for bahianos and tourists

foto by me. bahia 2003








simply impossible for me to translate the great poetry of Gregório de Matos. I wouldn’t dare! the reason I chose the poem I used in the portuguese version is the actuality of this poem. written by a poet, born in Bahia in 1623. he was well known for his sarcastic and witty poetry. in that fragment I chose, he makes fun of the curate, who is supposed to save the city out of its vices and decadency, but instead, he himself falls into its sins, corruption and misery.

from march till the end of may 2008, I was there. re-visiting… the city was calm after carnaval and a small summer. but it has changed. poverty, meant: misery has taken the city like an epidemic. sad to see so many people, young and old, living at the streets sleeping at the side-walks, some with no teeth in their mouths and no idea of future. crack has taken care of most, a little kick out of the miserable existence, cheap, fast, corrosive. sad.
to get money they search for plastic bottles to sell, they beg, they rob. to get alive they search for something eatable in the garbage bags of the rich or the middle-class. I cannot count how many times I had to see people eating directly from the garbage bag in the middle of the day. sad.
some others just sell themselves for the tourists. bahia became a hot spot for sex tourism. in the beaches, people sell their bodies the same way they sell caipirinha, beer or souvenirs. young and fresh but already spoiled. no Cole Porter romantic. at all. gringos with dollars, euros, pesos, pesetas, doesn’t mater. cash matters.young people, sometimes too young. fucking sad!


life sucks.

but still the city smiles at everyone, even if sometimes she looks like a toothless woman, full of ruins, but still showing beauty among misery, luxury side by side with misery. the old toothless lady still has some golden teeth, still has some beauty to show. the old prostitute.

‘sad Bahia, oh how dissimilar’


every time my flight arrives, flying over the bay, I cry, for gratitude of being back, for how lucky I feel for being born there.


every time my flight leaves, flying over the bay, I cry for shame, for seeing my so beloved city desmantling and tumbling down.

I wish she were that old lady, whom I could hold in my arms and take care of. but who am I? if nothing changed in 489 years, she only grew bigger and bigger, uncontrolled.

at least I can still love her. from the distance.