Sensuality and Sacrificial Bathing

Maybe it’s the extreme contradictions that make me ask questions and search for understanding that I am addicted to in this world. I have navigated from the sexiest dance I have experienced to the most disgusting thing I have yet to see, in the space of 24 hours.

The music was reminiscent of Havana nights with a latino flair; playing the beat of a drum so strong that it felt like my heart had a different drummer. The Compas (silent s) is a style of music and, at the same time, a style of dance. Instruments and people abound on stage: guitars, trumpets, electric piano, drums, and singers to create an atmosphere electric energy, Cuban cigar smoke and sweat.

With music that is alive and so loud there is no chance of conversation, you can just lose yourself in the music and the dance.

When I first saw this dance I was mesmerized with the contrasting movements of “chaud” (fast paced and energetic) to sensuality so poignant it can take your breath away. The dance floor is a mass of bodies, paired men and women in a trance of each other. What struck me was that it is the rhythm of the lead (the man usually) that chooses the rhythm of the dance, not necessarily the music.

The dance itself is simple, a one-two shifting and gliding of weight from one foot to the other while twirling one way and then the other and within that flow throw in a few slow jive type moves. Then, within moments (in the same song), you can slow down to the point of almost imperceptible movement of shifting feet and rolling hips, either touching or barely. This shifting of tempo repeats itself at the will of the man leading the dance.

Now add to the fact that the ambient air temperature standing on your own was probably 33 degrees with humidity so feels like 45. Then add a dance floor with at least 200 bodies in exercise. Sweat, lots of it.

After each song the dance floor would clear. The band would take a few moments and start up again. Couples would arrive back on the floor en mass to do it again. Not being able to understand what the songs were saying, I was under the influence of just the music in and of itself and either up with the masses or content to just sit or to be an observer.

From sensual to dégueulasse (discusting).

Plein du Nord is a festival that happens every year, same dates, same place. As with most things here I am unsure of what to expect. A 30 minute drive outside of Cap Haitien, where the air is clear, and mountains bordering the plains of the low land rice and sugar cane fields. Tiny houses line the road with their mud walls and rusty tin roofs. In a haze of dust from the road there is almost a rush of anticipation to get there. Motorbikes carrying three to five people, lorries packed with people. Getting out of the car we were assaulted with the sound of thousands of people, music, and car horns as people continued to arrive en mass. I was expecting more of a fair ground, but it was like a massive market place. Small muddy alley ways of makeshift stalls selling everything from candy, to meat to bibles and rosaries.

When I asked the day before what the festival was about I was explained that there were bands, food and beigner dans le bu (bathing in mud). I am thinking: mud wrestling or like spa style mud bathing? Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.

First off after elbowing my way into the edge of the pool of mud, I first noticed the mud was more a pool of muddy water. The edge of the pool was a mass of observers, colorfully dressed festival participants, or just observers. They were mostly young men in the muddy water, covered head to toe in a thin layer of it. The muddy water smelled putrid. One man swam past head full face in the water, mouth open. Another man then walked slowly through the muddy water with what looked like the full leg of a sheep or goat. That’s when I really started to wonder what this was all about.

We moved further down the length of the pool. Once I made my elbowing way up to the edge of the pool again I looked down to find myself staring into the eyes of a goat. Or I should say the head of a goat nestled in the bloated putrid entrails of what I found out to be a bull; both the sorry victims of sacrifice.

There wasn’t just one of these displays, there were at least 5 such masses of bloated entrails with goat heads and other organs. On the side there were the entrails of yet another bull being eviscerated and cut open to expose all the partially digested food exposed and then it all shoved into the water; the same water that these men (and one old gyrating woman) were bathing in. Not quite what the spa scene I had in mind.

Why? What the hell for? For those in the pool it is their belief to do so to purify their souls and a lucrative way to make money, for some of the people surrounding the pool offered money to these men for their own luck; an alms of sorts.

Some of these people seemed quite sane, while others did have the looked of the possessed. You would have to be – possessed I mean.

Even once I had walked away, I was unsettled. I couldn’t shake the scene, the smell and the atmosphere. And as Marthe put it “Ce n’est pas quelque chose que tu peut décrire a quelqu’un, tu doit avoir l’expérience complète.” It’s not something you can really describe; you just have to experience it.

As I continue to gain exposure to this incredible culture I feel like a turned table; exposed, unsettled and yet curious and, strangely, very comfortable.