Vodou Hermeneutics and Vodou's Transatlantic History

Although it took a while, we have finally finished A Transatlantic History of Haitian Vodou: Rasin Figuier, Rasin Bwa Kayiman, and the Rada and Gede Rites by Benjamin Hebblethwaite. An ambitious work, Hebblethwaite explores the African background of the Rada and Gede rites in Haitian Vodou. Using what he terms Vodou hermeneutics, Hebblethwaite draws from ethnomusicology, linguistics, history, and other fields to explore Vodun in Benin as a source (and foil) for Vodou in Saint Domingue (and Haiti). Although previous generations of Haitian ethnologists or foreign academics have explored the African background of Vodou, observable to some extent already in Duverneau Trouillot's ethnographic sketch, Hebblethwaite seeks to explore more seriously African history and religious cultures. This means that the book is structurally divided into two halves, focusing on Vodun in Benin and Vodou songs in Haiti read through the author's "Vodou hermeneutics.'

The first two chapters focus on the historical context of Vodun in Benin, particularly Allada, Hueda and Dahomey. This historical context is key for understanding what the author sees as royalist Vodun tied to the slave trading states of Dahomey, Allada and Vodou versus the communal or local Vodun cults or traditions of victims of the slave raids. Unsurprisingly, in Haiti, where many victims of these slave raids were eventually trafficked through the French slave traders on the Slave Coast, the more familial or communal aspects of Vodun were more relevant for the development of Vodou. That said, elements of Haitian Vodou retain, perhaps, memories of Agaja of Dahomey. But this intervention here is key for understanding why some African "traditional" religions in Saint Domingue were associated with rebellion, as dissident Vodun priests or groups were sometimes targeted by Dahomey for enslavement and export. Indeed, Hebblethwaite compares the royalist Vodun slave trading states like Dahomey to the royalist Catholic French slave traders and enslavers, with our ancestors as the victims of both. Of course, one could also explore why, if what became Vodou in Haiti was not marked by royalist sentiments, why is it that many of the hieratic titles used in Vodouist groups, rara bands or other manifestations of Haitian popular culture featured kings, queens, generals, and the like?

Overall, these two chapters on the politics and practice of Vodun in the Slave Coast are the richest chapters of the text. While one has some quibbles over the author's interpretation of Dahomey's origins and its relations with Allada, Hueda and other polities, he demonstrates how Vodun was inextricably tied to power and community (Law and other historians specializing in this region seem more skeptical or ambivalent on the traditions of Dahomey tying their royal dynasty to Allada, as well as other traditions of origin). This included slave raids, conquests, the incorporation of foreign Vodun into the expansionist Dahomey state, and the proliferation of Vodun cults through migration and refuge. In Saint Domingue, the victims of these processes who were sold to the French inherited these practices. As for why the Rada and Gede rites became so prominent in Sèvis Ginen, the structure of Vodun and its ability to incorporate new or "foreign" ideas and concepts provided a foundation for Vodou. This surely cannot be merely a result of the timing of the arrival of huge numbers of "Arada" captives in Saint Domingue (though it probably played a role). After all, if the timing of arrival was such a significant factor, why is it that the Senegambian and Upper Guinean African "nations" have less influence in the formation of Vodou? 

This is also relevant to the Central African influence, which the author admits has a huge legacy in Haitian Vodou. And while their numbers may have increased exponentially later in the 1700s, the impact of Kongo Catholicism and other religious traditions from West Central Africa must be considered as foundational to the development of Haitian religion. Indeed, even Allada, whose own history of relations with Portugal and Catholicism are worth exploring, may provide signs of Catholic influence in the formation of Vodou in the African past. We can only hope Hebblethwaite or other writers explore these dimensions of Haitian Vodou's transatlantic past.

The last two sections of the book shift to analysis of songs. The Rasin Figuier recordings are fascinating examples of not only retentions of Vodun spirits, Fon or Aja words, but reworkings of Aja-Fon concept and theology. The fourth chapter's analysis of songs from the Gede Rite, however, are less successful. Despite offering a persuasive case for a Gedevi or Gedevi-Yoruba origin for the rite, the historical Gedevi are less visible in the book's historical chapters. Although undoubtedly due to their conquest, absorption and sale to Europeans, the lack of clarity regarding these peoples hinders a deeper historical context for them. The Gede spirits are numerous in Haiti, and while they too reflect African origins, they appear very much Creolized with Miragoane being the source of some (according to Vodou myth). Despite their prominence and their irreverent allusions to sexuality, death, or taboo-busting possessions, the Gedevi connection appears elusive. It also didn't help that many of the Gede songs analyzed here, while lamenting or criticizing social inequality, remind one of the role of "signifying" and tricksters in African American culture. In short, it's less revolutionary or egalitarian than some would like to think...

In spite of the issues with the final two chapters, it is wise to see Hebblethwaite's Vodou Hermeneutics as an analytical tool for a work in progress. With so many rites and traditions of Haitian Vodou to explore, as well as the larger histories of West and Central Africa to help contextualize it, one can only hope the Nago, Kongo, and other rites receive their due for a more comprehensive study of Vodou. One should also extend the field of analysis to more sections of Haiti to see which areas have preserved or maintained some traditions rather than others, and what the impact of urbanization and migration was on those regions. As always, the analysis must include linguistics, African and Haitian history, religious studies, and other fields for an interdisciplinary approach.

Ezili Danto "fè yo wè"

Whilst reading on the African history of Haitian Vodou and Vodun among the Aja-Fon, we have been struck by Vodou songs from different Haitian groups. Racine Figuier's songs in particular, are quite hypnotizing.

Favorite Pictures from Le vodou fon dans le Royaume d'Allada

  

Although the quality of the images and the binding of the book made it difficult to use or interpret all the photos in Le vodou fon dans le Royaume d'Allada (Bas-Dahomey): ses images et ses symboles, we had some favorites from the bunch. A very short book comprised of photographs by Montilus and short captions describing them, all centered on Fon Vodou in Allada, there are some striking images. Some depict animal sacrifice, temples, various types of priests or priestesses, hunsi and sacred drums, or people tied to the Allada court. Unsurprisingly, the priests affiliated with royal cults seem to have the finest and most elaborate styles of dress.

The "traditional king" of Allada even appears in one photo. Presumably this is a Adjahuto, descendants of a figure appointed by the king of Dahomey after the Dahomian conquest of Allada in the 1720s.

One photo that was partly cut off by the binding showed a vast crowed gathered for a prayer by a temple associated with the kings of Allada. 

Some of the photos of Vodou temples were grainy, but this one is quite clear. It appears to lack any figurative paintings but the different patterns on the exterior wall presumably have some meaning not explained by Montilus.

The dokpe of Allada are sort of our like cumbite but in the Fon context also involved in burials or funeral services.

A bokono is also included. In the Fon context, they are specialists in Fa or Ifa divination. We still consider it intriguing that this sense of the word has been lost in Haiti and boko became a term for sorcerers.

Unfortunately, Montilus did not provide much detail on the Allada king's traditional court and their role in the ancestral cults. 

Dieux en diaspora, Les Loa Haïtiens et les Vaudou du Royaume d'Allada (Bénin)

Guérin Montilus's Dieux en diaspora. Les Loa Haïtiens et les Vaudou du Royaume d'Allada (Bénin) is a short but richly detailed study comparing the Rada Rite in Haitian Vodou with Vodun in Allada. Based on fieldwork in both Haiti and Allada, Montilus is able to trace the origin of various lwa in Haiti and offer a model for why the mythology around many deviated so greatly from source materials in Allada. However, an African sedimentation of the mythology around many lwa persists, as do some of the concepts and larger framework in which these entities operate. But the destructive impact of the slave trade and enslavement in Saint Domingue, as well as contact with Christianity and various other African peoples undoubtedly led to many transformations and shifts in the conception of the Rada Rite. Montilus hints at this when examining the Simbi spirits, for instance, or theorizing how Congo or Petro rites incorporate more Central African ideas of magic. Montilus's main weakness is perhaps not examining the ways in which Vodun in Benin is a living tradition, hence another cause for its differences from Haitian practice. After all, if Haitians were able to develop a radically new mythology in some cases involving Erzilie, Ogou, Agwe, or other lwa, why wouldn't people in Benin have also adapted the spirits to meet their changing world? One can imagine Dahomey's conquest of Allada in 1724, their conquest of Ouidah, the French colonial conquest, and Christianity also had some impact here (perhaps even before colonialism through contacts with the Portuguese?). The diversity of legends and stories about Legba, Chango, and other vodun in Benin is perhaps a remnant of this great diversity in practice and mythology in today's Benin that has deep historical roots. Anyway, we hope to now read a recently published history of Vodou (again, focusing on the connections to the Slave Coast) that investigates more deeply the political factors shaping religion and spirituality in this part of West Africa. 

Musique Des Princes - Fête Des Tohossou (1955)

Just some enchanting music from the 1950s recorded in Dahomey. 

More on the Nago (Yoruba) and Haiti

Milo Rigaud's La tradition voudoo et le voudoo haitien includes this beautiful veve for Ogou Batala.

The Yoruba legacy in Haiti survives in some rather influential ways. For instance, Haitian Rara music appears to be at least partly influenced by the Yoruba. According to J.B. Romain's Africanismes haïtiens, the word rara is likely derived from Yoruba. Although it is culturally a fusion of different elements, the use of a name derived from the Yoruba language attests to the presence of Yoruba speakers among the enslaved. In addition, the "Nago" are remembered and some of their orishas are honored in Haitian Vodou tradition. In fact, some Haitians still used the name Nago as a family name well into the 19th century. This important legacy suggests the Nago were remembered in Haitian tradition for far more than facial scarification on their cheeks or a penchant for stealing, as Malenfant described them in the 18th century. 

Milo Marcelin's Mythologie Vodou includes many examples of songs alluding to the Nago spirits. 

In Milo Marcelin's Mythologie Vodou (Rite Arada), numerous allusions to the Nago and Nago-derived lwa can be found. The Nago orishas are often subsumed in the category of Ogou (Ogun to the Yoruba), in various manifestations or forms. Thus, some, like Ogou Chango, are clearly a reference to Shango. Others, like Ogou Olicha, appears to be an allusion to a lwa whose name includes the word orisha. Considering the military leadership and skill needed for Haitian independence to materialize, one can imagine Ogou was a major lwa for many in Haiti.

Hector Hyppolite's Ogoun Chango.

Additional Ogous whose names refer to the Nago are Ogou Feraille, Batala (Obatala), Ogou Badagri, Olisha, and Ossange. Badagri, whose very name refers to the slave trade port of Badagry, is hardly a surprise as a Nago divinity. Batala is undoubtedly derived from Obatala of Yoruba tradition, while Ossange, a healer, is Osanyin. Unsurprisingly, the Nago appear to be associated with war, military prowess, and iron in Haitian tradition. Such a reputation can be seen in the role of Nago war leaders during the Haitian Revolution, such as Halaou and Gracia Lafortune. Yet Marcelin also reported that the Nago lwa Ogou Badagri was the father of the Haitian "mulatto." We are not sure if this association with "mulattoes" may be an allusion to mixed-race generals and military leaders during the Haitian Revolution. 

Sur le morne lointain

Enjoy a poem by Oswald Durand with Vodou as a central theme. It certainly features an interesting use of repetition and rhythm

Sur le morne lointain, semé de blanches cases,
Le tambour qui rugit le chant mystérieux
Du magique vaudoux, aux divines extases,
Où l’on immole un bouc, où l’on brise des vases,
Enivre les papas, qui battent, furieux,
Le tambour qui rugit le champ mystérieux
Sur le morne lointain, semé de blanches cases.

En sons sourds, sibyllins, du gosier des sambas,
L’improvisation pleurant les dieux antiques,
Réveille les vieux morts qui gémissent là-bas,
Et guide les danseurs dans leurs lascifs ébats.
Les adeptes fervents écoutent, frénétiques,
L’improvisation pleurant les dieux antiques,
En sons sourds, sibyllins, du gosier des sambas.

Dans le fond où Legba gouverne les yeux mornes,
[73] Au pied du saint autel qu’entourent les houncis,
Dont les lugubres chants s’entendent dans les mornes,
On conduit le bouc noir, le bouc à quatre cornes,
Qui penche son front ceint de rubans cramoisis,
Au pied du saint autel qu’entourent les houncis,
Dans le fond où Legbas gouverne les yeux mornes.

Une sainte terreur emplit le lieu divin.
On ne voit que l’éclair de la mortelle lame.
Pour plaire au dieu vaudoux, le grand prêtre devin
Donne à boire aux élus le rhum mêlé de vin,
Brise le vase rouge et fait envoler l’âme…
On ne voit que l’éclair de la mortelle lame…
— Une sainte terreur emplit le lieu divin.

Sur le morne lointain semé de blanches cases,
Toujours le tambour dit le chant mystérieux.
Mais l’antique vaudoux, aux magiques extases,
Plus n’égorge le bouc, plus ne brise les vases.
Les papas ne sont plus, qui battent, furieux,
Le tambour qui rugit le chant mystérieux
Sur le morne lointain, semé de blanches cases.

Indian Division

One thing that requires further study is the indigenous division in the Dominican form of Vodou. Apparently absent in Haiti, the existence of an entire division of spirits associated with the indigenous past of Hispaniola (and water) is interesting for what it may suggest about indigenous Taino spirituality surviving today. The few writings we have found on it are the work of Carlos Esteban Deive on Dominican Vodou, Martha Ellen Davis's work, and an article by Geo. Ripley. Additional mentions of indigenous features in Dominican spirituality and religious practice can be found in Lundius and Lundahl's study of the Palma Sola movement as well as Jana Pesoutova's Indigenous Ancestors and Healing Landscapes. Undoubtedly, additional works exist, but of varying quality and often difficult to locate. As for the appearance of Indian spirits in Haitian Vodou, the only account we know of is a short article by Odette Roy Fombrun of questionable reliability. 

From Deive's account, the Indian Division included spirits or luases like Agalla Dulce, India de Agua Azul, Caonabo, Cayacoa, Enriquillo, Guaroa, Hatuey, Mencia, Hacuai Danto, Guarionex, Carmela, Carmelina Dansoleil, Guacanagarix, Tamayo and a chief of the division, Gamao. Obviously, several of these were caciques of Hispaniola at the time of Spanish arrival or early resisters to the encomienda system and colonial oppression (Enriquillo, Tamayo). Intriguingly, at least one has a name of Haitian Creole origin and a few appear to be linked to water (Agua Azul) or perhaps places or springs. Agalla Dulce, intriguingly, brings to mind a possible etymology of the word cemi, linking it to the concept of sweetness. However, the vast majority of the spirits listed here are "deified" historical persons. A similar concept can be found in Haitian Vodou, which includes Dessalines as a lwa (not to mention the West African origins of some spirits, which can be traced to figures who were deified in the past (Chango, or Shango, anyone?). 

What about Davis, the author of La Otra ciencia? According to Davis, the Indian Division emphasizes water and has an ecological aspect that may reflect animistic influences. She further specified that in the capital, Santo Domingo, historic caciques were worshipped, like Anacaona. In this case, the service to cacique/lwa was akin to the appearance of Indians in Espiritismo. In the Southwest of the Dominican, in areas like San Juan de la Maguana, more Indian spirits can be found, yet they are not, from what we can tell, caciques. Davis's view here finds further support from Pesoutova's work, which emphasizes traditions of Indian spirits in locales like Banica or in the San Juan de la Maguana region. It would seem that two distinct traditions of Indian spirits exist here, if Davis is correct. 

What about the Indian Division according to Lundahl and Lundius? They mentioned the leader of the Indian Division in Dominican Vodou as a spirit called Tinyó, or Gamao. Interestingly, he also has a name of Creole origin, Le Gran Solei, and a chromolithograph of St. Nicolas of Bari is used for him. They additionally specify the importance of Indian spirits in the Dominican Southwest, particularly in the valley of San Juan de la Maguana. This includes practices associated with the large Corral de Los Indios as well as rites and rituals tied to the memory of Caonabo and Anacaona. One particular spot in this area of the country, La Agüita, was associated with St. John the Baptist and a number of Indian spirits. Again, there is an association with water (here believed to have healing properties) and Indian spirits, as well as syncretism with Catholic and African beliefs. 

Although much more research remains to be done on the Indian Division, it does seem to reflect a mix of old, animistic properties and belief in spirits tied to Dominican folk belief (and pre-Columbian religion). The appearance of lwa named after historic caciques might be the result of a mixture of Vodou, Espiritismo, and Dominican folk belief, perhaps explaining why it was more evident in the area of the capital, according to Davis. Either way, if Ripley, who included a ceremonial song for the Indian Division in a short essay, is believed, "Indio soy, vivo en el monte huyendo porque los españoles me van siguiendo." The Indian as ancestor, symbol, and spirit is clearly relevant today in the Dominican Republic. 

The Serpent and the Rainbow

Although we have known of the "problematic" horror film, The Serpent and the Rainbow, for several years, it was only this year that we sat down and watched it. It's actually a bit more sophisticated and intriguing than we initially thought. Indeed, director Wes Craven actually shot some scenes in Haiti, too. Judging from the architecture of the houses in what is supposed to be Port-au-Prince, we suspect shooting was done in Cap-Haitien. In fact, one scene even takes place at Sans Souci, the palace of Henri Christophe! So, this mediocre horror flick actually shows viewers some of Haiti's rich patrimony. Strangely, the story is set in Port-au-Prince despite the use of Cap-Haitien and Haiti's distinctive Nord. Nonetheless, the writer and director clearly went at least somewhat beyond the eponymous study which inspired this film for sources. This surprising mix of evidence of depth with the typical horror shlock is what makes this movie distinct.

Let's briefly discuss the bad things about this film so we can better appreciate its strengths. First, the Haitian characters. Most, if not all, are played by African American and other non-Haitian actors. You know what that means...horrible, inconsistent Haitian accents! One actor, who plays Mozart in the film, sometimes drops his ersatz "Haitian" accent in the middle of his lines. The film likewise exploits the usual stereotypes of Haiti and the "Other" as barbarian and violent, although this is mainly associated with the Macoutes and/or forces of Duvalierism rather than Haitian Vodou. To its credit, Craven's movie tries to highlight that dichotomy, so that beautiful, pious, celebratory and devout rites, rituals and practices drawn from Haiti's syncretic mix of Catholicism and African traditions can be seen in all its beauty. One is also a little confused by the Amazonian shaman and the experience of Alan in South America, although we suppose it helps establish for the audience that our protagonist is no ordinary US anthropologist. Indeed, he's willing to "go native" and try unknown concoctions and experience alternate states of consciousness. To the film's credit, this Amazonian adventure, in which the protagonist manages to make it back to "civilization" on his own (well, with the aid of a jaguar-spirit guide) is only a small part of the film's overall narrative. But this leads to the film's other inconsistencies. 

Part of our protagonist's reasons for traveling to the Amazon and Haiti was on behalf of pharmaceutical interests in the US hoping to develop drugs and medical treatments from unknown plants and healing practices of indigenous peoples. Thus, Alan is actually acting on behalf of the extractive forces which seek to exploit the knowledge and resources of indigenous and Global South populations. Perhaps this was written intentionally to highlight the similarly colonialist position of the academic anthropologist in non-Western societies. Yet this also contradicts the film's subtle anti-colonial critique of US imperialism and its morally inconsistent desire to portray the protagonist as a hero for defeating the Tonton Macoute chief, Peytraud. The white American protagonist is more loyal to Haiti than to the profits of the medical industry, represented in part by his boredom and discomfort after returning from Haiti, but it is hard to see him as exactly heroic when it is the Haitian people themselves who are responsible for bringing to an end the Duvalier regime and storming the structure in which the Macoute captain uses for macabre rituals, torture, and, most importantly, the film's final part. Last, but certainly not least, the first torture scene, in which Alan is suffering at the hands of Peytraud, the latter rejects the idea of disfiguring the "pretty white face" of the former, highlighting a racialized dimension of power and status that does not seem to match Peytraud's defiant attitude against the US, inferred from his reference to Grenada and the haste with which the US rushes to assert its control of the Caribbean in the name of "stability." 

Despite our misgivings about the aforementioned features, we found it actually thrilling to see the film match the fall of the Duvalier regimes with the likewise defeat of Captain Peytraud and the Macoutes (associated with zombification and sorcery). The shadow of Duvalier lingers everywhere in the film's Haitian scenes, with posters of Papa Doc and Baby Doc frequently appearing. The Tonton Macoutes are likewise omnipresent, spying on Alan's movements and participating in the disappearance of others or the torture and killings against dissidents and free thinkers. Indeed, the zombie whose story instigates Alan's travels to Haiti, Christophe (almost certainly a name inspired by Henri Christophe), was formerly a schoolteacher who spoke his minds and paid the consequences via zombification by Peytraud (whose name evokes Petro, perhaps matching his violent and aggressive tendencies). The Serpent and the Rainbow actually does a decent job capturing this element of repression, fear, and exploitation of Duvalierist Haiti, even when the plot makes no sense and the Vodou ceremony scenes are illogical. 

Similarly great, it would seem that Craven and his team actually did some research about Haiti. For example, one scene in which revelers and penitents travel to a site and pray to the Virgin Mary/Erzulie was probably inspired by Saut d'Eau. Another area in which the writers seemed to do some homework was the character of Marielle Duchamp, a Haitian doctor whose father was a houngan. Duchamp is a devotee of Erzulie, and based on her sensual, loving, and romantic interest for Alan, she lives up to that lwa. She's also one of the few "mulatto" Haitian characters, perhaps another sign that the film's writers were aware of one of the popular forms in which she can be depicted. In fact, one almost wonders if Rachel Beauvoir-Dominique was the inspiration for Duchamp's character, particularly since the book which inspired the film featured Max Beauvoir and his daughter. Finally, the character of Lucien Celine, a houngan and ally to Alan and Marielle, seems to run a hotel based on the famous Oloffson. These nice touches and little things make the film somewhat more respectful of Haiti than the typical US horror movie.

Anacaona as Lwa

Although her account is so brief and problematic, L'Ayiti des indiens: textes d'historiens by Odette Roy Fombrun includes a short account of a Vodou service to Anacaona as a lwa. Visiting an area in the mornes, the habitation Badè, which she did not specify the location of, Roy Fombrun saw someone possessed by Anacaona. In addition, the lakou featured a "maison" of Anacaona and honored her every year in early December. Unsurprisingly, when Anacaona possessed or mounted someone, they adopted the attitude of a queen. She received offerings of perfume and flowers, too. The other detail Roy Fombrun reported is that Anacaona was represented by a painting placed against a ship symbolizing Agwe. Apparently the painting of Anacaona was supported by an image of Erzulie Freda, which might explain why the offerings to Anacaona were the same as those of the other lwa. Perhaps this lakou's commemoration of Anacaona, like in the 21 Divisions in the DR, associated her with water (hence the Agwe connection) and with the beauty and sensuality of Erzulie Freda? At the tiny "maison" of Anacaona at this lakou, offerings of clothes were made to the cacica. Furthermore, as if to prove that this area of Haiti was populated by descendants of Indians, Roy Fombrun remarked that the inhabitants of the area en route to the lakou had Indian features. 

What particularly stands out to us is the final comment of the author. She claims Gerard Fombrun owned a cigar store Indian that had been found in a houmfort. This indicates that, like some Espiritismo groups and in 21 Divisions Vodu, some Vodou temples in Haiti were using Native American statues imported from the US and incorporating them into ceremonies for Indian spirits. Like their Dominican counterparts, the particular temple visited by Roy Fombrun apparently honored Anacaona but in a way that suggests she was given some of the attributes of Erzulie Freda. The association with Agwe may be a nod to the similar association of Indian spirits with water in Dominican Vodou. However, this is the only account we have encountered suggesting such a thing. Usually water spirits like the Simbi have African antecedents or origins. However, in this case, it is possible that Anacaona was incorporated as a lwa based on Erzulie Freda and there may have been an influence from 21 Divisions. The fact that Gerard Fombrun apparently possessed a cigar store Indian that was once in a houmfort tells us that the incorporation of Indian spirits into Haitian Vodou may have been a little more widespread than one thinks, too. Geo Riply's work on Dominican Vodou suggests a Dominican influence here. Indeed, the Indian Division is associated with Saint Nicholas, whose feast day happens to be the same day Anacaona is commemorated at the site visited by Roy Fombrun. Moreover, Martha Ellen Davis's work indicates a preponderance of Indian spirits in the Dominican Southwest, probably the region close to the area visited by Roy Fombrun.

Sadly, without knowing more about the specific details of the area visited by Roy Fombrun, all we can say is that Anacaona was, or perhaps still is, honored in Haitian Vodou to some unknown extent. It appears to be in a way very similar to that in the Dominican Republic, which makes it likely that the area visited by Roy Fombrun was probably near or not too far from the Dominican Southwest. The offering made to Anacaona in a "grotte" does bring to mind Taino customs, although this worship of Anacaona undoubtedly blends African influences with whatever vestiges of Taino spirituality survive. And while there remains more work to be done on this, perhaps Haitian Vodou traditions also associated Indian spirits with the water. We have the evidence of Deita Guignard's La Légende des Loa: Vodou Haïtien that Maitre Clermaille was supposedly an Indian of the island, a Taino. However, earlier traditions recorded by Simpson contradict that, suggesting General Clermeil or Clermaille was believed by northern peasants to have been a cruel Frenchman. Others write that he was the father, not the husband, of his daughter, also associated with the sea and people with light skin. 

Oswald Durand's Le Vaudoux

So interesting to read Oswald Durand's Vodou-inspired poetry which, like that of non-Haitian authors, relies on perhaps primitivist discourse on the Haitian religion. 

   

  

Aubin and Haitian Vodou

Eugene Aubin's En Haïti; planteurs d'autrefois, nègres d'aujourd'hui is quite valuable for its portrayal of Haitian Vodou of the early 20th century. Although Aubin's experience at hounfort and with Vodou priests and priestesses was closer to those in the plains and other regions near Port-au-Prince, his observations and conversations with Vodouisants provide some interesting insights on the religion. This is so in spite of Aubin's view of Vodou as a resurgence of African superstition. Regardless of Aubin's own biases, there's a useful account of the various lwa here and some of their attributes. For instance, the association of Saugo with lightning (probably Shango), or characteristics of Ogou, Loko, Legba, Agwe, Dambala, and other lwa appear in Aubin's travelogue. Furthermore, practices of pilgrimage in Vodou and Catholic elements with the use of prayers, chromolithographs of saints, and the fusion of Vodou and Catholic features in centers of Marian devotion were already deeply established. 

One valuable revelation from Aubin's account is the still strong distinction between papaloi and houngan. The houngan, according to Aubin, was still more akin to a sorcerer or the modern bocor. That said, Vodou was still, when Aubin traveled through Haiti, based in the family. The head of the family was the one who led the group in the service to ancestors, particularly through the manger-ignames ceremonies. Nonetheless, the greater wealth in the plains and the rise of papaloi whose services were purchased (for hundreds of gourdes, depending on the service) from clients drawn from Port-au-Prince and the countryside attests to the development of temples, extended networks, and more elaborate hounfort featuring a combination of various rites (Arada, Congo, etc). Clearly, by this date, the papaloi-houngan distinction was losing some of its significance.

One finds this development in Aubin's discussion of some of the prominent papaloi and manbo he met or heard of in Haiti. For instance, Romulus Jacques, or Aisse, a reputable Vodou priest from la Petite Plaine near the capital, came from a family of Vodou priests, was a renowned papaloi who followed the Arada rite. Serving Dambala, Agwe, Ogou Badagry, and Loco, his temple had an inscription referring to Roi d'Engole. So, there was some hint of "Congo" connections from his temple. Moreover, Aubin found old coins at Aisse's temple left for the lwa, which included coinage from the late 18th century as well as Haitian currency from the presidency of Boyer. This amazing mix of coinage from over a century ago could be an indicator of the age of the hounfort. If so, Aisse's temple may have begun with someone in his family from the beginning of Haitian independence.

Another renowned Vodou priest, Manbo Zera Vieux, was also consulted in Port-au-Prince and in L'eau de Cazeau. She was married to a military man who was the son of Cadeau Bois, the head of a hounfort on the road to Petionville.  Aurelien Bernard, another respected papaloi, was based at du Mornay-Laboule. Both of his parents were Vodou priests and he observed both the Guinee and Congo rites, each rite with a separate section. Part of his Congo ritual practices involved pacquet Congos and the use of Catholic chromolithographs. Besides these, a manbo named Tela from the Bellot family of habitation Le Francois was also well-known. Her father was a houngan and the family held 2 temples, one dedicated to the Arada rites and Dambala and another for Congo and Nago rites. Clearly, by this time, Vodou prominent religious leaders held sufficient knowledge of a number of rites of Central African and West African origins. These aforementioned leaders came from families of manbos and papalois, yet notice how, per Aubin, their services were sought by a far-ranging clientele and their services could cost hundreds of gourdes. 

As part of the growing specialization of Vodou religion, Aubin additionally noted some of the other politically connected papalois. One, a Durolien of Croix-des-Missions, was the papaloi of President Hyppolite. Ti-Plaisir of Mariani, or Plaisimond, was another Vodou leader with significant economic resources and political connections. Indeed, a picture of his houmfort is featured in Aubin's book. It's painted exterior and the wealth of its leader must have made it a more impressive temple than smaller temples or family-centered cult spaces in the hills. Indeed, Ti-Plaisir's service in honor of Agwe included a large procession with hounsis and others. This type of elaborate service with drapeau, societies and titles, hefty fees for services, and political connections at the Presidential Palace attest to the high status of Ti-Plaisir. Indeed, Ti-Plaisir was considered by Milo Rigaud to be one of the famous papaloi, fictionalizing his life for a character in his novel thinly based on Haiti under Borno. 

Religion and Politics in Haiti

A collection of 2 essays by Harold Courlander and Remy Bastien, published as Religion and Politics in Haiti in 1966, presents an interesting moment in the study of Vodou and politics. Written at a time of economic malaise and authoritarian rule by Papa Doc, both Courlander and Bastien present Vodou in a provocative fashion. To Courlander, whose studies of Haiti always struck us as superficial, Vodou is not to be blamed for the woes of Haiti. Indeed, Vodou was actually something that represented a complete worldview and ethos for the Haitian masses. Due to the extreme poverty and precariousness of life for the Haitian peasant, Vodou offered something lacking in Catholicism and it continued to play such a pivotal role due to ongoing governmental neglect, incompetence, and exploitation. 

Bastien, a Haitian, offered a more extreme position. Indeed, Bastien went as far as accusing the Haitian ethnological movement of a trahison des clercs. Instead of dedicating themselves to the betterment of their illiterate brothers trapped in backwards, regressive living conditions and a magico-religious worldview disconnected from modernity, the Haitian intellectual sought to make Vodou (and folklore) the pillar of Haitian identity and authenticity. According to Bastien, these Haitian intellectuals, followers of the school of Price-Mars, lacked the brakes necessary to stop their extremism. So, unlike the situation in sub-Saharan Africa, the Haitian ethnologists took things too far and neglected their ultimate responsibility of ameliorating conditions for the Haitian peasantry. 

Of course, Bastien's brief essay is excessive itself, especially in light of the writings of Haitian ethnologists like Price-Mars which directly concerned social inequality and the failure of Haiti's elite. However, one can also see the justness of Bastien's critique at a time when Vodou had become another institution corrupted or controlled by Francois Duvalier. By 1966, at least in Bastien's eyes, Vodou had become part of the oppressive panoply of Duvalierism's toolbox of administration. Furthermore, Vodou was incompatible with the types of modern change, education, healthcare, and poverty eradication that Bastien believed was necessary. No houngan would sponsor or support these aforementioned reforms since their achievement would, in Bastien's perspective, defeat the purpose of the houngan's existence in the first place. This characterization of the houngan is unfair, or at least lacking the evidence for such a broad generalization. Nonetheless, the Haitian religion was, by then, a product of long-term marginalization and growing impoverishment of the Haitian. Consequently, Vodou reflected those regressive conditions of living and would be threatened by progressive changes in the Haitian countryside. Indeed, the Vodou of 1966 or even 1915 was far from the conditions of 1791. Instead of fetishizing folklore and Vodou, Haiti's intellectuals should have devoted themselves more passionately to the question of bringing the peasantry into the 20th century. 

Papa Lauco

We are loving the Haitian Art Society website. Their site features several paintings by Hector Hyppolite we have not seen before. While Hyppolite is not our favorite Haitian painter, some of his works are quite striking and fascinating for those interested in Haitian Vodou. The above, depicting Papa Loko, is a good example of this.

Voodoo and Politics in Haiti

Papa Legba

Michel Laguerre's Voodoo and Politics in Haiti is one of the more interesting studies of the intersection of Haitian Vodou and politics that warrants a follow up, perhaps with greater historical detail and a chapter on Vodou and politics in the 21st century. Beginning with the colonial era and the role of Vodou in sustaining and providing a meeting ground for enslaved people to interact and plot the eventual liberation of the colony, Laguerre argues persuasively for the importance of colonial-era Vodou (or Vodous, given the great religious diversity of African captives in the 18th century). The rest of the book consists of chapters exploring marronage, secret societies, pilgrimage to Saut D'Eau in its folk Catholic and Vodou dimensions, the Duvalierisation of Vodou, and the necessity for the Haitian government to commission a study into Vodou and provide some of the basic protections to the populace so that secret societies are less necessary. 

As a reflection of the religious and spiritual values of the Africans, and something understood by colonial authorities as a threat to the security of Saint Domingue, Vodou, and the related phenomenon of marronage (but one wonders if the Bahoruco maroons really did interact with Indians if, by the time of large-scale French slave trading to the island, there were probably not indigenes around outside of the Creolized, Spanish-speaking colony's population), are presented as revolutionary. Due to the limited Christian evangelization in the colony and the huge demographic transformation as Saint Domingue became a slave colony with blacks vastly outnumbering the French, Vodou and marronage became even greater threats to the established order. The connection to maroons is also made explicit by the detailed use of archival and other written sources that attest to the frequency of religious leaders as heads of maroon bands. Likewise, the Vodou or religious leaders were significant among the slaves on the estates, too. By continuing to preserve and practice values that were in opposition to those of the French and providing a space for slaves and maroons of different backgrounds to congregate, it is no surprise that Vodou leaders were also vital during the Haitian Revolution itself. 

The period after Haitian independence, however, does not receive the same kind of detail. While mention of the occasional persecution of Vodou practices by various Haitian governments appears in the text, the full history of the relationship between the state and the "Voodoo church" is not explored. Undoubtedly, Vodou and some of its priests were consulted by different heads of state and other politicians skillfully exploited or observed Vodou practices for popular appeal and control. For instance, President Salomon is cited as an example of a Haitian president who consulted a Vodou priestess and was a believer. Others made donations to temples and even before Duvalier, surely endeavored to tap into the network of Vodou temples. But the necessity of presenting Haiti as a civilized state to the rest of the world, anti-Vodou crusades of the Catholic Church, and the Western cultural orientation of Haiti's elite (both black and mulatto) ensured that the state either ignored, persecuted or never officially recognized Vodou as a religion. Surely, the full history of how Vodou was an influence on the Haitian state before Duvalier remains an importance question, particularly for administrations of leaders such as Soulouque, Antoine Simon, Salomon, Nord Alexis, Hyppolite, and others. Vodou was also very much a part of the ongoing resistance of the masses to abusive or exploitative authorities through the piquet uprisings (those black anarchists, to paraphrase one source) and the caco resistance to the US Occupation. 

Unsurprisingly, the masses continued to consult their Vodou leaders and further developed the related secret societies, such as the Bizango (named after the Bissagot). Secret societies such as the Bizango operated like a government, providing a measure of security and protection to members against rival Vodou communities or even defending the land and property of peasants in their jurisdiction from avaricious elites or the civil authorities. Amazingly, secret societies like Bizango even issued passports for their members and adopted or adapted titles that display the political history of Haiti. Although the actions and operations of secret societies, which were an outgrowth of colonial-era maroon communities and Vodou, sometimes pursued actions that a modern state would not approve of, Laguerre adopts a reasonable approach that sees their presence as ongoing and necessary in a Haiti without a central government capable of providing the same degree of security to its membership. 

Where Laguerre's study exceptionally shines is the chapters on Saut D'Eau and the "Voodoo church" under the Duvalier dictatorship. Saut D'Eau, first developing as a pilgrimage site due to Fortune Morose seeing the Virgin Mary near today's Ville-Bonheur, was clearly linked to the Soulouque administration's search for a new pilgrimage site and further legitimation for his coronation. Furthermore, the separation of the Dominican Republic made Haitian pilgrimage to Higuey more difficult. Thus, the convenience of developing a pilgrimage site within Haiti itself and one that could be adroitly exploited by Soulouque to justify declaring himself emperor made it more likely for Saut D'Eau to become an important territory in Haiti's spiritual map. In addition, Soulouque, who earlier tried to use apparitions of the Virgin in Port-au-Prince, may have been influenced by the type of popular devotion to the Virgin Mary that was already evident in the band of Romaine the Prophetess as well as Frere Joseph among the piquets. These two religious leaders, one from the era of the Haitian Revolution and the other part of the piquets, both drew upon the Virgin Mary for spiritual succor and justification of their causes. Laguerre does not go into any detail here, but this suggests that the cult of the Virgin Mary was already of some significance in Haitian popular Catholicism and folk belief. Soulouque, by seeking to align himself with it, was able to exploit popular beliefs derived from Catholicism as well as Vodou practices.

Laguerre's real contribution of a detailed overview of pilgrimage at Saut 'Deau is revealing. Damballah, Ayida Wedo, and the Virgin Mary share the space in a characteristically Haitian fashion. The "Voodooists" collect donations, give alms, congregate at the sites associated with Damballah and Ayida Wedo, and will even pay for masses. Other pilgrims focus on the Catholic Church, attending services, giving alms, visiting the area near the tree the Virgin first appeared at, fulfilling vows, and asking for the intercession of Mary. The Catholics and Vodouizan both believe the site is holy and seek miracles, cures, or use the pilgrimage as an opportunity for building community, relationships, or aiding the less fortunate. Residents of Saut D'Eau benefit from the pilgrims renting homes and buying local goods. The gamblers, prostitutes and mendicants congregate in the area to make money, too. Pilgrims coming for spiritual reasons also benefit, or believe they do. Those coming from the same village or town travel together, strengthening bonds and representing friends and family at Saut D'Eau. Ultimately, the pilgrimage tradition affirms the status quo and has been used by Haitian leaders, who send donations, to sustain popular legitimacy. Nonetheless, Saut D'Eau's history and the cult of the Virgin Mary in Haiti can have an anti-establishment dimension.

The other gem in Laguerre's study is the chapter on Vodou and the Duvalier regime. While the Duvaliers, especially Francois, is often remembered as an ethnologist and someone who exploited Vodou for political purposes, Laguerre's explanation of how the regime actually accomplished that is revelatory. Instead of viewing Vodou as completely decentralized, Laguerre argues that it is better to understand Vodou temples as networks. These networks come in different forms, but basically point the prominence of houngans or manbos of central temples which also possess satellites. The satellite temples may not always follow the leadership and guidance of central ones, but they usually do because the central temple may have been led by priests who trained the satellite temple priests. A shrewd politician who understands this could, therefore, increase their political power by focusing on exploiting the priests of central temples. These central temple leaders then, as macoutes, beneficiaries of Duvalier's government, and spies, could greatly increase the likelihood of Duvalier winning more votes or neutralizing centers of opposition. 

The Vodou priests who went along with this process were allowed to continue their practices (although some allegedly incorporated Francois Duvalier himself as a lwa) and, as Tonton Macoutes, protect their own temple network from others while also exploiting their position for status and power. This role of the Vodou priest as a broker, especially in electoral politics, made identifying, coopting, or enforcing the cooperation of central temples a key pillar in the Duvalier regime's rise and longevity. Thus, even though Duvalier himself may have not been a practitioner of Vodou and never gave the "Voodoo church" official status, he (or those in his administration) knew how to "Duvalierize" Vodou as one of the major institutions of the country. Like the Catholic Church and other institutions, the Duvalier dictatorship exploited their understanding of Vodou and Haitian social structure to weaken or eliminate sources of opposition in all corners. It was not his mystical power per se that made this happen, although Duvalier undoubtedly understood how to use that for political ends, that was the basis for Vodou's politicization. Understanding how Duvalier excelled at this to a greater extent than past Haitian political regimes is one of the key elements of the dictatorship. Surely, as admitted by Laguerre, Francois Duvalier's sour relations with the Catholic Church and the ideological currents underpinning noirist and ethnological schools of thought provided a context for this. But how did this process work in rural Haiti, where Laguerre's direct evidence is slighter than that of Port-au-Prince?

Houngan of Cayes-Jacmel

While perusing Jean Desquiron's anthology on the Haitian press, we came across this fascinating but too brief article from a Vodou priest, or houngan. Francois Cesar apparently took to the press to denounce the Catholic priest in the Marigot area, going so far as to say he was the real priest. According to Francois Cesar, the priest, Moizan, took to persecution and ignoring authority, perhaps a reference to his attempts to crack down on Vodou in the area. Indeed, he accused the priest of thinking that he was white, he could get away with abusing his authority and taking money from the people. Being white led him to think he was a Rochambeau! It would be interesting to know what happened, but by 1907 Moizan was dead. Sometime before his death, he had been transferred to Dessalines. 

Gerson Alexis and the Mandingue of Haiti

Gerson Alexis's Lecture en Anthropologie Haitienne, a book we randomly encountered at a library today, includes the ethnologue's Notes on the Haitian Mandingues, in French and a slightly different English translation. Supposedly part of an unpublished manuscript, all we have, sadly, are the notes. While Alexis acknowledged the tentative nature of some of his conclusions of his study of the Mandingue cult in Morne Rouge, in Plaine du Nord, some of his conceptualizing of the community he observed struck as bizarre. Indeed, when one reads of this syncretic religious community, perhaps about 1000 people in Balan and a few nearby areas, one reaches the conclusion that this cult perhaps represents what Haitian Vodou was actually like in the 19th century. Indeed, after reading Duverneau Trouillot's ethnographic observations, from the late 19th century, one can see that "Vodou" in those days often revolved around African "nations" with particular rites, taboos, and customs. But over time, some of these distinctions were lost as the Africans and their Creole descendants became Haitian. The intriguing thing about the Mandingues of Morne Rouge, however, is that their distinctive practices and claim to a Mandingue ancestry persisted so late into the 20th century. 

To explain what we mean, consider Alexis's observation of congo, yanvalou and djuba rhythms in the Mandingue ceremonies. He seems to conclude that the Mandingue, perhaps due to their ancient Islamic influences and medieval empires, were culturally "advanced" and influenced the other "nations" of Africans in Saint Domingue/Haiti. Due to their allegedly advanced state, these Mandingues influenced other Africans in Saint Domingue. In fact, Alexis goes so far as to suggest words like mambo and houngan actually come from the Mandingue! However, yanvalou actually comes from Benin and the other rhythms noted by Alexis likely derive from other regions of West and Central Africa. Vodou terms such as houngan and many other aspects of the religion clearly owe more to other parts of West Africa, too. It is far more likely that the Mandingue cult observed by Alexis in 1967 had already been heavily influenced by the same forces that shaped the development of Haitian culture and Vodou. This would explain why Alexis observed rhythms from other traditions in the Mandingue ceremonies or "ordonnances." Indeed, this has to be the case since the "Mandingues" observed by Alexis are scarcely different from the other peasants in the area. In addition, while most of their members were descendants of past members claiming Mandingue lineage, new members could join the community through initiation. This process, in addition to the shared general culture of the region, might explain the appearance of rhythms from other traditions. 

But let us revisit the distinct features of the Mandingues. According to Alexis, the members of the community possessed a strong group consciousness, reinforced through ritual communion and a pact with degue, a type of rice flour with cane syrup. The members of the community claim African authenticity and distinguish themselves from the Canari dances and Vodou. They even claim to be members of the Society of King Mahomet! Unfortunately, the way Mahomet's name is transcribed by Alexis is somewhat ambiguous (MA-RO-MET) but it is probably the Prophet Muhammad of Islamic tradition. Besides referring to Muhammad, the Mandingue believe in a Supreme Being, sometimes associated with the Sun. Their cult is oriented to the adoration of this Creator being and their ancestors. In their prayers, they address Allah, Moussa (Missa?), and Mahomet. Moreover, their rituals take place at two times: dawn or early morning and in the evening. These meetings take place after a member dies, to commemorate the dead. These ceremonies, per Alexis, are called fran-gan-dan-man. 

A Mandingue Muslim wrote the above in 1773 in Leogane.

The leader of the Mandingue community is called mori. According to Alexis's Liberian informant, mori means "patriarch" among in Bambara and Malinke. However, mori is used by the Bambara to refer to Islamic diviners, something closer to the function of the mori among the Haitian Mandingue. By the time Alexis wrote his study, the Mandingue had only 1 mori, Barthelemy Exhalus, son of Exhalus Medard, the previous mori. It is probable that the position of mori was passed down from father to son, though Alexis does not provide evidence to prove it. This would fit, however, Vodou of the past in which the position of houngan was often passed down within the family. As for the Haitian mori, his main function is to communicate with the great Spirit through dreams and serve as a depository of the cult secrets. He understands the messages of the dead, who possess members of the community during ceremonies. Through prayer, song, dance, and sacrifices, to this Great Spirit and ancestors, members can be possessed. Perhaps as a remnant of their Islamic past, offerings excluded pigs (according to the English version). These spirits of ancestors, or zanges (anges) were never called lwa. Much like Haitian Vodou as we commonly know it, the mori used Catholic prayers in ceremonies. Their music, including a dance called Ronde du Mort, featured rhythms familiar to Alexis through other parts of Haitian culture. Unlike other Haitians, the Mandingue mori sang an incantation to Allah. Relying heavily on Balenghien, Alexis interpted one song as a deformation of the Islamic Shahada: Bi si mian y mi alahum- a ki baou Assa dan ila-a ilala. Elsewhere, the mori said Missa, Man-n Ma De, which is interpreted as Missa (Moses, or Musa) and Mamadu (Muhammad). 

To his credit, Alexis consulted specialists of Malian and West African languages and cultures. He relied heavily on a priest, Balenghien, who directed a center for the study of African languages at Taldye, Mali for confirmation of his theories. For instance, the burial practices of the Mandingue of Haiti included placing the corpse in a L-shaped hole, covering the body to prevent contact with the ground. According to Alexis's informant in Mali, the Bambara have similar customs. For identifying the Shahada in the incantations of Barthelemy Exhalus, he also relied on this Mali-based informant. In what may even be a possible reference to past Mandingue kings, Alexis saw a reference to a great Mandingo who introduced Islam when members of the Mandingue society claimed descent from the family of "Popotte Moussa." We, on the other hand, are inclined to think this "Popotte Moussa" may have been a prominent local "Mandingue" in the 19th century. 

Overall, the evidence suggests the persistence and survival of a strong Mandingue identity well into the 20th century in this part of Haiti. That they were influenced by Islam can be seen in the title mori, allusions to Muhammad, and that their religious ceremonies only commemorate the Creator (Allah?) and the souls of ancestors. Since they participated in the everyday rural culture of Morne Rouge, their religious ceremonies unsurprisingly acquired many traits of other contributions to Haitian culture. But Alexis's great contribution is in identifying the survival of one religious community in Haiti that preserved such a distinct, Islamic-influenced tradition. One must assume a sufficient number of Mandingue and West African Muslim captives were in the area so that the community did not die. Unlike, say, the Fulani and Borno Muslims described by Descourtilz, these Mandingue persisted well into the 1900s. Their willingness to accept new members through initiation and the custom of shared veneration of ancestors must have attracted Haitians from other traditions.

Introduction à une histoire du vaudou

Although Introduction à une histoire du vaudou is very much an introduction and somewhat outdated, it's additional proof of the ongoing relevance of Hénock Trouillot to the study of Haitian history. Trouillot's historical approach cites some sources we are not personally familiar with on Vodou as well as offering some provocative analysis of the significance of the plantation economy, slavery, Catholicism, the Haitian Revolution, anti-Vodou laws, and the development of the lakou in shaping Vodou as we know it. Obviously, Vodou is not some fount of "pure" Africanity. Nor is it immune from transformations and new developments that require historically-grounded ethnographic research on the rise of it's particular rites, familial base, or Catholic-Vodou syncretism. 

Trouillot's study is an early exemplary model of what historians can contribute to Haitian ethnology by highlighting the likely impact of social, economic, political, and cultural changes over time that appear to have transformed Vodou from the colonial-era cult of the snake to the religion we know today with a pantheon of spirits and private, public, and secular dimensions. As an early sketch or introduction to the history of such a complex topic, Trouillot's book is worthwhile, though one cannot ignore its outdated projections and terminology (evolved versus archaic religions). Nor can one omit mention of the weak treatment of possible impact of Kongolese Catholics on Haitian Catholicism or the cursory allusion to Muslim West Africans possibly shaping the monotheistic aspects of Vodou. A further limitation is the omission of certain key texts which do shed light on Vodou in the 1800 and early 1900s, such as Mollien. Perhaps Trouillot simply lacked access to some of these sources so he heavily relies on L'Union, St. John, Mackenzie, Hill, Aubin, Price, Janvier, Firmin, Manigat, d'Alaux, Texier, and Church-affiliated figures. Nowadays, scholars have access to more robust sources that could eventually lead to a fuller history.

Perhaps more disturbing and placing himself in a long trajectory of Haitian ethnologists and even 19th century intellectuals, Trouillot also seems to equate Vodou with the forces that retard progress for the Haitian masses. He even goes so far to criticize the ethnological school for its apologetics on Haitian Vodou and rural customs which hold back the Haitian people and become a form of intellectual  masturbation. He wasn't entirely wrong, and his harsh criticism on the lack of scientific vigor or on the ground research from the ethnologists was fair. But one can see today's practitioners and scholars taking issue with the development-oriented framework of Trouillot's study. However, Trouillot saw the ineffectiveness of the UNESCO Marbial project and believed development had to come through applied anthropology that took into account local perspectives, beliefs, and conditions to support opportunities for development based on those factors. All things considered, this makes for a complex and nuanced attempt at a history of a misunderstood and often maligned religion.

Duverneau Trouillot's Ethnography

Duverneau Trouillot's 1885 Esquisse ethnographique: Le vaudoun; Aperçu historique et évolutions provides one of the first and most detailed accounts of Haitian Vodou. As such, and despite the lack of clarity on the source of information used by Trouillot, his ethnographic account was a pioneering effort and one of the most detailed 19th century ethnographies. For instance, Trouillot provides one very detailed account of some of the major lwa, tracing their origins back to the Whydah, the "Ardres" kingdom of the "Arada" and the snake cult. The legendary snake of the widespread snake cult of Dahomey, "Ardres" and Whydah is Wedo in Haiti, but spelled by Trouillot as Houedo. Mention of Legba, Badagri, Loco, Agwe, and other well-known spirits appear in Trouillot's account. He also provides one of the earliest mentions of the "Cimbi" or Simbi spirit (although a short story by Alibée Féry used a Simbi spirit), not to mention the evolution of the term houngan, the importance of taboos, and the use of Catholic images. 

Of course, as a Haitian intellectual likely imbued with Positivism and the superiority of Western civilization, Trouillot saw Vodou as a religion in a state of decline. Vodou, according to him, existed more for entertainment and speculation, not as a serious practice. Alcohol and the cupidity of the papa-lois and mama-lois were the most powerful stimulants to the Vodou dance, in his day. Indeed, he even claims the religion no longer has dogma or rites! It is hard to take such a perspective seriously when Vodou exists to this day in Haiti and its diaspora, but Trouillot shares with Janvier a belief in presenting Haiti as evolving toward civilization, which entailed the decline of Vodou belief or practices. Thus, Trouillot can declare, "Ni les cérémonies actuellement en usage, ni l'olympe contemporain, ne rapellent le cult du passé, le vaudoun s'est francisé et tend à disparaître sous les pas redoublés de la civilisation chrétienne" (278). For Trouillot, Vodou would eventually wither away with the spread of education and civilization. 

But what is most enlightening in Trouillot's brief essay is the analysis of the priesthood of Vodou. According to Trouillot, houngans and caprelatas were ambulant, selling pwen, wanga, "science" and works. It was actually the papa or papa-loi, master of a particular society, who constituted the priesthood of the faith (although a papa could also serve as houngan). Yet, today, houngan is generally used for Vodou priests whereas papa-loi seems to have disappeared. One wonders if this process was tied to the changes in the structure of Vodou priesthood noted in Richman's Migration and Vodou, where social dislocations, proletarianization, and the rise of priests buying and selling their services gradually replaced some of the older societies led by papa-loi and family-based Vodou rituals. One cannot generalize too broadly from Trouillot's essay since it is not clear who his informants were, but one suspects it was people living in or near Port-au-Prince, possibly in the Cul-de-Sac plain. Informants from these areas may have already began a transition away from the older family-based lwa and towards the more commercial services and ceremonies which 20th century ethnographic accounts reported.

Of course, additional research is required to ascertain the accuracy of Trouillot's description of the Vodou priesthood. But it might have also shaped his negative description of Vodou if houngans and caprelatas were beginning to replace papa-lois or mama-lois, and the commercial aspect of the religion seemed more obvious. Perhaps the death of the bossales and people who were directly familiar with African rites by the late 1800s also struck the author as another cause for decline. Although he mentions special food offerings associated with Congos, Nagos, and Ibos, suggesting the persistence of Afrian "nations" by his era, Trouillot may have inferred a gradual decline as old rites and traditions adapted themselves to younger generations of Haitians. Unsurprisingly, he may have seen this as sign of a religion in decline, a faith losing its dogma and becoming the territory of charlatans who prey on the uneducated and ignorant. Moreover, the author's belief in inevitable progress also necessitated the eventual disappearance of such a religion. One wonders if, like Firmin and Comte, Trouillot saw in African "religion" an eventual leap to the positivist stage, which may have contributed to the depiction of Vodou as a religion in decline. 

Further Reading

Clorméus, Lewis Ampidu. Le Vodou Haïtien: Entre mythes et constructions Savantes. Paris: Riveneuve éditions, 2015.

Papa Loko

Papa Loko

Ou se van

 Wa pouse'n ale

Nou se papiyon 

Na pote nouvel bay Agwe