Dona Flozinha and crazy tunes

Today, as we were flying to Salvador early evening, we were only scheduled to do one session. A favourite all girl band who sing and play percussion called Dona Flozinha. Once again, they’d found us a small theatre (or was it a rehearsal room?) to record in and we set up upstairs on a sumptuous, though tiny, powder blue balcony. I was really looking forward to sitting back and enjoying their crystal clear voices joining our tracks and that excited ‘this is going to sound amazing on the album’ look Duncan and I would give each other at such times. But once again, just as we were getting into it, Anna came up trumps again. Apparently there were some far out indigenous Indians from miles away who were doing a performance at the local museum. She had been on the phone to their representative and they had agreed to give us an interview and if there was time, a short performance of their music. There was quite a lot of umming and ahhing about whether we were really going to get anything usable as shooting an indigenous tribe in a modern museum would look…well…exactly like what it was, not particularly natural, and a bit ‘something for the tourists’, and there was also the factor that they were (rightly) asking a healthy sum of money.

We decided to split up and go for it. Me and Ben to the Museum, and Duncan and Joshua to stay where they were.

As we arrived at the museum, it was made clear to us that they had heavy restrictions about where we were allowed to film. The place was beautiful, full of a mixture of indigenous photos and exhibits, and bizarre pieces of modern art. Before we’d been there very long, the Indian who were doing a performance organised by some local anthropologists rolled up and began painting each others scarecly clothed bodies in various open places around the halls. It was quite an incongruous image, full on dangling ear lobes, red painted feet and chins, black hair matted down onto brows, all wandering around an ultra modern public bathroom covered in various hues of natural ochre and earth tones.

When they began they ritual singing performance in the hall where all the white people were waiting it was heartening to see the place so packed. If I wanted to be cynical I would say that the applause felt more like ‘well done for still existing’ more than ‘we’re really getting off on your crazy tunes’, but everyone seemed happy and respectful, and the kids were clearly fascinated.

Meanwhile, Duncan and Josh had arrived from the other session and were settingup on the auditorium stage next door. First we were going to interview their ‘vhief’ or spokesman, and then record and film a couple of chants with them. I was p;articularly looking forward to the guy with the elongated gourd which boomed a thick bass note all around. Strangely, halfway through the interview, which, by the way, was incredible and the guy was so expressive with his hands and eyes I almost don’t want to translate it, soon one of the anthropologists, a stiff, middle class white woman in over-neat attire and hair-do started interrupting from behind, telling us in Portugese that we had to interview her and her colleague about how it was them who really understood this culture and how their work was what had resulted in the tribe being here today. Unbelievable vanity. At the end of the interview, when we were about to shoot the chants and were all set up and ready, with only 15 minutes before the museum was closing, the other anthropologist, a very similar woman, told us that the tribe were now unavailable as she needed them to be in the hall selling their necklaces. It was about to get heated. Somehow, by promising to interview them at the end they seemed to get faintly more flexible.

The Indian guy we spoke to spoke no English but his twinkling and gesturing was intense and almost communication enough. He seemed to be half playing and laughing and half deadly serious. It wasn’t only the language barrier than made him hard to work out.

In true Jamie and Duncan style we raced to the airport straight from the session, screeching to a halt as we pulled out of the museum when someone noticed one of the camera bags still sitting on the tarmac in the car park.

We were met by our cool young film-maker fixer, Dani, in Salvador airport, and we got to the hotel to find it a booming party place where you could barely hear the receptionist at check in for the thumping bass and distorted microphone where the mc was getting a party going. I admit I was feeling a bit frazzled and somehow got it into my head that I had to get online that very minute. The connection in my room didn’t work (even though it turned out later that I’d been plugging it in wrong, surprise surprise!) and I ended up at 3am in the dusty little office behind the reception desk using their computer and wondering what on earth I thought I was doing.