the re-election of the President of the Republic was finally announced, the Workers’ Party (PT) formally broke their alliance and demanded that its members abandon the posts they had come to occupy in the municipal administration. The deputy mayor, who, along with the only councillor from the party, had condemned the accusations made against Jabes, preferred to leave the party (the same path that was shortly followed by the councillor) and to remain in government. Moacir Pinho, who was serving as Manager of Cultural Activities in the Cultural Foundation of Ilhéus, and who did not believe that Jabes would support the state and federal governments, was forced to resign, along with some members of the local MNU chapter who occupied minor positions in the municipal government. It was also at this moment that CEAC began to deepen their commitment with the mayor, with some blocks even going so far as to perform at a rally for the President of the Republic, which took place in Ilhéus on 21 August 1998. This rally was, significantly, the first of the presidential campaign and, according to the Diário da Tarde, drew more than 20,000 people. On stage were the President of the Republic, the Governor of Bahia, Senator Antônio Carlos Magalhães, Jabes Ribeiro, Rúbia Carvalho, Roland Lavigne and other allies, ex-allies, future allies, enemies, ex-enemies and future enemies. At the same time, CEAC made themselves available to participate in the campaign of any candidates for the State Legislature and the Chamber of Deputies who supported the re-election of Fernando Henrique Cardoso and the state governor, and together with City Hall they asserted their right to nominate a name to occupy the position in the Cultural Foundation of Ilhéus left empty by Moacir Pinho’s resignation – a position which to this day has not been filled.

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At the same time and parallel to these approaches, Jabes Ribeiro was trying to coordinate candidacies for the legislative elections of 1998. One of the names was Rúbia Carvalho, his former political enemy he had appointed to the position of Secretary of Social Work in 1997. Rúbia, it was said, intended to put herself forward again to the State Legislature, as she had done in 1994, when she had run as a candidate for PL and secured 4,593 votes within the municipality of Ilhéus (and practically no votes outside of it). In 1998, it was not just the candidate herself, but also the majority of voters, who seemed to believe that she would have a sufficient number of votes to secure election, due to her role in the 1996 municipal elections and the position she had occupied for the past year and a half.211 Jabes, however, preferred another option, convincing Rúbia to put her name forward for the Chamber of Deputies, leaving the State Legislature to Jorge Medauar. And even though the weekly publication A Região, on page four of the edition of 25 May, announced only that ‘PSDB choose Rúbia Carvalho as candidate for federal deputy’, the strategy gave rise to an interpretation which argued that, ultimately, Jabes’ sole aim was a reduction in the number of votes that his arch-rival, Roland Lavigne – a candidate for re-election as federal deputy – would obtain in Ilhéus. This, clearly, would have repercussions in the municipal elections of 2000, when, everyone said, the two of them would probably return to run against each other. The support of the Afro-cultural movement for the mayor in the 1998 national elections translated itself, specifically, into support for the electoral ticket put together by Jabes, as well as support for those who he openly supported: Fernando Henrique Cardoso for president; César Borges for governor; Paulo Souto for senator; Paulo Medauar for state deputy; Rúbia Carvalho for federal deputy. In the case of this last candidate, this support was reinforced by ties that were maintained by Rúbia with the black movement and, principally, by Gurita’s direct involvement in her campaign. Occupying the position of head of the Sports Division for the Municipal Secretary of Education in Ilhéus, Gurita openly acted as an electioneer for Rúbia and her intermediary with the city’s Afro-cultural movement. On 26 September – about a week before the elections – Gurita made his way to Marinho’s house to confirm his support for Rúbia and to explain some ‘misunderstandings’ that, according to him, had occurred in the relationships with the black movement. Some militants, who had performed during certain electoral events in the campaign, irritated with what they considered an undue delay in their payment, had sought out Marinho so that he could pass on their complaint to Rúbia. She responded that Gurita was responsible for this sector of the campaign, a response that provoked some suspicion that Gurita was failing to pass on the money he received from Rúbia to pay the Afro groups.

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As Herzfeld recalls (1982:648), any ‘blame distribution’ has a ‘public or social nature’, and forms part of the routine social relationships of any community. In Ilhéus, the culpability of those closest is an easily perceivable political phenomenon, operating both when it is imagined that a person occupying a high-ranking position (President of the Republic, governor, mayor, or even a mere candidate) is not really being informed on what is happening (and because of this they do not act to remedy the situation), and also when it is suspected that those who occupy the closest intermediary positions are acting in their own benefit, not as true intermediaries, connecting upper and lower positions. So-called mediation is, undoubtedly, a very difficult art to master. On the one hand, it requires that some kind of relationship is established, or appears to be established, between those who the mediator must be in contact with, otherwise their ability or interest in mediating is called into question. On the other hand, mediation also requires that direct contact between the mediated parties is never completely established, as this would make any such mediation lose its raison d’être. In this sense, every mediation is, simultaneously, an anti-mediation, and every mediator is a potential suspect of only acting in his or her own interest. In fact, the conceptual use of the term mediation involves a basic problem, namely, the dualism towards which it inevitably seems to tend. This binarism is responsible for a kind of mirage, a third bank of the river, in which the mediator comfortably positions himself.212 Nevertheless, as shown by Graham (1997) concerning power relations in Brazil during the Second Empire, the clientelistic structure (which is supposedly rooted in processes of mediation) is, actually, triadic: someone asks someone for someone, and there is no reason to consider the middle term as a simple intermediary in a more important binary relationship. It is in this sense that we can speak of the existence of ‘three tiers’ (ibid.:236) or ‘two layers’ (ibid.:237) of clientelism: ‘downward’ (between the one who asks and the one on whose behalf he is asking) and ‘upward’ (between the one who asks and the one who he is asking). In different and asymmetrical ways, everyone involved in clientelistic relationships were prisoners of each other. We are dealing here with a form of power and a way of governing that is extremely suitable for a narrow and rigidly stratified society, rather than with a simple ideological or cultural system based on traditional and hierarchical values. Within the context of the black movement of Ilhéus, Gurita seems to represent the classic figure of the mediator. Black, resident of Conquista and having good relationships with many militants from the Afro-cultural movement, he could be, at the same time, seen as someone who belongs to another class, since he finished university, worked in several schools attended by the local elite, had good relationships with several members of this elite and

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was never himself a militant from the black movement. Furthermore, and as I have already noted, he had been involved in politics since 1992 (when he joined the Ilhéus branch of PT), having run for councillor in 1996, a candidacy which would be repeated in 2000, this time for PSDB. Finally, he was very accessible and always close by, which, on the one hand, allowed people to approach him any time they wanted to ask for something, but, on the other hand, made it much easier to distrust him and complain to him instead of waiting for the difficult and unlikely direct access to people as socially removed as Rúbia Carvalho or Mayor Jabes Ribeiro. Gurita’s visit to Marinho had the principal purpose of explaining any ‘misunderstandings’ regarding the transfer of money, as well as, to leave no possible doubt, the purpose of leaving a post-dated cheque to the value of half of the debt, a cheque that Marinho should cash on the future date, distributing the money amongst the militants who had performed during Rúbia’s campaign. Gurita clarified that the delays were the responsibility of the electoral committee of the candidate, and that he, a ‘simple intermediary’, had no power to allocate any resources. At the same time, he made a point of saying that, if she were elected, Rúbia would appoint an adviser from the black movement (very probably, he insinuated, it would be Gurita himself ) and that, in this event, he would begin to have some power of his own. This whole scenario meant that the relationship between the black militants and Gurita was very ambiguous: of admiration, because he had ‘managed to climb as far as he had done’; of distrust, since he could always be acting purely for his own benefit; of aspiration, since the place or places he occupied seemed to be well compensated and deeply desirable. Marinho, for example, seemed to imagine, almost silently, that the adviser to be nominated by Rúbia could be himself, rather than Gurita – a hypothesis which would become more likely in the event that Gurita managed to secure his election as councillor, and this perhaps explains Marinho’s relative enthusiasm towards Gurita’s candidacy. During the same conversation, one of Marinho’s brothers, Gilvan, tried to provoke Gurita in every way possible. He argued that Rúbia would not receive the number of votes being claimed, 25,000 in Ilhéus alone, which, supposedly, would guarantee her election to the Chamber of Deputies. Arguing that this number was unattainable – as even Jabes Ribeiro had only obtained around 23,000 in 1990, when he was elected federal deputy, and Rúbia could never receive a greater number of votes than Jabes – Gilvan insinuated that the mayor was not really worried about Rúbia’s election, and that he only wanted to use her to ‘take votes away from Roland Lavigne’. Arguing that Rúbia would not exceed 15,000 votes, Gilvan wagered a crate of beer with Gurita, using the figure of 20,000 votes as the mark for the bet.

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Rúbia Carvalho, in fact, was not elected: she obtained 14,253 votes in Ilhéus and 21,556 in the whole state, which placed her only tenth within the coalition she was a part of. And, if the strategy of taking votes away from Roland Lavigne was really true, the results were not very encouraging: in 1994, he had 16,265 votes in Ilhéus; and, in 1998, this number fell slightly, to 15,534 votes – though in the earlier election this represented more than a quarter of the valid votes, while in the later election, only around a fifth. This left Gilvan extremely proud of his knowledge of local politics, though Gurita never paid up on the bet. Still in the same conversation with Marinho and Gilvan, Gurita admitted to his difficulty in voting for Jorge Medauar for state deputy, since he considered him to be ‘bourgeois’. Likewise, he felt uneasy about voting for Fernando Henrique Cardoso, Antônio Carlos Magalhães and others, because he always voted on the ‘left’, even having been, as we saw, one of the founders of PT in Ilhéus. Gilvan agreed, and said that he was working on the campaign of a candidate from PFL for federal deputy, an ally of Antônio Carlos Magalhães, whose adviser had promised him a job if there was a high vote in Ilhéus. But, ‘unofficially’, he could tell us that that he would not vote for him because ‘I don’t vote for the right’. The problem was that, if the candidate was elected, he (Gilvan) could get a job whose ‘quality’ (in other words, the salary) depended on the number of votes obtained in Ilhéus. As he had been unemployed for a long time, this was an opportunity that was difficult to turn down. After the elections, Gilvan confessed that he had ended up voting for the PFL candidate, partly because the job was so important that it made him believe his own vote for the candidate would contribute to his victory; and, partly, because he feared that no one would vote for the PFL candidate at his own polling station, which would, of course, reveal his betrayal. The rest of his votes had been directed towards the ‘left’ and, furthermore, he refused to drive round a car featuring the candidate’s advertisement on the day of the election: ‘I cannot parade around with a car from the right, what would my people say about me?’ Sartre (1977:201) wrote that the secret ballot could be considered as ‘the symbol of all the acts of betrayal that the individual may commit against the group he belongs to.’ I think it may be necessary, however, to clarify and expand the scope of this profound statement. Firstly, the truly secret nature of the vote seems more like an element of political rhetoric than of actual reality. In truth, this nature is evoked as much to extol the virtues of representative democracy as it is to avoid openly declaring one’s own vote. However, things are a little more complicated, and a good electoral canvasser is able to discover, with a reasonable degree of accuracy, who failed to vote as they had indicated. It should be noted, though, that canvassers who are unable to obtain the number of votes that they promised for their candidates run the

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risk of losing their pay, and even their job. Furthermore, the widespread and reasonably well-disseminated belief that it is always possible to discover how someone voted, performs, in itself, an important function of control – and it is in part the necessity of spreading this belief that leads the canvassers to carefully record the voter registration information of those who seek them out in search of some ‘help’ around election time. Likewise, when, in 1998, the electronic vote was introduced in Ilhéus, there were rumours that it allowed the identification of each voter and, even, that a photograph was taken of the voter at the moment the button was pushed to vote. Secondly, as Sartre also suggests, the secret ballot makes it easier for the voter to pacify their own conscience when they feel that they have not acted as they should have done, electorally speaking. It is possible to work for a candidate and seek a large number of votes for them; but the personal and private vote can be given to anyone, thus allowing the reconciliation of contradictory beliefs and obligations, antithetical choices and necessities. We are thus dealing with another of the ‘double binds’213 which representative democracy is full of, and which, clearly, do not compromise the system in any way. On the contrary, they serve as one of the conditions of the continual functioning of the system, and do not present any great risk to the established order. The vote tends to appear, therefore, and in the eyes of the voters, as the sole occasion in which, from time to time, a citizen can express their political will; and, at the same time, it is seen as something insignificant, lost amidst the huge number of similar acts. ‘I am nothing’, said an informant in Ilhéus, ‘in relation to the electorate, just a drop in the ocean.’ The same informant, however, considered voting to be an act laden with almost transcendent importance, their only form of political participation. Similarly, when someone in Ilhéus wants to emphasize that they would never vote for a particular candidate, they usually use a typical verb construction: ‘if it depends on my vote, there’s no way he’ll be elected’ or ‘if he is one vote short of being elected and that vote is mine, there’s no way he’ll be elected’. Hugely important and yet, at the same time, devoid of any importance, the secret ballot can thus be the subject of numerous interpretations. Thirdly, it is not only the secret nature of the vote that can not resist ethnographic investigation: the other two fundamental attributes that are often used in the definition of the act of voting also seem to share the same fate when subjected to this kind of investigation. As Daniel Gaxie demonstrated (1978), the famous principle of ‘one man, one vote’ is always, in truth, inflected by a kind of concealed and restricted vote, which depends on the level of the voter’s investment in politics, as well as their material and cultural capital. Marinho, for example, functioned as a kind of adviser, seeking to explain that

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voting in this or that way would not lead to anything, and that it would be necessary to vote in a completely different way for a particular objective to be reached. Similarly, Gilvan regretted not having ‘lived during my grandmother’s time: because then I would definitely would have been elected and would never have to leave, because during elections the terreiro was always full of people who wanted to know who to vote for’.214 I myself, in 1998, found myself in the situation, half voluntarily and half unwittingly, of causing some people to claim they would vote for Lula in the presidential elections because ‘Marcio is with Lula’. Although not casting a vote due to the fact that I was outside my home constituency, it would not be incorrect to say that I effectively voted three or four times… Finally, the universal character of the vote is never found in its pure state in ethnographic reality. In part because, as shown by Michel Offerlé (1993a:134– 5, 145 – see also, Offerlé 1993b), the universalization of the vote tends to stop at the barrier of what are seen as natural distinctions. And even if these, clearly, vary according to place and time, the fact is that certain categories of people (women and slaves or, in other societies and times, people below a certain age, or the prodigals) are always formally and inevitably excluded from the right or duty to vote. Thus, in Brazil, even though voting is compulsory for everyone between the ages of eighteen and seventy (with the exception of certain special situations), it is optional for those between sixteen and eighteen, as well as for those above seventy. Moreover, the sanctions for not voting are fairly mild, which partially explains the rate of abstention. In addition, and from a more substantive point of view, the supposed universality of the vote touches upon the fact that this affects and interests the sets of voters in very different ways. We saw how the rate of electoral abstention in the municipality of Ilhéus tends to be quite high: of the 104,135 voters eligible to vote in the 2000 municipal elections (and this represents only a small part of the 223,000 residents of Ilhéus – about 47 per cent to be precise), 24,645 did not vote, 2,241 annulled their votes and 1,146 had blank votes. This means that 27 per cent of the voters did not choose a candidate and, furthermore, that, in reality, only 35 per cent of the population effectively chose a candidate in 2000, and only 32 per cent of the population in the 2002 presidential elections.215 It is clear that all of this can be explained in many different ways, either by invoking the great number of voters who live in rural areas with difficult access, the many migrants who have not transferred their voting documents, or any other good reason. However, none of this dismisses the importance of Guennifley’s (1994:26) observation, according to which the contradiction between the sense of necessity for a transcendent unity of the electoral result and the inescapable fact of the diversity of votes is not only constitutive of representative democracy, but makes it more comprehensible that suspicion

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regarding suffrage and those elected is actually inherent to the system itself. In this sense, and similar to the idea of prison in Foucault’s analysis (1975:314–5), the systems appears to be, from its very inception, always in crisis and requiring stringent corrective measures.216 Furthermore, all this points towards a very real lack of interest, which reveals that the supposed universality of the vote, in the same way as its secret and egalitarian character, belongs more in the realm of the ideal values of a certain segment of the population than in the real world in which they live. It was in light of all this that, in the field, it became very difficult to follow and take seriously the countless electoral analyses presented by the media in terms of the ‘choices of the electorate’ because of this or that ‘programme’ of the winning candidates, parties or coalitions. After less than a month closely following how the central institution of representative democracy worked, it was genuinely difficult not to experience a certain amount of scepticism and even a degree of irritation with these analyses, which were as sterile as they were idealistic, in the technical sense of the term.

CHAPTER 6

2004 

Candidacy

 From the perspective of Marinho Rodrigues – as well as that of his family, his block and at least part of the Afro-cultural movement of the city – his appointment as the administrator of the Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus signified the culmination of a trajectory, both individual and collective, which was, finally, receiving its due recognition. Firstly, recognition by the powerful of the city, those who administrate it and ‘give the orders’, and who are almost always ‘white’. It was believed that this recognition on the part of the elite would extend to everyone else who was not part of the Afro-cultural movement: recognition would be given by ‘white people’ in general, but also by non-whites who had little or no existing relationship with the movement, as well as those who participated exclusively in the political black movement. In other words, recognition would spread in concentric waves which, starting from Marinho, would eventually envelop Ilhéus as a whole, and even people and regions far beyond the city. Nevertheless, even where this recognition should have been most straightforward – in the closest circle, which comprised Marinho’s nuclear and extended family – the individual nature of the achievement became entangled with its collective nature. More precisely, while Marinho’s accomplishment was undoubtedly personal, this could not hide the fact that his success was the result of a network of relationships in which he was always involved, as well as a network of groups and movements in which he participated. In this sense, it is clear that everyone knew that Marinho had obligations to the people who were, or had been, members of these networks, groups and movements, and, as everyone knows, those who attain the highest positions often have the bad habit of forgetting such obligations.

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Marinho seemed to be the first to recognize this, and he did so even before his appointment to the Memorial: For all that I have done, I have the Dilazenze to thank. It is the work that I did with the Dilazenze that has led to this recognition of my name. Therefore, I will always thank the Dilazenze, and I must give something back to the Dilazenze. If I gain the position of administrative manager of the Memorial, it is a victory for the Dilazenze; if I get there, it is because of the Dilazenze. And I am sure that, with me in that position, the pay I receive will greatly help the Dilazenze. If I already help the Dilazenze without having anything, imagine what I can do when I actually have something!

The difficulty is that, whilst Marinho and the other members of the group sometimes appear to think of the Dilazenze as an almost transcendent entity, hovering above the individuals that comprise it, on other occasions the block tends to be thought of as being no more than the sum of its parts or, more precisely, the group of Rodrigues family members who participate most directly in the block, with the president – Marinho – at its head. Actually, what is generally seen is a strange mixture of these two conceptions of the Dilazenze. Thus, one of Marinho’s sisters-in-law protested against his decision to hand over the administration of the Memorial’s restaurant ‘to the Dilazenze’, rather than to her husband (who was Marinho’s brother), saying: ‘everything belongs to the Dilazenze! Can’t you see that he doesn’t want to give you anything, that everything belongs to the Dilazenze, that the Dilazenze are always given priority?’ Some of Marinho’s other brothers, who were more active within the block, suggested that the success had ‘gone to his head’, an expression which is always used to suggest that someone has forgotten their basic loyalties and are now only thinking of themselves and acting in their own interest. From this perspective, Marinho was not doing everything that his position allowed with respect to his brothers. The reaction, of course, raises the suspicion that these criticisms were borne of jealousy, and even envy, of their brother’s success, feelings that prevented them from understanding that Marinho’s personal triumph was, at the same time, the triumph of the group, which would inevitably benefit the group as a whole. On the other hand, and without any possible doubt, Marinho was clearly experiencing the sensation of personal success. He would repeat, with great pride, how he was often stopped in the street by strangers who wished to compliment him for something he had said in one of the many radio interviews he had given; that the media insisted that he appear on different programmes; that a local newspaper was offering him a weekly column to promote the Afro-

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cultural movement of Ilhéus (five articles were published between 21 October and 24 November 2003); that he had been receiving phone calls supporting his position, and so forth. At the same time, Marinho acknowledged that his success was provoking jealousy and envy in others, feelings that he said he considered normal for people far removed from him, but extremely worrying when coming from close friends or, and especially, members of his own family. In any case, these conflicts manifest a property that is always latent, a kind of structural tension not only between the ‘group’ and the ‘people’, but also between groups defined in different ways or found on different segmentary levels, and between the people who comprise these groups, who are also defined in different ways, according to the segmentary level in which they find themselves for a specific relationship, and the sense of belonging that derives from this. Thus, as I observed in the fourth chapter, members of nuclear families tend to vote together and, frequently, they do so in opposition to, or without the knowledge of, the extended family, the block or the terreiro. Beyond this, it seems that every time conflicts arise within, for example, the extended family, solidarity within the nuclear family tends to increase – and vice-versa, as spouses and children tend to feel neglected when they feel that their spouses or parents are excessively devoted to their siblings or their own parents. The same is true in relationships with other groups. On the one hand, the nuclear family seems to function as a kind of protection against the problems faced in the block or in the terreiro; on the other hand, there is always a great deal of protest when it is felt that someone is putting their family second in order to dedicate themselves exclusively to the Dilazenze or to Tombenci. Finally, what can be seen as excessive dedication to the block is also the subject of complaints on the part of the terreiro, and vice-versa. Analogously, individual projects very often enter into conflict with more collective ones. In the case of the Dilazenze, as shown by Silva (2004: chapter 5), this conflict tends to be seen in the opposition between the conception of the block as a group of artists, and the conception of the block as a collective entity, which, in addition, develops artistic activities (alongside, for example, cultural and social activities). Even the same individual can sometimes lean more towards one position, and later towards another, but, in the case of the Dilazenze, this duality has always been embodied by Marinho, on one side – defending, in general, a more ‘collectivistic’ position – and by Ney, one of his brothers, and Gleide, one of his nieces, on the other, adherents of a more artistic conception of the group’s activities.217 While Marinho was president of the block for more than fifteen years, Ney, his brother, was the percussion leader, and Gleide, his niece, was the choreographer and main dancer for over ten years.

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On various occasions, Marinho argued that both were walking around ‘full of themselves’ – imagining themselves superior to others, making too many demands, and not giving anything back to the group – as well as distancing themselves from their ‘roots’, which Marinho considered to be the greatest risk for Afro musicians and dancers. In turn, both Ney and Gleide thought that the administration of the Dilazenze could be more ‘professional’ and ‘bolder’, in other words, oriented towards a greater expansion of the group’s properly artistic activities. In 2003, Gleide moved to Rio de Janeiro because of her marriage, a move that opened up the possibility of finding better surroundings for developing her extraordinary talents as an Afro dancer. In Ilhéus, Ney – whose talents as a percussionist are just as extraordinary – attempted to revive the Sambadila, originally a samba group made up of Dilazenze members, created in the early 1990s but essentially inactive since 1995. Ney intended for Sambadila to become the flagship of what he considered to be the artistic vocation of the Dilazenze and, for this to happen, he believed that the band should have a certain independence from the block – a position which, of course, Marinho could not agree with under any circumstances. In truth, the relationship between Marinho and Ney – which always seemed to me to be a mixture of fraternal solidarity, comradeship in work and a barely concealed rivalry – had been clashing since mid-2002, when the former decided to openly confront the president of CEAC, an organization in which the latter held the position of vice-president. Marinho felt that Ney’s support for his own position was not as he would have liked, and he sometimes accused him of being complicit with Jacks Rodrigues. At the same time Ney began to show his ambition of taking on the presidency of the Dilazenze and of CEAC itself – a pretension to which Marinho’s position oscillated between opposition, neutrality and, finally, support (which didn’t do any good in the end, as Jacks was re-elected). At the same time, Marinho argued that Ney was opposed to everything that he planned for the Dilazenze, even subverting his proposal for the theme of the 2003 carnival. Meanwhile, Marinho was organizing the activities of the Memorial of Black Culture. The restaurant was handed over to the Dilazenze (actually, it was his wife who was running it) after having been originally assigned to CEAC. Ney’s wife, also a member of the Dilazenze, was ‘hired’ as secretary of the Memorial, and other members of the block were hired as waiters for the Saturday night events, when the Memorial was the setting for various musical presentations. Initially, these events were open to all the Afro blocks, but, progressively, the Dilazenze became the only group responsible for them. This ended up being yet another point of contention between the two brothers, as the musicians from Sambadila, who considered themselves to be ‘artists’,

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set out some requirements in order to perform, requirements which, from Marinho’s perspective (as he considered the group to be part of the Dilazenze), were completely inappropriate. After the carnival of 2003, things became even more complicated. This complex relationship, in which feelings of vanity, pride, admiration and jealousy intermingled, deteriorated further when Marinho was directly encouraged by a municipal secretary – one of the oldest of Jabes Ribeiro’s party members and one of those responsible for the only daily newspaper in the city, the same newspaper in which Marinho published his column – to launch his candidacy for councillor in the municipal elections of 2004. This invitation, remember, dates back to the nomination process for the administration of the Memorial of Black Culture, when the mayor had insisted on the importance of the black movement of Ilhéus electing a councillor, and on the fact that Marinho would be the ideal candidate, as he was the only one capable of uniting the black groups and of presenting himself as a reliable candidate. After much hesitation, Marinho accepted the invitation, affiliating himself with the party of his new political patron. In making this decision, Marinho undoubtedly weighed up a degree of belief in the possibility of victory, the recognition of the importance of a councillor connected to the Afro-cultural movement, a certain amount of pride at having been invited by those in power, and a slightly masked fear that by not accepting he could end up being removed from the administration of the Memorial, a position of trust for the mayor, above anything else. Moreover, his patron guaranteed that he himself would be a candidate for mayor, which meant that he would not take any of Marinho’s votes and, principally, that he would not use him as a mere electoral mule.

 The idea of a candidate for a seat in the Chamber of Councillors coming from the Afro-cultural movement is, as I have already noted, quite old, dating back at least to Gilvan Rodrigues’ campaign in 1988. In 1997, when CEAC was undergoing a restructuring process, Marinho was already saying that ‘the intention of this Council is to fight … for a seat in the Chamber of Councillors, to fight for a space in politics as well’ (Silva 1998:94–5). Between 1998 and 2000, there were many conversations and discussion around the possibility, importance and necessity of the black movement electing a councillor. Even though different people, on different occasions, aspired to this position, the fact is that Marinho’s name always appeared as one of the most suitable for the post. In fact, from 1998 onwards, the possibility of Marinho running for a seat in the Chamber of Councillors was continually put forward, sometimes in jest, sometimes very seriously.

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Thus, shortly after the national elections of that year, when approached by a neighbour who was complaining about the noise caused by the Dilazenze carnival rehearsals when she was trying to watch her favourite television programme, Marinho heard her say that she wanted to speak with him because someone had told her that ‘Marinho is the boss of Conquista’. The obviously exaggerated and jocular tone of her statement did not prevent various people who were witnessing this conversation to proclaim that he should run for councillor, and someone even went so far as to say that he would, undoubtedly, get more votes than Gilvan, who, also present at this conversation, betrayed a certain level of embarrassment. And even though the tone of these conversations was somewhat jovial, a certain degree of seriousness could be seen behind the jokes. Between the national elections of 1998 and the municipal elections of 2000, the name of Marinho as a candidate for councillor was raised on at least two more occasions by two of his brothers, who were sometimes supported and sometimes admonished by other family members and friends. On all of these occasions, the potential candidate would pre-emptively refuse to even discuss the possibility of running or, more precisely, of ‘going political’: I don’t think that I could be a politician. I am an active black militant, I fight, I face anything. But politics is too dirty, and I don’t think that I have the stomach for it. When a guy gets elected, he changes, he falls into politics. For example, a councillor with a leftist party, who had a job at a factory, a really militant guy, he was involved in all the struggles, all the strikes, until he got himself elected. After he was elected, he changed, changed so much that when he runs for re-election he will not get anywhere, because he fell out with all the unions, and sullied his name because he fell into politics. This is something I believe in very much, the transformation of a man when he gains power.218

Now, this conception of politics as something both polluted and polluting, capable of affecting and transforming even the best people is, clearly, central to the relationship that the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus has with politicians in general and with City Hall in particular. It is also fundamental when someone very close – a relative or a friend – is, or intends to become, a politician. A few years later, when Marinho accepted the candidacy for councillor, it was his wife who observed that he was quickly ‘becoming different’, which made her fear for the future of their marriage if her husband kept on this path. The story of Gilvan Rodrigues’ involvement with politics is also a paradigmatic case in this negative relationship with politics, or, to be more precise, in this relationship with politics that is defined as an essentially

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negative activity. Gilvan is Dona Ilza’s other son who, alongside Nidinha, has the ‘gift’ of entering the trance, in other words of being possessed by the orixás and the spirits to whom they are consecrated. Furthermore, he has tremendous knowledge of Candomblé and, even though this cannot be known in advance, he is considered by everyone as the most likely successor to his mother as the head of the Matamba Tombenci Neto terreiro.219 Finally, he is also one of the three members of the fourteen siblings who managed to finish secondary school. Between 1978 and 1987, Gilvan worked at Ilhéus City Hall, a job he obtained thanks to the intervention of Pedro Farias, a very well-known saintfather in the city, who was the head of the cabinet under several mayors. In 1988, after leaving his job amidst a dispute with then mayor João Lírio, Gilvan decided to launch his own candidacy for councillor with PSB. Besides having worked at City Hall, in order to get elected he hoped to gain the support of the black movement of Ilhéus and, particularly, the support of the Candomblé terreiros, since, with almost fifteen years of religious initiation at that time, and as the most probable successor to his mother as the head of Tombenci, he was also the representative for the Bahian Federation of Afro-Brazilian Cults (Federação Baiana de Cultos Afro-Brasileiros) in Ilhéus. The 150 votes that he obtained were not sufficient to secure election, but the votes were considered significant and would have enabled him to continue in politics. Gilvan, however, came to believe that his defeat was due to a lack of support precisely in the sectors where he expected to gain votes, in the terreiros, in the blocks and even in his family. From his point of view, it was precisely the lack of effective involvement from his family in his campaign that made him give up the idea of running again in future elections. Notwithstanding, he ran again in 1992, but only, he said, to help complete the list for his party, and because of this he did not obtain any votes at all (‘not even my own’, as he liked to say), since, as a member of the Afro-cultural movement, he had supported Mirinho’s candidacy. After this, he returned to run again in the 2000 elections (when he obtained only 23 votes), as a ‘strategy’, he explained, aiming to launch himself more seriously, and with the possibility of victory, in 2004. Among Gilvan’s relatives, however, the explanation for his relative electoral failure was somewhat different. They say, more or less openly, that instead of securing the potential votes from the Candomblé terreiros, the black movement as a whole, and in the neighbourhood of Conquista, Gilvan – assuming that these votes were already guaranteed – preferred to seek out the ‘bourgeois vote’ (in other words, the vote of the city’s white middle-class), wasting his time campaigning to ‘people who don’t even salute us in the street’ and who, clearly, would never actually vote for a poor, black candidate. The result: he lost votes which he could have been certain of receiving and he

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failed to gain any that he campaigned for. This had actually been the reason that, despite voting for Gilvan (‘my vote is for him because he is my brother’), a large number of his siblings did not actually work on his campaign. Gilvan states that things were even worse, and that some of his siblings had worked for other candidates who had offered them money, which would have meant that a lot of people who he asked to vote for him answered: ‘but not even your brothers are going to vote for you…’ More broadly, and as I have already noted, since at least 1988 the Afro cultural movement of Ilhéus had been trying, albeit unsuccessfully, to elect a councillor who would represent them. In the 1988 elections, as we have just seen, Gilvan obtained a number of votes which was considered significant, but insufficient to be elected. In 1992, as I have also already observed, Mirinho, the then president of CEAC, managed to achieve the position of first alternate for his party, even assuming the acting position on a few occasions. In 1996, a series of candidates divided the support of the black movement: none of them were elected, even though Gurita obtained a sufficient number of votes to remain in politics as head of a division or as a municipal under-secretary. In 2000, Gurita again tried to assume the position of representative of the Afro-cultural movement; and, in 2004, there was the candidacy of Marinho Rodrigues. These unsuccessful attempts by the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus to elect a councillor tend, in general, to be interpreted as failures stemming from purely negative reasons. In 1996, as we saw, Paulo Rodrigues thought that the inability of the black movement to elect any councillors stemmed from a lack of awareness and political naivety; the mayoral candidate at the time, Jabes Ribeiro, suggested that it was down to a lack of organization; Gilvan thought that it was all to do with a lack of political experience; people connected to the black groups – Gurita or Marinho, for example – argued that this difficulty was the result of internal divisions within the movement. Others might be tempted to assume that the difficulty in electing a representative is, in some way, tied to the weak adherence that the working classes tend to have in relation to the basic values of Western civilization, values such as individualism and equality, which are at the centre of representative democracies. Each one of these interpretations proceeds, of course, from the political ideas and personal preferences of their interpreters, and each one undoubtedly contains a seed of truth. Nevertheless, before appealing to the larger causes (a lack of political education, unwillingness to participate, absence of meaningful ideologies, etc.), it seems more interesting to identify at least some of the mechanisms directly responsible for producing these results. For such results appear to derive from conflicts between distinct forms of social logic, marked by an asymmetry of power. Thus, the conception of politics adopted by the

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majority of the black movement in Ilhéus – contrary to what we find with a large part of the ruling class and politicians in general – associates this activity, as we saw, with something polluting, transitory and transcendent. In this way, one can view even the defeat of one’s brother in an election as something not entirely negative, since this defeat has, at least, stopped him from becoming a ‘politician’, in other words, someone who has numerous moral defects. In this sense, there is a co-existence of opposing sentiments, which means that people and groups can desire the election of someone who will represent them, and yet simultaneously fear the outbreak of powerful mechanisms of hierarchization in their day-to-day lives. This is not merely a ‘double bind’, but rather a fundamental building block for the workings of political systems which are constructed as representative democracies. Despite all the negative reasons, what appears at first to be merely a lack (of awareness, organization, experience, unity or ideology) has a positive, albeit unintentional, effect. This is the invocation of the spectre of inequality within the group, provided that we define ‘group’ as a multiform and motile reality, which is also segmentary, as we saw, and can assume the form of a family, neighbourhood, block or movement. The problem, as Beatriz Heredia, amongst others, demonstrated (1996:67–8), is that the introjection of politics – which is, principally, a way of managing relations between unequal parties – into the heart of a group which conceives of itself under the banner of equality, is always extremely difficult.220 Beyond this, as I have noted on various occasions, within the social circles which the militants of the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus are part of, a series of mechanisms for the dilution of power are continuously put into practice. Beyond the consideration of politics as something exterior, dirty and transitory, it is possible to ‘split the vote’, in the sense that, when they are sought out by different candidates in search of electoral support, the heads of families, saint-mothers, and leaders of the Afro blocks try to determine, with varying degrees of success, which candidate the different members of the family, terreiro or cultural group should vote for. Equally, it is possible to ‘split’ votes in the sense of voting for someone, campaigning for someone else and working for a third party, due to the multiple allegiances which everyone feels they are involved in, or the need for money which is experienced by many. It is also possible to support, help or assist several candidates, for different parties, which means their votes, in a certain sense, cancel each other out. Now, this resistance to willingly collaborating in the success of such mechanisms for the centralization of power, together with this refusal to accept the introjection of mechanisms of hierarchization, closely resemble what Pierre Clastres (1987; 2010) termed ‘against-state’, the set of mechanisms which, in societies ‘without a state’, prevent the establishment of a central

Figure 20 The mayor Jabes Ribeiro delivers to Marinho Rodrigues the trophy won by the Dilazenze in a local football championship (on the left of the mayor, Toinho Brother; behind Marinho Rodrigues, Gurita).

or coercive power. It is clear that we have no reason to suppose that such mechanisms only operate within ‘primitive societies’, and we should recognize that they are also alive and well amongst us (see Deleuze and Guattari 2005:359–61; Lima and Goldman 2001:308; Lima and Goldman 2003; Barbosa 2002). Nevertheless, it is necessary to avoid all romanticism and recognize the obvious: that, in a society possessing a state, the functioning of counter-state mechanisms can, frequently, contradict their own inclination. Thus, in the confrontation between distinct social logics, distinguished by the asymmetry of power outlined above, the result of the clash between morally negative and morally positive conceptions of politics tends to veer towards the latter, in other words, in favour of the state.

 The various processes that led to his appointment at the Memorial, however, seemed to weaken Marinho’s resistance towards his own candidacy, and also shake up some of his political beliefs: the division of the black movement could, perhaps, be offset by the strength of his own group and his own family; and the possibility of entering into politics and yet ‘continuing to be the same person’ was becoming more and more plausible. This process, of course, did not happen overnight. In August 2002, during a meeting with the candidate for state deputy, and brother of the mayor, Joabes Ribeiro, together with

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representatives from various Candomblé terreiros and the newly founded Association of Blocks from the South and Far South of Bahia (Abase), Marinho asserted that: the Afro-cultural movement of Ilhéus has a very big, and very ambitious, project. Because it is absurd that Ilhéus, a black city, cannot elect a councillor who is committed to the black movement. We do not have a candidate who can represent this movement, who speaks on behalf of this movement, who can make this movement gain respect. During elections, various candidates always refer to themselves as candidates of the black movement of Ilhéus, but this is not what I’m talking about. This movement is now mature, it is more experienced, and so now is the time for a candidate to come from within the movement itself. This isn’t to say that it should be this guy or that guy, but it should be a candidacy that originates from within the movement, from inside the movement, that is discussed by the movement, and so the movement can actively engage in the campaign and try to elect a councillor who has real commitments with the movement. Because the black movement today has a much greater political consciousness than it did some years ago, because we have learnt over time, we have gained a little experience. Our idea, therefore, is to put forward a candidate for councillor in the 2004 elections, a candidate who, coming from within the movement, will have its support, and, if victorious, will support this movement.

In truth, Marinho was only repeating in public what he had said a month earlier to the mayor of Ilhéus, who, agreeing with him, contended that Marinho was the only person capable of bringing the Afro-cultural movement together around a candidate for councillor. This inducement undoubtedly had its desired effect: immediately after the meeting, Marinho sought out his family to tell them what had happened, and everyone was immediately in agreement with the mayor, including his wife, who had always been firmly opposed to the idea, and his brother Gilvan, who had always been interested in putting forward his own candidacy. From this moment on – following, in some way, his own self-fulfilling prophecy about how politics inevitably changes people – Marinho began to behave like a candidate. He would say that his candidacy did not stem from any kind of personal desire, but from the pressure of groups to which he belonged;221 that, once elected, he would represent all of the black movement, not just his own family, block or even the Afro-cultural movement, and so forth. Meanwhile, three of his brothers and one brother-in-law decided to organize a ‘political group’ to look after his candidacy, and they even asked me

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to ensure that their brother did not give up the candidacy, as well as asking me to work as an ‘adviser’ in his campaign – after all, I had been ‘studying politics in Ilhéus for such a long time…’ The problem was that everything was getting entangled with the successions taking place in CEAC and within the Dilazenze. The release of a declaration allegedly given by Marinho, stating that if he were elected as a councillor he would not employ any of his relatives, as he considered this to be morally wrong, was attributed to Sérgio Pereira, one of Ney’s opponents in the election for president of the Council. One of his brothers, who had been unemployed for some time, questioned Marinho, who confirmed the rumour, and Marinho’s brother said that this would be absurd, because even the mayor of the city had ‘hired his whole family’. Marinho more or less openly suspected that his brothers’ enthusiasm for his campaign stemmed not only from the possibility of obtaining jobs, but also from the possibility of removing Marinho from the position of president of the Dilazenze (which Ney aspired to) and, principally, removing him from the role of administrator at the Memorial (which is a position of trust, and so incompatible with an elected position**), which would consequently make these positions available to other people. Unfortunately, and as so often happens in politics, the reaction of the supposed beneficiaries of Marinho’s declaration (the members of the other blocks and black organizations) was one of scepticism, and failed to offset the indignation of those who felt they had been wronged (his own family and block). The members of other black groups, whether Afro-cultural or political, could not believe that Marinho would fail to prioritize the groups to which he belonged; and his own brothers could not understand that he would not specifically help them, and they vehemently protested, once again certain that success had, in fact, ‘gone to their brother’s head’. Proof of this was seen in Marinho’s hesitation to support Ney for the role of president of the Council for Afro-Cultural Organizations of Ilhéus, with the strange claim that, as administrator of the Memorial, he should behave impartially. In the end, Marinho decided to support his brother, and as, at this point, the overlap between the succession at CEACI and local politics was already well advanced, he sought out a municipal secretary, who said that not only was he very interested in the elections for the Council, but he was also willing to ‘help’ the candidate Marinho chose to support. This meant a clear

*

Translators’ note. The Brazilian electoral system forces those running for majoritarian position to resign from their existing positions so as not to obtain any unfair advantage in elections, This is called desincompatibilização, loosely translated as the ‘elimination of incompatibility.’

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commitment to a candidate, not just the general support that a particular candidate for councillor was openly giving to Jacks Rodrigues’ re-election. The candidate he referred to was Alcides Kruschewsky who had been taken by Jacks to the commemorations on Black Consciousness Day in 2003. Under the slogan ‘100% Alcides’ – which immediately recalls the slogan ‘100% Black’, which can be found on T-shirts and stickers throughout Brazil – this candidate, since 2003, had sought to obtain the support of the Afro-cultural movement and the Candomblé terreiros of Ilhéus for his election to the Chamber of Councillors. However, the secretary interested in influencing the CEAC elections was one of the numerous ‘pre-candidates’ who was competing for the mayor’s nomination to run for his party. After eight years at the head of Ilhéus City Hall, and after having eliminated or removed from his group or party all those who, supposedly, could gain enough political force to threaten him, Jabes Ribeiro found himself, strangely, in the difficult situation of not having a name he could put forward that had any chance of victory in the majoritarian elections. At the same time, he was obliged to equally favour all the ‘pre-candidates’, since anyone who failed to be nominated could transform themselves into a political enemy capable of at least causing difficulties in the election of the candidate chosen by the mayor for his own succession. Thus, Jabes delayed this nomination until the last possible moment, and ended up deciding on someone who was seen by the majority of people in Ilhéus as electorally untenable. This was Soane Nazaré, one of the founders of the State University of Santa Cruz, president of the Free University of the Sea and the Forest (Universidade Livre do Mar e da Mata, or Maramata),222 who had never ran for elective office before, and who now, with PFL, led the coalition Ilhéus Cannot Stop (Ilhéus Não Pode Parar). The opposition, however, found themselves greatly divided. The deputy mayor Angela Maria Corrêa de Souza – who, depending on the version of the story you hear, refused to be a candidate with the mayor’s support, or was refused this support by the mayor – put herself forward with the coalition For the Good of Ilhéus (Pelo Bem de Ilhéus). PT, leading the coalition For Ilhéus to Change and Grow (Para Ilhéus Mudar e Crescer), put forward Ruy Carvalho. Another party launched the strong candidacy of Valderico Reis, who was the owner of the most important local radio station (which had been fiercely opposing Jabes Ribeiro) and a large urban transportation company, whose license to operate in Ilhéus had recently been revoked by City Hall. Other parties also put forward their own candidates, such as Magno Lavigne and Antônio Corrêa. Finally, and once again, Roland Lavigne was also a candidate for Ilhéus City Hall. However, in a curious and complete reversal of what had happened in the past two elections, his candidacy was launched by the

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president of PSDB (leader of the coalition ‘I am Ahead’ – Estou na Frente), Rúbia Carvalho, the same person who, in 1996, in order not to support Roland, had ended up joining forces with Jabes, who was now with PFL, precisely the party which Roland had come from. Meanwhile, the party that Marinho had joined when he had decided to accept the mayor’s ‘invitation’ to be a candidate for councillor, was also undergoing an interesting transformation. From being controlled by one of the principal and oldest allies of the mayor, the party had come to be presided over by someone who, like Alcides (also Marinho’s party), intended to run for councillor and, to this end, sought to attract the Afro-cultural movement to his candidacy. Primarily through Marinho Rodrigues, who Alcides was encouraging to launch himself as a candidate, offering him the opportunity to create a new block in one of the poorest and most populated neighbourhoods of the city, where the president of the party intended to establish his main electoral base. Marinho appeared greatly interested in these possibilities, but everything became more complicated still when the party decided not to support the candidate for mayor nominated by Jabes Ribeiro and instead joined Roland Lavigne’s campaign for City Hall. In fact, Marinho’s situation became very delicate. If, to launch himself as a candidate for councillor, he had to resign as administrator of the Memorial only by 3 July, any earlier announcement of his support for Roland would inevitably signify his dismissal from that position. Those interested in his candidacy – his brothers, some friends, the CEACI, the president of his party, and others – repeatedly suggested that he resign immediately, with the president of his party even suggesting that he would pay the equivalent of his salary if he did so. After much hesitation and many changes of mind, Marinho finally decided not to run for the Chamber of Councillors. What probably contributed to this decision was a certain fear of removing himself from Jabes Ribeiro’s group after several years of being close to him; a small fear of losing a job and salary which he had been seeking for a long time; the suspicion that his party intended to use him purely as a mule in the election of their president and Alcides; the suspicion that the president of CEACI (and maybe even some of his friends and brothers) were, in fact, interested in replacing him as the administrator of the Memorial; and, my only contribution as a ‘political adviser’ in a very short political career, perhaps because, when I was asked directly, I did not hesitate to say that I believed he should not put himself forward as a candidate, since his chances of election were practically nil and he would end up experiencing great disappointment. The decision not to run for the Chamber, alongside Ney’s defeat in the elections for the presidency of CEACI – beaten, once again, by Jacks

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Rodrigues, with the apparent support of Alcides – fuelled a deterioration of relationships within the Rodrigues family. Ney began to insist more forcefully on the need for elections within the Dilazenze, and on the fact that he sought the presidency of the block, a position apparently supported by the majority of the family, who seemed to believe that, after having obtained all that he had, the time had come for Marinho to ‘open up a space’ or ‘provide an opportunity’ for his brother. In the sense of Pierre Clastres, this could simply mean that it seemed as if he had succeeded in a process of accumulating supposedly illegitimate power, and thus now it was necessary to block him. Marinho initially agreed not to run for re-election, later launched his campaign, and, finally, withdrew it, allowing Ney to run as the sole candidate. Elected on 17 July 2004, Ney took office on 28 August; elected on 13 April of the same year, Jacks Rodrigues was reinstated in the CEACI on 13 May. The 2004 municipal elections in Ilhéus were much more turbulent than usual and a detailed analysis of them will have to be for another occasion. I will therefore limit myself to highlighting a few of the more relevant points. Of the 117,659 registered voters, 92,752 cast their vote, an abstention rate of 21.17 per cent. In the proportional elections, 1.29 per cent of votes were blank and 2.50 per cent were void. The councillor who received the most votes obtained 2,220, and the elected candidate with the lowest number (Alcides Kruschewsky) gained 1,082 votes. In the majoritarian elections, the vote for the candidate who supposedly had been leading in all of the opinion polls, Valderico Reis was provisionally invalidated: though very few people knew about this before the election. 223 His candidacy found itself sub judice owing to apparent irregularities with the candidate running for deputy mayor on his ticket. Thus, initially, the votes given to him were counted, but not released, as they were waiting for a final announcement from the Electoral Court. Later on, it was disclosed that Valderico obtained around 34,739 votes, much higher than the 22,472 votes obtained by Ruy Carvalho, with PT, the remaining candidate with the highest number of votes. Soane Nazaré, with PFL, the candidate of Mayor Jabes Ribeiro, only received 9,609 votes, enough for third or fourth place, depending on the judgement on Valderico’s case. Roland Lavigne, with PSDB, still obtained over 4,000 votes, even though, less than a month before the election, he had withdrawn his candidacy, declaring his support for the PT candidate. This, in some way, completed the dance of electoral alliances in Ilhéus: in 1996, PT aligned themselves with Jabes against Roland; in 2000, they opposed both; and, in 2004, Roland joined with PT against Jabes. On 1 January 2005, Valderico Reis was sworn in as mayor of Ilhéus but, up until May, an appeal brought by PT, asking for the annulment of his election and the consequent victory of Ruy Carvalho, continued to make its way through the higher courts in Brasilia. As one of the consequences of these

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results, Marinho Rodrigues left his position as administrator of the Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus; the Memorial was, in practice, decommissioned and eventually abandoned due to lack of payment to the owners of the 19 March Sports Association; the 2005 carnival was held as a micareta in April; the Afro blocks received scant resources from City Hall and were forced to parade together in two big lines, in front of a small audience and without the presence of any municipal authority.

 The elements present in this story – on the one hand, success, pride, accusations of jealousy and envy; surprise, indignation, accusations of conceit and arrogance on the other – not only led to almost-unbearable tensions between people who were very close, but also outlined a possible solution to the problem. In a universe in which family relationships are fundamental and Candomblé is part of everyday life, it was more or less obvious that the diagnosis regarding everything that had been happening was leading towards the dark region of jealousy, witchcraft, and the evil eye. Finally, everything exploded during a meeting with Sambadila, which aimed to resolve the problems surrounding the group’s performances at the Memorial. Marinho attributed the misunderstandings to an unacceptable list of demands presented by the musicians; they, in turn, argued that Marinho had been extremely rude, even trying to ‘humiliate’ one of his brothers, who, surprisingly, given that he is known for his explosive temper, had not reacted, despite the offence caused. On the following Saturday, Marinho led a meeting of the Dilazenze at the Memorial. At the end of the meeting, totally unexpectedly, he handed his letter of resignation to the group’s board, and proclaimed that any existing problems were no longer in his authority, and that whoever wanted to could resolve them. Ney – who at the beginning of the meeting had argued for the need to elect a new board, without receiving any response – vehemently protested, arguing that that was not the way to elect a successor. Someone suggested that Marinho set up an electoral committee, in which he himself would participate, but his response was resolutely negative. A full understanding of what followed requires us, firstly, to remember that the Dilazenze is an Afro block tied not only to a family, but to a Candomblé terreiro. Furthermore, this connection is, itself, established in accordance with religious rules. According to Dona Ilza, the creation of the block partly resulted from the will of the orixás, and she was the one who chose the name, borrowed from Hipólito Reis, the African who – as we saw in the second chapter – had been responsible for the first religious ‘obligations’ of Dona

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Ilza’s uncle and mother. One of the most important ancestors of Tombenci, Hipólito’s spirit was consulted in the búzios and allowed his dijina (the name by which the Candomblé follower becomes known after their initiation) to be used to christen the newly created block.224 For this, a series of rituals were performed, which placed the Dilazenze under the protection of Xangô (the orixá of Hipólito Reis), inextricably associating the religious ‘foundations’ of the block and the terreiro225 and establishing that Marinho Rodrigues should be the leader of the group for seven years. A new consultation with the búzios meant that, one year before finishing, Marinho’s ‘mission’, as his leadership of the Dilazenze was referred to and thought of, was extended for seven more years, and so a term that was supposed to end around 2002, would, as a consequence of the extension, only end around 2008. This means that Marinho could never unilaterally renounce his presidency of the block, since his departure would require complex rituals and, most importantly, the permission of the spirits of the dead, chiefly that of Dilazenze Malungo, in other words, Hipólito Reis. This argument had in fact been used in the past, every time Marinho threatened, for one reason or another, to abandon the leadership of the block. On the other hand, he also used it when he felt that someone had aspirations to the position, as was happening at the time with Ney. In any case, in a certain sense anything was possible, since the missions assigned to humans by the deities and spirits can be modified, as long as consent is given by the dead and the gods, and as long as the appropriate rituals are performed. Marinho’s resignation and the conflicts that he instigated were, therefore, entangled in a plot which involved family relations, political ambitions and mystical dimensions. Shortly before the resignation, Eliana Vieira, a girl who was part of the Dilazenze dance group, and who had been living at the Rodrigues house (carrying out some domestic duties which sometimes included working in the terreiro), sought out Dona Ilza – who insisted on the fact that she had no involvement in what was happening – and, greatly upset, told her that she had dreamt of two very strange things. In the first dream, she could smell a very strong odour and eventually discovered that, on the roof of the barracão of the terreiro, there were remains of dead animals; dogs, cats and goats, all black, enshrouded by clouds of flies and emitting a terrible smell of death. In the second dream, she saw Iansã, the principal orixá of Gleide, dancing and holding back, with her sword, the advance of a Pombagira who, supposedly, would be her own ‘slave’; at the same time, the Pombagira was being whipped with a vine by one of the ogãs of the house. A very experienced saint-mother, Dona Ilza suspected that there was a message behind these dreams. A few days later, very early in the morning, when she was dozing after a sleepless night, three times she heard a voice tell

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her to ‘go to the game’, in other words, to the jogo de búzios in order to discover what was happening. The third and final time, the voice was accompanied by the smell of the cigar that her mother used to smoke. In the ‘game’ that she hurried to see, her cabocla revealed the existence of a terrible plot which aimed to destroy the Dilazenze and, perhaps, even the terreiro and the Rodrigues family itself. Dona Ilza preferred not to reveal the details of the story to her children, restricting herself to only warning them that the Memorial was ‘heavy’, with malign influences and that a ritual of ‘cleansing and unloading’ was strictly necessary. As soon as they arrived at the location to perform the ritual, everyone felt the intensity of the negative forces present, so much so that one of those officiating began to feel ill and required medical attention. Apparently, the chicken that was to be used as a vehicle for the absorption of these forces did not need to be sacrificed, having already died beforehand as a result of the sheer quantity of evil it had absorbed. These supernatural interventions appeared to calm the atmosphere a little, and Marinho agreed to put off his resignation from the presidency of the Dilazenze until after carnival. One week later, a new list of demands presented by the members of Sambadila provoked another violent outburst from Marinho, who, once again, was very rude to his brother. Back in Conquista, the two brothers clashed in front of their mother, and a third brother said that, as Marinho had been treating everyone as if they were his enemy, from that moment on, he should no longer consider him his brother. Amidst the screaming, crying and general emotion, Dona Ilza was possessed by her cabocla, and, after singing songs of Candomblé that spoke of relationships between brothers and between children and parents, she tried to explain to everyone what was actually happening. In Eliana’s second dream, the Pombagira who presented herself as the slave of Gleide’s orixá Iansã, was, in fact, a malicious Exu that the orixá and the ogã were trying to prevent from infiltrating the group and destroying it. The first dream signified that rituals and spells had been carried out, and the jogo de búzios, eventually, revealed the identity of those involved. A ‘woman with a large turban [torso]’ was responsible for a terrible spell that aimed to destroy the Dilazenze.226 This woman was, in fact, a saint-mother who was also active in the Afro-cultural movement, always present at the meetings and gatherings which took place at the Memorial. The jogo de búzios also revealed that she had even issued a challenge to Dona Ilza: ‘I want to see the strength of this saint-mother now that the saint [santa] is gone and the other two are going to fall out.’ This ‘saint’ was Gleide who, as we saw, had moved to Rio de Janeiro; ‘the other two’ were Marinho and Ney, and the three together represented the pillars upon which the Dilazenze was built.

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Figure 20 Marinho Rodrigues’ ritual of confirmation as ogã of the Terreiro Matamba Tombency Neto.

In other words, the saint-mother was trying to bewitch the brothers, pitting them against each other, with the ultimate objective of destroying the Dilazenze. This objective was, of course, shared by other groups, jealous of the success of the block, and these other groups were, therefore, complicit in the witchcraft or, at the very least, the evil eye, which, provoked by jealousy or envy, produced effects similar to witchcraft. In truth, the two processes were not only cumulative, but also complementary, and the cabocla warned that the leader of an Afro block, relatively close to the Dilazenze, was the main transmitter or conductor of the witchcraft. Even if he was acting involuntarily, his jealousy and greed had transformed him into the ideal vehicle, so that the spell was able to affect highly protected people, even those initiated into Candomblé, and, beyond this, even the biological children of a powerful saint-mother. Besides, the spell had shaken the ‘village of the dead’, because, as we saw, the Dilazenze were closely tied to the eguns and took their name from one of them. It even affected Dona Ilza herself, who was no longer resisting the quarrel between her sons, and, the cabocla warned, ‘was only still standing because I am holding her up’; therefore, if everyone continued to act in the same way, and to quarrel, the spirit would depart and they could risk losing their mother. Before promoting a reconciliation between them all, and, most importantly, compelling Ney and Marinho to embrace each other, the cabocla also announced that she had been present during the dispute between them,

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and that it had been her who had prevented Ney from physically retaliating to the verbal aggression of Marinho. Finally, before leaving Dona Ilza’s body, the spirit prescribed some rituals to be performed and, especially, certain behaviours to be adopted or avoided, the main one being the avoidance of the transmitter of the witchcraft. This avoidance should be done carefully, because, ultimately, this person was not intentionally responsible for this evil, which he was transmitting rather than causing. In any case, it was important to reduce contact with him to a minimum, and, perhaps most importantly, to avoid turning ones back on him. Someone then recalled that this transmitter was not only present during the violent dispute between Ney and Marinho, but was also constantly following Marinho during his activities at the Memorial, in other words, ‘he was always right behind him’. The emotional reconciliation of the two brothers in front of the cabocla, together with the rituals and behaviours she prescribed, certainly helped to alleviate the almost-unbearable tension that they had all been experiencing, but it was not sufficient to completely end it or the cause of it. Dona Ilza herself warned that the deities and spirits could only prepare the ground for the correct behaviour of humans, but, if they did not act correctly, nothing could be resolved. In other words, I believe that the ethnographic demonstration of EvansPritchard – according to which witchcraft and magic can coexist perfectly well with the most commonplace notions of physical causality – can undoubtedly be extended into the social or psychological realm. Ultimately, no one really thought that the spell cast against the Dilazenze was the cause of these feelings and actions, but it was instead responsible for adding to, amplifying and directing them. This also means that the fact of knowing that a person is acting in a particular way because they were under some kind of spell does not necessarily nullify any distrust of them, nor does it automatically function as proof of their ultimate innocence. The Dilazenze and, up to a certain point, Tombenci and the Rodrigues family, therefore appeared threatened both by a series of intentional deeds carried out by a conscious and malign agent, as well as by negative forces emanating, involuntarily, from people who were envious of the block’s success. In other words, it appeared that sorcery and witchcraft – in the classic senses of the terms defined by Evans-Pritchard in his studies of Azande practices and concepts – converged to threaten the group, the terreiro and the family. In fact, the situation was even more complicated. There was, certainly, a witch; and there were, equally, those who directed her witchcraft against a target which was difficult to hit. In fact, as Favret-Saada observed (1980:128– 33), this process by which a spell is cast upon its victims can be the work of a witch, or of an ‘unwitting’ (ibid.:130) or even ‘rebel’ transmitter or conductor

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(ibid.:130–3). In the case she studied in the French Bocage, the role of the conductor seems clearly determined by relations of kinship and by the familial proximity the person conducting has in relation to the witchdoctor, the former being, in general, a child of the latter and suffering serious consequences when trying to avoid the mission assigned by the father. In Ilhéus (and perhaps elsewhere), the role of the conductor (whether involuntary or rebel – although I have never heard about the latter) appears, on the contrary, to depend on the intrinsic qualities of the feelings experienced by the conductor of the spell in relation to their target. More precisely, it is always jealousy that can lead even the most well intentioned of friends to serve as transmitters of malign and destructive forces. If we add to this the fact that jealousy or envy tend to be thought of as involuntary feelings, which can, to a certain extent, only produce negative effects (such as the ‘evil eye’), we might conclude that a type of sorcery combines itself with a particular variant of witchcraft in order to attack those whose success it wants, at the same time, to prevent and to acquire. In other words, jealousy appears to be the lowest common denominator in a range of practices that span from pure greed to more explicit sorcery, passing through hostility in personal relationships, the evil eye, and witchcraft. In addition, however, jealousy allows us to draw a line that can lead to a more general relation between areas that are usually seen as distinct: kinship, religion and politics. For this, it is first necessary, once again, to follow Jeanne Favret-Saada and admit that what is at stake in witchcraft is not, in any way, the rationality or irrationality of the situation or of those involved, but rather ‘situations in which there is no room for two’ (ibid.:123).227 Next, we must admit that jealousy is, undoubtedly, the feeling appropriate to these situations, since, by definition, it is in these situations that the fact of occupying a position of desire prevents someone else from occupying it. Furthermore, jealousy also appears unmistakeably related to what has always been a classic subject of investigations into witchcraft, namely that it is an ‘explanation of misfortune’, because the fact that someone occupies a desired position, preventing me from doing so, may be a sign that witchcraft, sorcery, or both may have been invoked in order to do harm to me.228 We can recall that, in the specific case of witchcraft, as it was conceptualized in the ethnographic theory developed by Evans-Pritchard regarding the practices and concepts of the Azande, the central point of the explanation is the possibility of blaming an individual for some evil, even when the harmful acts they provoked did not depend on their own will. In other words, if the ultimate cause of misfortune can be found in the impersonal system of witchcraft, its effective cause, undoubtedly, is found in very specific individuals, only those whose controls and sanctions can cause effects, since witchcraft as such is beyond the reach of ordinary men. This means then, that the ‘guilty’ can not

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only declare their innocence in not having committed the acts of which they are accused, even as they admit to their role, but they can, at least in principle, argue that their actions depend on forces and a system that they are not even capable of controlling. Finally, if we understand jealousy and witchcraft in the manner proposed by Favret-Saada, we can well understand why both of them are so often associated with politics. After all, politics is, without question, a dimension or field in which, almost always, a protagonist must necessarily eliminate others in order to occupy one of the few spaces available. This concept is perhaps even more widespread. I clearly remember the advice of Seu Malandrinho, one of the spirits that possesses Gilvan, when I asked for his help in making decisions, and the courage to follow them: ‘You have to focus on what you want! Even if you have to trample over others to get what you want!’ In this sense, it may be possible to transpose the scheme of witchcraft used by Michael Herzfeld (1982:651) in order to anthropologically analyse state bureaucracies, which also function, the author suggests, as a possible ‘explanation of misfortune’. As an old resident on the edge of the Sahara said after having their crop destroyed by wild elephants, ‘against sandstorms, elephants, and the State, only God can protect us’.229 Perhaps politics in general, in a native sense of the term, can be understood according to such a scheme. For is it not an enormous system of impersonal forces that can be held responsible for the worst acts committed by humans? And is politics in general not beyond the reach of ordinary actions, so that outrage or anger can only be directed to politicians in the flesh? At the same time, and on the other hand, this conception also allows everything that these politicians do to be tolerated, since they, after all, are not responsible for their actions and it is only ‘politics’ which forces them to act in this way. As with many other researchers in many other places, I found in Ilhéus these multiple mixtures of belief and suspicion – of the system itself and of the people within it – which appeared to constitute one of the cores of the lived experience of politics, and which are carefully thrown aside when one reflects on it or legislates it. In any case, if this book finishes here, the story with which it is concerned is far from over. It could well be that the tensions could aggravate and lead into, belatedly and somewhat paradoxically, a process of widespread collapse, the kind of transformation that was foretold more than thirty years ago, when Dona Ilza, risking the preservation of her own family, accepted the mission of becoming a saint-mother. On the other hand, as has already happened on various other occasions, it may well be that the relationships – both familial and other – are restored, in such a way that the Rodrigues family, the Dilazenze, and Tombenci continue to be what they always have been: one of those existential territories where life is worth living.

GLOSSARY

Adriana Ribeiro – Wife of the ex-mayor Jabes Ribeiro, who participated – albeit unofficially – in the administration of the Cultural Foundation of Ilhéus (Fundação Cultural de Ilhéus, or Fundaci) between 1997 and 2004. Afro-Cultural Centre of Ilhéus (Centro Afro-Cultural de Ilhéus) – A project that was conceived during the election campaign of 1992, which consisted in the planned construction of a building aimed to house and exhibit local Afro culture. In the campaign of 1992, the promise of its construction led the Afro-cultural groups to lend their support to the mayoral candidate Antônio Olímpio. Alcides Kruschewsky – As a candidate for councillor he was elected in 2004 with 1,082 votes. He focused part of his campaign on the Afro blocks and Candomblé terreiros. Used the slogan ‘100% Alcides’. Antônio Carlos Magalhães – Perhaps the best-known politician from Bahia, having been, since the late 1950s and on various occasions, the mayor of Salvador, governor of the state, deputy, senator and minister. He decided to resign from his position as senator in 2001 in order to avoid an impeachment due to what was known as the ‘electronic panel scandal’, and was re-elected in 2002. He continued to exert a significant political influence over all the municipalities of Bahia until his death in 2007. Antônio Olímpio Rehem da Silva – The ex-mayor of Ilhéus, who served between 1977 and 1982 (for MDB), and, later, between 1993 and 1996 (for PFL). 19 March Sporting Association (Associação Desportiva 19 de Março) – Situated on the street of the same name, near to the centre of Ilhéus, this association was founded in the 1960s and continues to be owned by members of the black family who established it and who still run the association. A domino club and meeting place, it organizes dances, music and feijoadas. In May of 2000, the ground floor of its headquarters was leased by Ilhéus City Hall in order to establish the newly created Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus. Bebeto (Adalberto) Souza Galvão – A black militant with a leftist party, who was closely affiliated with various agricultural settlements and urban unions, he was a councillor between 1997 and 2000, having been defeated in his attempt to secure re-election. Council of Afro-Cultural Entities of Ilhéus (Conselho das Entidades AfroCulturais de Ilhéus – Ceac or Ceaci) – A council to bring together the Afro-cultural groups of Ilhéus, which today numbers fifteen organizations. Founded in 1989, it was re-established in 1992, and later in 1997, continuing to function as a channel of communication between the black groups and the municipal administration. Executive Commission for the Planning of Cacao Farming (Comissão Executiva do Plano da Lavoura Cacaueira – CEPLAC) – A department in the Ministry of Agriculture established in 1957 for the research and development of the cacao economy.

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César Borges – A Bahian politician affiliated with Antônio Carlos Magalhães, who was a state governor and also senator, and who made various visits to Ilhéus during election campaigns. Cosme Araújo – Lawyer and black Ilheusean politician, and neighbour of the Rodrigues family. He was a councillor between 1993 and 2000, and a candidate for state deputy and mayor on different occasions. Cultural Foundation of Ilhéus (Fundação Cultural de Ilhéus – Fundaci) – Municipal agency responsible for managing culture in the city of Ilhéus. Dino Rocha – An official within City Hall and member of the Dilazenze (where he was Director of Events), he was a candidate for councillor in 1996. Elício Gomes – One of the founders of the Gangas Afro block in 1986, he later became an evangelical Christian, leaving the block and moving away from the Afro-cultural movement. He was a defeated councillor candidate in 1992, but secured election in 2000 and was re-elected in 2004. Fábio Souto – A Bahian politician closely tied to Antônio Carlos Magalhães; also the son of Paulo Souto, who was both state and federal deputy. His possible candidacy for Ilhéus City Hall was raised on more than one occasion, but never materialized. Gerson Marques – A tourism specialist, who studied in Rio de Janeiro. He worked in the tourism department of Ilhéus City Hall on several occasions. In 1996, he was one of the advisers of Rúbia Carvalho; in 2000 he supported Jabes Ribeiro, and in 2004 he supported Ruy Carvalho of PT. He is the brother-in-law of Jaco Santana and has a good relationship with the Afro-cultural movement in Ilhéus. Gildo Pinto – Previously the president of the stevedores union in Ilhéus, he was a member of the Hearts Movement of Ilhéus, having helped to found the D’Logun Afro block in 1992. He lost the proportional elections of that year, but was elected in 1996, becoming the president of the Chamber of Councillors. He was a candidate for state deputy in 1998, with the formal support of seven Afro blocks, and failed to secure re-election for the Chamber of Councillors in 2000. Gilmar Rodrigues Santos – One of Dona Ilza Rodrigues’ ten sons, he is the principal ogã of Tombenci and was vice-president and president in the first incarnation of CEACI in 1990. After this, he distanced himself from the Afro-cultural movement, only participating in a few activities of the Dilazenze. He works, sometimes, as a canvasser for different local candidates. Gilvan Rodrigues Santos – Another of Dona Ilza Rodrigues’ ten sons, he is seen as the probable successor at the head of Tombenci. Extremely knowledgeable in all matters of Candomblé, he has also participated in politics since 1978, when he was working in Ilhéus City Hall, where he remained until 1987. In 1988, when he held the position of representative of the Bahian Federation of Afro-Brazilian Religion (Federação Baiana de Cultos Afro-Brasileiros) in Ilhéus, he was an unsuccessful candidate for the Chamber of Councillors. He returned to stand as a candidate on various occasions, but never secured the number of votes that he managed the first time. Nevertheless, he regularly

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works as a canvasser for various local and state candidates. He was never very close to the Afro-cultural movement, but he is the official vice-president of the Dilazenze. Gleide Rodrigues Santos de Souza (Menina G’leu) – Grand-daughter of Dona Ilza Rodrigues, saint-daughter of Tombenci, choreographer and principal dancer of the Dilazenze. She moved to Rio de Janeiro in 2003. Gumercindo Tavares – From a traditional Ilheusean cacao family, he tried to be a mayoral candidate in Ilhéus in 1996. When the group of Antônio Carlos Magalhães nominated another candidate, he removed himself from the running and, apparently, never participated in politics in the city again. Gurita (Alzimário) Belmonte Vieira – Black politician, with a university education in Physical Education, who was one of the founders of PT (the Workers’ Party) in Ilhéus He left the party in 1995, and then in 1996 put himself forward as candidate for councillor with another, affiliated with the political group of Rúbia Carvalho and, for this purpose, Jabes Ribeiro. He was not elected, but was appointed to the position of head of the Sports Division under the Municipal Secretary of Education of Ilhéus, a position which he held until recently. He again put himself forward, unsuccessfully, as a candidate for councillor in 2000 and 2004, and always tried to present himself as the representative of the Afro-cultural movement of the city. Ilhéus Tourism Company (Compania de Turismo de Ilhéus – Ilheustur) – Municipal agency responsible for managing tourism in the city of Ilhéus. Izabel Rodrigues (Dona Roxa) – Dona Ilza’s mother and former saint-mother of Matamba Tombenci Neto Terreiro. Ilza Rodrigues (Dona Ilza) – Saint-mother of Matamba Tombenci Neto Terreiro. Jabes Ribeiro – Elected as mayor of Ilhéus on three occasions (from 1983 to 1988, from 1997 to 2000, and from 2001 to 2004), State Secretary of Work in the government of Waldir Pires (from 1989 to 1990), and federal deputy between 1991 and 1994, he is, possibly, the most important living politician in Ilhéus. Originally part of the Brazilian Democatic Movement (MDB), later he joined the Party of the Brazilian Democatic Movement (PMDB) and then PSDB (having, however, supported the candidacy of Lula in 1994) before finally aligning himself with PFL, and the group of Antônio Carlos Magalhães, who had always been his adversary. Jacks Rodrigues – Leader of the D’Logun Afro block, he was put forward as a candidate for president of CEAC by Marinho Rodrigues in 2001, but, soon after taking office, fell out with him. One of the supporters of the candidacy of Alcides Kruschewsky in 2004, he was re-elected as the president of CEAC in 2004. Jaco (Jamilton Galdino) Santana – An artist specializing in ecological furniture, born in Caravelas, where he participated in the cultural movement and the local chapter of PT. He moved to Ilhéus in 1996, establishing friendly relationships with the Afro-cultural movement of the city, and principally with the Dilazenze. He is the brother-in-law of Gerson Marques.

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Joabes Ribeiro – Brother of the ex-mayor Jabes Ribeiro, and councillor since 1996, he was the most highly voted for candidate in the municipal elections of 2000. He was a defeated candidate for state deputy in 2002 and a pre-candidate for City Hall in 1996, only to be replaced by his brother some months before the election. João César – A black militant who acts as an intermediary between the MNU and the Afro-cultural movement, he was a candidate for councillor in 1996 and in 2004. Luiz Carilo – A teacher of classical ballet and theatre, he was one of the founders, in 1981, of the first Afro block in Ilhéus, the Lê-Guê DePá, in which a good part of the Rodrigues family used to participate. Towards the end of the 1980s, he completely removed himself from the black movement, becoming an adviser to The Brazilian Service of Support for Micro and Small Enterprises (Sebrae), and beginning to live outside of Ilhéus. In 2002, he reappeared as a candidate for the role of administrator of the Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus. Marcelina Plácida (Dona Maçu) – Saint-daughter of the founder of the Tombenci terreiro in Salvador (the famous Maria Jenoveva do Bonfim, or Maria Neném), and saint-mother of Dona Izabel Rodrigues (Dona Roxa), Dona Ilza Rodrigues (Mãe Mucalê) and some of Dona Ilza’s biological children. Maria Lúcia Magalhães Batista (Nêga Lúcia) – Former member of the Dilazenze, who occasionally ran for the position of councillor, always presenting herself as a member of the block and producer of black culture. She was never elected, but obtained some lesser and temporary jobs within local politics. Marinho (Gilmário) Rodrigues Santos – One of Dona Ilza Rodrigues’ ten sons, ogã of Tombenci, president of the Dilazenze Cultural Group between 1988 and 2004, president of CEAC between 1997 and 2001, administrator of the Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus from 2002, and undoubtedly the most well-known name in the Afrocultural movement of Ilhéus. Mário Gusmão – Important black actor, dancer and cultural presenter of Bahia, member of Ilê Aiyê and the Olodum, who lived in Ilhéus between 1982 and 1983, having been one of the initiators of the local Afro-cultural movement. Memorial of Black Culture of Ilhéus (Memorial da Cultura Negra de Ilhéus) – Extension and replacement of the Afro-Cultural Centre of Ilhéus, inaugurated in 2000 – and re-inaugurated on various occasions – and operating out of the 19 March Sports Association building. Mirinho (Aldircemiro) Duarte Luz – Stevedore, founder of the D’Logun Afro block, and second president of CEACI. He drew together the unified support of the Afro blocks around the mayoral candidacy of Ronaldo Santana and Antônio Olímpio in 1996, and he himself won the position of first alternate for councillor for his party. With the inauguration of Antônio Olímpio in 1993 he was appointed secretary of the cabinet of the deputy mayor Ronaldo Santana, and held the position of councillor at various times.

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Moacir Pinho – A militant from the MNU and the landless movement, born in Salvador, who moved to Ilhéus in 1993, and was also affiliated with PT. He was project manager for Fundaci (the Cultural Foundation of Ilhéus) until the dispute between PT and the mayor Jabes Ribeiro, and helped to organize various activities that were seen as ‘cultural’. He studied philosophy at the State University of Santa Cruz and, today, runs a settlement in the rural area of the municipality of Ilhéus. Ney (Gilsonei) Rodrigues Santos – One of Dona Ilza Rodrigues’ sons, and principal percussionist and master of the drum section of the Dilazenze, he was the vicepresident of the group under Marinho Rodrigues and is now the current president. He was also the vice-president of CEAC under Jacks Rodrigues, and the candidate defeated by him in the recent elections for the Council. Paulo Cesar de Menezes (Cesar) – A cook in the merchant navy, he was the founder, and is the president, of the Rastafiry Afro block. He was also the vice-president of CEAC during the term of Marinho Rodrigues. Paulo Rodrigues dos Santos – Historian, former graduate of social anthropology and now in human geography, he left Ilhéus at a young age, returning only in 1996. He helped, in the beginning, the research that led to this book; he also participated, to some extent, in the Afro-cultural movement until a dispute arose with other members of the movement. He is responsible for collecting much of the information that is used here. Paulo Souto – A Bahian politician with ties to Antônio Carlos Magalhães, he was governor of the state and also a senator, having visited Ilhéus on various occasions during elections and campaigns. In addition, he has family ties to the cacao region, having lived there during his youth. He is the father of Fábio Souto. Pedro Farias – A very famous saint-father in Ilhéus, leading the Terreiro de Odé. In addition, he was the founder of the afoxé Filhos da África, who paraded in the Ilhéus carnival from 1950 until 1970. He was also the chief of staff for various mayors of Ilhéus. He died, assassinated, in 2002. Roland Lavigne – A politician originally from Una, a city nearby to Ilhéus, he was mayor of that municipality as well as the town of Camacan. He was elected as state deputy in 1990, and federal deputy in 1994, failing in his re-election bid in 2002. He was a mayoral candidate in Ilhéus in 1996 with PL, in 2000, with PFL, and in 2004, with PSDB, having renounced his candidacy a few weeks before the election. Ronaldo Santana – Administrative official in the port of Ilhéus, with a degree in Sociology, he was put forward as a mayoral candidate in Ilhéus in 1992, for the Hearts Movement of Ilhéus. He gained the support of the Afro-cultural movement, to whom he promised the construction of the Afro-Cultural Centre of Ilhéus. He ended up accepting the position of deputy mayor on the victorious electoral ticket of Antônio Olímpio. He was appointed as the Municipal Secretary of Agriculture, Industry and Commerce, but was denounced as a traitor by the black movement, and, after 1997, appeared to distance himself from politics.

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Rúbia Carvalho – The daughter and wife of wealthy cacao merchants, she put herself forward as a candidate for the State Legislature in 1994 and attempted to be a mayoral candidate in 1996. She withdrew from the competition after a political maneuver against her that she attributed to the political group of Antônio Carlos Magalhães, and came to support the victorious campaign of Jabes Ribeiro. She was appointed as the Secretary of Social Action and ran, unsuccessfully, for the Chamber of Deputies in 1998, and the Chamber of Councillors in 2000. President of the local chapter of PDSB since 2001, she supported the abortive campaign of Roland Lavigne for mayor of the city in 2004. Ruy Carvalho – Physician. In several elections he was a candidate of different leftist parties and coalitions. Unified Black Movement (Movimento Negro Unificado – MNU) – A movement created in São Paulo in 1978, with the aim of serving as a hub to unify the various black groups that existed in Brazil, an ambition that was never realized. In Ilhéus, the attempts to establish the MNU date back to the 1980s, but were never entirely successful. Valentim Afonso Pereira – Dona Ilza’s father and former ogã of Matamba Tombenci Neto Terreiro.

NOTES

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4

‘Saint-mother’ (mãe-de-santo) or ‘saint-father’ (pai-de-santo) are the terms most used in Brazil to designate the principal priestess or priest of a Candomblé terreiro. They are a literal translation of the terms ialorixá and babalorixá, of Yoruba origin. Within the Tombenci terreiro, Dona Ilza is also called Nêngua de Inkice or Mamêto Inkiceana, terms of Bantu origin with the same signification as the former names. Congruently, women or men initiated into Candomblé are called, respectively, saint-daughter or saint-son (filha-de-santo or filho-de-santo); see, for all of these Candomblé terms, among others, Cacciatore 1977). Put very simply, Candomblé can be described as a religion of African origin, brought to Brazil with the traffic of slaves. Here in their new setting, Yoruba and Bantu cosmologies intermixed, blending with indigenous beliefs, popular Catholicism and European spiritualism. The essential feature of Candomblé is a cult centred on a pantheon of divinities called orixás, inquices, voduns or santos, who ‘possess’ certain ritually initiated followers. Candomblé followers in Brazil usually classify the terreiros into three big ‘nations’ (alongside a large number of smaller nations) arising from, in theory, the different African origins of their founders. In this way, the Ketu nation originated with the Yoruba of Nigeria and Benin, the Jeje from the Fon of Benin, and the Angola from the Bantu of Angola and Congo. There are differences between terreiros that classify themselves as separate nations (and also between those who classify themselves as the same nation), but in Ilhéus, almost all of them consider themselves Angola. Ogã can refer both to being the holder of certain male ritual positions (drum player, sacrificer etc.) and to a somewhat honorific title given to those who help the terreiro. It is a masculine position and he who occupies it cannot be possessed by spirits. A female position approximately equivalent is that of equede – however, this does not seem to be used as an honorific title. In 1995 Marinho Rodrigues wrote a song entitled ‘Mamãe Africa’ (‘Mother Africa’). Part of the lyrics are as follows: Look I’m here here again demanding our rights go Dilazenze go I said it will go, it will go, go Make protests against apartheid Nelson Mandela black brother and no apartheid no No apartheid no Mother Africa

Olha eu aqui aqui de novo reivindicando nossos direitos vai Dilazenze vai eu falei que vai, que vai, vai Fazer protestos contra o apartheid Nelson Mandela negro irmão e não apartheid não Não apartheid não ié mamãe Africa

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At the end of the year, a singer friend offered to help record the song for a CD demo in a studio in Salvador. At the time of the recording, arguing that the original would not be commercial enough, he recorded a new version, with a new title, ‘Vai Dilazenze’ (‘Go Dilazenze’) and alternative lyrics: Look I’m here Olha eu aqui here again aqui de novo to hug you, to kiss you pra te abraçar, te beijar to love you in my way te amar do meu gosto and go Dilazenze go e vai Dilazenze vai I said go, go, go eu falei que vai, que vai, vai Making love is great Fazer amor é bom but it is not done in vain mas não à toa I have been lucky that I eu tive a sorte de poder te have found you easily encontrar numa boa And don’t let me down E não me deixe na mão heart, heart don’t fool yourself coração, coração não se engana não 5

6

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‘We say that they “believe” that the mystical world is real, and that it always is […]. Of course, in every case of this kind, they do not consciously “believe”, but they feel, and experience the reality of the object, no less than when it comes to beings and events of the world around us’ (Lévy-Bruhl 1938:127–8). Or, as Paul Veyne (1988:88) wrote in much more contemporary language: ‘what does “imaginary” mean? What is imaginary is the reality of others, just as, according to a phrase of Raymond Aron, ideologies are the ideas of others […], a dogmatic judgement concerning certain beliefs of another.’ ‘Human beings are not monomaniacal, they have various interests, various simultaneous ideas, and they are rarely captured by a single grand sentiment; in this way, life is very ordinary.’ (Veyne 1976:96) Ramos (1990:458–9) underlined the generally intermittent and diachronic character of field research undertaken by Brazilian anthropologists (see also, Peirano 1995). This is the strength and the weakness of the first work written by Miguel Vale de Almeida (1999) regarding the Afro-cultural movement in Ilhéus. The richness and diversity of the speeches are registered, but appear overshadowed by the fact that these speeches are generally mere formal declarations of principles. In his second text about Ilhéus, Almeida (2004) seems to have noticed the problem and tried to reinstate a little bit of the vivacity of the local life. The problem is that the simple juxtaposition of recorded speeches, newspapers, the anthropologist’s personal correspondence, and other ethnographies – all of this interspersed by passages (which appear in a different typeface) in which Almeida supplies his interpretation of the material, as well as weaving more general theoretical considerations – produces a slightly disappointing result. Firstly, and even allowing for the recognition of sources, within the majority of the text it is difficult to know

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precisely at what point the anthropologist takes on the voice of his informants or colleagues. Moreover, the excessive use of unprepared material heavily compromises the intelligibility that the text means to confer, and leads the author to stop checking certain bits of received information and to unquestioningly accept lapses by his informants, generating ethnographic inaccuracies. Regarding Almeida’s book (2004 [2000]), see also Vasconcelos’ (2003) excellent review. Which also means that the native versions, opinions and interpretations regarding the activities of politicians are simply reproduced here, without evidently implying any judgement of fact or value on my part in respect to the events and characters referred to. ‘No “natives” (in the plural) have ever any belief or any idea; each one has his own ideas and his own beliefs.’ (Malinowski 1916:420). See also Veyne (1984: ch. 1). Jaco Galdino (Jamilton Galdino Santana) is an artist who is dedicated to the development of extremely beautiful ‘rustic’ and ‘ecological’ furniture. Born in Caravelas, he participated in the city’s cultural movement (see Mello 2003), as well as in the local section of the Workers’ Party (PT) until 1996 when he moved to Ilhéus. His political conceptions and positions are at heart very similar to my own, and for this reason they are rarely explicitly referenced in this book. Actually, Jaco was fundamental throughout the writing of this book, not only because of our friendship, but also in virtue of the plentiful information he gave me and the long and enjoyable conversations we had in which we analysed the politics of Ilhéus and the black movement within the city. It is enough to extend to the study of these mediations the same objections raised against the possibility of identifying with the natives to reduce ethnography to a narcissistic and nihilistic post-modern exercise in which anthropologists can only talk about themselves or about the impossibility of having access to the ‘other.’ The historical explanation has the banal meaning of understanding; in other words, it only wants to ‘show the development of a plot, to make us understand it’, to express the ‘summary of a plot’ (Veyne 1984:118). Or, in the words of Jacques Donzelot (2001:638), to stop asking ‘what is society? This is an abstract idea, merely serving to open the way for the most general of concepts. Instead we must substitute for this the direct question: how do we live in society? This is a concrete question entailing others in its wake: where do we live? how do we inhabit the earth? how do we live and experience the State?’ As Lévi-Strauss (1974:364) wrote, anthropology always tries to reach ‘a level where phenomena retain a meaning for humanity and can be apprehended, in mind and feeling, by an individual. This is a very important point, for it enables us to distinguish between the type of objectivity to which anthropology aspires and that aimed at by the other social sciences, of which it can be said that it is no less rigorous, although it is on another level. The realities in which economic science and demography are interested are no less objective, but they are not expected to have a meaning so far as the subject’s own personal experience is concerned, for

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Notes in the course of his historical evolution he never encounters such things as value, profitableness, marginal productivity, or maximum population.’ To these concepts we can certainly add the free voter, rational choice or ideal democracy. It is because of this that the brilliant work of Richard Graham (1997) about patronage in Brazil’s Second Empire is so similar to, and yet so different from, what anthropologists do. Interested in native perspectives about power and the meanings given to political actions by those who executed them – as well as ‘to understand how politics seemed to those who practised it’ (Graham 1997:2) – the author only has access to the documents (in this case, letters and general correspondence) left behind by the elites which, evidently, only allow for the recovery of dominant points of view. As Favret-Saada (1981:336) observes, this is perhaps the fate of the historian, since ‘in the archives, the “people” are talked about more than they talk, appearing as an object of administrative discourse, not as the subjects of an autonomous discourse.’ It is perhaps necessary, as Michelet insisted, to scrutinize – but how? – ‘“the silences of history”, for essential mutations occur and are not recorded in the archives’ (ibid.:354). For another position in respect to the relationship between field research and archive research, see Giumbelli (2002). For more on the relationships between the structuralist model and the positions of Deleuze and Guattari, see Goldman (1999:80). In general, the authors conclude, the point of view of the majority is assumed, which ‘is evident in all the operations, electoral or otherwise, where you are given a choice, but on the condition that your choice conform to the limits of the constant’ (Deleuze and Guattari 2005:105). For more on this subject, see Abreu (2003), particularly chapter 7. ‘We will always be failures at playing African or Indian, even Chinese, and no voyage to the South Seas, however arduous, will allow us to cross the wall, get out of the hole or lose our face’ (Deleuze and Guattari 2005:188). This process – which the authors term ‘double capture’ (Deleuze and Parnet 1977:2, 7, 9), ‘double becoming’ (Deleuze and Guattari 2005:305; 380) or ‘block of becoming’ (ibid.:238, 277–8, 291, 293–4, 299, 305, 307) – can perhaps shed more light on the complex relationships between the ethnographer and the natives than the oft-repeated clichés, regarding both scientific objectivity and ethnographic authority. See also Favret-Saada and Contreras (1981). Favret-Saada (1980) also recalls other obstacles to the work of the anthropologist: the ethnographer’s excessive cultural similarity with the studied group; the concentration of investigation on the elite; the adoption of the notion of belief; the hypothesis that everything becomes clear once put in reference to the ‘social’; the ideas of ‘objectivity’ and ‘scientificity.’ It is no wonder therefore that her work has aroused reactions both from the media – to the point of being baptized as ‘the witch of the CNRS’ (Centre Nationale de la Recherche Scientifique) (Favret-Saada 1984) – and in academia, where one colleague even suggested that the CNRS

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should cancel her funding because she was using it to learn to become a witch! (Favret-Saada 1980:169). During the same period, a colleague, an amazonianist, told me that he had heard that I had abandoned anthropology in order to become a political scientist. In precisely the sense in which Foucault (1984:59) maintains that his work about imprisonment looked to turn prison into something ‘intelligible and, thus, criticisable.’ Beyond that, this book intends to adopt, in regards to politics, an anthropological perspective that is absolutely non-prescriptive, amoral even, which obviously does not mean non-ethical. Tânia Stolze Lima called my attention to this crucial point and again I must thank her. On the other hand, an interpretation more sympathetic to Latour could insist, perhaps, on the fact that the term central should be understood in the sense that a train station for example, is said to be ‘central’, simply by possessing the greatest number of connections in a network. In 1985, Joanna Overing was already observing the necessity for modifications to our vocabulary referring to indigenous knowledge, in order to not only speak in terms of cosmologies and representations or conceptions but to have the courage to say philosophies and epistemologies (Overing 1985:230; see also, Viveiros de Castro 2003). We should briefly observe that great divisions are not limited to the ontological level, in which they affirm the existence of distinct types of society. They can also operate on epistemological levels (assuming that different social formations should be treated by distinct types of theories) or even methodological planes (where we would imagine the existence of methods supposedly more adequate for different forms of society). See also, Lima and Goldman (1998). We will come back to this point in the second chapter. As Hermet (1978:17) and Rouquié (1978:170) warn, it is necessary to free oneself from all ‘electoral ethnocentrism’, especially that of the ‘liberal-pluralist’ type, and to strive to capture the representations of agents. The analyses of our political system tend to share with native representations a tendency to evaluate systems which are actually in existence, comparing them, explicitly or implicitly, with ‘cases’ or ‘models.’ With the first alternative, it is generally assumed that, somewhere (in the USA, in Scandinavia, in a glorious past or a desired future) democracy would work just as it is said to work; in the second, an ideal pattern is assumed which, even if it is never realized, serves as a parameter to assess the degree of democracy in regimes which are actually operating. As Palmeira (1992:30) reminds us, comparisons are useful, but should be carried out in a precise manner between contexts that are studied with the same ethnographic depth. This seems to be the limit of some interesting works written about the relationships between culture and politics. Writing about new forms of social movement which attempt to articulate culture and politics, Dagnino (1998:51), for example, after observing that ‘there is in Brazil today a proliferation of microexperiments that cannot be ignored since they reveal important possibilities of change’, immediately

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Notes reduces such experiences to ‘a result of the building of citizenship’ (ibid.) and to a ‘dispute among alternative conceptions of democracy and the political arena’ (ibid.:46), when it is actually about something more profound, of disputes surrounding the conceptions of alternative ways of life. Much in the same way, the attempt by Alvarez et al. (1998:1–2) to expand the meaning of politics, in order to remove it from the exclusive sphere of the State and to extend it to social movements, collides with the absolute lack of attention to native formulations and is always conducted from the point of view of the observer. Some recent ethnographies testify to this position. See, for example, Magalhães (1998) and Chaves (2003). See also, especially, Borges (2004), who presents, in an exemplary fashion, the overlapping of politics and the everyday lives of people, thus reducing, ethnographically, the scope of Norbert Elias’ beautiful formula: ‘the word politics, in its purest form, devitalizes experience’ (Borges 2004:13). This refers to the film North by Northwest. As the director explained in an interview with François Truffaut, it was necessary to deploy the villain of the film across three distinct characters, in such a way that one of these could be seductive while the other two shared the ‘sinister’ and ‘brutal’ character that villains must necessarily possess (Hitchcock and Truffaut 1985:107). Of course, in Ilhéus the division could not be so complete nor as Manichaean: the possibility of even including my research assistant in the observation was only possible because of a certain type of participation; in the same way, Paulo gathered precious material and so operated many times as an observer and, much later, wrote a Master’s dissertation about the port of Ilhéus in the context of the regional crisis (Santos 2001). If the Master’s dissertation written by Ana Cláudia Cruz da Silva (1998) is cited here more frequently than her Doctoral thesis (Silva 2004, where the author uses proper names), this is due to the fact that the latter was written almost simultaneously with this book. Again, I would like to recognize the importance of Ana Cláudia’s thesis to my own work. As Silva herself admits, the rule of anonymity which she adopts: ‘serves only for the people and, even so, only for the not-so-public people. Given the peculiarities of Ilhéus, to remove someone’s name would be to dismantle the whole argument. The same happens in relation to the entities studied within the city: to change their names would provoke the loss of meaning to a series of important formulations and other information which can be found in the text. Thus, it becomes very easy, for those who know a bit about the field in which I worked, to discover who I am referring to.’ (Silva 1998:15). In Ilhéus, this movement is made up of at least two subgroups. On one side, there are some groups who are defined by their overtly ‘political’ character, including the core of the the Unified Black Movement (Movimento Negro Unificado, or MNU), a group created in São Paulo in 1978 to serve as a unifying hub for various black groups existing in Brazil, although, as we know, this never really came into existence. In Ilhéus, attempts at establishing this core date back to the end of the

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1980s, but were never actually successful. On the other side, the city has a cluster of groups who call themselves the ‘Afro-cultural movement’, made up of afoxés, capoeira groups and principally Afro blocks. In this book, respecting a native use, the terms ‘black movement’ – which occasionally will serve as a reference to all of the groups, in the sense meant by Valente (1986:22) – ‘Afro movement’, ‘Afrocultural movement’, ‘Afro blocks’, ‘black groups’, ‘black organizations’, and, possibly, others, will be used almost synonymously (except where otherwise stated), while the ‘political’ black movement will always receive a specification. In 1995 and 1996 the carnival in Ilhéus was ‘early’, taking place some weeks before the official carnival date, in an attempt, as the organizers argued, to avoid competition with more powerful sites such as Salvador or Porto Seguro, in terms of hiring famous musical attractions. Between 1997 and 1999, there were two carnivals: the ‘early’ one, Ilhéus Folia, aimed at tourists, with the presence of electric trios and without the participation of the black groups; and the ‘cultural’ one, which took place on the normal date, with the participation of these groups and fundamentally geared towards the city itself (see Menezes 1998:77–92). Between 2000 and 2003 there was only one carnival, on the normal date; in 2004, the only carnival went back to being held 15 days before the regular date. Hence the difficulty in understanding the strange emphasis with which Miguel Vale de Almeida speaks of the ‘emergence’ of the Afro-cultural movement in Ilhéus in 1997 and 1998 (Almeida 2000:27, passim). Axé, a term of Yoruba origin, is a ‘mana-type’ concept central to Candomblé. It can be briefly described as a single impersonal force making up everything that exists in the universe. In Brazil and especially in Bahia it has become a common term meaning ‘force’, ‘power’ and so on. During Jabes Ribeiro’s third mandate (from 2001), the Sports Division was absorbed by a new municipal Department of Sports and Citizenship, but Gurita remained the head of the Division. The Força Negra, founded in 1988. It should be observed that, between 1996 and 1998, when the Workers’ Party was part of the municipal government of Ilhéus, Moacir Pinho, a black militant from the MNU and member of PT, not only occupied a position in the Cultural Foundation of Ilhéus, but was, alongside Gurita, the main black spokesperson of the government. Beyond his personal history of political militancy, Moacir was a philosophy student at the Santa Cruz State University, located between Ilhéus and Itabuna. Actually, in accordance with the 1997 statute, the board of the CEAC should be structured as ‘coordinator’ positions; in practice, the executive coordinator was always called ‘president; the organization coordinator was always called ‘vicepresident’; the finance coordinator was always called ‘treasurer’; and so on (see Silva 1998:102–3).

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44 Silvia Nogueira (2004) presented and analysed this episode from the point of view of the relationship between the black groups and the media. See also Nogueira (2005). 45 As Graham (1997) revealed in another historical context, local politicians must constantly show their strength to state and national politicians, displaying their electoral bases or clientele, as well as revealing their prestige to their voters, showing to them important politicians who would be their fellow party members. 46 The slave revolts that occurred at the Santana sugar mill in 1789 and 1821 are celebrated by the local black movement as signs of the black resistance against slavery. However, many politicians, evoking the fact that the rebellion ended with a treaty, like to remember it as an example of the possibility for negotiation and co-existence. Apparently, what really happened is that, after accepting the treaty, the owners of the mill and the authorities violently repressed the slaves (see Mahony 2001a:128–34; Marcis 2000; Reis 1979; Reis e Silva 1989:19–21; Schwartz 1988). 47 Borges (2004:138–9) also observed, on the outskirts of Brasilia, the infinite nature of inaugurations and suggested that this is a way of indefinitely prolonging the relationship between politicians and potential voters (I will return to this point). 48 These ‘washings’ are common in Bahia. The most famous undoubtedly happens on the steps of the Church of Our Father of Bonfim (Nosso Senhor do Bonfim) in Salvador. They have thus become one of the ‘symbols’ of Afro-Bahian tradition throughout the state. In Ilhéus, a washing of this kind occurs on the steps of the Cathedral on 20 January, Saint Sebastian’s Day, patron saint of the stevedores. Saint-daughters, dressed in traditional clothing, pour pots of fragrant water onto the steps and scrub them with brooms – this has happened since the Catholic Church prohibited the washing of the interior of the church, as had been done previously. 49 The black leaders say, amongst themselves, that the insistence is due to the fact that the secretary is friends with some pagode musicians. The secretary, however, was very proud of his knowledge of black culture: ‘maybe I know more than you’, he told Gurita, Moacir and Marinho; ‘I have dozens of samba records, I listen to chorinho [a popular form of Brazilian instrumental music with a fast and upbeat rhythm] and jazz, and I tried to organize a block made up of stringed instruments.’ 50 As Paul Veyne demonstrated – and I will come back to this point – subjectivity is an integral part of political life, and humans, whether obeying or refusing to obey, think about themselves, about their masters and about the relationships between them: the ‘individual is struck in the heart by public power when it strikes their image of themselves, in the relationship they have with themselves when they obey the State or society’ (Veyne 1987:7). If there are differences of class in the modes of political subjectivity (ibid.:10–1), I would go so far as to say that, at least in Ilhéus, the desire for recognition is an integral part of these processes, that are neither ideologies nor mere symbolisms, nor even pure principles of legitimation,

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but instead constitute a particular challenge and a specific dimension of struggle, alongside economy or power (ibid.:14–5). As can be imagined, the question of knowing if someone is white or not can be complicated in Ilhéus. In response to the question ‘Is Carilo white or black?’, Ana Cláudia Cruz da Silva (who is white) replied ‘He is not white, but I wouldn’t say he is black (and I don’t think he would say so either). He is moreno [brown or dark], I mean, he has black wavy hair, but not curly, and light brown skin.’ To the same question, Marinho answered without hesitation: ‘Carilo is white!’ But he soon added: ‘I mean, I always thought he was white.’ Remember that Antônio Carlos Magalhães’ visit occurred at the moment in which, after renouncing his mandate in the midst of allegations of irregularities, he was seeking re-election to the Senate. To this end, he returned to Bahia to reinforce his regionalist discourse, in response to the criticism he was facing throughout the country. Thus his presence at the re-inauguration of the Memorial served, undoubtedly, to reinforce his ‘Bahia-ness’; Jabes Ribeiro, in turn, showed him off around town, and also showed off the black movement of Ilhéus to him in an attempt to demonstrate his power on both sides; the black movement, finally, had an opportunity to stage their internal disputes. It is thus easy to see how ‘big’ and ‘small’ politics are always connected and, like the local, regional and national levels, are always overlapping. As Palmeira and Heredia demonstrated (1993:77; 1995:35–6), among other functions, political rallies are a privileged moment for public displays of commitment and support. Additionally, they appear to function as stages for the objectification of constituted social hierarchies (Palmeira and Heredia 1993:84; 1995:35–6, 85, 89, 91 – I will return to this point), which means that going up on stage, giving a speech and having plenty of time to talk are signs of progressive importance. We will see later that these mechanisms operate in the electoral process as a whole; for now, it is enough to note that the invitation made to Marinho by the mayor, much like his oratory performance, were felt both by him and by Gurita to be a sign of his prestige, and so flattered the former and, evidently, provoked the jealousy and irritation of the latter. Although it is very difficult to obtain accurate data, it is said in Ilhéus that, having the right to hire two or three aides, some councillors prefer to raise this number to ten (or even twenty, it has been suggested) and then divide the salary between them, an act which results in the majority of these advisers receiving more or less the minimum wage. There is always confusion – or, more precisely, an established imprecision – between structural programmes or proposals for job creation in general and the promises of work for specific people. About the different effects of unemployment in elections, see Garrigou and Lacroix (1987). Just to complete the picture, 80,720 votes were counted in Ilhéus during the 2002 elections (out of a total of 109,397 voters). The abstention rate was 26.2% (28,677 voters). The blank votes totalled 3,467 for state deputy, 3,026 for federal deputy,

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Notes 10,742 for senator, 3,990 for governor and 2,229 for president. The null votes were: 2,281 for state deputy, 2,123 for federal deputy, 22,133 for senator, 6,094 for governor and 7,276 for president. Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva received 40,678 of the votes (57.1%) in the primary elections in Ilhéus (against 15,746, or 22.1%, for Anthony Garotinho; 8,493, or 11.9%, for Ciro Gomes); and 5,980, or 8.4%, for José Serra. Perhaps this is the right time not only to thank Wagner for what I learned from him and his friendship, but also to honour the memory of Nivaldo Pereira Bastos, Camuluaji, saint-father of Ilê de Obaluaiê, who died too young, and who gave me my first access to the world of Candomblé. Here I should not only thank Mário Gusmão and Valdir Silva for having taken me to Tombenci, but I should also pay homage to the memory of Mário, whom I can describe best with the words of Jefferson Bacelar (2003): ‘a black prince.’ See also, Bacelar (2001) and Silva (2004:188–96). Barracão is the name given to the room in a terreiro where certain rituals and public celebrations are held. In the case of Tombenci it is also the space where some of the activities of the Dilazenze take place. Some of this information can be found in the volumes that abridge the two Meetings of the Nations of Candomblé, held in Salvador in 1981 (CEAO 1984) and in 1995 (CEAO 1997). The jogo de búzios (a búzio is a cowry shell) is a ritual divination technique in which the combinations of positions between 16 cowries thrown by the saintmother allow for the unveiling of mystical properties of the present and sometimes allow the foreseeing of the future. The Candomblé temple is an image of the cosmos: the floor represents the world we live in (in Ketu Candomblé this is called aiyê) and the roof is the other world, of the orixás and the dead (this is known as orum). Consequently, if the roof falls in this signifies a cosmic collapse, the apocalypse. From the first time I heard this story – which Dona Ilza would repeat countless times over the years – I have thought that it could be the plot of a film. But I confess that I imagined it to be a tragic love story, in which the refusal to take on the role, so as to not lose her love, would provoke a catastrophe that would be the end of the film. It is strange that the memory of a conversation about politics with people from the terreiro during the 1983 carnival, inside the tents which at that time were set up on Soares Lopes Avenue, only came back to me when I decided to re-focus my research in Ilhéus: Gilmar told me that the political party which he preferred was definitely PT (only recently created), but, as it did not have any chance of winning, in the last elections he had voted and campaigned for Jabes (who, in the 1982 elections, had won his first mandate, which should have lasted six years). Furthermore, the first Candomblé terreiro that I sought out in Ilhéus, the Odé Terreiro, was commanded by a saint-father, Pedro Farias, who had been the cabinet chief for several mayors.

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64 Jabes was informally supported by three other parties, who had united as the Popular Democratic Alliance, and had launched a candidate with almost no chance of being elected, José Cosme Santos. 65 Accustomed to welcoming many people interested in their activities (from anthropologists to school students) and used to developing their own investigations around cultural traditions, which served as a basis for their music and dance, the Afro-cultural groups of Ilhéus use the word ‘researcher’ frequently and easily. Likewise, accustomed to the involvement of politicians from all sides, the term ‘help’ is used in a very broad sense. 66 Moreover, there seems no plausible reason to oppose calculation to sincerity. Strategic manipulations can depend on conflicting values, sometimes contradictory, but this does not oppose or exclude moral compromises. Even more so, any strategy seems to require affective investments that are difficult to reconcile with pure lies and manipulation. See Herzfeld (1982:655–6; 1991:xii; 1992b:78; 1996:146). 67 Other dimensions equally suggested by the ethnic marker ‘black’ are culture, a talent for music and dance, and an inclination for partying, which, later, would come to be fatal to Paulo’s relationship with the black movement. I will come back to this point in the fourth chapter; for now, it is enough to note that Paulo started the meeting as a white man and ended it as a black man. 68 The classification of a block as ‘big’ is, evidently, open to debate. However, there is some consensus around the fact that the Dilazenze, Miny Kongo and Rastafiry occupy this position, a consensus developed, I believe, as a result of how long these blocks have existed as well as the number of people from these blocks who parade at carnival. For this reason, Almeida’s (2000:141) irony, calling them, or their leaders, ‘the Magnificent Three’, seems somewhat excessive. 69 This argument (often formulated as ‘it was all very last minute’) is perhaps the most recurrent of those used by the Afro-cultural movement in Ilhéus to justify the difficulty of launching their own candidate for councillor or even of supporting, jointly, a particular person for the Chamber of Councillors or for City Hall. 70 Paulo never gave this letter to the members of the Afro-cultural movement – nor to me. I never read it, but I know that, as well as claiming the support of City Hall for the construction of headquarters for each of the Afro blocks and for the development of social projects, he called for the participation of the CEAC in the definition of cultural policies for the city and a place on the council of Jabes Ribeiro’s campaign. There were other points, but no-one remembers what they were. 71 Gerson is a manager who specializes in tourism, having worked both in Ilheustur, City Hall and for private companies. He has good relationships with the Afrocultural movement, having promoted and organized, on several occasions, events in which the blocks and other black groups in Ilhéus participated (including the Cultural Carnival).

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72 Herzfeld (1996:6–8) calls this type of process ‘simulacra of sociality’ and suggests, in opposition to Baudrillard, for example, that it is not a simple substitution of real social relationships for false ones. It is actually, from his point of view, a projection of familiar social experiences onto others, more distant and unknown, producing ‘cultural idioms that become simulacra of social relations’ and that are widely used by the State in its relationships with individuals. 73 Likewise, the manoeuvre to withdraw the names of Gumercindo Tavares and Rúbia Carvalho as candidates for mayor – which took place, in theory, in the name of regional and national interests – radically transformed not only the 1996 elections in Ilhéus as a whole, but particularly the role played in them by the black groups, and the relationships of these groups amongst themselves. 74 ‘It is better to forget this business of carnival, blocks, bands, because it is the social projects that are important’, Paulo said to Marinho (Silva 1998:135). As I warned in the prologue, and contrary to the path followed by Silva, I have restored the real names of the protagonists. 75 As Marinho said to Paulo: ‘would it not be easier to work individually in each organization with their own projects, rather than putting together this big project, with things that the organization has never thought of doing? […] I don’t know up to what point the people from the Dilazenze will accept conceding something that can be done by the Dilazenze; conceding this for something that will benefit other organizations, other communities. Our projects should benefit our community.’ (Silva 1998:129). 76 For example, Paulo heard from a candidate unconnected to the black movement that, in 1992, some leaders from the movement had received money to support Antônio Olímpio; he told the story to Marinho who, being disaffected with these leaders, repeated it to one of them as a provocation, confirming that he had heard it from Paulo, whom the offended party later tried to confront. 77 Borges (2004:35) also points to this multiplicity in the meanings of politics: ‘this idea of describing as “politics” that which the other does is very intriguing.’ 78 This corresponds, generally speaking, to the positions that Balandier (1970:23–5) called, respectively, ‘maximalist’ (which, ultimately, assimilate the social and the political) and ‘minimalist’ (which merely delimits a sphere for politics). For more on this point, see also Rodrigues (1992:42–3). 79 Note that, after defining politics as ‘the art of governing the people well’ or as ‘an ideological position regarding the purposes of the State’, the tenth, and last, meaning of politics given in the Brazilian Portuguese Aurélio electronic dictionary is precisely ‘astuteness, ruse, artifice, cunning.’ Likewise, a ‘political individual’ is someone who is ‘astute, cunning’, and ‘to be political with’ means ‘to be angry, to sever all ties with (someone).’ 80 Note that Palmeira (1996:54, note 4) points out that, as long ago as 1974, Maria Auxiliadora Ferraz de Sá had sensed this singular character of political temporality. Likewise, in a text on the 1996 municipal elections in Itabuna, the sociologist Agenor Gasparetto (1996), from the State University of Santa Cruz (UESC) –

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apparently without knowing of the concept of ‘political time’ – established a distinction between ‘normal time’ and ‘political-electoral time’, very similar to that proposed by Palmeira and Heredia. This only indicates, I believe, that this is an empirical fact that has only remained hidden for such a long time due to the lack of attention given to native representations. For a deeper development of this point, see Silva (2004, especially the conclusion). As Silva writes (1998:87–8), throughout 1997 ‘one of the main subjects’ among the Dilazenze was ‘the renovation of the rehearsal space.’ The money received from Roland went towards some of the work, but various other bits of work were still necessary. To this end, bags of cement were donated by the ‘main Masonic Chapter in Ilhéus’, in return for ‘a show that the Dilazenze performed for a fundraising event’; ‘landfill and rocks were donated by City Hall by way of an agreement with Adriana, the mayor’s wife’, who paid for the group to perform at City Hall at the beginning of the year with ‘five round-trip tickets between Ilhéus and Salvador and some help reforming the practice space.’ The asbestos tiles to cover the stage were offered, but never delivered, by councillor Gildo Pinto, by way of one of the leaders of the blocks who was his ‘aide’ in the Chamber, and who, furthermore, offered the Dilazenze some other ‘assistance.’ After finding out about this, Gurita offered to provide the tiles and the rest of the assistance, only completing the first half of the promise. Herzfeld (1985:105–6, 117) offers a series of examples of this type of operation in Crete; Villela and Marques (2002:73–4, 83–4) observed the same phenomenon in the Pernambuco backcountry, highlighting the existence of a rhetoric of the ‘legitimization of the instability of loyalties.’ In this last case, everything seems to follow the description of capitalist operations made by Deleuze and Guattari (1983:267): ‘it is with the thing, capitalism, that the unavowable begins: there is not a single economic or financial operation that, assuming it is translated in terms of a code, would not lay bare its own unavowable nature.’ As Magalhães observes (1998:111), the experiences and doubts in relation to any one politician tend to be immediately generalized for all politicians. It is clear that this opposition between ‘voting’ and ‘working’ is greatly facilitated by the fact that electoral services appear to be a privileged case of alienated work; performing a specific function (waving flags, for example) without the slightest necessity of knowing the global process in which it is involved. Borges (2004:29) and Kuschnir (2000b:78–9) observe – the former in the outskirts of Brasilia; the latter in a suburb of Rio de Janeiro – that people who seek out politicians to ask for something can transform themselves, progressively, into sympathizers, militants, volunteers, employees and, sometimes, even into politicians. These are certainly not lacking in Ilhéus. Candidates were nick-named Alan Delon, Little Knickers or Coffin Joe, and slogans such as ‘With Jabes and Joe the Dentist, Ilhéus will smile again’, ‘A well studied vote, Professor Felipe’, ‘Full of gas,

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Notes Aracildo from The Gas Company’ or ‘A man of vision’ (referring to a visually impaired candidate) take up much of the conversation and are the source of much enjoyment and laughter. If, in some contexts, as Palmeira revealed (1991:125; 1996:51), the open display of electoral preference can be a way of avoiding conflict (insofar as those with opposing preferences know not to broach the subject with them), in others, such as Ilhéus, it is the non-declaration that can perform this function. In any case, it is this popular wisdom that can, sometimes, be confused with a lack of clarity or interest in politics. In 1996, the city of Ilhéus had a population of around 240,000 residents (almost 85% of the population had declared themselves in the 1991 census to be ‘mixed race’ or ‘black’), of which 72% lived in the urban region. The number of eligible voters was almost 99,000 people, of which a little over 70,000 actually voted (making the abstention rate 28.61%). The electoral quotient for the election was 3,549 votes. Jabes Ribeiro (at the head of the Popular Alliance coalition) was elected mayor of the city with 41,065 votes (or 57.91%); and Roland Lavigne (at the head of the For Those Who Love Ilhéus coalition) obtained 19,529 votes (27.54%). Everaldo Valadares obtained 2,262 votes (3.19%); Jedidá Santos of the Hope Resists coalition, 519 votes (0.73%); José Cosme Santos, of the Popular Democratic Alliance coalition, 148 votes (0.21%). There were also 2,181 blank votes (3.08%) and 5,204 null votes (7.34%). After inquiring if ‘race was one of the factors which explained the choices made by voters’, Monica Castro (1993:469) ended up agreeing with the statement. She warns, however, that her conclusions cannot be generalized across the whole of Brazil (Castro 1993:487) and also cautions that the influence of race in voting behaviour does not necessarily mean voting for candidates of the same race (ibid.:484); furthermore, ‘belonging to a racial group can intensify, in some cases, or hinder, in others, the manifestation of trends indicated by social position’ (ibid.:486), which means that ‘belonging to coloured groups relates to political radicalism, but also implies a greater alienation in relation to the electoral process’ (ibid.:485), driving votes both to the left and to charismatic leaders (ibid.:484–5). After this, all that is left is to repeat, with Garrigou and Lacroix (1987:328), that the aggregate quantities obtained in quantitative research can only have some utility if they are well prepared, before and after their acquisition (see also Korn 1995). Ten days later, when I left Ilhéus, nobody seemed to remember the elections, with the exception of the political billboards being replaced by regular advertisements. Furthermore, already on the way to the airport, there was only one drunk man still celebrating the electoral result, incessantly shouting and constantly clapping his hands without pause: ‘Jabes Ribeiro won the elections, Jabes Ribeiro is the mayor of our Ilhéus, long live Jabes Ribeiro, I am Jabes Ribeiro.’ I never quite understood why, but this alcohol induced political delirium is the last memory that I kept of the 1996 elections in Ilhéus.

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93 Describing the genealogy of the Afro blocks of Ilhéus, Marinho Rodrigues observed, with a certain amount of pride: ‘I think that the Dilazenze is the only block where no-one left’, to which his wife added, ironically, ‘not yet!’ For a complete description of the history of the Afro blocks of Ilhéus, see Silva (1998, 2004); for a more detailed analysis of the question of rhythms in these blocks, see Cambria (2002). 94 In line with the warning made in the introduction, I would like to underline that there is some native confusion around the number of blocks actually existing at any given moment, a confusion that extends to their foundation dates and even to the spelling of their names. I believe that this explains, in part, small differences (for which, once again, I apologize to the reader) which can be seen between this book and Goldman (2000; 2001a; 2001b). 95 One specific point is often overlooked: the fact that Afro blocks are related to something such as age or, to be more precise, the fact that they focus more around specific age groups, such as adolescence and early youth. After a certain age, participants tend to reduce their degree of involvement with the group or even abandon it completely, and only those who take on positions of leadership contradict this trend. 96 Likewise, in Salvador the Afro blocks are connected to specific regions, and both relationships of kinship and religion perform a fundamental role (see, among others, Agier 2000 and Guerreiro 1998). Agier understood the implications of this multiplicity of belonging, observing that, in Brazilian society in general, there was a ‘competition and a relationship between diverse modes of social identification, whether on the collective level, or in the course of each individual history’ (Agier 1992:54). The only problem here is that this multiplicity of modes of identification is not characteristic of this or that social system or specific culture, but the universal consequence of the fact that identities are always the result of the impoverishment and of the overcodification of an infinite number of belongings – to a family, gender, age, region, religion etc. 97 It is significant that in the book that he wrote in response to an article about lineage theory, Kuper (1988) argues that this theory is primarily responsible for the ‘illusion of primitive society’ and, at the same time, that the rejection of this illusion does not follow simply by overcoming the idea of society, as suggested by, among others, Strathern et al. (1996) and Toren (1999:1–21). 98 The interested reader can consult, among others, Dumont (2006), Salzman (1978), Meeker (1979), Kuper (1982; 1988), Karp and Maynard (1983) and Dresch (1986). A more detailed analysis of the whole debate can be found in Goldman (2001b). 99 ‘Ideas do not die. Not that they survive simply as archaisms. At a given moment they may reach a scientific stage, and then lose that status or emigrate to other sciences. […]. Ideas are always reusable, because they have been usable before, but in the most varied of actual modes’ (Deleuze and Guattari 2005:235). 100 This is why Jeanne Favret-Saada could argue that ‘a disposition for segmentation’ is more important than segmentation itself, and that a segmentary system seems

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to rest less upon the ‘opposition of segments’ than upon ‘the distribution of oppositions on a number of levels or the ordered arrangements of some in relation to others’ (Favret-Saada 1966:109–10). 101 ‘Lineage theory and segmentation are not at all the same thing; indeed, they represent two different types of anthropology. The first deals with sequences of events at the level of observation (and in particular with the appearance of groups), while the second deals with formal relations that characterize the types of events possible.’ (Dresch 1986:309). 102 Even the ‘trite’ character of segmentarity is often used, paradoxically, when all other arguments against its generalization are exhausted (Herzfeld 1987:158). 103 The movement towards the de-substantialization and generalization of the concept of segmentarity – which, as we saw, has always existed alongside the more institutionalist perspective – gained new impetus towards the end of the 1970s when, as Herzfeld recounts (1987:219–20, note 5), some anthropologists (mainly from the University of Indiana), established amongst themselves a debate revolving around ‘the relevance of the segmentation concept.’ This debate ended up becoming crucial for some important works by those who participated within it: Herzfeld (1985; 1987; 1992a; 1992b), Karp and Maynard (1983), Meeker (1979) and Salzman (1978), among others. 104 As Bastide wrote in 1960, ‘certainly in some cases, the traditional Candomblés reproduce by fission’ (Bastide 2007:378); or, ‘it is also certain that the traditional forms of Candomblé are born by fission, from a single cell’ (Bastide 2000:86). 105 We will take, therefore, and only for the necessities of the case, the definition of segmentary system proposed by Dumont (2006:36): ‘Let there be a system of groups in which groups A, B, C, D etc., comprise subdivisions of the first order A1, A2, A3, B1, B2, B3, etc., these in their turn comprising subdivisions of the second order A1a, A1b, etc., B1a, B1b, etc., and so on successively […]. The system is said to be segmentary if the subdivisions of the diffrent orders potentially co-exist at any instant but only manifest themselves by turns in specific situations.’ 106 Connectivity, heterogeneity and multiplicity, as well as an a-signifying, nonstructural and non-generative character, make up the ‘six principles of the rhizome’, in opposition to the ‘tree’ (Deleuze and Guattari 2005:7–13). 107 See, for example, Barbosa (2001), in which this wider concept of segmentarity serves as an instrument for the creative analysis of drug trafficking in Rio de Janeiro and its relationship with the State. See also, Barbosa (1998; 2005). 108 When people say that two or more Candomblé terreiros ‘belong’ to the same axé this means they share a common origin. 109 Of course these kinds of work can superimpose themselves and, sometimes, the classification is artificial. In any case, only as a sample of the first type, see: Afonso (1991), Almeida (1999; 2000), Andrade (1996), Asmar (1983; 1987), Augel and Guerreiro (1974), Barbosa (1994), Barickman (1995), Couto (1998), Falcón (1995), Freitas (1979; 1992), Garcez (1977), Garces and Freitas (1979), Garcez and Mattoso (1978), Gasparetto (1986; 1993), Goldman (1999; 2000; 2001a; 2001b; 2003), Kent

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(2000), Leeds (1957), Macêdo and Ribeiro (1999), Mahony (1996; 1998; 2001a, 2001b), Menezes (1998), Nogueira (2004), Paraíso (1982; 1989), Ribeiro (2001), Ruf and Lachenaud (2002), Santos (1957), Santos (2001), Silva (1975), Silva (1998; 2004), Valla (1976), Viegas (1998; 2003), Wright (1976) and Zehntner (1914). For the second type (works commissioned or sponsored by Ceplac), see: Afonso and Barroco (1970), Alencar (1970), Caldeira (1954), Ceplac (1970; 1975; 1982; 1991; 1998), Costa et al. (1971) and Seligson (1971). For the third type (works written by residents of Ilhéus and the surrounding region), see: Aguiar (1960), Almeida (1996), Aquino (1999), Barros (1915; 1923; 1924), Bondar (1924; 1938), Brandão and Rosário (1970), Brito (1923), Cardoso (2002), Castro (1981), Costa (1992; 1998), Heine (1994a; 1994b), lavigne (1955; 1958; 1971), Lipiello (1994; 1996), Marcis (2000), Pereira Filho (1959; 1981), Pessoa (1994), Sá Barreto (1988), Sales (1981), Schaun (1999), Silva Campos (1937), Vieira (1993) and Vinháes (2001). Finally, among the novels, short stories and similar forms are: Aguiar Filho (1946; 1952; 1962; 1968; 1971; 1976; 1981), Amado (1933; 1944; 1946; 1958; 1982; 1984), Ceplac (1979), Mattos (1997) and Simões (1987). 110 Mahony, in personal communication, recounts that, when presenting her work at this meeting at UESC, she was censured for accepting as truth what was merely a version of the story told by one of the traditional families of the region. The person that censured her came from a family who told a different version of the events, which meant that she felt obligated to question Mahony. 111 For example, read the last paragraph of Silva Campos’ book, published in 1937 but written on the request of the mayor to commemorate fifty years since Ilhéus was elevated to city status. ‘Behold, clearly projected on the screen of reality, what Ilhéus is today. We mentally compare it to the sickly sixteenth-century village founded by the Castilian captain, who had “arms to make weapons”, the illiterate magistrate and the bumbling administrator. With the insignificant little village from those embittered times in which, thirsty for revenge, the savage leaders kept the petty inhabitants in check, forcing them to cultivate their gardens so that they would not die famished from hunger. And everything must have been an arduous and unremitting toil for four centuries, against the force of the elements and the inexhaustible generosity of the earth. Its current prosperity is thus a beautiful chapter in our economic history, and a convincing testament to the capacity of our people’ (Silva Campos 1937:529). 112 An anonymous reviewer from Ethnos considered this position as an example, negative of course, of a ‘methodological position favourable to diverse postmodernist and deconstructionist perspectives’, which ‘border on the absurd, transforming themselves into ways of denying empirical reality and the importance of trying to say something about what are the circumstances and “structures” of existence.’ In this sense, they serve as an ‘excuse to not carry out any serious contextualization.’ The article (Goldman 2001a) was eventually published without the passage in question, but I would like to make it clear that, from my point of view, this has nothing to do with any post-modernist or deconstructionist position.

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Notes I think, like Guattari (1986a) that these things are no more than the terminal diseases of modernism, paradigms ‘of all submissions, all compromises with the status quo.’ The position that I defend only radicalizes a classic formulation of anthropology, dating back to Malinowski, which maintains, simply, that ‘history is therefore never history, but history-for’, following an expression of Lévi-Strauss (1966:257–8), difficult to surpass in terms of concision and precision. This also seems to me to be one of Gow’s conclusions (2001, especially the Introduction), one of the best examples of the application of a Lévi-Straussian perspective to the historicity of so-called societies without history. Which signifies an abstention rate of almost 24% of the electorate. Besides this high rate, which is repeated in all elections, the electoral college of Ilhéus has the particularity of representing less than 48% of its population. The electoral college of the nearby city of Itabuna, for example, represents more than 68% of its population. According to councillor Joabes Ribeiro, Ilhéus is the Bahian city ‘where there is the most distorted ratio between residents and voters.’ There is also an important indigenous minority which has been appearing more and more over the last few years – see Paraíso (1982; 1989) Barickman (1995) and Viegas (1998, 2003). These appropriations are usually filtered through the media, basing themselves more on television soap operas or films than on the books themselves. Additionally, the city’s relationship with the work of Jorge Amado is not as homogeneous or constant as may be imagined. It is said that, up until the 1970s, his books, considered communist and pornographic, were banned in the Piedade. Today, they are practically obligatory. Members of the black movement often protest against the exclusivity of his work as representative of ‘regional culture’, noting the fact that it systematically excludes black characters. On tourism in Ilhéus, see Menezes (1998). As the author observes, ‘in general, “nature and history” are pointed to as the two “veins” of tourism in Ilhéus, but what is referred to as “history” can sometimes be understood under the name of “tradition” or “culture of Ilhéus”’ (Menezes 1998:12). On the ‘early’ carnival, understood by the black movement as the ‘white people’s carnival’, see Menezes (1998:84–5) and Silva (1998:106, 117). The situation seems to be changing today, but back in 1997 Menezes (1998:79–80) observed the controversy around the possibility of using the black groups for tourism purposes. Menezes’ work (1998:23) also revealed that a segmentary structure was at play within this controversy, since different levels of identity could be used: ‘Ilheusean’, ‘Bahian’, ‘North-eastern’, ‘Brazilian’ and so forth. Brazilian colour or ethnic categories are not easily translated to English. Besides ‘white’ (branco) and ‘black’ (preto) there are several words used to describe people with a ‘brown’ skin colour, including mulato (‘mulatto’), pardo (‘brown’) or moreno (a tanned person). In this English version either preto or the more inclusive negro (adding pardos and pretos) is translated as ‘black’ to avoid the derogative connotations of the word ‘negro’ in English. Pardo is translated as ‘brown.’

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120 For a quick review of the different ways in which the question of colour was used in the Brazilian census throughout history, see Posada (1984). 121 Though the Agora newspaper of 10–16 January 1992 announced in its main headline: ‘The ZPE comes to Ilhéus’, explaining that the federal government had authorized the ‘installation of an Export Processing Zone (ZPE) in Ilhéus’, an installation whose creation was disputed by Mayor João Lírio and the candidate Antônio Olímpio. 122 Page 5 of Agora from 22–28 May 1992 announced that Jabes was attempting to form a left-wing coalition, involving PT and three other parties, with his brother, Joabes, heading it up. 123 João Batista Soares Lopes Neto was the grandson of the doctor who gave his name to the main street in Ilhéus, home to members of the elite of the city, who in the most part have no idea that Soares Lopes was black. 124 The political column written by Marcos Correa, on page 8 of Agora from 2–7 May 1992, reported: ‘Ronaldo Santana launches his candidacy for mayor with PL’, neglecting to mention, again, the fact that the candidate was black. The candidate, for his part, constantly reminded the black militants that he had been born in one of the poorest parts of Conquista (known as Jamaica) and that he had been a street kid. 125 Outside the central city, the Municipality of Ilhéus has nine districts and around forty villages and hamlets. Some of them are located more than 50 km from the city. 126 One militant from the Rastafiry recalled that ‘the most important things were the parades that we organized in Ilhéus and in other districts, the support that we gave to them in these rallies.’ 127 It is quite possible that the apparent complexity of the State apparatus – of which one of the cornerstones is undoubtedly the division of power – also serves to justify and legitimize what could be seen as deception and betrayal from the point of view of those outside ‘politics.’ 128 This statement reveals much about the role of the so-called mediators, a theme which will be discussed in chapter five. 129 See, for example, Caldeira (1980; 1984). In her earlier work, the author insists on examples that demonstrate the supposed incomprehensibility of political discourse for residents on the periphery of São Paulo, attributing their alienation, sympathetically, to a ‘lack of information’ (Caldeira 1980:84, 87–8, 108, 115). In the later work, a monograph, after insisting on the fact that the ‘homogeneity’ of this periphery is due to ‘poverty’, ‘lack’, ‘want’, ‘hardship’ etc., the author suggests that the political thinking of her informants is stuck in a vicious circle (Caldeira 1984:198) or ‘ends up entering into a kind of vicious circle’ (ibid.:269). At the end, in a charitable manner, Caldeira explains that the fragmentation and contradictions found in the speech of her informants are explained by the complexity of the society in which they live (ibid.:283–4). However, as Magalhães observed

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(1998:115), the bricolages created by voters from their political conceptions and choices never derive from pure disinformation or simple ignorance. 130 On the last two points, see Villela and Marques (2002:76, 83–4). 131 In Deleuze’s terms (1990:222), we can say that voters are always stuck between an ‘apparent acquittal’ (in other words, they imagine that they have paid off their debt, but they will undoubtedly be charged once again) and ‘limitless postponements’ (when a payment is delayed, but is kept as a future obligation). Regarding this point, see also Villela and Marques (2002:65, 72, 76, 81, 91, 94), Borges (2004:110, 138–9) and Kuschnir (2000a:39–40). 132 As someone said in Ilhéus, ‘black people don’t vote for black people, poor people don’t vote for poor people, women don’t vote for women.’ The odd thing is that the same person also said that ‘in the moment when someone votes, his social or racial status does not matter.’ 133 In the words of Gaxie and Lehingue (1984:33), ‘in politics, “to say is to do”.’ 134 As Tambiah suggested (1981:128), it is necessary to combine the idea of the ‘performative’ from the philosophy of language with that of ‘performance’ in acting. This is not only in the sense of acting in the theatre, but also ‘acting upon’ or ‘influencing’, which would render useless Bourdieu’s warning (1991:116) that ‘the symbolic efficacy of words is exercised only in so far as the person subjected to it recognizes the person who exercises it as authorized to do so.’ For there is no-one who does not know that ‘the illocutionary force of expressions’, their instituting power, cannot be found in ‘the words themselves’, but in the ‘institutional’ character of language, in the ‘authority’ of the person using it. 135 A belief that, of course, should not be confused with others: as Veyne argues (1976:624), there are ‘different modes of belief ’, endowed with ‘different flavours’: ‘assertive-belief, deliberation-belief, act of faith, promise-belief, ideological logic etc..’ The ‘promise-belief ’ precisely illustrates what Mannoni (1969) considered to be the basic structure of belief in general, which can be seen in the well-known statement ‘I know, but even so…’, applicable, seemingly, both to horoscopes (‘I know they are false, but even so…’) and also to politicians (‘I know that he lies, but even so…’). 136 As Garrigou (1992:237–8) writes, somewhat acerbically, ‘democratic politics is a market for promises baptized as programmes’ (adding, in a note, that this ‘is not a perversion, but the very substance of electoral democracy’). 137 Barreira (1998:49) contrasts promises with agreements, underlining that the former are public and tend to remain unfulfilled, while the latter are usually restricted and, as a rule, fulfilled. 138 It was precisely the adoption of this kind of perspective that allowed Herzfeld to develop a sophisticated analysis of a Greek village, in which he demonstrated, ethnographically, that segmentarity and state centrality oppose each other and yet at the same time combine together: local elections, for example, only make sense when they are seen from the point of view of ‘segmentary politics’ (Herzfeld

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1985:99), and even the national elections only become comprehensible when understood as ‘segmentary politics extended’ (ibid.:111). 139 It is clear that if ‘segmentation’ can be applied in its proper sense to the political life of state societies, notions such as the idea of descent should be understood only in a purely analogical sense. 140 I recall the sudden agreement between members of three different British parties – and up until that point in the debate they had only disagreed – when the presenter of the programme in which they were taking part raised the issue of protests against the ‘new world order’: all of them were quick and unanimous in stating the necessity of bringing the protests into the fold of official politics. 141 This same duality of principles is observable in the case of the Afro blocks. In Salvador, for example, the Ilê Aiyê can be recognized as the origin of all the blocks without this preventing competition between them, whether during carnival parades, or in search of recognition, prominence and success. 142 As both Jeanne Favret-Saada (1966:107) and Adam Kuper (1982:84) aptly observed, the Nuer model only presents the tree-like aspect from the perspective of an external observer; from the point of view of an individual who is part of the system, it emerges, rather, as a series of concentric circles, in which the ego occupies the central position and the ‘tribe’ represents the outermost circle, with lineages and clans interspersed between them. 143 Starting from this feeling of irritation that we all usually experience when we hear someone say that ‘all politicians are alike’, Magalhães (1998:52) ended up agreeing with his informants, to the extent that ‘politicians and parties are perceived as equals because, in fact, they occupy a homogeneous position in the eyes of the voters, have the same immediate objective, etc.’, and also that ‘politicians are taken as a group, belonging to a different world, which the general public are not part of ’ (ibid.:113). I would like to reiterate that this is only true if seen from the point of view of binary segmentarity. 144 As Favret-Saada, drawing on Ernest Gellner, suggested, the ‘desire for autonomy in the face of a central power could be a feature of the unity of the North African tribes’ (Favret-Saada 1966:107). Salzman (1978:63), in turn, demonstrated how the segmentary organization of the Yomut always functioned as a war machine against the Persian state. At the theoretical level, Karp and Maynard (1983:488) suggested that ‘The Nuer contributes a negative example to the theory of the state.’ 145 Created by the black movement in order to serve as a counterpoint to the official commemorations of 13 May (the abolition of slavery, denounced by the movement as a ‘false abolition’), the Day of Black Consciousness began to be celebrated, from 1971, on 20 November, the date on which, in 1695, Zumbi dos Palmares was killed. Zumbi was the leader of the largest quilombo and the greatest black resistance in the history of Brazil. 146 On 30 October 1998 I accompanied the Dilazenze Afro Ballet to a performance organized by Ilheustur in a luxury hotel near Ilhéus, where a conference of judges was taking place. The group was supposed to perform straight after a presentation

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by Ballet Allegro, one of the classical and modern ballet academies in the city. The poor transport, the fact of having to walk about 1 km carrying their instruments, the ‘snack’ served in a closed room (sliced-bread sandwiches and warm sodas while, in the main hall, people were drinking beer and whiskey and eating breaded shrimp, cod and other snacks) and, principally, the tone of superiority and the contempt with which the dancers and musicians were treated made it easy for me to understand the group’s complaints. 147 As observed by Bezerra (1999) regarding the issue of political representation. 148 Besides, in Ilhéus almost everyone seems to agree with Valente’s (1986:150) informant: ‘Everyone is a supporter of government. All of those who are in the opposition today are supporters of government. They already were in the past, when they had the power in their hands, and they fight for power, because they are supporters of government.’ 149 It is because of this, as Palmeira and Heredia (1995:35–8) demonstrated, that politicians can simultaneously argue that ‘rallies do not generate votes’ and also that rallies are essential to a winning campaign. The show of force that that is conferred to these rallies is not exclusive to them however: other electoral acts have this same characteristic and, as we have seen in Ilhéus, the much sought-after support of the Afro-cultural movement, as well as the creation of the Memorial of Black Culture, seems to be more connected to this indirect search than to an assessment that they would immediately lead to votes. 150 On this point, see, among others, Villela and Marques (2002:74) and Kuschnir (2000a:35). It is sometimes necessary to wait a long time for a voter to declare themselves as one of Caldeira’s informants in the periphery of São Paulo: ‘Look, I don’t believe in anything, OK? Nothing. Everything that I told you, forget it because it was a lie, OK? I don’t believe in anything, I don’t believe in the President, I don’t believe in anything, I only believe in what I can see and what I can hold like this in my hand […] I am a completely neutral guy.’ (Caldeira 1984:252). Unfortunately, Caldeira does not pay much attention to this declaration. 151 As Scotto (1994) ethnographically demonstrated, inspired by Bourdieu, the conquest of political representation depends, to a large degree, not only on a ‘work of representation’, but on a true work of presentation, involving the construction of an image adequate to the representation that one seeks to conquer. This operation is usually carried out by means of the selection and combination of personal characteristics, autobiographical traits and discursive statements from the candidate, seeking to produce a credible symbol, perfectly adequate for what it symbolizes – in fact, an icon. 152 This is the case of one of Marinho’s sisters-in-law, whose mother was a candidate, and whose husband coined the slogan: ‘between the bad and the worst, vote for my mother-in-law.’ 153 As Villela and Marques (2002:74) observed in the Pernambuco hinterland, for one of the various empirically existing loyalties to successfully yield votes, it is

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necessary to cultivate it, preserve it and activate it in the right way at the right time. Herzfeld (1985:117) observed the same phenomenon in Crete: some voters, ideologically committed, would ask people to vote for their party, but clearly announced that they would have to vote for another candidate because of family and kinship relationships. ‘Basic basket’ or ‘basket of the basics’ would be literal translations of cesta básica. In Brazil, it is defined as ‘the amount of products necessary to meet the minimum needs of a typical family.’ I owe the approximation between the theme of moral subjectification and political subjectification to Emerson Giumbelli. I truly believe that it is possible to draw a parallel between the four dimensions of ethics isolated by Foucault (1990:25–32) and the issues that we should identify in politics, even if, in this case, we are not faced with highly conscious and organized systems of thought, as we are in ancient philosophy. In any case, when someone obeys someone else, what obeys: the soul, the body, the mind, or only the actions (political substance)? Why does one person obey another: because of reason, morality, force, dignity, honour (a kind of political subjection)? What attitude or stance is taken when someone obeys someone else: good will, bad will, irony, servitude (elaboration of political work)? What is the desired end result when someone obeys someone else: to obtain an advantage, to avoid punishment, to become a better person (teleology of the political subject)? As Sherry Ortner (1984:151) wrote, ‘unfortunately, anthropologists have generally found that actors with too much psychological plumbing are hard to handle methodologically.’ Thus, both the forms of subjectification and the complex processes through which subjectivity and sociality mutually engender themselves tend to be left out of many ethnographies. In 2000, as in 1996, there was no campaign advertising on television. The local network is based in Itabuna, but it would have been forced to provide the timeslot if the parties had made the request in time. The fact that they did not do so was attributed both to a general lack of resources and also to Jabes Ribeiro, who, sensing that such a campaign would be to his disadvantage, worked to prevent any such request. Christine Chaves (2003:128) argues that ‘a vote for the candidate with the highest chance of winning, which usually disqualifies the voter in the minds of various political analysts, because it associates them with a kind of de-politicization, expresses nothing more than the intelligence of the political system, and keeps with it an intrinsic coherence.’ However, Nunes et al. (1993) have even tried to quantify this kind of option. As Gasparetto (1995a) wrote, these authors detected ‘the existence of a type of voter who guides themself, when making their decision, towards the candidate who will end up being victorious. This voter is highly influenced by the results of polls of voting intentions and they therefore vote with the essential aim of ‘not losing their vote.’ Gasparetto, who claims to have

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proven this hypothesis in his research in southern Bahia, insists on the effects of the disclosure of these polls and speaks of a type of ‘voter who votes for the winner’, and that this type of voter is distinct from both those who vote ethically and politically, and also those who vote commercially. Thus, he concludes that in fiercely contested municipal elections, this voter can decide the election, and he argues in favour of non-compulsory voting. 160 This is why Oliveira’s slightly naive confusion is odd (n.d.:30; see also Oliveira 1991) when questioning why candidacies in the 1992 municipal elections in Salvador were put forward that ultimately ‘did not even gain 200 votes’. His answer, somewhat pompously, imagines that it is down to the ‘emergence of small leaders whose political influence is limited to small groups.’ It would have been more interesting to pursue another question: ‘why do the parties recruit candidates whose possibilities of being elected are so negligible?’ But the author, unfortunately, does not ask this question. In Ilhéus in 2004, twenty-five candidates for councillor obtained less than ten votes; eight candidates did not receive a single vote. 161 As I have already mentioned, this is a source of much amusement in Ilhéus, both in the local press and in everyday conversation. 162 Deleuze (1990:240–2, 244–6) also suggested that the Foucauldian analysis of the process of substituting sovereign societies with disciplinary societies between the eighteenth and twentieth centuries should be supplemented, today, by the analysis of a new transition. This transition corresponds to the deployment of another mode of capitalism on the economic level, with the consequent need to transport the disciplinary mechanisms – created, developed and operated in the confined and limited spaces inside factories, prisons, schools and hospitals – to the open and potentially limitless space of the world as a whole. It is for the structure constituted or defined by this operation that Deleuze gives the name ‘society of control’, and it is against this backdrop that the analyses of the real workings of contemporary democratic systems should be conducted. 163 Similar to the ‘mental state of the activist political parties’ (Veyne 1983:4), in which ‘a man that does not take part in politics is not a peaceful man but a bad citizen’ (ibid.:6). 164 ‘Militancy was considered much as we consider democracy or human rights: it was not exclusively an ideology nor immediately a practice’ (Veyne 1983:4); ‘the Ancients thought of politics in terms of militancy as naturally as we conceive it in terms of democracy and it could not be conceived of in any other way. Such is the ambiguity of the word “ideology”: apologetic, but also prejudiced.’ (ibid.:8). 165 It is clear that the adoption of the list vote or district vote would simply mean that the processes of capture employed in the proportional system would be replaced by others. Thus, the party conferences – which, in truth, already decide who the candidates will be – would gain extra importance, meaning that the disputes and manoeuvres which can be observed therein would tend to become more important.

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166 ‘We call this interior essence or this unity of the State “capture”’ (Deleuze and Guattari 2005:427); ‘overcoding is the operation that constitutes the essence of the State’ (Deleuze and Guattari 1983:219). Or, in Guattari’s (1986b:289) words, ‘the term overcoding corresponds to a second degree coding. For example: primitive agrarian societies, functioning according to their own territorialized system of coding, are overcoded by an imperial structure, relatively deterritorialized, imposing upon them their own military, religious, or fiscal hegemony, etc..’ 167 ‘The parties are afraid of putting forward black candidates for more “significant” political posts because their image would not be well received by the population’ (Valente 1986:70). 168 A voter who filled in this questionnaire said that she believed it must be ‘one of Jabes’ things’, as it asked what she thought of the mayor. She also said that she answered that she ‘thought everything was fine’, but, when asked if this was really her opinion, answered that she didn’t know, for she didn’t ‘know anything about politics.’ 169 And apparently everywhere: see Goldman and Silva (1998:36) for the same procedure performed in the State of Rio de Janeiro. 170 Patrick Champagne has been developing an important body of critical analysis regarding opinion polls, especially electoral ones. See, principally, Champagne (1990) but also Champagne (1988; 1995). 171 As I suggested in the Prologue of this book, the fact that natives can interpret the presence of the anthropologist in the way they find most convincing – no matter what anthropologists say or think they are doing in the field – prevents the simple explanation of intentions or the informed consent being used as an excuse for possible ethical lapses made by the researcher. It is always a question of native interpretation, never ignorance or simple lack of knowledge. 172 Because ‘the socialist could vote incorrectly, due to misinformation, voting for the liberal candidate, or vice-versa’ (Rodrigues 1994:3). 173 Apparently, this is the same feeling described by Primo Lévi as ‘the shame of being a man.’ As Deleuze (1990:233) observed, this sentiment has nothing to do with ‘responsibility’, but rather the fact that we have been ‘stained’ by something like racism, principally by the simple fact that there are racist human beings and racist social structures, but also because we feel, confusingly, that we are incapable of preventing their existence and that, sometimes, we even make concessions to them. 174 In 1996 some false passwords were distributed, which supposedly could be exchanged for basic baskets at the main base for Jabes’ campaign, on Soares Lopes Avenue. Apparently inspired by a similar strategy which took place in Itabuna a few days earlier – causing much chaos with the distribution carried out by City Hall, who had more passwords than available basic baskets – this was not very successful. ‘Everyone realized that it was one of Roland’s set-ups.’ was the general explanation for the event.

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175 And they continued to be: during the Grito dos Excluídos in 2003, a black militant carried a sign that said she had been the victim of racism and of physical violence carried out by John Ribeiro. 176 Thus, in the special session held on 24 November 1999, a councillor declared that the fight for racial equality ‘is ours, because all of us believe we have black blood, all of us have black culture, all of us have black history in our veins, in our lives, in our tropicality, in all of our experiences, in all of our sociability’. Likewise, as we have seen, Mayor Jabes Ribeiro usually adopted the same tone, declaring for example, on 20 March 2000, at the ceremony for the signing of the protocol between City Hall and CEAC, that ‘this blood that is here understands only too well the cultural roots, the Afro-descendants, those who represent the struggle, the construction of our beloved country’. Or, at the signing of the contract with the 19 March Sports Association, on 19 May 2000, declaring that ‘in this blood runs the blood of so many of those who built this country’. 177 As Deleuze and Guattari (2005:209) wrote, ‘primitive segmentarity is characterized by a polyvocal code based on lineages and their varying situations and relations, and an itinerant territoriality based on local, overlapping divisions. Codes and territories, clan lineages and tribal territorialities, form a fabric of relatively supple segmentarity.’ It is also because of this that Pierre Clastres is completely right in rejecting the banal image of a universal ethnocentrism, and distinguishing ‘savage’ ethnocentrism – which ‘deems his culture superior to all others without feeling obliged to deliver a scientific discourse about them – from our own, which wishes ‘to situate itself directly within the realm of universality without realizing that in many respects it remains firmly entrenched in its particularity’ (Clastres 1987:16). For, where there is a state, there has always been the attempt at a ‘a more or less authoritarian suppression of sociocultural differences.’ (Clastres 2010:54). 178 This is also the condition for us to stop thinking about difference ‘in the sense of identity (representing the particular characteristics of each individual or group)’ and to start thinking of it as a becoming, a ‘differing’, inclusive, perhaps especially, of itself: ‘the concept of difference […] is precisely that which tears us away from ourselves and makes us become other’ (Rolnik 1995:255). For a critique of the theories of ethnicity based on an identity-concept of identity, see Ossowicki (2003). And, for an ethnographic approach in this same direction, see Gow (1991). 179 See also, Foucault (2003:56–62, 87–9, 254–63). As Foucault observed in a more general way, in anthropology, it was ‘Clastres [who] brought forth a conception of power as technology, freeing itself from the privilege of rule and prohibition that dominated ethnology from Durkheim to Lévi-Strauss’ (Foucault 1976:184). 180 Regarding axiomatization, see Deleuze and Guattari (1983:159–60). Regarding the culturalization of racism, see Hardt (1998:145): ‘racism that no longer rests on a biological concept of race’. See also, Hardt and Negri (2000:190–5). 181 As Almeida wrote: ‘the opposition between the blocos de trio […] and the Afro blocks is a recurring theme. In the 1998 carnival, during the parade, the Dilazenze began arguing with a bloco de trio which was going in the opposite direction,

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because they had a louder sound system, and did not have the courtesy to stop playing.’ (Almeida 1999:144, note 24. See also, Almeida 2000:144). 182 It was not just in the latter half of the nineteenth century, as Graham showed (1997:200–5), that the literacy level was used as a criterion for social distinction. Even when providing small levels of financial support (around BR$ 500) for the Afro blocks, Ilhéus City Hall has the policy of demanding ‘a written project description’, and may, similarly, require a report after the event. The fact that these demands are almost never met only serves to attest to their character as politicalsymbolic artifice, aiming to highlight social distinctions, rather than any kind of supposed rational mechanism that is part of the economic administrative system of public finances. 183 This includes, when we are dealing with individuals, verbal promises of payment after the event in question and, in the case of legal entities such as a company or association, credit cards and post-dated cheques. Generally in these cases, it is necessary to ask for help from family and friends who are formally employed, since, in Ilhéus, this status does not just imply a salary and formal contract, but also a bank account (with the possibility, therefore, of using pre-dated cheques) and, often, a credit card, which allows for various survival strategies. Contrary to what anthropologists say sometimes, a formal job and associated documents do not have a purely ‘symbolic’ value. 184 According to Cambria (2002:60), the members of the Dilazenze classify their repertoire into two kinds of music: ‘theme songs’ – ‘developed for each carnival from specially prepared notes and […] linked to the chosen themes (which always deal with the theme of race and black culture)’ – and ‘poetry songs’, which are ‘all the other songs composed on various occasions outside carnival’. Personally, I only ever heard people talk about the former, and the rest were only defined in opposition to them. 185 Bourdieu (1977:3–9; 1996) was probably the author who most clearly emphasized the role that time played in processes of reciprocity. Nevertheless, it seems to me that he shares with the rest of the literature on the subject a certain conceptual poverty, which ends up making the distinct processes merge together under the same category. From the perspective adopted here, debt, for example, does not refer to a structural relationship which those who receive something from someone else would necessarily sign up to, but a possible relationship, whose objectification depends on several factors, including the type of transaction involved, and, principally, the symmetric or asymmetric character of the positions of the partners around different axes. I believe that the limitation of Bourdieu’s approach derives from his premise of adopting a sociological point of view, and by this I mean one that is extrinsic and superior to that of the natives. As Warren observed (1998:167–8), regarding the notion of ‘cultural capital’, it is necessary to develop an ‘anthropological conception’ of it, in other words, a concept that would take into account what is actually considered by the studied group, not only by the dominant sectors of the society.

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186 Kuschnir (2000b:82) observed the same phenomenon in Rio de Janeiro, where the system is called ‘sharing the job.’ 187 While this conversation was taking place in the living room of Marinho’s house, Jacks, in the kitchen, was arguing with Sonilda, Marinho’s wife, saying that she needed to convince him of the need to accept the ‘job.’ The tactic was well thought out: unemployed for years, Marinho found himself in the delicate situation of financially depending on his wife, in a social environment where the role of provider is a typically masculine attribute. In the end, Marinho’s pride was stronger than the continual pressure from his wife to accept the ‘job.’ 188 As observed by Borges (2004:71) on the outskirts of Brasilia, to ‘help’ appears to be the fundamental role of the politician, especially in all the places where ‘everything is very difficult.’ That everything remains difficult seems, therefore, somewhat strategic. On the other hand, as McCallum (1996:212) observed in Salvador, the definition of life as a ‘hustling’ against difficulties seems part of the representations of certain social sectors in Brazil. 189 This narrative was partially reconstructed with information obtained from members of the Dilazenze on the days following the event. This is because a slightly drunk ethnographer missed some of the nuances of the event. 190 This is how a Pombagira is defined in Tombenci, as well as in the Angola terreiros in general. In these terreiros, it is common to state that, apart from the principal orixá to which one ‘belongs’, and two or three hierarchically subordinated others, we all have, in our heads, as a ‘slave’ of the orixá, either its male Exu or female Pombagira, depending on the particular case. Furthermore, spirits of the ancestors also comprise the human person. The initiated saint-daughters can thus, at least in theory, be possessed by any of these entities. Dona Ilza, for example, can be possessed by the cabocla Jupira; Gilvan, by the sailor Malandrinho; and so forth, although generally the spirits of the dead should not possess humans, as their approach can only serve as a source of problems and disease. Finally, one can also be possessed by the ‘infant quality’ of the orixás, the erês, which are also part of the person and which can eventually possess them (see Goldman 1984; 1985a; 1990; 2003). 191 Everything suggests that this ritual follows the model established by Ilê Aiyê in Salvador (Agier 2000:141–54). Contrary to the author’s assertion, however, I do not believe that it is possible to reduce this ritual departure simply to a way of asserting identity. Even though this could be true from an extrinsic point of view – as it is also true that the ritual organizes to some degree the strong emotions that all the participants inevitably experience – what the participants emphasize the whole time is the magical-religious need for purification, protection and strength in order to achieve a single objective: a beautiful parade with the resulting final victory. It is difficult to understand the need to add something more to these aims which are so fundamental and clear. 192 This was composed by Toinho Brother, who had just recovered from a long illness and had returned to write for the Dilazenze. Toinho was a bus conductor and had

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only completed the first two years of school. When hearing ‘Grito Negro’ (‘Black Cry’) for the first time, I was surprised by the opening verse and, without thinking, argued that it did not make sense that there was a ‘shining blue sky’ on a ‘moonlit night.’ Toinho answered that, on the night that he composed the song, he had thought that the sky, more than being black, was in fact blue. This is perhaps the moment for me to try and redeem myself a little for my unforgivable personal and intellectual rudeness, paying homage to the greatest composer in Conquista, who died too young, only a little over thirty years old. 193 Almeida (1999:154; 2000:159) alludes to the emotion roused by the Dilazenze parade and by parading in the Dilazenze. 194 Almeida (2000:73) observed one member of the Dilazenze talking about the ‘rivalry’ between the blocks, ‘alluding as well to those who drew on witchcraft to harm the Dilazenze.’ 195 Which earned him the explicit criticism of Moura (Moura and Agier 2000:373–4). See also Vianna (2001). 196 Even with the disclaimer that the distinction is made in ‘solely descriptive terms’, Deleuze and Guattari (2005:440) argue that ‘serial, itinerant or territorial assemblages (which operate by codes)’, are captured and converted into ‘sedentary, global, or Land assemblages (which operate by overcoding)’. 197 Borges (1004:59) notes that Engels had already highlighted that property acts as a way of removing individuals’ freedom of movement, anchoring them and contributing to their conversion into workers. In her ethnography from the outskirts of Brasilia, the author observed how this mechanism effectively works, ‘binding’ and ‘holding’ the beneficiary of a plot of land that they have ‘won’ and, if that were not enough, making them feel eternally grateful to the donors, voting for them whenever necessary (ibid.:163). 198 In another context, Paul Veyne (1987:16) observes that, from the standpoint of the individual experience of ordinary people, the reality of the State is twofold: ‘taxes to be paid, parking fines, a general feeling of social obligation, of duty, whose boundaries with the so-called moral remain uncertain […]. On the other hand, there is a very different type of experience, when the State appears in full and calls upon us in a completely different way […]. The State goes on television to engage in a dialogue with its subjects, a dialogue where its prerogative is, in fact, a monologue.’ 199 As Dona Ilza said, upon showing me Tombenci: ‘This here is my life!’ 200 This is also, as we have seen, the meaning of the controversy between Fry and Hanchard discussed in Chapter 4. 201 Magalhães (1998:27) reminds us that, in 1986, Oliven also dedicated himself to the analysis of the ‘appropriation and generalization of cultural manifestations specific to certain groups onto other social groups’, viewing this process as ‘a phenomenon unique to the Brazilian cultural dynamic.’ There is evidently a certain amount of exaggeration here since, from this point of view, we would not really know what to do with jazz or blues, for example. Furthermore, it would not be that difficult

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to argue that dominated symbols can be converted to the position of dominant because, following known procedures of ‘distinction’, the elite could maintain their own symbols and values beyond the reach of other social groups. 202 Deleuze and Guattari (2005:473) distinguish between ‘revolutionary connections’ and (reterritorializing) ‘conjugations of the axiomatic’, and argue that it is in the unpredictable variation between the two that the political fight is distributed: ‘how things turn fascist or revolutionary is the problem of the universal delirium about which everyone is silent’ (Deleuze and Guattari 1983:280). 203 Listening to a song of Ilê Aiyê with some of my friends in Ilhéus, I became intrigued with the verse ‘freedom looks like the line of the Equator’ (which, later on, I would use as the epigraph for one of my books). I suggested that both are imaginary; they answered, initially, that both are there, only no one can see them; afterwards, that, like the line of the Equator, freedom also has to be drawn. 204 In Brazil, caboclo generally means a person of mixed European and indigenous ancestry, or simply someone who is descended from the indigenous people of Brazil. But it is also the name of a class of spirits that possess people in some AfroBrazilian religions. 205 For more on the caboclo, see Santos (1995). For a general view of the capture of black culture in Bahia, see Santos (2000). 206 ‘For this reason, the personal politics that I have labelled “resistance,” rich as they are in symbolism, metaphysics, pathos, humour and down-to-earth reasoning, deserve serious attention.’ (McCallum 1997:27–8). 207 For, as Christine Alencar Chaves (personal correspondence) confirms, adherence does not necessarily mean submission. 208 The information about these municipalities comes from, respectively, Cecília Mello (2003), Tomas Martin Ossowicki (2003) and Levindo da Costa Pereira Jr. (2005), who undertook research in these places. 209 ‘The voter who fears brutalization or brutality, excesses of passion or indifference, should be guided, supported, controlled.’ (Offerlé 1993a:139). 210 The article and pamphlet were answered, one month later, by a statement from City Hall (‘To the People of Ilhéus’), published in the city’s newspapers, and by a pamphlet from the Municipal Board of PSDB (‘Note to the People of Ilhéus’), which, amongst other accusations, argued that PT’s position was typical ‘of the darkness of the Middle Ages, of Nazism, Stalinism and other dictatorial regimes.’ 211 In Ilhéus, virtually no one doubts that public officials use their position to obtain votes. In 1996, when seeing how I was pleasantly surprised by the fact that a black and poor woman who worked in the cafeteria of a state school managed to be elected to the Chamber of Councillors, my friends were amazed, then laughed and asked if I didn’t know that she had misappropriated school dinners so that she could distribute basic baskets during her campaign. 212 Which makes it possible, for example, for missionaries to be considered as mediators, when it is clear that they are positioned on one of the banks of the river. The analyses that mention the role of Exu in the Afro-Brazilian cults, seeking to

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make mediation and clientelism a general cultural trait of Brazilian society, should take this example more seriously. For Exu appears to be a mediator, but, strictly speaking, once he has performed his role of putting men in communication with the orixás, he leaves the scene. Missionaries, political mediators and others, on the contrary, always make up the third side of the clientelistic triangle identified by Graham. In any case, there is extensive literature around the issue of mediation, and it is not my purpose here to analyse it or criticize it. For a creative use of the idea in anthropological studies of politics, see Kuschnir (2000a; 2000b). 213 See Goldman and Sant’Anna (1995:33–5). As we know, with the concept of the double bind, Gregory Bateson sought to shed light on the structure of the processes of production in schizophrenia; at the same time, he suggested that these processes are equally present in ‘normal relationships’ (Bateson 1972:209), more precisely, in those complex situations in which two conflicting ‘negative injunctions’ are accompanied by ‘a tertiary negative injunction prohibiting the victim from escaping from the field’ (ibid.:206–7). This creates those situations in which ‘no matter what a person does, he “can’t win”’ (ibid.:201). 214 Even Dona Ilza, who never tires of insisting on the absolute separation of Candomblé and politics, recognizes that some people ‘come to the terreiro and ask “My mother, who are you with? Are you with this one? So, that’s the one I’m with too.”’ 215 To this we should add the fact that not everyone who has the right to vote also has the right to be a candidate. The most interesting case, undoubtedly, is that of the illiterate, who regained the right to vote – though it is not compulsory – only in 1998, but remained ineligible to stand (see Porto 2000; 2002). This has recently resulted in electoral judges deciding to implement literacy tests for candidates standing for elective positions. This ineligibility of the illiterate only adds further proof to the fact that the abstract principle of political representation is always inflected by different socio-political variables, and the fact that elections and their regulation remain privileged occasions for the display of social differences and distinctions, much as they were in Brazil during the Second Empire (Graham 1997). 216 This was of the favourite subjects of nineteenth-century Brazil’s most famous writer, Machado de Assis. In various stories and works of fiction, he had fun in imagining the machinations designed to circumvent a particular electoral system, especially those geared towards hindering the continuity of an initial system by means of corrections and reform, and the new machinations seeking to circumvent the newly introduced system, which would thus be reformed once again, and so on. For a general overview of Machado de Assis’ political position, see Faoro (1974). 217 In reality, an Afro block, much like a Candomblé terreiro (and many other things in the world), is a combination of all these things: mission, vocation, culture, religion, art, performance, means of socializing and way of earning money.

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218 Marinho’s opinion is shared worldwide, and is found in countless aphorisms that reflect the intrinsically pernicious and corrupt nature of politics: ‘whoever wins finds it difficult not to look like a devil’, from the back country of Minas Gerais (Chaves 2003:59); ‘whoever goes to Hell becomes the devil’, in India (Banerjee 1999); ‘some eat while others vote’, in Crete (Herzfeld 1985:111); ‘vote early, vote often’ in Ireland; and so on. 219 In Candomblé, after the death of a saint-mother, her successor is only known when, some time afterwards, the búzios are thrown and, through them, the orixás communicate their decision. This does not prevent, of course, everyone quietly speculating about the future well in advance. 220 As Heredia wrote (1996:68), ‘The resistance of the community to having their own candidates makes sense, in that calling for someone to be political is, in fact, calling for them to be outside the community. Said in another way, it makes sense because by bringing politics – which is exterior to them – inside the community, they are introducing relationships of inequality amongst equals. Someone who is elected becomes, automatically, exterior, that is they cease to be a member, and become lost to the community. The fact that an individual votes for a relative or neighbour can be seen, in the scheme of everyday life, as only a moment in the relationship that unites them, and as returning a favour by way of voting for them. However, as we have seen, reciprocating with a vote means something different. In the end, this vote contributes to putting a neighbour or relative on a higher level in the social hierarchy, and therefore the existing balance in the relationship becomes unstable.’ 221 As Kuschnir noted (2000a:17–19), candidates always tend to present their candidacies as something that does not rely on their volition, but is rather a ‘duty’ or ‘sacrifice’, imposed upon them by voters or their parties. This reinforces the idea that the candidate belongs to a certain group, and that they must, therefore, remain faithful to it. 222 This is a municipal foundation which aims to ‘draw environmental education, ecology, memory of regional culture, sustainable economic development, marine and forest resources, urban environmental management and, ultimately, cacao, together with the politics of preservation’ (see Menezes 1998: chapter 2). 223 A local radio station and newspaper revealed the information that he had been suspended by the Electoral Court. 224 Dona Ilza composed a song, always sung in rehearsals by the block: In a city in Africa, there was a babalaô [saint-father or diviner] Dilazenze Malungo, strength to iaôs One day Zambi called And in an egum he was transformed Dilazenze Malungo, strength to the iaôs Eh muzenza, iaô, eh muzenza, iaô [muzenza and iaô are terms for a novice initiate in Candomblé]

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225 The ‘foundations’ of a terreiro basically consist of the material objects that contain the force of the deities to which they are associated, or, to be more precise, the combination of these objects and these forces. These are generally found buried in the centre of the barracão. The Dilazenze also possess their own ‘fundamentals’, which are buried alongside those of Tombenci. 226 ‘Torso’ refers, in Candomblé in Ilhéus, to the turban or headdress worn by some followers of Candomblé and by women who dress in typical Bahian style, often selling typical Bahian food, or participating in carnival parades or similar events. 227 It is worth quoting in full the beautiful passage in which the author reaches this conclusion: ‘When one wonders how, in the twentieth century, a normal individual, one brought up in the culture of the Enlightenment, can let himself get involved in the discourse of witchcraft (a question I, like anyone else, asked myself ), it is impossible to give an answer by only taking into account the irrationality of this discourse. More precisely, one and only one answer is possible: it entails writing off those who are taken in by it as in the class of backward people, fools or madmen. If, on the other hand, one realizes that witchcraft generates situations in which there is no room for two: in other words situations in which one must either kill or die – and the question of the rationality of the system is considered less important – one begins to understand that anyone can be involved in it’ (Favret-Saada 1977:123). 228 If, in the Bocage, the connection between witchcraft and jealousy – ‘in local discourse the witch is a fundamentally “jealous” being’ (Favret-Saada 1977:203) – depends upon a conception of the witch as someone endowed with an uncontrollable force – his ‘domain is never big enough for him to use up the whole of his power’ (ibid.) – this does not appear to happen in Ilhéus, where jealousy appears to be a fundamental force. 229 Thanks to Peter Gow for having revealed to me this magnificent aphorism, undoubtedly part of one of those beautiful philosophies of politics and nature that we find in societies against the State.

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