Vodou Rendezvous
Hollywood would have us believe that “Voodoo” comes from darkness, that it sticks pins into dolls, slaughters chickens and turns men, and women, into zombies. In reality, Vodou is just a religion not unlike many others; and like them, it has some practices that an outsider might find unusual. Vodou has been portrayed by some as evil and even demonic, but the truth is far more interesting.
The slaves that were wrenched from their homes in Africa and shipped across the Atlantic to Haiti, brought with them their culture and their animist beliefs. And when their masters tried to save them with Christianity, the slaves incorporated what was useful from that religion into theirs. To that mixture, they added a splash of religious beliefs from the island’s native Taínos, and Vodou was born.
Haiti would not be Haiti without Vodou. Sanley Yeltz, a radio personality in Port au Prince, told me that when he was in school, he had to fill in his religion on a form. He wrote ‘Christian’. But the teacher made him change it, ‘You are not Christian, you are Vodou.’
‘But my mum takes me to church,’ Sanley replied.
‘You are Haitian. You are Vodou.’
Vodou is as integral to Haitians as the food they eat and the air that they breathe.
With the help of Jacqui Labrom of Voyages Lumière in Port au Prince, a group of us arranged to attend a Vodou ceremony in a peristil, or Vodou temple, just above Pétionville.
We followed our guide, Serge, up Montaigne Noire, the precipitous road that scorns the contours of the mountain above Pétionville. He led us off the main road and up another that looked like the construction site for a funicular. We parked the cars near the top and quickly chocked all four wheels with rocks. A narrow alleyway flanked by ramshackle houses led us to the Sambelle Peristil. Some local children stopped to watch the procession of blancs slipping through their territory
We were late. The congregation was assembled and the houngan, or Vodou priest, had already begun. After a short wait, we were ushered into the peristil and given seats in the front row.
The peristil was about eight meters by eight and punctuated in the middle by a sturdy pillar holding up the roof. Jacqui explained that the pillar is known as the poto mitan and is an important part of the temple, a channel from the spirit world that allows them to join the congregation and perhaps take possession of one or two: for a while.
Despite the burning sun outside, the room was dark and cool. The walls were painted for the Haitian flag: dark blue on top and red at the bottom. On one side of the peristil, an unglazed window ran the length of the room, just under the eaves, The opposite window was blocked by a series of pictures: Vodou art, two Catholic saints, a busy montage of Haitian heads of state and a map. And on the walls were larger paintings representing Haiti’s history. Pictures of the Taíno, Haiti’s original inhabitants, interspersed with paintings of shackled slaves and heroes of the revolution.
The room was awash with color; many of the women wore red dresses with black-trimmed ruffles, others were dressed in purple and blue, and some wore their Saturday best. Most men wore their everyday clothes, but a few wore red shirts and a red moushwa, the Vodou headscarf.
The houngan sat at the front on a small dais, under a canopy. A wooden scepter, topped with a skull, rested on his chair. To the houngan’s right four drummers waited patiently, their sticks poised. One ran his finger over the skin of his drum. It hummed.
When we were settled, Houngan Sambelle continued. He spoke in Creole and, although we don’t speak the language, it became clear that the service hadn’t begun. Apparently, he had been scheduled to appear on a radio show with a Vodou priestess, or mambo, who failed to appear with him. The houngan spent half an hour explaining exactly what had happened, how disrespected he felt and then instructed everyone to delete the mambo from their WhatsApp, Facebook and all other social media profiles and also to block her number. Vodou in the 21st century.
When the houngan stood, we stood with him. The congregation faced the back of the room, all holding candles and, following the houngan’s lead, began chanting to the rhythm of the drums. They sang to each wall of the room in turn before turning in towards the poto mitan. Those closest to the pillar placed a hand on it. The chanting continued.
There was a shiver, a schism and a woman on the far side of the pillar began to chatter. Her eyes widened and she arched her back creating space in her viscera for an invited guest. The chanting stopped and the congregation drew back a little in anticipation. The spirit withdrew and the woman slumped into the arms of her neighbors. They held her and wiped her glistening brow. A collective sigh seemed to fill the room and the tension evaporated like a spent storm.
While everyone took a break, the houngan addressed us, the visitors. He began in English, but then switched to Creole leaving Jacqui and Serge to translate. He gave us a lesson on the history of Haiti starting with the arrival of Christopher Columbus and subsequent extinction of the Taíno. He told us of the origins of the slaves, their journey from Africa and of the roots of Vodou.
When he was finished with us, he turned his focus to the patient congregation and the ceremony continued. A woman walked to the front with a sacred rattle and a candle in one hand. In the other, she held a bottle filled with klerin, a potent mixture of chilies and rum. She splashed a little liquid onto the floor in front of each drummer, passed the candle over each drum and tapped it lightly with the rattle. Then she did the same to the poto mitan and crossed herself.
The elegantly dressed women started singing. The dancing that followed was orderly and melodious at first. A couple took the floor. Soon everyone was dancing. There was a rupture and a single figure, bent at the waist, barged through the crowd at speed, circled the poto mitan and disappeared. Another staggered into view, and soon bodies were bouncing off each other like pinballs. People dabbed white powder on each other’s faces to signify death.
Rum flowed, both as spilled offering for the gods and as spirits for the spirits. And then things began to get a little out of hand. The blancs became the center of attention. A large man grabbed my wife’s wrist and tried to pull her into the fray. She wasn’t keen. The dancers crowded closer, their bodies writhed and their arms flailed. When they were almost on top of us, the houngan drew them back. We decided that we’d probably seen enough.
We paid our respects (and a bottle of rum) to the houngan and retreated to the cars, which were still resting on their chocks in the bright sunshine.
