The Green Man's Curse Part II.

[If you missed part one of this three part series then just click on this sentence to start from page one]That opened my eyes to the world of the occult for the first time but it wouldn't be the last time during my two years in that surreal region of the world. It also began to fill in the picture as to why this place had a palpable energy to it that saturated everything as if it were brought in by the heavy, moisture drunk morning haze. I knew that I had to play by Mother Africa's rules or I might never be the same again but my stubborn teen-age faith in my "God" was too indoctrinated to admit that I was already forever changed. I was aware that Africa was certainly going to be one of the pillars of the temple that is my unfolding life as it continues to be built with each searing disappointment and every drug rush of success. However, unbeknown to me it at the time it was also changing me in ways that stalk the darkest, coldest, corners of my consciousness to this day.

It wasn't long after my encounter with the priest that I began to unravel mentally as I was assaulted with one barely surmountable wave of stress after another but time has a way of pouring away from one's consciousness while one is consumed with missionary zeal. So, within what seemed like days I was informed that I was to be transferred to a new village further north into the interior of the Ivorian jungle. I road upon a bus crammed with people and a small farm of chickens and goats. Our driver did some Indianopolis 500 style driving to avoid killing us all in the chaotic streets of the capital city, Abidjan but finally we were out on a thin concrete vein of a road funneling us deeper and deeper into the green heart of the Ivory Coast. We drove past countless long-haul truckers heading to Burkina Faso or Mali with dangerously overloaded cargo, which often toppled a truck over. Reaching the medium sized village of Yamoussoukro was a bit like going back in time to discover a land frozen in time.

Yamoussoukro is the home village of the first president of the Ivory Coast after their French Colonial masters couldn't steal, enslave, extract or develop anymore resources from the country. Only then did they "graciously grant" the Ivorians independence. At the time when the country was little more than a French outpost, the village of Yamoussoukro was a small, cocoa producing collection of huts and colonial buildings. Once the first president took power though things drastically changed. He spent obscene amounts of money trying to turn it into the new capital city as the recently independent country stretched its long shackled arms. He bulldozed good farm land to make way for 4 and 6 lane highways that he expected the new growing capital would need but like with many African countries the money became scarce. So, despite a few parliament buildings and a very out of place, modern European-style hotel the development came to a stop. Those main traffic arteries built went no further and newly build modern style neighborhoods were cut off from the rest of the village. It was strange to walk a deserted major highway and follow it until it just ends at a wall of jungle.

So, there I was in this odd, part traditional, African village that was also a part semi-modernized city with roads that go nowhere, and parliament buildings that stand unused (except for a few days a year when the leaders convey up there). The rest of the time they keep those fancy buildings pumping out the air conditioning for the "tourists" that show up--all 3 of them a day. All of these buildings are massive in scale; think the Lincoln monument or the Jefferson memorial in America. Yet just behind them lie shacks with dirt floors where average Ivorians scratch out a meager existence. At this time we were living in an old second floor building at the corner where two of these roads to oblivion intersected but no cars ever drove it. In fact, it was so quiet that when we did see or hear a car coming our direction we knew they were coming to our place.

So, one night I'm out late with my companion missionary (we went in twos) and we rise up to the crest of this hill to rest and replenish our lungs. Well, as I'm standing there I can see the local graveyard that has been there probably since man first walked the Earth, and it's partially exposed by an old lamp post. I blink my eyes a bit to focus and here comes this parade of people (four or so) carrying this dead cow upside down by it's four hooves. They are led by a lady dressed all in white with her face and arms painted with white paint. She's ringing bells and singing while clearly in a state of a possessive trance as she jerked her body and head around in a dizzying tornado of limbs and white cloth. I lock eyes with my Congolese friend and then look back at the cemetery where the entourage has now stopped.

The lady in white pulled out a long knife and began to behead this poor animal. They knelt down at this point in what looked like prayer before getting up and walking off with the headless carcass. The lady in white had just stepped into the shadow outside the range of the circle of light poured down by the lamp pole but the cow and two others visible in the pool of light. Suddenly before I could breath they disappeared. As in they vanished from my vision. They where half way through this spot light caring the sacrificed animal and then gone like a dream after waking up. I was paralyzed with fear but somehow I gurgled in French, "Did you see them disappear too?" My friends' eyes were as big as the white eyes of the Easter Island statues and all he could muster was a rapid barrage of nods. That's it, I said and we took off as fast as we could to get back to our upstairs haven, which we assumed was "protected by God." As it turns out, that assumption was more of a delusion (to be continued...)