Dia de los Jumbies November 2
“Boy, you does favour a Jumbie callin’ meh at this time of night.“
I miss Puerto Morelos, my previous home, on Dia de Los Muertos, where Ivette’s homemade altar at Cafeteria Lola y Moya commemorates dearly departed family with small precious items. She is happy to explain the significance of her shrine and its carefully positioned artifacts. Outsiders are welcome to share in the Mexican symbols and warm remembrances. Meanwhile, outsiders here are warned against pervading evil, such is the sinister nature of afterlife in these parts. Forget Coco by Disney—Wes Craven needs to direct Day of the Dead Trini-style. The horror show starts in chains.
In the late 18th-century, Spain encouraged French slaveowners from other islands to resettle in the underpopulated Trinidad colony, with hopes that numbers might discourage the British from the eventual conquest. Land was awarded to these French plantations based on how many slaves they possessed, and, with this chattel system, there arose a malevolent patois folklore among the enslaved and their descendants. From Haiti to Guyana, the creole ghouls of the underworld are collectively called Jumbies.
The list of Jumbies in the French Caribbean is extensive, yet mostly unpronounceable in creole English. La Diablesse, enunciated as Ablayshay, is a beautiful enchantress who lures weak men into mortal peril. She asks potential victims to walk with her along the roadside at night, but the flirt must step with one foot in the grass to hide a cloven-hoof, effectively keeping cautious men in the center of the road. It is said that one can avoid the charms of La Diablesse by wearing pants backward, zipper fly behind. This should likely serve to avoid the charms of most everyone else, as well.
Mama D’Leau, pronounced Mama Glow, is a naked beauty who combs her long black hair beneath island waterfalls, enticing susceptible males to join her at the hip—of a serpent! The man-prey is then crushed to death by the snake she becomes. Removing one’s left shoe is widely considered to be a defense against this black magic woman. Honestly, who would want to entice a man carrying one shoe?
Douens are the ghosts of unbaptized kids. They can be recognized by their backward feet and unformed faces, often concealed with straw. They hunt for childish prey at playgrounds. Young mothers, just to be safe, avoid calling to their children by name lest a Douen overhears and lures away the little one.
Papa Bois is a deep jungle apparition who employs animal sounds to draw hunters to their doom; Phantom Jumbie is basically a giant pair of legs posing as trees to crush the unsuspecting traveler; La Gahou and Lugarhoo are bloodthirsty hellions disguised as dogs in chains, which makes them seem less mystical than simply abused and angry. Defenses against these various denizens include salt, biblical scripture, shears open like a cross, garlic in warm water, and fermented nectar of a shriveled Nuni fruit.
The most infamous member of the Jumbie tribe is Soucouyant, an old lady by day but a lethal ball of fire at night. She molts on a regular basis and treats her dead skin with a mortar and pestle. Those in the know report it to stink sweetly, like gangrenous perfume. Her niche, pitch darkness and open windows, is threatened in the modern age by electric lights and closed ventilation, but there have been recent sightings, I am told.
Tricia shows me her forearm, where she once received bites from a Soucouyant. She points with fang-shaped fingers to indicate the site of the puncture wounds. Like a vampire bat, I ask? She nods self-consciously, aware that she is not exactly preaching to the choir with me, especially after I invoke Soucouyant as the feminist answer to Dracula, a spinster vampire, with a French accent. The suspect in Tricia’s town was ostracized like a Salem witch following the accusations, although she was never actually caught in the act of sucking someone’s blood in the dark. The only reliable way to catch a Soucouyant is with a large ring of dried rice, which compels her to count every last grain before dawn. This malevolent spirit apparently has OCD.
Deon says his grannie possesses a piece of shed skin absconded from a Soucouyant Jumbie. He has seen it, smelled it. He has heard the story of how the artifact was seized from an untended mortar, but he claims not to believe. Still, he honors his grannie’s beliefs and the family traditions. He respects her genuine fear of the unknown. His breath smells of garlic. I nonchalantly glance at his feet, which happen to face forward—with no clattering hoofs. Just checking.