The American physician Harry Wright (1898-1958) spent several years researching the foundations of "primitive medicine" used by healers in Africa and South America.
In his book Witness to Witchcraft, he described many things strange to the Western layman. One of the chapters of the book was devoted to the ritual of reviving a deceased person, which Wright witnessed.
“The rite of resurrection from the dead is perhaps the most mystical and most unknown of the rites practiced by voodoo priests. With the help of a fair amount of ten-franc pieces of paper, I managed to persuade the local medicine man Ngamba to show me one of the ceremonies of "resurrection from the dead."
We arrived at the gorge into which the road led, rather like a path. Winding up the slope, she climbed up a steep valley. At the end of the ascent there was a small clearing. Ngambe warned me to be absolutely quiet. I don't know what he wanted - either to hide my presence, or to make me feel how difficult it was for him to arrange this "secret" visit.
From the explanations of Ngamba, it was clear that we were attending the ceremony of "raising from the dead" of a person who was attacked by spirits sent by a medicine man from a neighboring village. The fetish priests of the unfortunate village have gathered to destroy or neutralize the power of the spirits that killed their ward.
We took refuge in the bushes about fifty feet from the clearing where a group of natives had gathered. It was clear to me that Ngambe, to "arrange" my presence, shared the money he had received from me with the participants in the ceremony.
The man was lying on the ground, showing no signs of life. I noticed that one ear was half cut off, but it was an old wound. No more traces of violence were visible. Around him stood a group of negroes, some completely naked, others wearing long, open-toed shirts. Among them were several priests, who could be distinguished by the tuft of hair on their shaved head. There was a steady noise of voices: preparations for the ceremony were in progress.
An old man in an old faded army jacket that hung loosely to his knees was in charge of everything. He shouted at the others, waving his arms. He wore an ivory bracelet on his wrist. The old man was obviously the chief priest of the fetish, and he had to cast out evil spirits today.
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Suddenly several people with quick steps approached the lifeless body, which was spread on the ground, lifted it, carried it to the center of the clearing and very casually lowered it to the ground. It could be assumed that the person was dead or very close to death. Two men began to beat drums made from hollow tree trunks.
The drummers were young guys who clearly did not belong to the ministers of the temple. Their muscles, like tight knots, loomed under the dark shiny skin, their faces were motionless. The rhythmic movements of their hands produced a semi-hypnotic impression.
Voodoo wizards at a festival in Benin (West Africa)
The high priest, whose clothes consisted only of a red jacket and beads, began to dance rhythmically around the body sprawled on the ground, muttering something in a low monotone voice. His robe flapped comically as he danced, exposing his black, shiny buttocks as he swayed from side to side to the rhythm of the drums.
I bent down and said to Ngamba:
- I'm a white doctor. I would like to examine the person and make sure that he is really dead. Can you arrange it?
Ngamba resolutely refused, but eventually got up and walked forward. Brief negotiations took place: the old priest stopped his dance, said something sharply, the others nodded in agreement. Finally Ngamba returned.
- Are you really a doctor? - he asked.
I have confirmed by choosing not to go into the intricacies of the differences between my profession as a dentist and other areas of medical practice. Ngamba signaled to follow him.
- Don't touch! he ordered sharply.
I nodded in agreement and knelt beside the prone body. The dance stopped and the audience gathered around, watching me curiously. On the ground lay a healthy young lad, over six feet tall, with a broad chest and strong arms.
I sat down so as to obscure him with my body as much as possible, and with a quick movement lifted his eyelids to check the pupillary response according to Argyle-Robinson. There was no reaction. I also tried to feel the pulse. He was absent. There was no sign of a heartbeat either.
Suddenly there was a noise from behind, as if everyone sighed in unison. I turned to Ngamba. His eyes glittered with anger, and his face was contorted with horror.
- He will die! he said to me in French. - You touched him. Everyone saw it. He will die.
“He's already dead, Ngambe,” I said, getting up. - It is a crime. I have to inform the French police.
Ngambe was still shaking his head when the old priest suddenly resumed his dance around his body. I stood at a distance, not knowing what to do. The situation was not pleasant. Although I did not feel much fear, knowing that fear of the French police would protect me from any violence, there was much that I didn’t understand about the actions of these people, and they could easily turn out to be dangerous.
I remembered the story of a Belgian policeman who was killed, torn apart into several hundred pieces and fetishes them for interfering with the tribal worship of his fetish.
We were surrounded by a group of thirty people. In low voices, they sang a rhythmic song. It was a cross between a howl and a growl. They sang faster and louder. It seemed that the dead would hear these sounds. Imagine my surprise when exactly this happened!
The dead man suddenly ran his hand over his chest and tried to turn. The screams of the people around him merged into a continuous scream. The drums began to beat even more violently. Finally, the man turned around, tucked his legs under him and slowly got down on all fours. His eyes, which a few minutes ago did not react to the light, were now wide open and looked at us …
Ngambe, worried about my presence at such a moment, tried to take me away from the circle of dancers. Then I asked him if this man was really dead.
Ngamba shrugged his bony shoulders and replied:
- The person does not die. The spirit kills him. If the spirit no longer desires his death, he lives.
He spoke his nightmarish mixture of kiswahili with Portuguese, French and English. The meaning of his words boiled down to the fact that the person on whom the ritual had just been performed was killed by a spirit sent by the guardian of the fetish, who acted at the instigation of his enemy.
This spirit entered the human body and first served as the cause of his illness, and then death.
However, in a short period after death, it is still possible to return the soul of a person to the body if the evil spirit is expelled from there.
By touching the man with my hands, I almost ruined the whole thing …
Later, when I told a French administration official about the case, I became convinced that I was not the only white person present at such a ceremony. Obtaining the consent of the fetish priest was not difficult, of course, for the appropriate bribe. Although the cult of voodoo is officially prohibited, the French police do not want to quarrel with the priests and turn a blind eye to their activities."
Harry B. Wright is a Philadelphia resident, dentist by profession and a member of the US Travel Club, who has devoted a significant part of his life to studying the techniques of primitive medicine.
Having begun his wanderings even before the outbreak of World War II, he continued them in the post-war years. He had a chance to visit hard-to-reach corners of the globe - remote areas of Africa, the wilds of the Amazon and the islands of Oceania. Everywhere he saw pictures of the life of indigenous communities that had not yet been touched by "civilization". He set out his observations in the form of traveler's notes.