Sorte is a mountain in my country, Venezuela.
I first heard about it from Goyo, a distant older cousin of mine. Goyo has always been into the occult and “palero” rituals, that afrocuban religion which seeped into our nation and adopted an array of its catholic symbols. Nowadays the streets buzz with stories of love spells, curses, offerings, sacrifices… regarding even the most powerful of political figures.
All of these accounts find their matrix in Sorte, known as the “Vatican of santeria”.
But Goyo’s interest in it was seemingly benign.
“A velación, uncle,” he told my father. “An ancient ritual to protect me from ill wishes and bad tongues. You and the kids can come along and check it out, if it interests you.”
Dad had natural reservations regarding the offer. The mountain stands deep inside a remote jungle, and its reputation is infested by rumours of curious foreigners who vanished while visiting it. But Goyo has always been a trustworthy guy.
He also clarified that, technically, we’d actually visit Quibayo mountain; an adjacent, smaller and far more peaceful spot than the legendary Sorte. Perhaps its reduced popularity eased Dad’s apprehensions.
That’s how, merely a few weeks later, my father, my brother and I found ourselves inside a bus headed to Quibayo, with Goyo at its wheel. The vehicle was packed with “santeros” (santeria priests) passing around bottles of anisette and herbal schnapps. Dad smiled uncomfortably each time he rejected a drink, while his sons quietly watched the greenery pass by the windows.
It’s a curious thing, the jungle at night. The sky blazes with stars and constellations, while darkness reigns on the ground. I’ll never forget the way that blackness stunned me when we arrived at our destination and got off the bus.
Quibayo itself wasn’t as somber, or solemn. Its entry did resemble a popular bus stop; one of those stacked with street vendors, who atop the overpopulated sidewalks, display, sell and pick up their merchandise on a daily basis.
But here, dirt and rock served as the pavement, and santeria supplies were the items on sale: wristbands, necklaces, black amber figurines, candles, all sorts of wood and ceramic saints. Out of the blue, Goyo gifted both my brother and I a seashell bracelet.
“A small souvenir guys” he clarified with a smile. The tiny shell’s colors, tiny black spots over a layer of mustard, made me think right away of a leopard’s print.
The dozens of santeros entered Quibayo in a caravan, which my family followed with some distance. Our cousin explained to us that we were headed towards “this evening’s altar”, where his velación would take place.
The altars were set at the base of trees, conformed by candles and figurines stacked atop puddles of molten wax. But Goyo’s gang marched towards an even more singular place. My brother overheard them mention they were searching for “the water”.
The lagoon was gloomier than the night itself.
Its waters seemed soaked by the darkness in the air. As if tinted by a giant squid.
Goyo, the caravan and my family crossed it by foot. Our feet sunk in muddy viscosity, just like they would if they walked over the squid’s rotting body.
And in the middle of that lagoon stood our final destination: a tiny island, not even the size of a football field.
Once on land, the santeros gravitated towards a tree close to the shore. This would be our altar, meters away from a few others that we could hear in the midst of ceremonies of their own.
The santeros circled the tree with salt, or talcum powder, or some sort of whitish dust. Heaps of candles were lit all around us, its light allowing the members of the caravan to place little statues of their saints. With their fingers they inscribed the ground with runes, and I noticed then that the soil was stained with little black splatters, similar to the ones on the shells of my new bracelet.
I soon understood this was tobacco paste, chewed and spat in past rituals. I knew this because our companions were now biting that cured jelly, in order to steadily spit it out and stain the earth. The air was clouded by those who chose to smoke the tobacco instead.
Goyo’s friends decorated their necks and limbs with wristbands and necklaces, and dressed up in clothes as white as the white surrounding the tree. One of them approached us.
“Remain standing during the ceremony” he calmly commanded. “On your feet, and open: don’t cross your arms, or your legs… and untie your shoe laces. You must be completely loose.”
He gave us one final heads up before rejoining his crowd: “the matter will be here soon.”
I wasn’t told anything beforehand, so I had no idea what he meant with “the matter”. That was, until I saw her: a elderly woman, short and obese, arrived at our altar. Her strong and severe features scared me, so I moved closer to my Dad.
Prakata prakata tra tra prakata prakata
The night boomed with the beating of drums, which resounded until these rites' awful conclusion.
Tra tratra ta tra prakatra prakatra prakatra
“¡Strength! ¡Strength!” the santeros invoked vigorously. Over and over again.
The matter approached the altar, where a stool and blanket awaited her. She covered her shoulders with the cloth as she took a seat. The drums and chants sped up the pulse of the mountain’s.
Years later my father would explain to me that the santeros were calling for their saints.
Suddenly, the old woman began to contort her body. The wrinkled features in her face bent and jerked in quick, painful looking spams. Her eyes became white, like the circle at her feet, and like the multitude around her.
But what I will never forget is the sound of her voice. She let out a scream in which you could hear its tone drop and transform into a deep, undeniably masculine sound. It boomed like a cavern.
Even in my ignorance of these rituals, I knew “the matter” was no longer the old woman.
The first saint had descended into her.
A hat was handed over, and the possession placed it on the possessed before introducing himself:
“My name is el negro Macario, what do you want from me?”
Macario claimed to be an old and wise farmer. I’m aware this could have all been an act, but if so, I’ve yet to see another performer with this level of technique. The realism of it was surreal.
All the attendants lined up, and one by one we received blessings and advice from Macario. My legs shook as my turn came to face his wide-eyed stare, and hear the words from that deep and ancestral voice.
“Learn to forgive yourself boy” he whispered. “Allow the past to stay behind.”
Coincidentally, I felt transported to antiquity during this ceremony: to those clandestine rituals held by slaves and the indigenous during the colony. I could only allow myself to become possessed by the sensation of another time, as well as by practices with a millennial legacy.
TUTUTUN! TUTUTUN! praka-tun-tun-TUN!
The drums announced the arrival of another saint: la negra Francisca. The matter threw aside the hat and wrapped the blanket as the spirit’s skirt. Her personality turned sassy and flirty.
Francisca, who loved to dance to the beat of the drums, moved with an eroticism that is unusual for a lady as old as the one she had control over.
Soon after arrived the indian Jirajara, the third saint. His spanish was rough, but we still could make out his aggravated attitude. He grabbed my cousin by the hair, and gave him a furious reprimand that not even Goyo himself could comprehend.
“STRENGTH! STRENGTH!” the santeros screamed one last time, and the woman changed again.
The final saint had descended; he was only known as “the african”.
I’ve never known, nor asked, what language he spoke. But I was aware that he would oversee the main purpose of this journey: he’d be the one to carry out Goyo’s velación.
Our family member was laid on the ground, and even more candles were organized around him, from which his “protection” would emanate. The matter (or the african) prepared herself, chanting inside that dust circle that was a white as her eyes.
One of the men handed me a candle and guided me to where Goyo laid. I guess that everyone there was supposed to put down a flame.
I then heard my father’s stern voice.
“Alberto, place the flame and come here.”
I could see on his face that he didn’t like at all that I took part in this, and who could blame him? All that just happened was fascinating, but also disturbing.
I was getting back up when I heard it: the piercing scream. The drumming stopped.
Goyo shot back up and, like everyone, turned towards the source of that shriek: the matter. The tone of her yells went up and down wildly, at the same time she clawed at her face.
“What happened?” asked Goyo, alarmed. “Is she alright?”
“Get away Goyo!” ordered one of the santeros as he dragged him by the shirt. “Get back now!”
I could sense the horror and worry in the air, even if I lacked an understanding of what was going on. No one did anything but witness the old woman convulse and hurt herself, throw kicks and jump. She began to spit blood.
“Grant the matter strength!” someone implored. “Evil will never conquer!”
One of the drummers let go of his instrument and pointed towards the ground.
“THERE!” he said, “Who does that belong to?!”
For a brief moment I didn’t know what he talked about. But when I heard others exclaim it in despair, I saw it.
The bracelet, with seashells stained like a leopard, had fallen off of my pocket and landed inside the holy dust circle.
My oversight corrupted the altar, and now the old lady would pay the price.
The blanket enveloped her body as she began rolling in the dirt, demolishing the ritual.
A ferocious roar made everyone take a step back.
It looked as though the woman was combating a wild beast underneath that cloth. A tail and claws flashed out a couple of times.
Out of nowhere, the bulge below that blood-soaked blanket ceased to move. It only breathed... with a tremulous sound that made all our hearts quiver with fear.
And then, with the speed of lightning, an animal emerged from it: white-eyed leopard.
The feline dashed towards the lagoon, and submerged itself in its waters. The blanket stayed behind, yet the old lady was nowhere to be seen.
Silence reigned for a couple of minutes.
Without offering a single explanation, everyone rushed to blow off the candles, gather their figurines and leave. I could tell, right from where I was, that all the other ceremonies in the island followed suit.
“What’s going on daddy?” I asked on the verge of tears. “Is the old lady ok?”
“Shhh not now. We must get out of here” was the lone reply I got from my father.
The caravan crossed the lagoon in silence, draped again by that impenetrable darkness. One could smell the fear of the leopard we’d just witnessed entering those waters.
“Stay together” ordered the paleros. “It won’t approach us if it sees we are a large group.”
I remember, as we got on the bus, the sounds of many people crying near Quibayo’s entrance. I suspect they knew and loved the old woman that had just turned into a beast.
None of us in the family speak much about what occurred on that evening. We practically avoid it, and so does Goyo, it seems. I also have never mentioned that, because of my carelessness, the spirit of that animal took over the matter, and transformed her forever.
I was also perpetually altered by that ceremony. I acknowledge these beliefs precede my culture, but I’d rather banish myself from them.
I still have a hard time leaving this memory behind, and remorse persecutes me like a stubborn incantation.
