VOODOO PROTECTION CEREMONY

Monday morning. Boring, right? Not in Africa. This is probably the LEAST boring of all the days I have spent here so far. It was a Monday.
Only about 1/3 of the original machete remained of the one the little girl, who was all but naked save a few strands of beads around her waist, was using as a walking stick while we waited to hear if Paul and Anastasia could do the ceremony, too. The village men came back with an affirmative, pending the mandatory increase in monetary compensation, of course. To this completely expected response we agreed; only 10.000F to add on two more people – we were getting the Bob's Bargain Bin of voodoo ceremonies. As we sat around pawning Liz off to the village women, she's a village favorite everywhere we go, the men discussed the second and third requirements of our ceremony; no shoes, no shirt, yes entry. Aaron, Sourou (our friend and go-to guy for anything), and Paul took off their shoes and, for the most part, shirts without missing a beat. Anastasia and I were still somewhat agog. How can we mock the absence of shirts without actually removing shirt? Wasn't it enough that my feet were going to be full flush against the snake skin “welcome mat”? Evidently, no.

Aaron, Paul and Sourou, seated comfortably on the bench with their feet on the snake skin, knees exposed and chests bared, looked a far sight more prepared for the intimacy of our ceremony as Anastasia and I; purses on our laps, hair sweating down our backs, pants/shirts covering until our shins and shirts as firmly attached to our backs as a tattered, thin, worn-out-from-a-year-of-hand-washing-or-more can be. I was hoping it would go unnoticed. For a while it did, as the very young, very handsome (a bit God-like himself) chief began pounding on his drum and chantsinging, his sleepy pillowcase hat splattered with blood stains from the past ceremonies nodding in rhythm, while ringing a bell on the wall to implore the gods to let us start the ceremony (the “pay attention to us” song).

After about 15-20 minutes of that we started the drinking (all time estimates are made very poorly and with minimal accuracy so don't plan a surgery on it). A giant, smelly, molding horn of

Glorious God of All Things Dead and Rotting was procured from one of the seedier corners of our 10x10 mud hut (all space and area estimates are completely bogus so don't base a blueprint on them). Each one one of us got up, took possession of the stinking horn, gargled a shot of sodabi (the poison you all recall), swallow some, but not all of it, spit the remainder back up onto the horn with superior accuracy (lest you spray all over), suck that already-been-drank puddle back up again and finely mist both the fetish on the wall and on the table with your impressive aim and pressure control, like a fine car wash for the Gods. Each one of us did this a few times, except for me; they took the horn away after I first drank all the sodabi and secondly just hocked a loogie (loogey?) on the wall fetish, finishing up that wreck of desecration by drooling all over the table fetish. I was glad to sit down, however, as there was some weird “left foot goes 'here'” ritual I wasn't picking up on during the horn-spitting contest and I ended up kicking over the lid to the sacred water jug on the ground under the table fetish. I heard there was a huge bug crawling around on the horn anyway; I didn't see it, but Aaron and Anastasia said they did before they had to drink off it – lucky I got to get away from it when I did.

Next I felt something warm by my elbow (Liz had been sitting next to me, but was gone by this point to enjoy the company of the women outside the hut) and it turned out to be a hot plate full of burning embers. The chief's less-attractive and much-creepier assistant (like a voodoo assistant? Really?) took the plate and started turning the embers over with his fingers to expose their red-hot underbellies. Then he placed three wooden spool-looking things on the plate, into the burning coals. Placing another plate on top, as a lid, then spitting on the plate (they had already spit on the coals before placing the top plate) he took a big leaf, spit on it (getting the theme?), then poured sodabi on it and told Aaron to rub it around in circles on top of the plate. As we each took turns rubbing the leaf around the plate we said (secretly thought) from what we wished to be protected. When I had finished (I was the last on the bench) the chief took the plates, removed the top one and showed us all how the spools didn't burn, didn't even have any dark marks from the embers smudging, because they were protected. Protected, he would prove, even when he drowned them in sodabi, took a swig, then lit them on fire. Flambé protection spools. Protected.

Not protected in the room was ME! We had to take another round of sodabi shots in celebration of breathing I guess. This time even the old, fat buddha-looking fetish in the corner got a shot; after being doused in talcum powder and blue hair product. After the drink it was time for a cigarette break and one was duly lit and placed in the fetish's gaping mouth to burn out. While crazy singing, drinking and smoking was going on (give some sodabi to the fetishes all around the hut, blow some smoke in their auras) the next shot of sodabi, talcum powder, blue dye and ladies' perfume was made. This was accompanied by a talcum-and-dye-covered cola nut the crazy guy put on the ground to get the 'royal' treatment. Luckily, we only had to watch as the Chief and Co. shared the shot and crazy nut fat dude knocked people over so he could get down on the ground and eat the cola nut with hands behind his back. By this point everyone was sweating (even those of use who weren't dancing and singing the songs – yea, the four of us). Someone behind me teabagged my neck in all the excitement. All gross things.

Hot Chief got even hotter during the next segment (I'll get more “professional” about this story-telling when I get paid to, right now it's straight talkin'). Right before it, however, he played a little game with seashells. I lated asked another voodoo friend of mine what it meant and was informed that the chief was asking for permission to perform the ceremony. If both seashells end “face down” it's a 'no,' if both end up that's a 'roll again,' what he's looking for is a one-up, one-down. The trick is to keep rolling until you get a 'yes' (whether or not you get 'no' first, as I learned from watching my friend do his chicken-burying ceremony). Then, satisfied with his shells, Chief took a dulled, broken machete, not unlike the very one the little girl had; foreshadow? Placing it in his right hand, he took a thick piece of wood with his left, never missing a beat of the terrible, terrible song. Dancing around, singing, we're all happy and he takes the machete, puts it up against his chest vertically and POUNDS the wood into it. He does it over and over again. I'm pretty sure my face was a complete blank as I stared in confusion and mysticism. The blade was pounding three times into both sides of his chest, then three times along his stomach. Hoping it was as dull a blade as it appeared, I didn't realize how hard he must have hit it until I saw the streaks of blood forming. Freaky! Sodabi, of course, was then used, but this time as an antiseptic treatment as he doused his chest in it and then rubbed it all over his muscle and into the open wounds like some glistening, alcoholic god of S&M.
More drinking, smoking and singing ensued, but then the time for sacrifices came. First a sheep (mouton), then a chicken came sqwaking into the room. The men were given idols to hold and I guess were meant to ponder over the idol's strength as the girls just got to watch (we were left out of a lot and I still wonder if it was due to our clothedness). After a significant period of pondering the idols were laid down on the banana leaves in front of the alter and the chicken was brought forth (you have to say “brought forth” when telling a story about a sacrifice). The assistant skillfully held the wings back, exposing the neck, while Aaron and Paul held each leg in support or connection or something else girls couldn't do. Once the head was off (with minimal sawing – very sharp tool) the exposed throat was trumped around, dripping blood on all the idols and festishes and a few yovo toes before finally, being taken outside.

The mouton, heretofore resting quietly (or petrified into immobile silence attributed to some sort of intellectual sophistication that allowed him knowledge-of-self capabilities), was also brought forth and began munching on the banana leaf alter (“He's a nervous eater,” Anastasia explains). Each of us took a turn whispering our protection desires into the condemned animal's ears (including a few apologies and demands for forgiveness) afterwards he was unceremoniously (what gives?) flipped onto his back, again with Paul and Aaron holding back legs, and his throat was cut so that he could carry our desires straight to the god. Two men were required to hoist the beast up and spread the blood around all over the place – very graphic. I stopped looking in real life because it was so much cooler through the pixels in my camera. It looked fake, like a Tarantino film or something starring Bruce Campbell. After everything was sufficiently drenched in bloody (including a bowl filled with it) and all of the idols had been rubbed into the sheep's gaping throat (I could see the muscles!!) he was thrown outside to finish dying in a writhing heap on the African dirt. It was sort of upsetting, but the Thunder God, Messenger to Big God, must have been very pleased to see all this stuff done for his altar.
I watched a man go out to start cutting off the sheep's horns while he was still alive! I guess I'd had a lot of sodabi by this point because it took me some time to realize this was Hot Chief – the bloody barbarian! The testicles, too, were cut off and placed like fur-covered Christmas bulbs at the altar. As the Chief splattered blood from the bowl around the walls with a feather, assistant totally grossed me out (yes, there is more!) by taking a blood + sodabi shot, followed by the Chief who did the same. The antlers finally came in and the men all held it (women weren't invited) while placing it on the altar, saying some chants, then patting it down as it rested on top of the table fetish with a bowl full of past antlers. Anastasia and I sneaked popcorn and gum while they weren't looking and between sodabi shots – the only thing that kept me from getting sick, I swear.

Meanwhile, the chief had prepared for each of us a special concoction of talcum powder, palm oil, cola nut chunks and peppercorn, which we licked off our left hands (he put at least two tablespoons of this crap there), chewed, then swallowed down with sodabi. You know it's nasty when you have sodabi as your chaser. There was powder all over my face, then I choked as the talcum turned into a giant peppery cotton ball in my throat and the cola nut stayed cracked in my teeth. Time again for smoking. A madhouse of smoke. Chief hunkered down over a bowl of blood-covered rocks, tiny cloth sacks and our spools from before. He spoke in a language I didn't recognize, praying over his artifacts as he filled his sacks with rocks.

Each of us, Aaron, Paul, Anastasia and myself, held out our left palms again to receive our amulets. They came with instructions: never be without your spool, drink with it in your beverage, keep it in your pocket, it is your protection. If you are sick or traveling, eat a rock from the sack. When you run out mail-order some more. Seriously, Chief said he would do a satellite ceremony and he'll send us more rocks. I don't know how since I have no address and no number for him. My hand was bloody from the wet talismans, but I accepted and put them away in a plastic, germ-breedingground of a bag as the Chief came around to smear a line of blood and flour across our left cheeks with a feather and tie cloth 'protection' belts around our waists. If anyone sees the belt or it falls to the ground we lose its protection. We were told to wear it for a year, when we are scheduled to come back for our next annual protection ceremony (postcard reminder in the mail).

I noticed the sheep's heart had somehow made it to the altar right as the assistant was beginning to chop it up into little morsels and place them around on the different idols. He kindly pretended to eat it for me – Photo Op! Finally, after about five hours of bench-sitting we were alllowed out into the fresh air. 'What about the circumcision?” Paul jokes. “Oh, yeah. After,” Sourou replied, serious. He thought Paul said “cicatrice,” which means “stitches.” Lucky for the boys, that was not the case.

I don't know how I ever lasted through that – five hours of crazy singing, boozing, superstition, smoking and death. Sodabi and blood. That was the ceremony in a talcum-covered cola nutshell.