Adventure, January 20, 1922 — page 182: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

180 the problem of childish strikes, petty racial combats, and Nature’s obstacles, present themselves con- stantly for solution. But what is that to Father Time or the lizards who bake themselves upon the macadam between the showers? Why hurry when according to axiom all things come to end? Why fret? The hillsides abound with nourishing plantains; why disturb the foliage with the swarthy pick and shovel? To spin a little raw cotton, to roll a leaf into an aromatic smoke, to urge on your game-cock, are moments that enter into the life of each man. Why haste and thus shorten the span of delicious days? One does not live forever, sevior, and it is much more profitable to loll in one’s doorway and watch the world nde by. UT returning to the Haitians. Their language is French as she should not.be spoken. ‘Their delivery of the same sounds not unlike an untuned harp—music, but mostly discords. Their clothes are but shreds of modesty, their shoes are two-inch callouses and their temperament is in eres: with their attire—very natural. When they are not quarreling they are singing, or watching with savage yells of delight a huge rock that has been pushed over the side, bound and lunge down to the rushing river. Their songs are very pleasant, and one can get the atmosphere of darkest Africa in the savage under- tone. The shrill tones of their women when singing their “Ay, Ay, Ay” voodoo chant above the thud- thud and boom of the drums is enough to bring the ghost of Rider Haggard’s ‘“‘She” to the spot. And at early morning, before gray has disturbed the stillness of night, the wordless song of the workers can be heard going along the stumbling pitfall trail above the roaring river. Their quarrelings are works of art. To describe one requires too much setting and stage property—. e., a steam-calliope, a dozen dogs suddenly gone mad, a sprinkling of evil- eyed gods, a trio of whirling dervishes, and an erupting volcano. Their belligerent gestures are supreme. With one fell swoop they will wipe you off the map, burn you to a cinder with a glance. But it is singular that after a few moments of near- murder the twain will walk on, the best of friends. Or at other times they will turn to listeners and “carry on” for hours or visit friends with the quarrel still at no settlement. Sometimes a quarrel lasts for several days. Dis- tance lends no hindrance to the debate. They will howl and bark at one another across the entire camp, and get no attention whatever from the residents. Yet at other times you will see two men look at one another; then swift action follows, clubs, rocks and curses until one of the fighters is on the retreat, for death eventually is the result to one if both are of equal bravery. "THEIR code of honor is quite difficult to under- stand; the intricacies of their domestic affairs are insoluble. I saw one gentleman strike his wife across her breast with a fence-post and with such generosity that she is now absent. Yet he un- doubtedly had several wives and was probably dickering for another. Verily is a woman allotted her place. One man returned one evening from labor and found that each of his five wives had eloped. Gentle- men, his wrath was a poem of chagrin. For hours he stalked about his lean-to of grass like an im- Adventure prisoned lion. He raved, he called to Heaven, he stamped in majestic threats of vengeance. His infuriated tirade awoke a million devils within his breast, and his outpourings of threats and curses actually brought the froth to his lips. For two days he stalked, half-crouched like a lion. Then ‘he seemed to forget his complaint entirely and soon blossomed forth with a new bride. But on the other hand, Cecilia, the queen of the camp, came in one day after a long and muddy trek from Haitiin search of her husband. She found him. Within a few moments this woman, six feet tall and built like a steel safe, had chased away the three new wives and beaten up her husband. But she has abandoned him and lives a lonesome life now, be- cause her prowess has made her unduly famous. HE ancient law of the jungle circulates here; in their lives the gentle word holds no sway. Clubs and fleetness of foot are the main factors of their existence. But the process of civilization is creeping in. Since they discovered that the UV. S. Marines could see in the daylight and shoot as well, they have not looked askance at the word of the white man. But first Christianity will have to be substituted for voodooism. Voodooism is, as far as I can gather, the worship of gods, trees, tin cans or whatever may attract the fancy. It is practised constantly, harbored and fostered by their priests and banned by the author- ities. The tools of a priest’s power may consist of a blue bottle filled with green beans, or a snaggled tooth, a bone or anything a boy would not trouble himself about. His eloquence is of incantations about the moon, or the devil waiting behind a toad- stool, or a ghost lingering near the pile of rotting logs. His gestures are mysterious passes over the head, guttural noises, sobs, hisses and groans. But the expression in his eyes gets me; a wild-eyed lunatic . eying his keeperis far more gentle. There isa green luster of insanity shining forth. PRIOR to a “camp meeting” they prepare foods of various conglomerates, tighten up the tom- tom and then send forth the word that at the dark of the moon the dance will be on. Within a sweaty little hut they gather. Packed to a degree of suffocation yet allowing a certain space about the food, where the priest and lone danceress perform, the sinners await the opening chords. The odor of chicken blood and uncertain garlic crowds the space between the dripping bodies that glisten with the feeble lights. Suddenly without a preamble the affair is launched. With a rattle and a boom the ceremony begins, while outside and peering through every available crack, the unlucky followers strive to follow the leader. A chant begins. The women in chorus, sway and swing to its shrill, plaintive notes. The men, with their low guttural voices, pound a steady undertone of savageness. ‘The music-makers seem to live their savage rhythm. The tom-tom is expertly fingered and thumped, giving out rapid, locust-like, heavy throbbing, that is accentuated by the sudden startling thuds of heavier blows. The glass bottle, thumped end downward, gives out a hollow human sound, and the dry hard bones rattling together cultivate the suggestion of motion. During this chaos of sound an old hag shuffles about the food, blesses it, pours sacred water upon it, stirs it with COMmiclooolkKs (E@)