Buddha VoodooMondo Ithaca. That’s right - if you thought that the 12 Tribes and their over- the-top jungle juice café was a little bizarre, hold on to your bagels. Ezra has a scoop that will make your snow cones melt.
While the rest of Ithaca is digging out from the latest snow storm and losing their mufflers to the biggest potholes in upstate New York, a growing number of locals are sneaking off to South America to dabble in the forbidden rituals of Candomble.
Google it. We’re talking Macumba. Quimbanna. In Haiti they call it Santiera. In any language, it’s that old black magic and it’s pretty potent stuff. Brought to the New World by millions of African slaves, West African animism or spirit worship has survived into the 21st Century, probably because it offers a better explanation of the universe than Catholicism, Capitalism and Consumerism.
So, you ask, are there actually Ithacans out here practicing voodoo, cutting off the heads of chickens and sticking pins into little dolls? ( Actually, many Ithacans enjoy a few mcnuggets now and again but they let someone else butcher the bird and you don’t call it voodoo even if has ritualistic overtones.) Well, take if from Ez, the truth is stranger than any fiction. He’s uncovered the first known congregation of voodoo-practicing Buddhists. That’s right, Buddha Voodoo and this new mystery religion has all the potential to be the next new thing in Ithaca. For bored Ithacans who have worked their way through radical politics, communalism, Hara Khrishna joyfulness, Green Party joylessness, ecological evangelism., in addition to sex, drugs and rock n roll, Buddha Voodoo is comfort food for the fidgety soul. Besides, you can make soup out of the rest of the chicken, a bonus for that frugal Yankee in all of us.
Why Buddha Voodoo? Here’s the facts. Ten years ago, a bunch of Buddhists with cash to burn decided to go the Club Med route and lure rich Americans and Europeans to glitzy meditation centers located in lush, tropical settings like Cancun and Bahia. As most of you know, Buddhism is not one of those guilt-ridden, angst-driven religions that set up a conflict for its members between the things of this world and the joys of the next. As far as Buddhists are concerned, this world is an illusion, false consciousness, nothing but smoke and mirrors. If you meditate enough, you can learn to enjoy a good steak, some chocolate mousse for dessert and a few drinks at the bar without botching your chances to be reincarnated as Bill Gates or some higher consciousness. So Club Buddha provided just the right setting to mix tantra, mantra and moolah.
The only problem is that several of these Club Buddhas were located near the cradle of Voudon or Voodoo. That’s like locating an ice cream parlor next to a candy store. You stop by for a scoop of Rocky Road and, by the time you make it back to the van, you ‘ve wound up with a box of chocolates.
And that’s how it happened that a couple of Ithacans wandered off the zen garden path to the seedier side of a little town named Comba de Santos or Comb of the Saints and found themselves communing with the orishas, praying to Exu or Oxcala, depending on what babalia or voodoo priest you meet. It was a little mysterious, a little outlandish, a little dangerous, sitting in a lotus position in a darkened room with dozens of candles flickering on the floor with strangers all around them, the sound of spooked chickens clucking in the next room, listening to the strange, foreign sounding words being chanted by the wild-eyed priest clutching a statue. But that’s why they had become a Buddhist in the first place. The way the words dharma and karma rolled off their tongues. Their restless spirit had already taken them to India and Tibet. They were the young and syncretic.
Besides, as mix and match goes, Buddha Voodoo wasn’t a contradiction in terms. It wasn’t like you had converted back to monotheism. There were all these spirits and it was fun to learn their names, to hang their pics on the fridge. Like Yemanji, the water goddess. And, if you found the very thing the orishas liked the most, a tasty rooster, or some small mammal, the spirits would reward you just like your credit card company. Help you improve your golf score, win the new bid, pick the next big stock. Not to mention the dolls. Yes, the dolls. Remember the prof who gave you a C in Chaucer. Well, all you had to do is run out to JoAnn’s Fabric, buy some material, clip, sew, clip and then stick in a pin. Instant payback! The guy who threw off your grade point average would be flopping around up there in the faculty lounge like a Macumba chicken.
Ez is giving out some free advice now. Listen up. If your boss or your neighbor, your mother in law, whoever, has just returned from Brazil sporting a deep tan, just keep your chickens indoors. And don’t mess with them whatever you do. They’re probably beheading chickens under a statue of Buddha in their rec rooms. And you really don’t want to mess with them.
Comments invited at: ezrakidder@gmail.com - Peace, Ezra at 8:30 PM
