Witchcraft Voodoo and the Paranormal

Witchcraft Voodoo & the Paranormal

I am not a religious person, in the traditional sense, but I am a believer!!

I believe in humanity, in people…..who…..for the most part…..I trust! I believe in Heaven and Hell! – Heaven a place of extreme beauty, of panoramic scenery and blue skies, of creatures great and small, of human kind.. of all ethnic origins, of tall green trees and short brown ones, of a myriad of flowers in a myriad of colors – Heaven is here on Earth where I live and Hell is too – if I let it!

I am not a spiritual person either…. that I know of?? I have never had a spiritual experience that I ever recall although the following narrative might be construed as Spiritual, Supernatural or perhaps Paranormal.

I grew up in Africa and during that time was often exposed to witchcraft. Not in a direct sense, but from a young formative age, I learned that many indigenous people, some that I grew up with, believed instinctively in the powers of the local Witchdoctor and his unusual potions, enough that I too developed a healthy respect for it.

In parts of South America people believe in Voodoo, which too, might be considered a version of African Witchcraft. I was there once… years ago… when I had a weird uncanny experience. I was disembarking from a small river boat on which I had spent five weary and waterless days…….voyaging down a tributary of the Amazon River called the Rio Madiera. It was a time of the year when the river was at its lowest level, and the water unsafe for drinking.

Disembarking from the little boat in Porto Velho, a small town – as it was then, fifty years ago, in the state of Rondonia, Brazil; became a steep and precarious climb up the muddy river bank to get to level ground. As I stepped off the boat, an old man who helped me with my gear, said to me in his native tongue...that I barely understood, something about keeping my distance from several lighted candles that adorned the river bank. It appears they were put there by Voodou priests or priestesses, Hungan or Mambo, as they are commonly known in the area.

Voodoo, spiritual superstitions and beliefs are prevalent amongst migrant peoples of the Amazon basin, those not indigenous to the area. The symbols of their beliefs are unwise to disrespect, contradict or interfere with ; so I was told and as I discovered for myself during my wanderings in the Amazon in 1970.

As I made my way up the river bank that day, taking care to keep a healthy distance from the lighted candles, my curious mind overcame me and I was drawn to go a little closer, if nothing more than to test the advice of the wise old man. As I got closer to one of the candles, the increasing energy I felt, added even more to my curiosity. Then when I stood above it, and peered down upon it, my one leg, it seemed, was suddenly pushed out from under me. I lost my balance and fell down onto the muddy bank, made worse by a recent torrential downpour that caused me to slide back down the bank and into the murky, muddy river, me and all my worldly backpack belongings.

Fortunately the old man watched me climb up the bank. He saw me slide down again too, the consequence of defying his advice. As I slid into the muddy water, he was there to help me, reaching out with a long wooden pole that I grabbed onto before I floated away in the strong river current. After I recovered and with a ‘told-you-so’ smile on his face, he said a few words that I did not understand and helped me back onto my feet. I was completely drenched with dirty muddy soup like water. Not a comfortable experience except it cooled me down from the midday heat.

Back to Africa and another strange experience some years earlier

As a machine technician working for the railways, I once had to spend several weeks in a rural part of Zimbabwe – Rhodesia as it was then called, doing preventative maintenance and repairs on diesel water pump stations along the railway track.

On one occasion I was at a small railway siding, close to a village where local indigenous people of the Ndebele tribe lived. Their round thatched roofed houses called Rondavels were made from local natural materials, typical of the style that you might see in pictures of rural Southern Africa.

The railway company, for its maintenance employees, provided similar accommodation in rural railway sidings, where steam locomotives topped up their water tanks.

One day when I got back to my base late in the afternoon, after spending my working day along the track, I found someone had entered my unlocked Rondavel and taken several of my personal belongings.

In that remote part of the country, there were no phones or police to report to. I was entirely dependent on my own devices.

The first thing I did, when I discovered my dilemma, was take a chair to the outside entrance of my Rondavel, crack a can of beer and contemplate my options, while enjoying the warmth of the setting African sun.

Now I knew, that more often than not, the most respected and feared person in a rural African village is the local witchdoctor. I was also aware that some are devious rogues but most are wise old men, and sometimes wise old woman.

After I cooked and ate my dinner that night, I decided to take my flashlight and walk through the bush along a narrow path to talk to the village headman. I suspected the guilty person was a curious member of the small village, which had no more than twenty inhabitants, who, sometime during the day, had wondered past my Rondavel, discovered the entrance door unlocked……. so went in to look at its contents. I also knew the village was the only one in the area for a radius of forty or fifty miles, so quite unlikely to be anyone but a local villager.

I told the headman what had happened. He said he would discuss the matter with the old village Mdala ( old man ) who was respected and knowledgeable in the ways of tribal beliefs and superstitions. He would come to see me the following day.

When I arrived back from work that afternoon, he was already there scraping up soil from the entrance to my small round abode.

He proceeded to fill a small hessian bag with soil close to the entrance, tie it up with string and hang it from the branch of a nearby Acacia tree. Then with his knob-kerry – a knob headed club – about 3ft long that many older men carry to protect themselves, proceeded to beat the bag while chanting a few words in his Ndebele tongue, as he carried out the ritual.

Late in the afternoon the following day, while relaxing with a thirst quenching beer, watching the distinct shadows of the African bush, cast by the bright red sun descending on the horizon in the western sky, a young native man appeared, a few years younger than I was at the time, wearing a ragged khaki shirt, short torn trousers and no shoes.

He walked towards me from the shadows of the bush, carrying a round cloth bag on his head. He stopped in front of me, lifted the bag and put it down before me. It contained all my missing belongings. Then …..shamefully standing in front of me, with an expression of remorse, and looking down at the ground, he confessed he had been walking along a path through the bush earlier that day when a Tokolotshe, an evil spirit, leapt out at him and beat him mercilessly..... telling him to return the goods that did not belong to him.

As he walked away, I saw several distinct stripes on the torn ragged shirt covering his back.

Before he disappeared along the path into the darkening night, I ran after him and gave him a shirt and a pair of shorts from the returned bag.

Walking back along the path that night, it occurred to me that the Tokolotshe spirit was not evil after all, that it had empathy for the young man. It had entered my conscience and gave me empathy too.

I wonder if there are good and evil spirits ? As long as human kind believe in the supernatural, have fears, superstitions and religious beliefs, there will always be a place for Priests, Shamans, Witchdoctors and Vodoo Houngans to support them.

MAD