Showing posts with label Folklore in Trinidad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Folklore in Trinidad. Show all posts

Sunday, 30 October 2022

Trinidad and Tobago Folklore


 
Gerard Besson, founder of Paria Publishing, was a well-known raconteur of Trinidad's folklore.
 
Unfortunately the short videos that captured his raconteur style so well are no longer available because Loop TT has been closed down. But we posted a couple of videos with him on our Youtube Channel. 

Also, you can get his three books about Trinidad Folklore, "Folklore & Legends of Trinidad and Tobago", "The Voice in the Govi" and his first ever work, "Tales of the Paria Main Road". They are available in select local bookstores and online at Amazon, Barnes and Noble and Bookshop:





Tuesday, 10 July 2012

Mama Glo's Gift

From the time of her earliest memories, she always entered the forest quietly, silently stepping, slowly moving through the dew-wet underbrush, trying not to tread too hard.
She paused, not so much to listen but to learn, to learn the feel of the day, for every day was different in her forest. Her forest—it lay along a steep valley through which rushed a river called “Shark”, halting only in selected places to make pools deep and sure with eddies that swirled backwards in their own placid repose, slick on the surface, secret in their tumultuous depths, where enormous, ancient trees stood sentinel. All fast asleep in ageless repose, same height, same girth, same breadth as though created simultaneously by some mighty hand that reached out from eternity and sowed their dreams in unison so long ago, before words like day or night were made to punctuate the passage of time.
Time had been invented by one of her ancestors, she was sure. Before she entered her forest, she left it, together with her shoes, down by the road. Papita had told her about the Caribs of long ago, their family, the old people who owned all the land. She had told her about the river and of the Oriyu, the water spirits. She always felt that she had just missed them and that, had she come a little earlier, she would have seen them. But she was always just in time to see the ripples they left on the water fade away into placidity. Sometimes, she heard a loud slap upon the surface of the pool. Once, she saw an enormous shape turn around and around in the water like a wheel. Today, she saw the face. A shimmer just beneath the surface of the pool, it seemed to call out with open mouth. A song, she thought. Now she knew for certain that there was a Maman Dlo living in Shark River.
After that, she would bring flowers and pretty buttons, a buckle from a shoe, a dolly’s head, quite pink, with staring eyes of blue and tiny holes where hair would have been implanted. She brought little gems made of red and green glass, pins and pretty bow clips. One morning, as she slipped in silence throught the woods, the river, coursing with a roar through the rocks and bolders, gray and striped with white lines, she saw something glimmer in the water. It was a lovely comb made of shell and silver, gold-tipped. She stood there entranced, the river foam, a lacy frock around her legs. She picked up the comb and ran it through her hair. At once, she heard music, a song, sighing, which filled her heart with yearning—for what? She had no idea. She knew she must keep this gift a secret.
She would spend her days sitting in the sunshine where the water fell from high up to crash upon the rocks, its spray a brilliant rainbow irridescent about her, combing her long, black hair and listening to Maman Dlo’s comb. She learnt that Amana was her true name and that she had a sister who was called Yara, “beautiful river”, which flew into a bay not too far away. Others were called Marianne, Madamas and Paria. She heard the sirens’ song of sailors who had been dashed to death upon the rocks at Saut d’Eau, and learned not to dread the deafening silence of the forest.
She saw the stranger come into her forest. He grew afraid at her sight, his eyes were startled. She did not smile but combed her hair, listening to the melody of Maman Dlo’s song. The river’s spray made iridescent colours swirl about her. He ran away. They laughed at him. He would return.
In the time that followed, whenever she combed her hair with the magic comb, she heard a voice that warned her of her curiosity for the stranger and cautioned her to dismiss him from her memory. Maman Dlo’s voice came to her like a mother’s plea to remain pure and not fall victim to curiosity. But she longed to meet the stranger and would dream him with her in the river.
One day, Maman Dlo rose up from the water to tell her “no”. She saw her terrible beauty, her feminine form conjoint with that of a massive anaconda that swirled about and slapped the water with its tail, making a sound like the cracking of huge branches. “No,” Maman Dlo breathed, “don’t go.” But go she did and as time went by, her comb no longer sang its silent song. Mr. Borde and herself would build a house at Cachepa Point and live a happy life.
Close upon a century later, as a very old woman, she sat to the back of a pirogue which was plunging through a turbulent sea towards Yara bay in the hope of beaching at the river’s mouth. The outboard engine wined and coughed, and the huge waves threatened to swamp the overcrowded boat. She sensed the terror in the group and took an old, broken comb with an unusual shape out of her pocket. Standing up in the plunging boat and steadying herself, she called to the tillerman to point the bow at the river’s mouth and asked the passengers to pray. In a voice at first old and frail, then strong and commanding, she began to sing:
“Maman Dlo, oh Maman Dlo, save us from this terror sea. Be calm, be calm,” she told the waves, “Be slow, lie low.”
The swirling waters seemed to pause and flatten into an insulent roll that fell away at her call.
“Ma Dolly calmed the sea,” they would later say. “She calmed the sea at Yara Bay.”


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Wednesday, 2 May 2012

Monkey Eric


Thinking about death, he slipped away from Lapeyrouse cemetery through the Tragarete Road gate and began to make his way home. He knew that they would miss him, even see him go—he didn't know. What he did know, however, was that he did not want to stay through to the end and hear the thud of the earth falling on the mattress they always put on the coffin to cushion the sound.
Robbie had been his friend from the time they were about three. He had lived right across the street. They had seen each other every day ever since. It had come as a surprise to realise that his partner, his buddy, was gone. For eleven years they had gone to school together, fought in the road, both been in love with Janice Lockhart, shared food from the same plate, slept in the same bed, "brothers of the spear" all the way. Now this boy just gone and dead—wow.
In the facing evening light he walked up Stanmore Avenue. The streets seemed empty and bathed in a pale gray glow. It would be good if he could make it to the tram stop opposite Marli Street. Then he could ride the Savannah car all the way home, or nearly.
As it turned out, he missed the car, and decided to walk through the Savannah. The night came on quickly. The setting sun blended with the rising moon, which appeared fully mature, accompanied by an icy wind and the smell of wreaths and newly-turned earth.
The wide stretch of the Queen's Park Savannah lay before him. He was from around here, so he knew that many cows grazed in the park. He knew too to avoid the cemetery and how to jump the racetrack railings. He was at home.
He remembered how he and Robbie used to break l'ecole biche in the Savannah, spending the whole day up in a big tree, eating hale filé and cowature pocham. He remembered the kite-flying days, kicking ball, turning out in white flannels to bat for St. Francis and blaze Robbie's bowling. Robbie went to Mr. de Four's school. He could remember everything, everything.
They had a whistle, their own code to call each other. If you put words to it, it would go "Monkeeeee eric! Monkeeeee eric!" He whistled it now, loudly, over and over, as loud as he could, then again even louder, to the echo this time. That startled himhe looked around the clear, lit ground, almost expectingwhat? Ahead, on the Circular Road, the tram that he had missed passed with a clang. It passed the big silk cotton tree, the café and the Overseas Forces' Club. At the corner of Cadiz Road, it stopped to let off a flock of pretty girls in big hats, lacy dresses and white stockings. He vaulted the Savannah rail, sprinted across the street and headed for Industry Lane, where he lived with his granny, never noticing the little fellow who had appeared with the echo, and who now hovered just a little off the ground with knees slightly bent and feet facing the direction from which he had come.
He didn't know why, but after that evening he often walked through the Savannah from Marli Street to Cadiz Road. Many a night he used to whistle, "Monkeeee eric!"—loud, until the sound of his whistling would come back as an echo which never failed to startle him a little. Then, with queasy sort of fear, a slight panic, he would run, vault the Savannah rail, and head for Industry Lane and home. The little fellow would fly unseen behind him, taking with him a whiff of old flowers and stagnant water.
In the morning, he would wake up to the smell of the smoke from the coal-pot, blending with the rich aroma of chocolate boiling. He and his grandmother lived in a little two-bedroom house on a small plot of land under the shade of a very large breadfruit tree. As an only child, he was accustomed to be by himself and, although he really missed his partner Robbie, he was busy attending Mr. Pantin's school for Pitman's shorthand and bookkeeping. He liked to go to the cinema, Olympic, Royal or Rialto, to the 4.30 matinee.
One afternoon in the Royal, alone in "house", watching The Hunchback of Notre Dame for the second time, he heard the whistle. It made him jump. It seemed to come from very close, almost in his ear. He looked around the darkened space—no one, except quite up in the back, two people kissing. The huge beam of the projector was slicing through the dark.
Rain was drizzling as he left the Royal that night. Not a cat in the road as he walked quickly up Charlotte Street. As he crossed Oxford Street, he looked back. He thought he saw a strange reflection in the wet and shiny street. Just beyond the streetlight a white shape flashed on the ground. He quickened his step. He knew the town had strange things aplenty, but he was not in that. As he turned into the lane, almost at his gate, he heard the whistle, low, from far off. He ducked inside and went to bed.
That night he dreamt that he and Robbie were playing "bloké", standing side by side, pitching marbles into a hole in the wall behind his grandmother's kitchen. Robbie had hundreds of bright, glassy marbles. All he had were some dull gray "codens" and two blue "quiawoue". He turned in his bed and halfway woke up and thought he was dreaming that he was hugging a little, naked baby with icy cold feet.
The next morning he woke up late and there was a funny smell like pee. He spent the day alone; his grandmother had gone by train to San Fernando and would come back about midday the following day. That afternoon he went for a walk on the pitch round the Savannah. He sat in the Botanical Gardens, looking at the children playing, and he whistled his habitual whistle, "Monkeeeeee eric!" Later he took his tea in the little gallery, enjoying the haunting zither music that was the theme of a radio programme about a man called Harry Lyon, who had been shot in Vienna. That's when he heard the whistle. It sounded like it came from inside. As he rose to look, he saw the little fellow hovering just inside the gate. A fat little baby with his feet turned backwards and a wide old-time straw hat on his head. His whole body went cold. He knew it was a duenn.
Quickly the vision faded. That night he stayed up until Rediffusion went off the air with a prayer at eleven o'clock. He kept all the lights on in the house and sat in the tiny drawing room until sleep overtook him in the wee hours. Sure enough, he dreamt of the little fellow floating around, whistling "Monkee eric".
The next morning he couldn't stay alone. He took a tram down to the railway station to wait for his grandmother. Because he knew old Mr. Popplewell, the ticket collector, he was allowed to wait on the platform for the train. With a rush, much hissing and great clanging, the big old train filled up the station. There was his granny, nice and plump and real, with a bag of paw-paw balls for him and lots of news from Auntie Leone. That afternoon he told her about the duenn. She became quite still and looked long and hard at him.
"He was your friend. You called him back," she said. "You know Robbie came from China when he was little. He came to the Lees, he was their sister's son. I don't think they baptised him."
It occurred to him that the one thing he and Robbie had not done together was First Communion. That very afternoon his grandmother set to work. She swept the house and yard with a new cocoyea broom. She turned his bed around so he now slept with his head to the west. That night she prayed, "Out of the depths we cry to you...", and as he went to bed she sprinkled holy water, which she always kept in a little bottle in the cabinet, around his bed. Then, she sat in the rocker at his side to wait, her chaplet in hand.
He stayed up as long as he could, but the orange peel tea she had given him eventually took effect and he drifted off to sleep. She was just dozing when the cocks in the breadfruit tree started to crow. Their noise woke her, but what brought her to her senses was the little fellow who hovered just inside the door. "Monkeee eric," he whistled softly, "monkee eric!" Making the sign of the cross, she got up and went to him.
"He can't play with you again, Robbie, you have to go back now where you come from." She raised the little bottle with the holy water, letting some drops fall.
"I baptise you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, Amen. Go home now, Robbie, go home."
To prevent similar experiences with duennes, never call your children's names out loud in the open, as a duenn might overhear and lure them away. Also, you shouldn't whistle in the middle of the Savannah, or whistle in the dark night. Robbie might be looking for a tree to climb...


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Monday, 21 November 2011

Creole Proverbs


Collected by Otto Massiah

Patois is a very very funny language, especially when you understand French! It is devoid of pretensions, and allows itself to be funny and delve in picong. What seems almost incomprehensible written down in English phonetics, becomes hilariously clear when read aloud, compared with the English translation and with its roots in "high" French.


Bush doo kah ashtay shuval ah crayde.
Sweet mouth buys horses on credit.
Bouche douce achète cheval au crédit.

Kan ou vueh barb camarad ou puis, defay wousay cella ou.
When you see your friend’s beard on fire, sprinkle yours.
Quand tu vois la barbe de ton camarad au feu, il devoit arroser celle de toi.

Malair pah kah charjay con laplee.
Accidents don’t threaten like rain.
Malheur ne peut [charger] comme la pluie.
[This might be an Anglicism having crept into the French from Engl. 'to charge', the correct French word would be 'menacer']

Ravett pah jammay tinne raison duvan poule.
The cockroach never has any right to the eyes of a fowl.
Cafard n'a jamais aucune raison devant une poule.

Say souleah sel ke connet se shoson tinni too.
The shoe alone knows if the socks have holes.
C'est la [souleah] seule ce qui connaît que les [chaussons] tenaient trous.
[Again these might be creolised words; the French word for shoe is 'chaussure', and for socks 'chaussette', however, 'chaussons' is a bedsock or footlet.]

Say coute ke connoit sah ke nan bouden jermu.
Only the knife knows what is in the inside of the pumpkin.
Seule le couteau connaît ce qu'est dans [bouden jermu].
[The French word for pumpkin is 'citrouill'.]

Say mezeh qui fair macaque manger piman.
Trouble made the monkey eat pepper.
C'est la misére qui fait [macaque] manger piment.

Sa zeah pah kah vueh, cheh kah teh mal.
What the eye does not see the yeart does not grieve at.
Ce que les yeux ne peuvent pas voir, le coeur ne tient mal.

Se crab pah mashay le pah grah, le mashay trap le tombay dan showdeah.
If the crab doesn’t walk he don’t get fat. If he walks to much he falls in the pot.
Si le crabe ne marche pas il ne devient gras; s'il marche trop il tombe dans le chaudeur.

Se zandolee tay bon vian le passay kah dreevay.
If lizards were eatable they would not be so common about.
Si [zandolee] etais la bonne viande, ...

Si crapaud di ou caiman tini mal zieu queh le.
If the frog tells you that the crocodile has sore eyes believe him.
Si crapaud dit que le caiman tient mals yeux, crois-le.

You dwett pah sah pwan peice.
One finger can’t catch fleas.
Un doîgt ne peut pas prendre puces.

Tampay kah ashtay maleh, gaude passah paveh.
A penny will buy trouble which pounds cannot buy.
Stampee [old currency] va acheter malheur, ...



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Thursday, 3 November 2011

The Mayaro Soucouyant


The old house on Abercromby Street has long ago become a parking lot. But as a boy, I was taken there to meet Madame July. My aunt Ameline had said to me, as we climbed the creaky, dimly lit stairs:
“Be careful what you are thinking. She will read your thoughts.”
Have you ever tried to think of nothing?
We met her at the top of the stairs. She had been expecting us. They spoke quickly in Patois. The sitting room was almost bare. A large rocker and old couch, a low bench and a small wooden chest. Mlle. Barth sat on the rocker. Madame July reclined on the couch. My aunt and I sat on the small wooden chest. They were both very old and smelled of vertivert and ‘Evening in Paris’.
Mlle Barth, with Madame July’s murmured encouraging, seemed to fall asleep. The other rocked herself gently. I thought of nothing. My aunt had gone there to inquire about Maxim Arneaud with whom she was in love, and had been for years. As it turned out, she married Charles Loshon and as Amayline Loshon lived a very happy life.
During the 1940s and 1950s, these two old ladies of Abercromby Street were well known as mediums, voyagers into the spirit world, who were able to solve love triangles, cure maljoe, and were credited in aiding the authorities in finding the remains of Mikey Cipriani in the high mountains of Trinidad’s north coast.
It was while on one of these spiritualistic missions, that Mlle Barth in fact met her death. It was well known that old Mrs. Molé of Mayaro was a soucouyant. She didn’t trouble the village, and the village didn’t trouble her. The problem arose, if you pardon the expression, with her homeward bound flights. As she grew into her nineties, her sense of direction began to fail. There was, for example, that embarrassing morning when she was discovered naked on top of the water tank in the police station compound. She had put her skin in its protective mortar on the tank. Now her problem was to get down!
The ladies Barth and July were called in to exorcise her soucouyant personality, and that was when the trouble started. Although Mrs. Molé was old and frail, the soucouyant was strong. In the end, Mlle. Barth was savaged and subsequently died. She had been bitten and sucked by the creature in the sole of her foot.
It was said, long ago, that certain French families brought the vampire tradition to Trinidad. These European vampires intermingled with their enslaved African counterparts, and out of this the soucouyant emerged. The soucouyant makes a pact with the devil, and as such can assume any form. Her first undertaking is to go to a cemetery and dig up a freshly buried corpse and cut out the liver. From this, an oil is made. When this oil is rubbed all over, she can then slip out of her skin. The skin is kept in a mortar or hollowed-out trunk of a tree, used to parch coffee or ferment cocoa beans.
The soucouyant of St. Eau Island off the north coast, is described as a “ball of flame, along she came, flying without a wind”. One Monsieur Didier had this to relate:
“One night I was fishing. Suddenly, I saw a globe of fire which appeared far away at the very extremity of the beach where I was and which approached me slowly. I remained absolutely quiet. The globe of fire passed by a few steps away from me, some meters in the air. In the middle of this globe, I saw the face of a woman whom I recognised as a negress from the neighbouring village. When it had passed by, I asked my comrades if they had seen anything. They said they had seen the ball of fire and the face of the woman which it surrounded.”
Old people in Paramin could tell you about a soucouyant called Désirée, who on a bet flew to London to steal one of Queen Victoria’s gold spoons. However, on her way back with the spoon she “catch a malcadie” over Dent Ma Teteron in the First Bocas, and the spoon fell from her. The large gold spoon to this day lies on that rock in the middle of the First Bocas.
A soucouyant doesn’t always suck you. She could pinch you too, or cuff you, and in the morning you would have large black and blues that turn a little greenish. After a while, you could begin to feel bad, weak, thin, frail, mager. By that time, your eye sockets are sinking in your head, and you are only staring all the time. Then, you die.
Sometimes, she is a bat. Sometimes, a hog. There was a soucouyant who used to live at the top of Henry Street. She caused a lot of problems with people coming home late. Ripper Qui Tang’s father had a shop. He emptied a 100 lb bag of rice in front of Rosary Church. The next morning, they saw three big hogs eating the rice. There was another soucouyant who used to live under the washhouse bridge, near to Sony parlour. She was bad. She used to work the mortuary.
Soucouyants come and look for people whose hands are dirty. They can pass through a keyhole or under the crack in the door. The soucouyant would live on the edge of the village. Her old house was surrounded by tall forest trees. As night came, she would shed her skin to rise as a ball of flame and go streaking through the sky. By morning, she would drop through the mists and set the dogs to howling, and as a green and glowing vapour enter her old room. There, before the mortar, she would sing: “Skin, skin, skin, come to me!” - The skin would jump and twinge and wrinkle to her voice. In a leap, it would drop upon her. “Ieeee!” she shrieked, and flung away her skin that lay upon the ground, a wretched thing. “Skin, skin, skin, you na no me, you na no me old skin.” But a dreadful thing had happened. Coarse salt had been put upon her skin. In the distance, she could hear the tinkle of the bell. Oh, dreadful thing. The priests, the men of the village, would find her. She could smell the boiling pitch into which they would throw her. Her end would come at last, to rest in peace. She was old - she had lived in Maraval for 132 years.

A note on witch tales:
The ‘old woman of the village’ is a traditional evil character in the folklore of many cultures. Where does it come from? A socio-historical explanation may be ventured here.
Women naturally live longer than men, and more often than not a woman lived to great age whereas her husband would die younger, in war, because of sickness or through an accident. Old people were more often than not women, not men.
Furthermore, in traditional cultures, women did not enjoy the same rights as men. There are many accounts of widows being total outcasts in village life - the people of the village coveted her land and her possessions for themselves, especially if the woman had no sons of her own to protect her.
So, the ugly, wrinkled and lonesome old woman was a burden to village life, just another mouth to feed. Because she was a woman, nobody was interested in her personal life experience and wisdom. When she had no protectors, people invented witch stories around her, and in the end killed her, sharing her possessions, her land, her house and her livestock amongst themselves.
So take the soucouyant story with a grain of - coarse - salt!


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Monday, 26 September 2011

The Ligahoo or Loup Garou


I remember him well; the first time we met I was “pelting” home, up Hermitage Road in Belmont. It must have been near Christmas, because it was not that late, but it was already dark. It may have been Thursday; the street was empty because the shops, Chinee John and Papits Cecils, were shut half-day. I had gone to missing ... for comics and had run right into him. Tall, black, dressed in a black suit, he smelled like mothballs. I really remember his eyes, bulging red. By the time I got home, grandma was waiting in the gallery, “You meet him?” She had seen him, “Serve you right.” That night I could feel his eyes. He had seen me. He knew me. Tantie Rose said he was on his was his way to Lapeyrouse to dig up some grave dirt with a big black ...
He was the science man who could read the ‘teetal-bey’ on the black ants. And deals with the devil. He could turn into any beast and roam the streets at night. Sometimes people saw him by Reform Lane, a coffin on his head and dragging chains. In everyday life he is a practicing obeah man and a genius at maiming or killing anybody. People say sometimes he is so tall that his head disappears into the clouds. “Take care you get to-tool-bay,” she said. “Say your prayers.” I did, twice.
Obeah is the general term used for the system of magic and sorcery in Trinidad. The word is African in origin, according to anthropologist Herskovits. In Trinidad, most overt African religious practices were suppressed during the period of slavery, and it is generally believed that obeah is made up, basically, of fragmentations of rituals and remembered religious practices of African cults that were brought to Trinidad at the end of18th century. This was further reinforced by fresh information brought straight from Africa in the 1850s by the Freed Africans, that is, people taken off Portuguese slavers on the high seas by the British Navy and ‘freed’ in Trinidad.
The power of the obeah man was and still is significant. In the ‘old days’, this had to do with life and death. It was said that the one on our street had sold his son’s soul to the devil for wealth and power and later renegged on the deal and that is why he had died badly. Every culture possesses a tradition of black magic. In Europe, for example, the vampire, the werewolf and the undead are now big business with books, movies and games.
Long ago, obeah was very common, so much so that the British authorities would sentence you to a jail term for it. But that did not stop the practice. As boys we ventured into ‘his’ yard to retrieve the only corkball we had. Bush surrounded the old wooden house. There was an air of abandonment. His lights had been cut. While the others searched, I peeped in through the jealousies. I saw a dusty old room, old books and papers scattered on the floor, broken furniture, a single bed in the middle of the drawing room, a big white posy on a bench, bottles and a pitch oil lamp. I could smell it. A pile of dirt lay on a newspaper in the middle of the floor.
“You want to see? Come.” A hand rested on my shoulder. I felt my ... quake as I looked up into his red eyes blazing in the mid afternoon.
“No,” I quivered.
“Then go home.” I fled. Over the years, the pure African system of obeah has been altered to include the western magical tradition, the use of medical books, such as those by Albertus Magnus, and also the mail order catalogue of deLaurence ‘Books of Magick’ of Chicago.
Indians too have a tradition of black magic sorcery. They call it ‘ojah’ or ‘indra jal’. There are books on witchcraft such as ‘Kautak Ratan Bhandar’.
Obeah can be used either for harm or for good. The most common purposes for which people resort to this magic are to cure sicknesses or to make enemies sick, to make money, to get a better job, to win a case in court, to cure someone of spirit possession and as love magic.
In the old days, there were lots of rules with regard to the dead. Firstly, you were told that when a corpse was leaving the house, the water in which it had been bathed must be thrown out after it, or else the ghost will haunt the house. For the same reason it must be carried out feet first, otherwise he or she may well return.
Want to see a Loup Gahou? Get some dog yampee, put it in your eye and look through a key hole at 12:00 midight. After dark, never stand in a doorway in such a way as would prevent  another person from passing through; for there may be a ghost who wants to pass, and it may touch you. Then you feel a sudden sickness in the region of your stomach, get goose bumps and feel a chill. Oh, and never call your childrens names out loud at dusk, the Duenns would hear you and steal the name and call your children away ...



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Tuesday, 23 August 2011

Ti Jeanne's last laundry


Maman Dlo, whose name is derived from the French ‘maman de l’eau’, which means ‘mother of the water’ is one of the protectresses of the forest and its rivers, waterfalls and pools.
It was towards the end of the rainy season. Ti Jeanne, who lived with her grandmother in Blanchisseuse, went to the river ppol with her basket of laundry. She tied up her skirt around her waist, waded in the sater, and her round, brown arms moved rhythmically up and down as she beat the laundry against a stone. Her voice rang out in the forest, mingling with the song of birds high up in the trees, the screech of parrots and the more mysterious sounds of the forest. Whap, whap went the wet laundry, “La rene, la rene, la rene rivé” sang Ti Jeanne, “Qu’est-ce qu’elle dit?” asked the Kiskidee who never really understands anything. Ti Jeanne worked away in the solitude of the ravine, the sun travelled its course across the sky, and when the last piece of laundry was washed and wrung and was laid out to bleach on the stones, Ti Jeanne sat down, splashing her feet in the water, and looking at her reflection in the water of a small clear pool, turning this way and that to catch a glimpse of her pretty features.
“Who’s that singing so fine?” came a hissing, creaky voice from the dark greenery. “Who’s that splashing in the water? Who’s that looking at herself?”
Ti Jeanne got scared, because she heard the voice but couldn’t see who it belonged to. Not daring to move, she asked in a feeble voice:
“Who you talkin but not showin youself?”
A throaty chuckle came from the dark, then a rustle. Ti Jeanne saw circular ripples on the water emerging from under the foliage, and then the face of an old old African woman emerged from the water. She had tatoos, and wore large earrings and strands and strands of necklaces made of colourful beads.
“Ti Jeanne, Ti Jeanne,” the woman sang in her rusty old voice, “Ti Jeanne, so beautiful, washerwoman, blanchisseuse! Ti Jeanne, mmh, mmh.”
As her song changed to a humming sound, rising and falling, the old woman rose and rose, and Ti Jeanne, who was by now totally entranced in spite of her fear, saw that the hag had the body of an anaconda.
“Maman Dlo,” Ti Jeanne whispered. “Maman Dlo, I didn’t mean to be rude. I didn’t hurt anything.” For the girl knew that punishment awaits the one who offends the forest creatures, the plants or the animals, and she was in great fear to be talked to by the great water spirit.
“Vanity, vanity, my child,” said Maman Dlo, who was now full seven feet erect on her snakebody, swaying from side to side. “Looking at yourself in the water’s reflection. But beautiful you are, ssssssso beautiful! Mmh, mmh!”
Ti Jeanne, entranced, started to swing along with Maman Dlo. As she listened to her song, the girl got up from her seat, and slowly walked into the water. Maman Dlo’s tail flapped furiously, creating bigger and bigger splashes, waves, and foam started to rise. Ti Jeanne’s chemise fell from her, her hair grew long, covering her round shoulders and her bare breasts, and when the girl’s lips reached the water’s surface, the pool covered the pool as if hundreds of laundresses had been working.
Maman Dlo had enchanted Ti Jeanne, who was to live with her and serve her forever after. She gave the girl a fishtail, and Ti Jeanne was to become one of the most beautiful fairy maids, playing with the other river spirits and protecting the forest, its waters and pools for a long time to come.
When the villagers came to look for her, they only found the laundry she had washed, and next to it on the river ‘s banks the chemise she had been wearing and seven shiny fishscales.
Ti Jeanne in later times also chose a husband from amongst the village, but that is another story and shall be told another time. If you don not want to be lured by Maman Dlo, take off your left shoe, turn it upside down and immediately leave the scene, walking backwards until you reach home.
Cric-crac
Monkey break he back.

Thursday, 11 August 2011

The Count Lopinot

Lopinot in the foothills of the Northern Range was once the retreat of one of the most respected and prominent persons of British Trinidad. While the existing building is not the actual dwelling house of the French Count Loppinot, it was however built upon the site and is not far from his grave in the valley of Lopinot, where his earthly remains have been buried in 1819.

Charles Joseph Comte Loppinot de la Fresillière was a reactionary royalist of the ancien regime. He left France in 1781, eight years before the revolution, and via Louisiana he arrived in St. Domingue (Haiti), where he was appointed commandant at Port-au-Prince.

He must have been a very charismatic person. So much so that when the slave revolt in what is now Haiti came to pass, his slaves smuggled him and his family onto a ship to Jamaica, hidden in barrels and declared as a cargo of sugar. In that way, he was able to survive the uprising.

In 1793, Loppinot was appointed Governor-General of St. Domingue and Commissioner for all the Windward and Leeward Islands of America by the future King Louis XVIII. In compensation for the loss of his estates in Haiti, Loppinot was granted a parcel of land in Trinidad, and he arrived here in 1800 with his family and slaves. At least that is what the count thought. Trinidad’s Governor Thomas Picton, however, had not been informed of Loppinot’s grant, so that when the count arrived in Trinidad, he found himself landless. He had to borrow money and purchased half share in a sugar estate in Tacarigua at a heavy loss.

His rank and military experience earned him good positions with the British administration of Trinidad.

When the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte’s army was defeated at Waterloo and the Emperor himself was banished to Elba, Loppinot lost no time and from 1814 onwards he tried with much royalist fervour to win back St. Domingue for the restored King Louis XVIII. He believed that after he would resume the Governor-Generalship of St. Domingue, the people would “prefer slavery under a benign monarch to freedom under a black tyrant”, as Michael Pocock writes in his book ‘Out of the Shadows of the Past’.

Loppinot always remained a patriotic Frenchman, inspite of the fact that he had lived under British protection and generosity for several decades. When in 1814 the news reached him that the recapture of St. Domingue was impossible, he was deeply disappointed. Much more embittered he was, however, that the restored Bourbon Kings in France did not even so much as acknowledge all his many corresponcences, politely and courtly written. An old world had definitely come to an end, and the Count, who came out of the whole affair with much to his credit, lived out his last years in the verdant slopes of Lopinot.

Friday, 5 August 2011

Trinidad’s Folklore and Legends

Trinidad’s folklore actually took root here from the 1780s with the arrival of enslaved Africans and the French-speaking planters who were themselves a mixture of both white, black and mixed-race people.

They hailed from the French islands, Grenada, St. Lucia, Dominica, Martinique, Guadeloupe, with some even as far away as Haiti. Our folklore expresses an element of syncretism that joined West African religious beliefs with Catholicism against the dominant French culture of Trinidad in those long time days. All the characters have French names.

They are essentially of African origin. The picture presented is full of colour and decorated with a wealth of detail, all in keeping with well-recognised West African traditions.

As such, the island's folklore, its many supernatural figures, possesses characteristics that are similar to those of West African deities. Indeed, it is difficult to draw a dividing line between the strictly religious elements and what may be described as "legendary traditions”.

These myths and legends, as they are now known, were originally teaching stories that warned, for instance, against the wanton destruction of the forest, as in the case of Papa Bois.

Papa Bois is remembered as the old man of the forest and is known by many names, including "Maître Bois" and "Daddy Bouchon". He may be associated with Papa Legba who serves as the guardian of the Poto Mitan—the centre of power and support in the home.

Papa Bois appears in different forms, sometimes as a deer or in old ragged clothes, sometimes hairy and though very old, extremely strong and muscular, with cloven hoofs and leaves growing out of his beard. As the guardian of the animals and the custodian of the trees, he is known to sound a cow's horn to warn his friends of the approach of hunters. He doesn’t tolerate killing for killing’s sake, or the wanton destruction of the forest.

There are many stories of Papa Bois appearing to hunters. Sometimes he turns into a deer that would lead the men into the deep forest and then he would suddenly resume his true shape, to issue a stern warning and then to vanish, leaving the hunters lost or perhaps compelling them to pay a fine of some sort.

If you should meet with Papa Bois be very polite. "Bon jour, vieux Papa," or "Bon matin, Maître," should be your greeting. If he pauses to pass the time with you, stay cool, and do not look at his feet.

The La Diablesse is the spirit of women who have been wronged by bad men. She never haunts women. She is the dark side of Erzulie or Ezili, the Haitian/West African spirit of love, dancing, luxury, beauty, jewelry and flowers.

The La Diablesse is sometimes personified as an old crone who steps forth with her cloven hoof from behind a tree on a lonely road, the sound of chains mingling with the rustle of her petticoat.

Sometimes she appears as a tall, handsome Creole woman who, with swinging gait and erect stature, passes through a cane or cocoa field at noon and catches the eye of a man. He then proceeds to follow her, and, never being able to catch up with her—her feet hardly touch the ground— finds himself lost, bewildered, far from home and he is never himself again, having lost his shadow.

She may have a bag of bones, graveyard dirt and shells; she may cast a spell and be perceived as young and desirable, her rich perfume blending with the smell of damp and decaying things. Although she may appear young, she will be dressed in the ancient costume of these islands: a brilliant madras turban in which “zepingue tremblant” (trembling pins of gold) catch the dim moonlight, a low chemise with half sleeves and much embroidery and lace, and all the finery of the by-gone days.

She is the nemesis of the horner man, the womaniser, the wife beater. What she can do for you is give you something far worse than tabanka.

"Mama Dlo" or "Mama Glo" is a water spirit, perhaps reminiscent of Yemanjá, a water goddess from the Yoruba tradition. She warns against vanity. “Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”

Her name is derived from the French "maman de l' eau" which means "mother of the water". A hideous creature, her lower half takes the form of an anaconda. She is sometimes thought to be the lover of Papa Bois, and old hunters tell stories of coming upon them in the high woods. They also tell of hearing a loud cracking sound, which is said to be the sound made by her tail as she snaps it on the surface of a mountain pool or a still lagoon.

Mortal men who commit crimes against the forest, like burning down trees, indiscriminately putting animals to death or fouling the rivers, could find themselves married to her for life, both this one and the one to follow.

Sometimes she takes the form of a beautiful woman “singing silent songs on still afternoons, sitting at the water's edge in the sunlight, lingering for a golden moment, a flash of green—gone.” If you were to meet Mama Dlo in the forest and wish to escape her, take off your left shoe, turn it upside down and immediately leave the scene, walking backwards until you reach home.

The Soucouyant: “A ball of flame, along she came flying without a wind,” was how the Soucouyant of Saut d'Eau island was described.

She is the old woman who lives alone at the end of the village road, seldom seen, her house always closed up as she sleeps away the day. As evening draws near, she stirs and sheds her old and wrinkled skin, which she deposits into a mortar that she hides carefully away. Now, as a glowing ball of flame, she rises up through the roof and with a shrill cry that sets the village dogs howling, she flies through the night in search of a victim, and she would suck his life-blood from him clean.

As the blessed day dawns, she makes a beeline through the forest for her home, finds the mortar with her wretched skin and proceeds to put it on. But something's wrong, it burns like fire, it seems to shrink and slide away! "Skin, kin, kin, you na no me, you na no me," she sings, crooning softly, pleading to the wrinkled, dreadful thing. "You na no me, old skin." Then, with horror, she realises the dreadful thing that has been done: the village boys and men have filled her skin with coarse salt and pepper and will soon come and get her, with a drum of boiling tar, the priest and his silver cross, the church bells—and then, the end.

This is a witch story. One has to be very careful about witch stories, because women often outlive their husbands and end up owning house and land. It is easy to suspect that the old woman who lives alone is a Soucouyant, so that what she has could be taken from her. Soucouyant comes from the French word soupçon, which means suspicion.

"Duennes" are spirits of children who died before they were baptised and as such, they are fated to roam the by-ways of Trinidad, practicing their wide repertoire of pranks on living children who are enticed away only to return later on as if nothing ever happened. Duennes are depicted as sexless, their feet are turned backwards, demonstrating that they come from the other side, and they have no faces (although they do have small round mouths). On their rather large heads they wear huge mushroom-shaped straw hats.

To prevent the Duennes from calling your children, never shout their names in open places, as the Duennes will take their names, call them and lure them away.

The child, however, is not affected in any way by the Duenn. It is the mother, the father, the child’s guardian who is haunted by the Duenn. Imagine you come home and you can’t find your child.  You become hysterical. That is the Duenn. It is inside your head.

Here is a story of a Jumbie. A man called Lastique, who was riding home one night, as he passed the big silk cotton tree at the corner of Belmont Circular Road and the Savannah, he heard a baby crying, so he stopped and picked it up, thinking he would take it home for the night and carry it to the orphanage in the morning. Cycling along, he was reduced to a state of absolute terror as by the time he reached by Jerningham Avenue, he realised that the child was getting bigger and heavier. Suddenly, just outside the hospital, the child said in a man's voice, "You'd better take me back were you found me," which the terrified Lastique did at once. As he drew nearer the tree, the 'child' shrank steadily back to its original size and was deposited, once more, a bawling baby at the foot of the giant tree. The moon, a silent witness, hid its face in a cloud as a chill wind blew and a jumbie bird flew out of the tree.

The "Ligahoo" or "Loup Garou" is the shape changer of Trinidad's folklore. He has his origins in the Obeahman, the poisoner on the estate from slavery days. The master is cruel. The ox falls to its knees in the field, there is fire in the mountain, the mistress’s back is raised with fiery welts every time he beats the old woman who is in charge of the chamber pots.  A fellow slave can no longer live in this misery, he gives her what she needs to “go home.”

With emancipation, he is the old magic-dealing man of a district who is both feared and respected, not only for his facility to change his form to that of a vicious animal, but also because he has power over nature. From him, charms and bush medicine are also readily available for a price.

At times, the apparition may take the form of a coffin being carried through the streets. A man, naked, greased from head to toe, carries it on his head. He is protected by a giant "phantome". The coffin and its gruesome attendant were once used to facilitate the uninterrupted transportation of Bush Rum; this effect would virtually ensure its safe passage.

At another time, the "Ligahoo" becomes the Science Man. He reads from the Teetalbay and other forbidden books; he can make a deal with the devil for you. In exchange for your soul, you would become famous, go viral and become rich beyond your wildest dreams. But one night you will wake up and the devil will be sitting on your belly. He has come for your soul. Today he is the drug dealer, the gang recruiter.

If you want to see a Ligahoo and not be seen by it, take some yampee from the corner of a dog's eye, put it in your eye and peep out of a keyhole at 12 midnight.

It is said that those powers are handed down in some old families from one generation to the next, and that is why there are so many Ligahoos among us.

 

Cric-crac,

monkey break he back

for a piece of pomerac

that’s the way the wire bends

and the way the story ends.

Cric-crac!


 

Our folklore is predominantly of African origin, flavoured with French and to a lesser degree, Spanish and English influences. In keeping with well-recognized African traits, the picture is full of colour and decorated with a wealth of detail. Religious or semi-religious cults of African origin have undoubtedly contributed much to the Island's folklore; many of the supernatural folklore figures possess characteristics which are identical with those of African deities. Indeed, it is extremely difficult to draw a dividing line between the strictly religious elements and what may be described as "legendary traditions".

"Papa Bois" is the most widely known of all our folklore characters. He is the old man of the forest and is known by many names, including "Maître Bois" (master of the woods) and "Daddy Bouchon" (hairy man).
Papa Bois appears in many different forms, sometimes as a deer, or in old ragged clothes, sometimes hairy and though very old, extremely strong and muscular, with cloven hoofs and leaves growing out of his beard. As the guardian of the animals and the custodian of the trees, he is known to sound a cow's horn to warn his friends of the approach of hunters. He doesn’t tolerate killing for killing’s sake, and the wanton destruction of the forest.
There are many stories of Papa Bois appearing to hunters. Sometimes he turns into a deer that would lead the men into the deep forest and then he would suddenly resume his true shape, to issue a stern warning and then to vanish, leaving the hunters lost or perhaps compelling them to pay a fine of some sort, such as to marry "Mama Dlo".
If you should meet with Papa Bois be very polite. "Bon jour, vieux Papa" or "Bon Matin, Maître" should be your greeting. If he pauses to pass the time with you, stay cool, and do not look at his feet.
"La Diablesse", the devil woman of Trinidad and Tobago folklore, is sometimes personified as an old crone, who steps forth with her cloven hoof from behind a tree on a lonely road, the sound of chains mingling with the rustle of her petticoat.
Sometimes she takes the form of a beautiful woman, to lure some unsuspecting passerby to his death or perhaps to madness.
Sometimes she appears as a tall, handsome creole woman who with swinging gait and erect stature, passes through a cane or cocoa field at noon and catches the eye of a man who then proceeds to follow her, and, never being able to catch up with her - her feet hardly touch the ground - finds himself lost, bewildered, far from home and he is never himself again.
She may have a bag of bones, grave yard dirt and shells, she may cast a spell and be perceived as young and desirable, her rich perfume blending with the smell of damp and decaying things. Although she may appear young, she will be dressed in the ancient costume of these islands: a brilliant madras turban, chemise with half sleeves and much embroidery and lace, ‘zepingue tremblant’ (trembling pins of gold), and all the finery of the by-gone days.
If you feel you may encounter a La Diablesse on your way home, take off all your clothes, turn them inside out and put them on again, and this will surely protect you from a La Diablesse.
"Mama Dlo" or "Mama Dglo" whose name is derived from the French "maman de l' eau" which means "mother of the water" is one of the lesser known personalities of Trinidad and Tobago folklore.
A hideous creature, her lower half takes the form of an anaconda. She is sometimes thought to be the lover of Papa Bois, and old hunters tell stories of coming upon them in the 'High Woods'. They also tell of hearing a loud, cracking sound which is said to be the sound made by her tail as she snaps it on the surface of a mountain pool or a still lagoon.
Mortal men who commit crimes against the forest, like burning down trees or indiscriminately putting animals to death or fouling the rivers could find themselves married to her for life, both this one and the one to follow.
Sometimes she takes the form of a beautiful woman 'inging silent songs on still afternoons, sitting at the water's edge in the sunlight, lingering for a golden moment, a flash of green - gone. Nothing but a big Morte Bleu, rising in the sun beams.
"Did you see a fish jump?"
"Yes, but it did not go back in again!"
If you were to meet Mama Dlo in the forest and wish to escape her, take off your left shoe, turn it upside down and immediately leave the scene, walking backwards until you reach home.
"The Soucouyant" -
“A ball of flame, along she came flying without a wind” was how the Soucouyant of Saint D'eau island was described.
She is the old woman who lives alone at the end of the village road, seldom seen, her house always closed up as she sleeps away the day. As evening draws near, she stirs and sheds her old and wrinkled skin, which she deposits into a mortar that she hides carefully away. Now, as a glowing ball of flame, she rises up through the roof and with a shrill cry that sets the village dogs to howling, she flies through the night in search of a victim and she would suck his 'life-blood' from him clean.
As the blessed day dawns, she makes a beeline through the forest for her home, finds the mortar with her wretched skin and proceeds to put it on, - but something's wrong, it burns like fire, it seems to shrink and slide away, "skin, kin, kin, you na no me, you na no me", she sings, crooning softly, pleading to the wrinkled, dreadful thing. "You na no me, old skin." Then, with horror, she realizes the dreadful thing that has been done: The village boys and men have filled her skin with coarse salt and pepper and will soon come and get her, with a drum of boiling tar, the priest and his silver cross, the church bells - and then, the end.
If you wish to discover who the Soucouyant in your village is empty 100 lbs of rice at the village crossroads where she will be compelled to pick them up, one grain at a time - that is how you'll know the Soucouyant.
"Duennes" are spirits of children who died before they were baptized and as such, they are fated to roam the forests of Trinidad, practising their wide repertoire of pranks, mostly on living children who are enticed away into the forest and are then left abandoned. Duennes are sexless, their feet are turned backwards and they have no faces (although they do have small round mouths). On their rather large heads they wear huge mushroom-shaped straw hats.
To prevent the Duennes from calling your children into the forest at dusk, never shout their names in open places, as the Duennes will take their names, call them and lure them away.
A story is told of a man called Lastique who was riding home one night, as he passed the big silk cotton tree at the corner of Belmont Circular Road and the Savannah, he heard a baby crying, so he stopped and picked it up, thinking he would take it home for the night and carry it to the orphanage in the morning. Cycling along, he was reduced to a state of absolute terror by the time he reached the hospital, when he realized that the child was getting bigger and heavier. Suddenly the child said in a man's voice, "You'd better take me back were you found me", which the terrified Lastique did at once. As he drew nearer the tree, the 'child' shrank steadily back to its original size and was deposited, once more, a bawling baby at the foot of the giant tree. The moon, a silent witness, hid its face in a cloud as a chill wind blew and an owl flew out of the tree.
The "Ligahoo" or "Loup Garou" is the shape changer of Trinidad's folklore. An ability which is handed down in some old creole families, this phenomenon is usually associated with an old magic-dealing man of a district who is both feared and respected, not only for his facility to change his form to that of a vicious animal, but also for his power over nature. He can lay curses and extended protection; from him, charms and bush medicine are also readily available.
At times the apparition may take the form of a coffin being carried through the streets and the clank of chains is distinctly heard. A single man may bear it on his head, protected by a giant "phantome". If by chance, the coffin and its gruesome attendant were to be used to facilitate the uninterrupted transportation of Bush Rum, this effect would virtually ensure its safe passage.
If you want to see a Ligahoo and not be seen by it, take some yampee from the corner of a dog's eye, put it in your eye and peep out of a key hole at 12 midnight.
 


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