Tell My Horse: Voodoo and Life in Haiti and Jamaica

by Zora Neale Hurston

  I acknowledged that I had heard the expression in the market several times. I added that we Negroes of America also employed the figures of speech continuously. Very well then, he replied, I would understand, and not take the mode of speech of the peasants literally. He never referred directly to Joseph and neither did I. He sipped his rum, and I drank coconut water and we studied the magnificent panorama before us and spent a pleasant morning. But the thing left me quivering with curiosity and I wanted to call Joseph and ask questions. I did not do this because I knew that the time had passed for him to answer me truthfully. He was visibly cowed by that Gros Negre. I would have given most anything to know what it was Joseph had started to explain.

  A little later I told a very intelligent young Haitian woman that I was going to the mountains shortly to study Voodoo practices. We had come to be very close to each other. We had gotten to the place where neither of us lied to each other about our respective countries. I freely admitted gangsters, corrupt political machines, race prejudice and lynchings. She as frankly deplored bad politics, overemphasized class distinctions, lack of public schools and transportation. We neither of us apologized for Voodoo. We both acknowledged it among us, but both of us saw it as a religion no more venal, no more impractical than any other.

  So when I told her that I was going to Archahaie to live in the compound of a bocor in order to learn all I could about Voodoo, I did not expect her to take the attitude of the majority of the Haitian elite, who have become sensitive about any reference to Voodoo in Haiti. In a way they are justified in this because the people who have written about it, with one exception, that of Dr. Melville Herskovits, have not known the first thing about it. After I had spoken she sat very still for a while, and then she asked me if I knew the man well that I was going to study with. I said no, not very well, but I had reports from many directions that he was powerful. She was very slow about talking, but she said that I was not to go about trusting myself to people that I knew nothing about. Furthermore it was not possible for me to know whom to trust without advice. All was not gold that glittered. There were different kinds of priests. Some of them worked with two hands. Some things were good to know and some things were not. I must make no contacts nor must I go anywhere to stay unless I let my friends advise me. She was as solemn and specific about the warning as she was vague about what I was to fear. But she showed herself a friend in that she introduced me to an excellent mambo (priestess) whom I found sincere in all her dealings with me.

  A physician of very high calibre said the same thing to me at Gonaives the day that I visited the Zombie there at the hospital and photographed her, or it. Over the coffee cups we discussed the possibility of a drug being used to produce this semblance of death. That is his theory of the matter. He said that he would give much to know the secret of it. It was his belief that many scientific truths were hidden in some of these primitive practices that have been brought from Africa. But the knowledge of the plants and formulae are secret. They are usually kept in certain families, and nothing will induce the guardians of these ancient mysteries to divulge them. He had met up with some startling things in primitive chemistry by reason of his position at the hospital, but never had he been able to break down the resistance of the holders of those secrets. One man was placed in prison and threatened with a long term unless he told. The prisoner produced a fever temperature much higher than any mortal man is supposed to be able to stand to force the prison authorities to release him. But this they refused to do. Then he sent another prisoner to get a little pouch of powdered leaves which he had hidden in his clothes. He refused to let either the doctors or the gendarmes get it for him. When he had it, he mixed a pinch of it with water, allowed it to stand for a few minutes and drank the mixture. In three hours his temperature was perfectly normal. Soon they released him without being able to gain one word of information out of him. He merely stated that what they asked was a family secret brought over from Guinea. He could not reveal it. That was final. He left the prison and the hospital as he had come.

  Hearing this, I determined to get at the secret of Zombies. The doctor said that I would not only render a great service to Haiti, but to medicine in general if I could discover this secret. But it might cost me a great deal to learn. I said I was devoted to the project and willing to try no matter how difficult. He hesitated long and then said, “Perhaps it will cost you more than you are willing to pay, perhaps things will be required of you that you cannot stand. Suppose you were forced to—could you endure to see a human being killed? Perhaps nothing like that will ever happen, but no one on the outside could know what might be required. Perhaps one’s humanity and decency might prevent one from penetrating very far. Many Haitian intellectuals have curiosity but they know if they go to dabble in such matters, they may disappear permanently. But leaving possible danger aside, they have scruples.”

  Things like this kept on happening. Like Arius and Lucille having one of those quarrels over jurisdiction that all Haitian servants seem to be having eternally, and during which Arius saying that she had better be careful how she insulted him. She must know whom she was dealing with before she went too far. On hearing this, Lucille was as terrified as if he had pointed a gun at her heart. She came to me and wanted to leave. I persuaded her against it and chided Arius a little. But the next day when an old man entered the yard with his black head covered with a red handkerchief, Lucille fled the place and went down to the nearest police station for protection. Then at La Gonave I heard references to things done by some society in a village across the Morne from Ansa-a’-galets which the Garde d’Haiti was going to suppress. Then on one of those little sailboats that matches itself against wind and tide for eighteen miles between Ansa-a’-galets and Port-au-Prince, I heard some more puzzling talk. Things mentioned, not by name, but by insinuation, and only briefly at that. Then that quick hush of uneasiness. But in all this time, not one single individual had ever mentioned directly the existence of secret societies let alone put a name to one. What had been conveyed was a feeling of fear of something that nobody wanted to discuss.

  Then one afternoon in the Tourist Bar, a man who is a Haitian and also not a Haitian said something that suddenly connected all of these happenings and gave them a meaning beside. So I began to see a great deal of him. From time to time he told me many things and, without knowing it, put me on the trail of what to look for. One N’gan (houngan) with whom I was particularly friendly answered my questions quite frankly and took me to a house in the Belair district where the cobblestones of the floor were polished like marble from the passage of so many feet and so many generations that they inspired awe in themselves. There first I saw and examined a paper, yellow with age, that bore the “mot de passage” (password) and discovered that Cochon Gris was a name of a society.

  On the way back home I remarked that I had seen no altar and hounfort as I was accustomed to in Voodoo worship. There were a few things about, but I knew what to expect and the regular set-up was not there. There were a dozen bottles on a table, some crunches, or clay water jugs. The place of honor was given to an immense black stone that was attached to a heavy chain, which was itself held by an iron bar whose two ends were buried in the masonry of the wall. A well used cuvette was before the stone that had the same look of age and memory as an ancient gibbet. When we first entered, the bocor had touched the stone proudly and said, “This is for Petro. It has the power to do all things—the good and the evil.” Certainly neither of us disputed the statement. But when we were clear of the place, I said I knew that the bocor had lied to us. The houngan was proud of me, then, as a pupil because I had noticed the difference. He said that it really was not a place of Voodoo. That the Cochon Gris was a secret society and a thing forbidden by law and detested by all except the members. That they used the name of Voodoo to cloak their gatherings and evade arrest and extinction.

  Later on I introduced the subject in a conversation with a well-known physician of Port-au-Prince
and he discussed the matter most intelligently.

  “Our history has been unfortunate. First we were brought here to Haiti and enslaved. We suffered great cruelties under the French and even when they had been driven out, they left here certain traits of government that have been unfortunate for us. Thus having been a nation continually disturbed by revolution and other features not helpful to advancement we have not been able to develop economically and culturally as many of us have wished. These things being true, we have not been able to control certain bad elements because of a lack of a sufficient police force.”

  “But,” I broke in, “with all the wealth of the United States and all the policing, we still have gangsters and the Ku Klux Klan. Older European nations still have their problems of crime.”

  “Thank you for your understanding. We have a society that is detestable to all the people of Haiti. It is known as the Cochon Gris, Secte Rouge and the Vinbrindingue and all of these names mean one and the same thing. It is outside of, and has nothing to do with Voodoo worship. They are banded together to eat human flesh. Perhaps they are descended from the Mondongues and other cannibals who were brought to this Island in the Colonial days. These terrible people were kept under control during the French period by the very strictures of slavery. But in the disturbances of the Haitian period, they began their secret meetings and were well organized before they came to public notice. It is generally believed that the society spread widely during the administration of President Fabre Geffrard (1858–1867). Perhaps it began much earlier, we are not sure. But their evil practices had made them thoroughly hated and feared before the end of this administration. It is not difficult to understand why Haiti has not even yet thoroughly rid herself of these detestable creatures. It is because of their great secrecy of movement on the one hand and the fear that they inspire on the other. It is like your American gangsters. They intimidate the common people so that even when they could give the police actual proof of their depredations, they are afraid to appear in court against them.

  “The cemeteries are the places where they display the most horrible aspects of their inclinations. Someone dies after a short illness, or a sudden indisposition. The night of the burial, the Vinbrindingues go to the cemetery, the chain around the tomb is broken and the grave profaned. The coffin is pulled out and opened and the body spirited away. And now, if you are friendly to Haiti as you say you are, you must speak the truth to the world. Many white writers who have passed a short time here have heard these things mentioned, and knowing nothing of the Voodoo religion except the Congo dances, they conclude that the two things are the same. That gives a wrong impression to the world and makes Haiti a subject for slander.”

  Dr. Melville Herskovits heard this society mentioned at Mirablais as the “Bissage,” and “Cochon sans poils” (Life in a Haitian Valley). He quotes Dr. Elsie Clewes Parsons as saying that the peasants around Jacmel told her “people do eat people at Aux Cayes. I know it.” Her informant went on to tell of human finger nails being found on what had been sold as pigs’ feet.

  “But how can I say these things until I am very sure?” I asked him. I had participated in many ceremonies, and had never seen anything that even bordered on human sacrifice, but I knew that I did not know every Voodoo ceremony in Haiti. How could I say unless I eliminated the possibility of an occasional sacrifice? Later I found what he said to be true.

  Then I found out about another secret society. It is composed of educated, upper class Haitians who are sworn to destroy the Red Sect in Haiti. They are now taking the first step of the program. That is, to drive the adepts of the organization out from under the cloak of Voodooism so that they may be recognized and crushed by the government. Naturally, there are laws against murder in Haiti, however committed. In addition the penal code contains provisions against magic practices which can be invoked when evil traits are discovered. Official Haiti knows of the Secte Rouge and frowns upon it, but one must have legal proof to gain a conviction. A high official of the Garde d’Haiti told me that he has every known member in the neighborhood of Port-au-Prince under surveillance. “But one cannot arrest a man for what he believes,” he said, “one must have proof that the suspect has put his belief to action. And when we have that, ah, you shall see something.” My attention was called to the trial and conviction of the sorceress in the affair of Jeanne Nelie, “That affair which gave place to a trial which echoed around the world.” The effect of this conviction was to cause the adepts of Secte Rouge to take refuge under the greatest secrecy which has since been axiomatic. Now they give themselves names of the Petros, the Erzulies and the Locos, and perhaps many other Voodoo loas.

  I witnessed one such fraudulent ceremony myself one night on the Plain Cul-de-Sac. In company with a man who knew all about Voodoo in that part of Haiti, I was returning from a Congo dance when we approached a small cluster of houses where a ceremony was in progress. I asked to stop and see it and we did. I got a very disagreeable surprise, because they sacrificed a dog. This must be some new cult of Voodoo, I concluded, so I asked. They told me it was a service to Mondongue, who always made his appearance in the form of a great dog, and when one beheld such a manifestation, it was certainly a time for fear. My friend and I soon left. When we were far away, he said to me, “They do not make a Voodoo service at all. Mondongue is not a loa of Voodoo. They do not always content themselves with dog, I am afraid.” He showed the strongest feeling of revulsion to the whole matter and I was glad because then I did not need to hide my own distaste. I had not read St. Mery at that time and had never heard the name Mondongue pronounced in all Haiti:

  “Never has there been a character more hideous than that of these last (The Mondongues), whose depravities have reached the execrable of excesses, that of to eat their fellows. There were brought to Saint Dominique (Haiti) some of these butchers of human flesh (for at the houses of these butchers the flesh of humans has been sold as veal) and here (in Haiti) they caused, as in Africa, the horror of the other Negroes.—One is convinced that these people have kept up their odious inclinations. Notably in 1786 a Negress was confined in a hospital on a plantation in the vicinity of Jeremy. The proprietor having remarked that the greater part of the Negro babies perished in the first eight days after their birth, spied upon the midwife whom he surprised eating one of these infants who had recently been buried. She confessed that she caused them to die for this purpose.”*

  The most celebrated meeting place in the Department of the West used to be the bridge across the lake at Miragoane. An awful sight to the late traveller! The bridge covered with candles, the brilliantly costumed figures, themselves bearing multiple candles and the little coffin that is their object of worship, in the center of the floor of the bridge, the sharp piercing voice of the little drum and the wildly dancing horde.

  This is how a meeting was held.

  The two marked stones were struck together, the whispered word was sent secretly, but swiftly by word of mouth to all of the adepts. A full meeting was to be held in a town some miles south of Port-au-Prince. This distance is a bit tiresome even by automobile, considering the condition of the roads. But one of the remarkable things concerning the members of the Red Sect is their great mobility. They cover great distances with incredible speed.

  The meeting is in a sort of court surrounded by several small cailles (thatched houses). There is a huge silk cotton tree in the open space, and behind the houses, fields and fields of cane.

  The night was very dark but starry. Only a homemade lamp made simply and crudely from a condensed milk can fought against the blackness. Members came in like shadows from all directions. One came down a narrow path from the main road. Two more came into the opening from cane fields, parting the rustling leaves so skillfully that there was no sound. They kept coming like this and every member carried his sac paille which held his trappings. There was subdued talk but no whispers. The time had not come for expression, that was all. They kept coming until perhaps a hundred persons
were gathered there. Looking around the court, they were just ordinary looking people. Might be anybody at all getting ready for a prayer meeting or a country dance.

  All of the officers came at last and the word went around for everyone to robe themselves. This was quickly done and the drab crowd became a shining assembly in red and white with bared heads. Some began to leap and dance, imitating the motions of various animals. The singing and dancing became general and the head coverings were put on. The adepts were now all transformed into demons with tails and horns, cows, hogs, dogs and goats. Some even became cocks, and all of a most terrifying aspect. Standing silently in that dimlit courtyard they were enough to strike terror into the breast of the most courageous. But now they began to dance and sing. The little, high pitched drum resounded and the Emperor, a most fearful sight, took the center of the group and began to sing and the President, the Minister, the Queen, the cuisineres, the officers, the servants, bourresouse, and all the grades joined in and the sound and the movement was like hell boiling over. Over and anew they sang to the drums.

  Carrefour tingindingue, mi haut, mi bas-e’

  Carrefour tingindingue, mi haut, mi bas-e’

  Oun prali’ tingindingue, mi haut, mi bas, tingindingue

  Oun prali’ tingindingue, mi haut, mi bas, tingindingue

  Oun prali’ tingindingue, mi haut, mi bas, tingindingue

  Now the whole body prepared to depart. Every member lighted a candle and, chanting to the drums, they struck a rhythmic half dance, half trot and marched forth to a certain cross-road not more than a mile away. The Secte Rouge was going to the cross-roads to do honor to the loa who rules there. What they wished for tonight would be in his realm. They were going there to give food and drink and money to Maitre Carrefour (Lord of the Cross Roads) and after that they were going to ask favors of him.