Washerwomen – Salvador do Bahia, Brazil
Fog-faced, pale-faced San Franciscan, you shouldn’t have done it. Half an hour in the Bahanian sun and skin reaches flash point. With the raw pain of linen scraping parched flesh, I bumpity-bump down steep cobblestone streets in the back seat of a VW taxi, knees nearly touching my nose. Brazilian pop music, gargles through a torn speaker behind my left ear.
AUDIO: VOODOO TO YOU