I’ve shot birds with my grandfather before, and I accidentally drove over a sheep in Iceland, sending him hurtling off the road into the volcanic rock, but I’ve never been so close to killing an animal on purpose as we were today. I am still covered with feathers and chicken blood.
Some people might say, well, if they eat the chicken then I guess it’s ok. But they don’t eat the chicken. “We put it on the corner of an intersection,” says Osvaldo, 30, the Santaria priest, “for cleanliness.” This seems counterintuitive, throwing a dead bird on the sidewalk to clean it. Among the other diseases birds carry, the recent “bird flu” comes to mind. Which brings up the question, listen to the science, or believe in the magic?
The chicken was oddly peaceful throughout the affair, which I will refrain from describing in detail because you might stop reading and I don’t’ want to spoil the film. Though we will not be able to appease the animal rights activists by putting, “no chickens were harmed during the making of this film,” because one chicken was. Harmed to death. But this is their belief, so in this case, siding with the animal rights activists is small minded and ethnocentric. Though you do have to draw the line somewhere, as one cannot help but be disturbed by the clitoral removal surgeries in certain cultures. Personally, I draw the line somewhere between chicken and clitoris, closer to the chicken side.
The Priest chanted in rapid Spanish, I couldn’t quite understand what he was doing, but it sounded like he was stating one of those chain of decedents, “so and so begot so and so begot so and so etc.” He lit candles and spoke with the gods, of which there are four main ones. He spoke with his main god, and threw four little coconut discs, cut from a coconut. Depending if how many landed with the white meat part up versus the brown wood part was the god’s response.
“The gods will not put things in your hands,” his wife said, “but they can lead you in the right direction.”
The ritual we did was to ask the spirits for help with our project. Did it help, well, today, one day later, we found help from a rice historian, and a woman who ran the national archives here in Havana for 38 years - a self labeled “raton archivo,” or, “archive rat.” These are hopeful breakthroughs after a bit of a drought. I’m not saying they are because of the ritual, but the timing is interesting, no?
I won’t tell you what became of the ritual, because that would also be a film spoiler. All I will say is that it was very surprising, even goose bump raising. Below Jack and I pose with our Santería hats on.
My saint/god Yemaya, who is the mother of the ocean, supposedly a very powerful god and many of her followers become Santeria priests as well. I don’t think that will happen anytime soon, but some of the rules for followers of this god were interesting. The first was that I cannot eat dog. That made me cheer internally, since I already have that rule so therefore wasn’t losing much of my freedom. Unless it was hot dog, which would be disappointing since I do enjoy a Dodger Dog at the game (Houstonians, what happened to Dome Dogs?) Another rule was don’t tell everyone my secrets, hold it to myself. That sounds fine, though I am telling you, reader, everything, so don’t repeat it. A third rule was that I am not allowed to start a war with people who live on the other side of the river, which I am totally cool with as well.
Many more Cubans than one might think practice one of these religions, which are all rooted in an African, Catholic marriage. Each African god corresponds to a catholic saint, yet Santeria is considered polytheistic. There is a large Santeria population in New Orleans, some call it voodoo, and those who wear all white are priests of this religion. Though you have to make sure they are not witch priests, who practice the black magic and curse people. Like anything there is good and bad. Eventually, it is said, those priest who practice it for things like making money will eventually have all that evil energy turned back on them. I wonder if we have that belief for all those preachers in the US who are banking on money from their congregations, pressing down the gas pedals of their Rolls Royces with their crocodile shoes.
