Sacred Things
Like many Cameroonians, Hans, my de facto counterpart in Buea, has a strong belief in magic, witchcraft and superstitions of all kinds. I’ve heard stories related by Hans, my coworkers, neighbors and others about the very real power of “African magic” and the lengths some go to for protection against it. Accounts include relatively benign supernatural phenomena such as trees cut down that are later found standing again, or trees that drip blood when cut into. Throughout the country there exists a powerful belief in “Mamy Water”—a spirit that inhabits bodies of water that routinely drowns victims who stray too close. Recently, a news report went out over the radio about a local woman arrested by the police. Her crime was casting a spell on her husband by placing a powder made from the ground-up bones of a galago (or bushbaby) beneath his bed. Even in Buea, a provincial capital, rumors circulate about phantom beatings or poisonings administered remotely by witches. A healthy, middle-aged women who lived near me dropped dead in her house after answering her phone—allegedly through the malevolent action of a witch. All these stories are told as gospel. I’ve met very few Cameroonians who do not adopt an air of deadly seriousness when the subject of witchcraft arises.
Protective measures against magic run the gamut from the simple to the elaborate. One trend that has spread from the south all the way to the Extreme North province is the practice of spreading ashes around the entrance to one’s house. This supposedly creates a protective barrier that bearers of magic cannot pass. A more involved protection rite involves ritual cutting on certain parts of the body (back of the hands, temples, feet, etc.) into which a concoction is rubbed by a special practitioner. More simply, some Cameroonians keep talisman or protective objects in their homes to ward off witchcraft.
Hans told me I would not be safe from magic unless I too had some form of protection. He said that there was a very special place—a sacred place—that he would take me to. There I would find my protection, he said. It was with this assurance that we filled a taxi bound for Limbe. Hans remained vague about our ultimate destination and insisted that I tell no one of our whereabouts.
About an hour later, the taxi pulled over at a nondescript stretch of road bordered by orderly rows of palm trees on one side and plantains on the other. To the north Little Mt. Cameroon rose from the edge of the sea beneath a brooding dark cloud. Everywhere else were clear skies. It wasn’t yet noon and already the equatorial sun beat down on us with a vengeance. We were somewhere between Limbe and Batoke, that was all I knew. Off to the south the ocean felt tantalizingly close. A dusty red track led off through the thicket toward the as-yet unseen beach, a rocky stretch identified only by its proximity to a tiny village called Limbola. Hans struck off down the path without a word. I followed.
The undergrowth rose higher and denser and the path narrowed until we soon found ourselves in impenetrable, chest-high brush. Backtracking, Hans discovered another route that took us to a broken escarpment of black volcanic rock. As we continued trekking the sharp boulders gradually gave way to rounded stones and eventually fine beach sand the color and texture of gunpowder. The beach itself formed a shady, compact semi-circle with a collection of dark promontories jutting above the waves a few dozen meters offshore. Fishermen’s canoes, some derelict with rotten or broken hulls; the rest roughly patched with pieces of tin, sat above the high tide line with loose bundles of fishing nets piled atop them.
All around us stood ancient-looking, weathered trees, their branches sweeping low out over the pounding surf. The usual marine flotsam—driftwood, rubber sandals, chunks of Styrofoam, discarded sections of net, plastic of all kinds—formed in great multicolored piles in the eddies and hollows along the beach. For a sacred place it had more than its share of the sacrilegious. Hans acted with clear purpose. There was one place here in particular that he brought me to see and after a brief stroll he motioned us in a new direction. Cresting a short bluff, we came across a half dozen fishermen sleeping in makeshift hammocks strung up close to the ground between trees along the shoreline. One woke and cast a reproachful glance at me. Hans spoke a few words in Bakweri, his local language, and diffused the situation. He then negotiated the boulders at the shore and stood atop one with a view of a cluster of rocky, black islands in the distance.
“There, do you see it?”
“Yes, sure, I see the islands.” I said.
“No, do you see it?”
”I don’t know, what am I looking for, Hans?”
He motioned in the direction of a pair of desolate, rocky islets and indicated that one was the “Mother” and the larger one the “Son”. These rocks, he told me, together form an invisible line that protects the Bakweri people from invaders arriving from sea with witchcraft. It is impossible, Hans said, for someone in a ship or boat carrying “magic” to pass these rocks. They are sunk, always. There is a long recorded history, he went on to tell me, of vessels of all sizes being capsized before reaching the shore at this very location. “This is a very powerful place—the most powerful for the Bakweri people,” he said, raising a finger. We stood there in silence for awhile, looking out past the shore break at the sacred rocks in the distance. As we did, I imagined a ship full of Portuguese explorers or German colonists, perhaps, with their own brand of “magic” suddenly finding themselves in a raging storm, taking on water and capsizing before they could land.
Retracing our steps, we returned to the first stretch of shoreline. Hans scanned the beach for a brief moment and plucked a pockmarked volcanic stone from the sand. Unceremoniously, he gave it to me and instructed me to put it in my pocket. “You cannot take a stone from this beach—it is impossible,” he told me. Only a Bakweri man can take a stone or seawater from this place. But it is possible for a Bakweri to give it to someone who is not a member of the tribe, said Hans. This stone has great power, incredible power, he told me. I must place it in my room next to my bed. For what, I asked? Protection against witchcraft, he replied.
Hans explained it to me thusly: if a witch (whom are quite common and some very powerful) were to enter my house while a sacred stone is protecting it, she would instantaneously find herself entombed in rock, unable to move or use her magic. Some Bakweri also keep a container of seawater taken from this beach, he said. Similarly, if a witch enters the home of someone with this seawater she will suddenly find herself in the ocean, miles from land and helpless. An even more powerful combination is to keep a stone submerged in a bowl of seawater. This way, explained Hans, you can take a few drops of water on your hands before going out and no one can infect you with magic by touching you. Impressed, I asked what keeps the water in the bowl from evaporating. Evaporating? He asked. No, it’s not possible, was his reply.
I would like to have included photos of the sacred beach, but I was told by Hans that this, too, was also quite impossible. Cameras cannot work there, he said. The power is too great. The film comes out blank, the batteries die or the camera gets broken. Two independent sources corroborated Hans’ story that same evening, one maintaining that he took several pictures only to discover later that the film wasn’t properly loaded. I was assured, however, that there wasn’t a problem taking a photo of the stone once it was safely in my house. So, here it is. If you are a witch you would be well-advised not to click the image.
