‘There is one thing that never fails,’ said El Jerarca.
12 The Grand Candomble of Cochadebajo de los Gatos (l)
MANY PEOPLE MISTAKENLY believe that Eshu is the Devil, probably because every other Orisha certainly corresponds to a Christian saint. Eshu corresponds to no one but himself, however, and as he is full of pranks and mischief, it is easy to believe that really he is the Lord of Hell.
In fact, of course, Eshu is the only Orisha who knows past present and future without the bother of divination, he knows the cure for everything, and if his deeds sometimes seem malicious and arbitrary, then that is because he knows more than we do, and always delivers his punishments by a theft or an accident. He can be reasonable, however, and is satisfied with gifts of mousetraps, rum, puros, toys, and coconuts, as long as you remember to give him a white candle and three drops of water every Monday.
Eshu exists in twenty-one versions of himself, and so it is perhaps not surprising that there is plenty of scope for thinking that he is the devil. Some misguided souls think that he might be Saint Anthony of Padua, or Saint Benito, or even Saint Martin of Porres, but this is beyond the intellect of mere mortals to establish, and so we leave the question undecided.
Some people thought that it was the work of Eshu when Raquel gave birth to a child who looked like an Indian. Antonio, her husband, killed her in jealousy, and later it turned out that the child was a mongol. Little Rafael grew up to be slow, immensely strong and affectionate, and also incontinent. If it was a trick of Eshu, it was in poor taste.
It was also in poor taste when the coca people took Rafael away and made him carry fifty-pound packs of coca leaves day and night across the forest and the sierra, so that he nearly died a hundred times from heat exhaustion, from hypothermia, from frostbite, from tropical ulcers, and from starvation. When he finally collapsed behind the mule to which he had been roped, they set the gigantic alano dogs on him, and had a vast amount of amusement from watching him being torn to pieces and eaten. Perhaps it was not Eshu who was responsible for this, and perhaps it was Eshu who worked out ways to get a little retribution later.
When Father Garcia had his revelations about the nature of the universe and began to become a heretic, people naturally had to translate his message into terms comprehensible to santeria. So when Father Garcia said that the world was really created by the devil, and that the devil had enticed the divinely created souls into bodies, people began to say, ‘Well, maybe it was Eshu who made the world, and that is why there is so much mischief in it,’ while others said, ‘No, it was Olofi who made all of it.’ But the fact is that it does not matter very much, for real intellectuals believe everything at once, because this is the best way of being able to explain anything whatsoever, as the need arises. Father Garcia’s Albigensian heresy merely became syncretised into the santeria of the people of Cochadebajo de los Gatos, who believed in it whenever it seemed like a good explanation for something.
Father Garcia, with his lugubrious face, very like a hare, and his tattered ecclesiastical robes, considered that St John’s gospel was the only true portion of the bible, and he had gained considerable respect on account of his past as a Christian communist guerrillero and his ability to levitate spectacularly while preaching. When he levitated at exactly the point when he was announcing that a Deliverer would soon appear, and that he had been told this by God’s messenger, Gabriel, the people naturally thought that Gabriel must be Eshu, since Eshu is the messenger of the Orishas. And when he said that they must hold a great ceremony to honour Him with gifts, the people rejoiced, because any excuse for a grand candomble was more than welcome. What drunkenness there would be, what golden rivers of piss, what splendid fornication, what a scent of incense and herbs, what a twanging of berimbaos, what a thundering of atabaque drums; and all the Orishas would appear in person and dance amongst them, honouring the Deliverer with gifts.
Amongst the crowd of folk who had gathered to watch Father Garcia levitating and talking mystical gibberish was Hectoro, who was mounted on his horse as usual, wearing his leather bombachos, and smoking a puro which he held clenched between his teeth. He rode up to where Garcia was stationed upon his invisible perch two metres above the ground and looked up into his face. ‘Tell me, cabron,’ he said, ‘who is this Deliverer, and what is he delivering us from?’
An expression of irritation passed over Garcia’s hitherto seraphic countenance, and he descended rapidly to the ground. ‘How should I know?’ he replied. ‘You had better go and ask Aurelio.’
The second question was solved when rumours continued to spread from Ipasueño that El Jerarca and his coca gangsters were thinking of moving, lock, stock and barrel, to Cochadebajo de los Gatos, apparently because the government campaign against them was hotting up. The city was not even on the maps yet, since it used to be beneath the waters of a lake, and it was ideally suited as a staging-post for the cocaleros which would cut out Ipasueño from the itinerary.
The first question was solved by Aurelio with the aid of a potion of ayahuasca and a flight over the mountains in his form of an eagle.
13 Two Cholitas
DIONISIO GOT OUT of bed one morning and went to the window as usual to see what kind of day it was. He shook his head and blinked a couple of times to make sure that he could really see two little girls tied back to back, sitting on the grass. He ran downstairs and into the chilly dawn.
The little girls were dressed in sacks with holes cut for the arms, and with string about the waist. They were both about twelve years old, and by their features Dionisio knew that they were mostly of Indian stock, with a little negro added in. They were plainly exhausted and in a state of shock, because they did not even speak to him or whimper as he cut the cords that had left deep weals in their flesh. Their faces were streaked with dirt, with clear tracks where the tears had run down their faces, and one of them had a swollen lip where she had been struck. He lifted her to her feet, but she could barely stand, so he carried her upstairs in his arms, laid her on his bed, and came down for the other. It was very clear to Dionisio what had happened to them.
He took them to the bathroom and undressed them; they did not resist, but let him wash them as all the time he talked to them soothingly. Then he dried them and gave to each of them one of his own shirts. He combed their hair and gave them sweet guava jelly to eat, and pineapple juice to drink, then he sat them on the edge of the bed and cajoled them until they told him what had happened and which place they came from.
He took their hands and led them down the stairs, sat them in his car, and as he drove the fifty kilometres to the little pueblo of Santa Virgen he told them stories about an armadillo called Enrique who wanted to become the president.
Dionisio was appalled by the state of the village. It was filthy and neglected, and some of the barracas were burnt out. Rangy dogs scavenged amongst the heaps of discarded rubbish, and Dionisio was amazed that no one had shot the one that plainly had rabies and was staggering insanely in circles with saliva drooling from its jaws.
The people there were as derelict and bedraggled as their dwellings. Skeletal and apathetic, they lounged in doorways and gazed at him with vacant eyes and drooping jaws. ‘Hola,’ he said to some of them, but they did not respond at all, even by raising a hand. When he returned the girls to their families they did not even thank him or appear to be distressed that the girls had disappeared. They merely nodded at him, mumbled some incoherent phrases, and sent the girls off immediately on errands. Stupefied with incomprehension and amazement, Dionisio wandered about the pueblo until he spotted a very old man whose eyes were still bright, and who told him through broken teeth exactly what had been happening. Disgusted and enraged, Dionisio went home and wrote another letter to La Prensa.
Dear Sirs,
In excusing the illegal and anti-social activities of the coca traders in our country who have so damaged our international standing, very many people have cited the good works accomplished by this degenerate m
afia in our towns. There is in my own town a whole district built by them for their workers, which has all the amenities associated with civilised life, and which is locally known as the Barrio Jerarca, after the coca-Lord who built it. All the houses are earthquake-proof, the water is purified and runs both hot and cold, and there is central heating should people feel the need on cold nights to employ it. There are civic amenities, such as a swimming-bath and shops stocked with fancy goods, there are night clubs and strip bars, and there are, of course, the palaces of the coca-rich with their helicopter landing-pads and their rococo porticoes. There is a church there which is inlaid all over with gold-leaf, where the statue of the Virgin is in solid silver, and where the aristocracy of drugs are granted absolution for their innumerable and unpardonable crimes by a docile and hypocritical clergy who themselves live in free houses of palatial splendour.
On the outskirts of this district there is a bridge beneath which no one passes because it is frequented by cocaine addicts driven to the outer limits of ill-health, crime and destitution because of their addiction. The road that leads from this bridge out of town has an average of five dead bodies dumped on it every night, all of them showing signs of having been tortured to death in different ways. What is common to all of these ways is that they are of a sophistication, ingenuity, and brutality not seen in Latin America since La Violencia.
In the centre of the ‘Barrio Jerarca’ there is an infamous nightclub frequented by the criminals and their lackeys. The drive up to the nightclub is lined with prostitutes of both sexes who are desperate to fund their addiction. From this club every night there issue jeeploads of armed and intoxicated ruffians who scour the countryside, even in the most inaccessible places, for very young girls of peasant stock whom they abduct and bring back either to the club or to the palaces of their feudal lords. There they are raped continuously, sometimes for several days, by these feudal lords and their retainers. When they are tired of their pathetic victims they kill those who are plainly going to die anyway. The others they either release into the night, kilometres from home, or else they dump them, bound and gagged, anywhere in the town that they please, or else they take them back to the places from where they came so that they can return for them another time. It used to be the custom, I am told, to pay the parents large sums of money in return for acquiescence in the abduction of their daughters (and indeed, their small sons). But now instead they give them a derivative of coca called ‘basuco’. Basuco is adulterated with lead and sulphuric acid; it is lethally addictive when smoked, and leads to the very early death of all who take it. Rural society and the rural economy all around this town for a radius of one hundred kilometres has now totally collapsed as a consequence of basuco addiction. The pueblos are derelict, nobody works, the livestock have perished, disease and starvation are commonplace, larceny and murdet are endemic, and no one lives for any other reason than the hope that soon their daughters will be abducted again so that they will receive their next consignment of basuco.
Our country was one of the first in the world to give women the vote. Our country used to be famous for the sentimental adoration of children. Our country used to have fields and plantations that flourished and fed the entire nation without need of imports. Our country used to be renowned for a worship of women that was considered effeminate by foreigners; indeed it used to seem that the pleasure and indulgence of our women was all that we cared about, and our families were matriarchal to the point of imbalance.
There was a time when all men considered it an honour to be granted a woman’s charms, and it was a point of honour for a lover to render his service in such a manner as to ensure that for his mistress no pleasure could be more exquisite, most especially when that pleasure was the first of its kind in the lady’s experience.
So let the nation open its eyes and see to what depths we have sunk. Our little virgins are brutally violated and traumatised by men who uncaringly destroy for life any possibility that these innocents will ever be trustful of a man again. What kind of adults could they grow up to become? None of them will ever be able to know the ecstasy of sexual love because too bitter memories will be evoked. What kind of wives and mothers will they be, when they have already born bastards to monsters as soon as their first menstruation? What prospect is there for their physical health when at the age of twelve they are already dripping with venereal disease? What kind of security or contentment will they ever know, when the mere sound of a vehicle evokes terror in their breasts?
All women of this country who claim the right to love as they choose, and all men who love women, should raise their voices against those who claim in ignorance that the coca trade is excused by its ‘good works’, and we should ask ourselves what kind of sickness it is that causes these men to hate women so much.
Dionisio Vivo,
Professor of Secular Philosophy,
Ipasueño.
He thought a great deal about those two little Zambitacholitas over the next few days, and eventually realised that the reason that they had affected him so much was that he had a longing to become a father.
His letter was published a week after its arrival, because La Prensa was out of print for a week, because a bomb had destroyed its offices.
14 The Grand Candomble of Cochadebajo de los Gatos (2)
THE GOOD THING about being broadminded and tolerant is that one can take advantage of whatever is in the offing, and, of course, this works both ways. The santeros amongst the people were quite happy to attend Catholic services, and not just because they needed a piece of the Host or a sprinkle of Holy Water for magic, but also because it was good to hear all that chanting, to join in with the hymns, to see the raiment of the priests and the choir and the sacristan, and to see the clouds of incense and the pagan Orishas around the walls of the churches, disguised as Christian Saints in their niches. It was also good to take time off on the Saints’ days.
There were many who were aleyos, people who were not santeros, but who were good Catholics, who were not averse to attending the candombles, and watching the astonishing dances and feats of strength, hearing the veridical prophecies, and seeing at first hand how the yaguos could actually become gods and speak in macabre voices. How good it was to see people foaming at the mouth, convulsing, performing impossible contortions and acrobatics, and how good it was to see the fine raiment of the oluwos and ajigbonas and awaros. It was fine to breathe in the incense and join in the chanting, and only half-deceive oneself into believing that really the Orishas were Santa Barbara and San Lazaro and other saints. And how grand it was to join in with the fiestas of drunkenness and fornication afterwards.
Father Garcia did not join in at all, even though it had been he who had initiated the whole fuss. He had been siezed suddenly by a fierce desire to discover the true identity of St John the Evangelist, and he spent the whole fiesta locked up in his house waiting for the appearance of the Archangel Sandalphon. This formidable celestial being is the manifestation in microprosopus of the Archangel Metatron, and Father Garcia believed that this angel was party to secret information about the author of the fourth gospel. He spent four days, bleary-eyed and praying, before there appeared before his gaze a tatty specimen. This angel was hook-nosed and senile, with crumpled feathers hopping with fleas. The nimbus about its head was of a greyish pallor, it salivated copiously through its missing teeth, and it could not remember its name when Garcia demanded to know it. In disgust, the latter threw open his door with the intention of wasting no more time upon this pitiful creature and of joining in with the festivities, only to find that they were already all over. He went to take a few copas at Consuelo’s whorehouse, and when he came back the angel was still there, sitting quietly in a corner with an air of dejection. Garcia looked at it with a certain sympathy and said, ‘You may as well go now.’
‘Where to?’ demanded the angel, in Hebrew.
‘Heaven?’ suggested Garcia, in Latin.
The angel sighed and made a rueful fa
ce. ‘Can’t I stay here?’ it asked. But Garcia shook his head and it rose not ungracefully to the ceiling, and faded away. Father Garcia shrugged resignedly, and made a note in his book: ‘It appears that angels fall into decrepidation when not gainfully employed. I wonder whether all this concentration gives one hallucinations. Or can it be listening to too many Colombian stories?’
Most of the rest of the aleyos found a way to be useful during the celebration. Don Emmanuel, with his rufous beard, his impressive belly, and his flair for ribaldry, made pantagruelian quantities of guarapo, involving hundreds of pineapple skins, which he served with a gourd and his usual good humour. Françoise and Antoine Le Moing, who, along with Dona Constanza, were among the few other white people in the city, grilled fish and served it up on palm leaves with rice. Dona Constanza and Gloria made a vast sancocho with fifty chickens in two cauldrons, and wore themselves out with all the plucking, the drawing of entrails, the cubing of cassava, and the washing of potatoes. Professor Luis and his wife, Farides, ran a hangover rescue service, delivering lemon juice sweetened with chancaca to those who lay moaning in the streets from the effects of chacta, chiche, aguardiente and ron cana. All the time Professor Luis was clucking to himself about all the liver damage that was going on, but on the last day he too became famously drunk, and climbed up onto the roof of the Palace of the Lords. He sang ‘El Preso Numero Nueve’ at the top of his voice and then collapsed, so that Hectoro and Josef had to climb up there as well and lower him down with a lasso.
Remedios, who used to be a communist guerrilla leader and who had never given up her martial frame of mind, patrolled the city with a Kalashnikov accompanied by her enamorado, the Conde Pompeyo Xavier de Estremadura. This latter had been unfrozen by Aurelio, having been dead beneath an avalanche for four hundred years, and although he no longer wore his armour very often he was still confused by his new lease of life. He followed Remedios about, waving his sword, remonstrating with disorderly characters in his archaic Spanish, and helping her to break up fights. He never was to feel at home in the twentieth century until the day when he was to recognise his own ring upon Dionisio Vivo’s finger and discover that he had met one of his own descendants.