Voodoo in Haiti

by Alfred Métraux

  At Marbial there used to be plenty of gossip about ‘commitments’ which the rich people had entered into with the devil and the human victims which they had allegedly sacrificed to him.

  Towards the end of my stay at Marbial a luckless fellow called Jovalis broke his neck falling from the top of a mango-tree up which he had climbed to shake down fruit. This job had been given him by a hungan who had promised him half the fruit in return for his trouble. The accident did not strike either the family of the deceased or the local inhabitants as altogether straightforward. Everyone agreed in accusing the hungan of having ‘given’ Jovalis, that is to say sacrificed him to the bad loa he served in return for riches received. It was also said that the murder was the result of an indiscretion on the part of Jovalis: rumour said he had been present, by chance, at the sacrifice of a pig which the hungan was offering to his ‘point’. Jovalis failed to keep his mouth shut and his indiscretion was the end of him. Finally, according to a third version, Jovalis was killed by a cousin who arranged with the hungan that he should be made to fall from the mango-tree. The peasants based their suspicion on a curious circumstance: the branch to which Jovalis had been holding was not broken and someone had heard the hungan’s wife say, ‘Why make someone climb a tree which is never climbed by anyone?’ The murderer was held to have finally established his guilt by paying for part of the funeral costs...

  Having collected all this evidence I paid a visit on the hungan himself, to hear his version of the affair. Either he had no knowledge of what people were saying about him or he did not care—for when I spoke to him about Jovalis’s accident he showed no sign of concern. He assured me the deceased was simply a stranger whom he had allowed to pick a few mangoes. Nevertheless he regretted the death had occurred so near his house because it had cost him five gourdes spent on food and drink when the man’s family came to fetch the body.

  The following anecdote with its almost Faustian undertones, was told me as a ‘true story’: there was at Marbial an important machinateur (magician) who had for his disciple a young man called Amantus. The latter was a ‘fine lad’ who, eaten up with ambition, feared neither sorcerers nor spirits. His master had given him proofs of friendship and had imparted to him some of his ‘knowledge’. However, out of prudence he was careful not to reveal to him the nature of his ‘point’—the source of all his riches. Amantus did all he could to gain the entire confidence of the boko but never succeeded. So he decided to spy on him day and night. His patience was rewarded: he discovered that the power of the boko proceeded from a stone which he kept carefully hidden. One day when he was alone in the humfo he seized the opportunity of stealing it. The following night he saw in a dream a vast dog with a human head which said to him: ‘From tonight on it is you who are my master. Things will go better with you because now you are in with me.’ The boko having lost his stone found his luck running out. He was defeated in a lawsuit and ruined. His disciple on the other hand grew quickly rich and became one of the notables of the region. But one evening when he was walking in one of his banana plantations he heard a voice saying: ‘The time has come to settle our account.’ He paid no attention to the mysterious warning. Misfortune overtook him: he contracted such a serious illness that a good half of his fortune went in paying doctors and chemists. He had hoped that once he was cured he would easily be able to recoup his losses, but then epizooty decimated his stock. Weighed down with debt he had to sell his plantations for a poor price and little by little he succumbed to the most abject destitution. His talisman, after being the source of luck, had become the cause of ruin and misery. Not knowing how to pay off the spirit of the stone nor how to appease its ire, he decided to take refuge in the bosom of a Protestant sect. He became a Baptist and from that day forward gave up all dealings with loa and magic.

  II.—THE SOCIETIES OF SORCERERS

  Only with the greatest reluctance will the peasants of Haiti go out alone at night. What they fear is not so much an encounter with ghosts or evil spirits but to fall in unexpectedly with a ‘column’ of criminals of a special kind called, according to region, zobop, bizango, galipotes, ‘hairless pigs’ or ‘hairless ones’, ‘grey pigs’, vlanbindingues, bossu, macandal or finally voltigeurs.

  The people designated by these names are sorcerers who have taken a ‘hot point’, as described in the preceding chapter, and who, in addition, have joined secret societies whose members, united by the crimes they have committed together, give each other help. The zobop (the name for them used in Marbial) derive material benefits from membership—wealth and all its trappings—a fine house, luxurious car and a trip to France—though these considerations are secondary to the satisfaction of returning evil for evil, and of ‘eating people’ during nocturnal expeditions.

  Do these secret societies, which are directly descended from the sorcerer-societies of West Africa, really exist or are they merely the fiction of popular imagination worked upon by the perennial fear of magic and magicians?

  Countless stories heard about zobop really belong to the province of the fairy-tale, but it seems likely that certain people do sometimes band together, in secret, to practise sorcery or to use the popular belief in sorcerer societies to sow terror around them. Proof that the matter is not wholly a question of superstition is to be found in the passports of zobop, confiscated in humfo or handed over to curés by repentant voodooists.

  The most sinister fantasies of a kind sure to capture popular imagination have been centred on the ‘red sects’. Hideous or grotesque aspect, weird dress, obscene and bloody ceremonies, gratuitous cruelty—there is no conceivable trait that is not attributed to them provided it is sufficiently repulsive and odious. Here, in Haiti, in mid-twentieth century, we find again every leering apparition of the sabbaths which once crowded the dossiers of ecclesiastical tribunals in the days of witch-hunting. Of the sensational details with which story-tellers season their descriptions of ‘grey pigs’ and zobop there is little point in mentioning here any but those which tally with a tradition which has become more or less established.

  The members of the ‘red sects’ are not recognizable by any distinctive mark or badge. They are often people of quiet and peaceful appearance. You may live cheek by jowl with them for years without ever suspecting their other identity. Some mere chance gives them away—and then the fury of their neighbours can be terrible. I knew a Frenchman in Haiti who had been there for years and made his fortune. One fine day he was suddenly pronounced ‘the king devil’. An enraged crowd besieged him in his house. He would have been killed if the police had not fetched him and taken him to the station promising the would-be lynchers to chain him up and punish him.

  Zobop commit their crimes at veritable sabbaths. They organize these on certain nights of the week which they say belong to them. Those who attend these reunions must know passwords which sentries will ask for. They are guided to the assembly-place by the sharp rhythm of a small drum. This instrument has the peculiar quality of being audible to sect members at a prodigious distance while remaining inaudible to passers-by even when they are quite close to a band of zobop lying in wait. Sorcerers are also convoked by the clashing together of stones—a custom which is not without interest when it is recalled that this same rally-signal is used by the zangbeto—a secret society of Dahomey.

  The zobop wear long red or white garments and are crowned with lighted candles. Sometimes they wear tin horns or a conical straw hat. Holding candles in their hands and cracking a whip they march in column like soldiers; hence the word ‘column’, used by itself, has come to mean a troop of this sect. Like the baka they enjoy the faculty of being able to change their appearance at will: they can elongate their heads, stiffen their features and, whenever they like, turn into giants, dwarfs, cockerels or ferocious dogs. They will go in procession to some crossroad and there celebrate a ceremony in honour of Maître-Carrefour whom they ask to grant success to all they undertake. They meet in cemeteries where they invoke Baron-Samedi and beg him to
enable them to kill ‘a goat without horns’. They then repair to some highway or bridge where they lie in ambush until their victim comes. Their scouts, armed with cords made from dried entrails, comb the countryside for some traveller imprudent enough to be still journeying after dark. Their tricks are legion: sometimes they assume the gaiety and general carry-on of a band of young bloods on their way back from a fair: if they know the name of the wayfarer they meet they call out: ‘Well! If it isn’t old so-and-so...’ The person accosted, believing himself in the presence of friends, goes confidently up to them—only to find himself surrounded by a band of ‘devils’.

  The zobop do not always kill their captives. If they think they will be good recruits they give them the choice of enlistment or a horrible death. But even when they sign people on they remain as deceitful as ever. Instead of making their offer clear, they ask the prisoner: ‘Come in or go out?’ If he replies, ‘Go out’ he is killed on the spot; if on the other hand he says, ‘Come in’ they spare him on condition he joins the sect. He must drink a glass of reddish liquid—presumably human blood. To prove his devotion and as a joining fee he must, in addition, ‘give’ someone who is particularly dear to him. In this context I was told the story of a woman who agreed to sacrifice her son—a boy of about fifteen. A sorceress, who was jealous of her, sought out the child and warned him that he would be visited by a woman who would try and lure him away; she advised him to bow very low and say ‘Greetings, Queen’, but at the same time throw a bucket of water over her. That very evening the young man was in fact called on by an unknown woman accompanied by a group of strange-looking people. He duly emptied the bucket of water over her whereupon the woman fell dead at his feet and her companions fled. When he examined the body he found he had killed his own mother.

  A woman of Port-au-Prince whose business was going very badly was one day unwise enough to cry out, ‘I would become a zobop or vlanbindingue if only I could be done with this poverty.’ She then perceived that one of her neighbours, who was listening, was looking at her with a strange smile. The following night she was woken by singing and the sound of a small drum which seemed to be coming from a group who had stopped outside her door. She went and looked through the key-hole and saw people dressed in red, wearing three-cornered hats and carrying candles. She was careful not to open the door. The ‘column’ having sung a song of which the refrain was ‘Aye aye Zobop, aye ya aye, zobop...’ went on its way. The following day the woman met her neighbour who said to her reproachfully: ‘And me thinking you wanted to join the society to get your business on its feet...’

  The woman, now mistrustful, pretended not to understand. Whereupon the recruiting-woman’s husband, who was a zobop, told his wife to take our woman a glass of wine. She refused to drink it but seeing her refusal was ill received promised to take the wine home with her and drink it later. Naturally she did nothing of the kind but threw the stuff away as soon as possible. Thus she escaped the trap laid for her. Her neighbour hated her for it and never stopped trying to get at her in order to be avenged. But she never succeeded in killing her.

  Even among zobop the ties of blood and friendship do not lose their rights; when a member sees that colleagues have seized one of his relations or friends he has only to say ‘no’ for the victim to be released immediately. Zobop can be appeased, too, by the performance of some small service: a man who was going to Croix-des-bouquets met a person who asked him for a cigarette. He obliged and was rather surprised to hear the stranger say: ‘You don’t know what a service you are doing me. I haven’t had a cigarette since early this morning. One day perhaps I will have an opportunity of repaying you.’

  The same day when our friend was going home on foot he met a man on the road who was quite naked and carrying a rope: ‘Stop!’ cried this apparition. The man did so. By the light of a match the zobop examined his face and asked him, ‘Was it not you who gave me a cigarette this afternoon?’ ‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘You are in luck,’ said the zobop. ‘But you are unwise to walk about alone at this time of night. It will soon be midnight and then the column will be out. If you hadn’t met me you would never have been heard of again. Since you did something for me I am going to do something for you.’ From a little bag tied round his neck he took a scrap of paper on which were drawn cabalistic signs. He gave him this and told him he could go. ‘In a moment,’ he said, ‘you will meet the main column. Don’t answer the questions they ask you. Merely show them this bit of paper and they’ll let you pass.’ The traveller thanked the zobop and everything happened as foretold: he ran into the column, showed his passport—and was able to get home, safe and sound.”

  According to popular belief zobop do their nocturnal raids in motor-cars. A few years ago there was much talk in Port-au-Prince of a ‘tiger car’ (auto-tigre) which took people away by night to ‘eat’ them. This was no innocent folk tale, as a friend of mine was able to witness. He—Monsieur M. B.—was suspected of being the driver of the phantom car and was almost lynched by a crowd which surged round him, accusing him of having killed a child.

  At the same period in Marbial people talked a lot about ‘a motor-zobop’ which drove about at night with bluish beams shining from its headlights. My informants were never tired of telling me about the adventure which befell a certain Divoine Joseph who had been kidnapped by the occupants of this mysterious vehicle. Having heard several versions of the incident I asked the hero of the affair himself to give me an account of what happened. Here, word for word, is what he told me:

  ‘I am a man who at night has no fear because I possess certain mysteries whom I keep well satisfied. They protect me and go with me wherever I go. I am also a herb-doctor and I know from experience that a remedy can never be effective unless it is taken at night. The day I was seized was a Sunday. I had on that day gone to a cock-fight but had no luck. I lost all my bets—a thing which seldom happens to me. I had to go to Nan-Mango to help look after someone who was ill, who was prey to a bad soul. My placée{93} wanted to prevent me from going out but I said to her, “Have you ever seen me afraid at night?” Just as I was leaving the back-yard my “bad foot” (left foot) stumbled into a stone. But I paid no attention. Not far from the sick man’s house I was seized with sudden fear. My hair stood on end but having seen nothing odd or abnormal, I continued on my way and paid my call as though nothing had happened. When I had finished the treatment I had to go, at about midnight, to a crossroads to throw away the mauvais nanm which I had drawn out of the patient’s body. Not far from la Gosseline I was blinded by a blue light. This time fear made me lose consciousness. When I came to my senses I was in a car surrounded by hideous masked people. In my horror I cried out “Tonnerre crasé”. My captors offered me money if I would keep my mouth shut and never tell what had happened to me. The car stopped and I was made to get out. I woke up in my bed. I asked my placée whether she had found any money on me. She said, “You behaved like a raving lunatic. You threatened everyone with a banana-sucker. But you hadn’t a penny on you.” In the evening I had terrible hallucinations and wandered in my mind. In my delirium I repeated ceaselessly: “They have got me.” I was cured thanks to the attentions of a hungan.’

  Divoine’s friends all insist that since that time he has never been quite ‘all there’. Indeed he does show signs of extreme nervousness. He never stays still, gesticulates repeatedly, smites his breast, bursts into laughter, frowns for nothing and pours out words. Divoine owes his escape from this terrible adventure to his status as a kanzo. The zobop had indeed intended to kill him but they changed their minds when they saw they were dealing with a man protected by the loa. A hungan who had himself been forced to get into a car, driven by zobop, also had his life saved by the intervention of one of his supernatural protectors. The zobop had already put him in a coffin when the god Brisé ‘mounted’ him to prevent the evil doers from killing him. Realizing their powerlessness they turned back and dropped him at a cemetery.

  The peasants accuse the zobop o
f, among other things, changing their victims into beasts ready for slaughter, for it is a widespread belief in Haiti that among the animals reaching slaughterhouses there are a certain number who are really human beings. How often have I heard the tale of the ox with the gold tooth or the cow with a baby in its womb! People turned into beasts may be recognized by the gentle sadness of their expression. I heard of an ox which, on the point of being slaughtered, threw itself to its knees in front of the butcher and raised its eyes in supplication to his face. It is also said that even after these metamorphoses, human flesh remains always recognizable: rather frothy, and it trembles when spiked by a fork. Many people, even in the towns, believe in these fables and go as far as to say that the injections given by vets are merely a means of making sure an ox really is an ox, and not a human being. An inhabitant of Morne Rouge, an enlightened man and a good Catholic, vouched for the following facts: a merchant of Marbial (who was a zobop) reared on his farm a magnificent pig which was coveted by one of his friends. The pig’s owner, however, was unwilling to sell. Tired of his friend’s importunities he at last advised him to go, at midnight, to the enclosure where the pig was kept and repeat three times over: ‘So gro, gro cochon’ and then: ‘Christien, gro, gro.’ The man did as he was told and was astounded to see the pig rear up on its hind legs and turn into a huge Mulatto. He quickly recited the formula the other way round—and the man returned to his animal shape.

  The ‘werewolf point’ (point loup-garou) confers the power of being able to turn into an animal. Many sorcerers use it to walk about at night as black cats, pigs, cows or horses. When they meet anyone they block their path, follow them persistently and do all they can to upset them. Some do this merely out of cruelty to their neighbours, others hoping to induce a ‘seizure’. For ‘fear fouls the blood’; and everyone knows that bad blood lies at the root of many illnesses. There were few people in Marbial who had not at some time or other in their lives, met one of these animals. A good friend of mine who had lingered one night near one of his placées, came face to face with a cow who would not let him pass. He thought he was in the presence of an ‘evil spirit’. Remembering that his whip had been ‘mounted’ by a hungan, he used it to rain down a storm of blows on the animal and kept on till he found himself whipping not a cow but the local chief of police. The official, now full of penitence, implored him to keep the incident dark, assuring him he had meant no harm but had merely wished to play a trick on him. The following day it became known the chief of police had taken to his bed. He died a few days later. People say that his body was covered with weals.