I didn’t even know there was a World Folklore Day. Apparently it’s on the 22nd of August every year.
But what exactly is folklore? The Oxford thesaurus has it as simply traditional beliefs etc. The Longman dictionary better defines the word as all the knowledge, beliefs, habits, etc. of a racial or national group, still preserved by memory, or in use from earlier times.
I remember growing up listening with wide-eyed attention to tales spun by my parents and relatives about the lagahoo (le loup-garou) living in a wooden house behind ours and how he came out at night in the shape of a huge black dog dragging a chain which would hang from its neck and as it passed through the village, it would leave behind a trail of sickly sweet scent.
In primary school, I, along with my classmates would walk around the school playground with pieces of garlic in our uniform pockets to keep evil spirits away from us. We would also avoid going under the mango trees which grew on the school grounds. But if we were wearing our garlic protection, it would be fine. The spirits in the trees would not harm us. After all, we were only seeking shade from the merciless afternoon sun. I would later learn that it’s the silk cotton trees that should be avoided. They’re hotspots for spirit activities, especially after twilight. The mango trees are innocent.
But then again, I remember my aunt told us about someone she knew whose aunt or mother or cousin hired a man to cut down an old mango tree from their yard, but the tree cutter didn’t do the prerequisite rituals to ask the spirit (which may have been dwelling in the tree at the time) to kindly evacuate the ‘premises’ prior to cutting down the tree. As a result, he fell off the tree and broke his back (or was it his leg?) and the chain saw fell on top of him. I don’t remember if he survived. It was so long ago and I was distracted by the mental image of a peeved spirit giving the tree cutter a mighty shove off the branches and then tossing the chain saw down at him for good measure. I mean, if someone came into my house and tried to destroy it while I was still living in it, I might have the same reaction.
Don’t forget, never pick flowers after 6:00 PM and before 6:00 AM without asking the plant for permission first. It’s just rude and they may never put out more blooms due to the offence.
Primary school was a hotbed of these kinds of stories. My days were filled with hearing about a soucouyant and for those who are not versed in Trinidadian folklore, the soucouyant (pronounced su-ku-ya in local parlance) is a blood-sucking old woman (snort). No really, it is described as being an old woman with wrinkly, sagging skin because of how many times she changes it. At night, when she goes on the hunt, she takes off the human skin and transforms into her true nature which is a ball of fire. She can fit through any aperture in one’s home so it’s a good idea to have a trail of salt to hinder her entrance. If you ever have the misfortune of encountering the soucouyant, you must immediately take any or all of the following actions:
- Stand in a circle of salt. I suppose for the amount of salt you’ll need, it would be a good idea to keep a five-pound bag of salt with you at all times. You can never have too much. You know, like Sam and Dean in Supernatural.
- If you happen to be carrying around a crucifix with you as well, hold it up in front of you. If you don’t have one, you can make do with your two index fingers.
- Pray – say all the prayers that you know.
- If all of these fail, just rip open the bag of salt and dump it all in front of her. Throw in some rice grains as well, just in case. It is said that she can’t pass the salt. She must count every grain before the sun comes up. Once she is busy with her counting, you can make your escape.
This reminds me of when I was eleven or twelve. I was at the back of the house near the washing sink brushing my teeth. It was a little after 8:00 PM and we only had a very dim back light. Less than a minute into brushing my teeth, from the bushes in the corner of our neighbour’s property, what could have been a ball of fire shot up into the air. The thing is, it didn’t look like a ball of fire. The trail behind it looked more like a flaming pillar. The sound it made was that of a raging fire. But here’s the thing about fire, there is always smoke, billowing smoke, especially if it’s a sizeable fire and you can’t help but smell it. There was no smell and no smoke. It was just what looked like a pillar of fire that rose from some thick bushes in the corner of the neighbour’s yard and disappeared into nothing. I’m not sure if it came back down or if it pelted itself into the blackness of the sky. I ran into the kitchen which faced that corner of their property and pushed open the window to investigate further from a safe distance. That night, as the lights were turned off for bedtime, I would quietly get out of bed and move the curtains, my eyes peeled for any movement in the bushes. The next day, I walked along the boundary of our property and looked over into that patch of bushes to see if there was any disturbance of any kind. If there were, I wouldn’t have seen anything because the neighbour kept those bushes extremely thick and high (hello hiding place for criminals!). A part of me hoped that it was just my imagination, a trick of the brain and another part of me thinks it would be such a shame if that were true.
You see, life is such a mystery in and of itself and then you throw in the mystical and the paranormal and anything that cannot be explained by science. A scientist might read this little anecdote and say with all the certainty in the world that it was just my mind fabricating a scenario that could tie in with the cultural fabric of Trinidadian society. But I would say, really? My mind is making up stuff while I’m doing something as mundane as brushing my teeth? Was my life really that boring? Could it be possible that there is some truth to both?
Now that you’ve read this far, it is evident that folklore in Trinidad is rooted in stories as cautionary tales to teach lessons of human behaviour and the natural world. They are designed to intrigue while connecting to spiritual and supernatural forces.
In the case of the soucouyant in Trinidad, this is not the first hag we’ll see in folklore. The Hag and the Crone are common personages in folklore. Near Durham, England, the hag is Nelly Longarms. In the Philippines, she is called the Aswang. In Ashanti folklore of Ghana, the Obayifo is very similar to Trinidad’s soucouyant and then there is Circe of Greek Mythology and so many more.
The same can be said about Trinidad’s lagahoo which is a deviation from the French le loup-garou which translates to ‘werewolf’. Werewolves, along with vampires, have dominated pop culture for as long as I’ve been alive. In French-Canadian tradition, the Loup-Garou or Rougarou is a person who was cursed to become a werewolf for not going to confession during easter. In French Louisiana, the loup-garou stalks bad children and eats them. When the French colonized Canada, parts of the US and Caribbean islands, the myth of the loup-garou was brought with them. However, I have heard stories of the lagahoo in Trinidad taking other forms beside that of a half man, half dog. The most notable ones being a bull or a black, shaggy dog standing on its hind legs with a thick chain around its neck. That’s the beauty of these stories. They can change, just like the creatures that haunt them.
I see folklore as the thread that stands out in the tapestry of a culture. It doesn’t impose upon the whole, it enhances. My most fond memories of my childhood are the stories, whether they were told in class, under the midday sun on the school grounds or around a dinner table with parents and relatives. They also shaped the way I tell stories. But I fear the days of the storytellers are fading with every day that goes by as there are far too few people who are willing to risk putting their voices out there for fear of being rebuffed by a loud majority of people who want quick entertainment and fleeting pleasure. I hope the reading and blogging community could slow that down a bit.
What can you remember about the folklore of your culture? Is it still alive and thriving or is it slowly suffocating? If you could, what would you do to promote and share it? Please feel free to share your thoughts.
P.S. This was a rambling one wasn’t it? But then again, that’s the beauty of storytelling. It’s supposed to take you on a journey
Reshma Mituram 