Santos in Mexico

In May of 2006, scuba divers dove into the ocean near Acapulco to clean the underwater altar to the Virgen Reina de los Mares - the virgin patron of the seas. They found a strange assortment of objects in the sunken shrine. Anchored near the virgin’s statue were a watermelon, a bag stuffed with herbs and another containing an unknown oil. Photos of the Mexican presidential candidates -- Madrazo, López Obrador, Calderón – were pinned to the sandia, laid to rest at the bottom of the sea.

Image:Luz Montero

Decaying fruits adorn a Mexico City santeria congregation's altar.

To national media, the signs were clear: “black magic”, “witchcraft”, or a “santería ritual meant to harm the country’s next leader.”

They were only partially correct.

In his deep Cuban accent, Osvaldo Shangó, a santería priest who leads a group of devotees in Puebla explains that what was discovered was surely evidence of santería ritual. What the media got wrong and, according to Shangó, “usually does”, was to suggest that the offering was meant to harm the contending politicos.

“On the contrary, whoever did the ritual had knowledge of and respect for our traditions. A watermelon is the favorite offering to Olokun, the queen of the ocean, so that she would give strength and good judgement to whoever ended up leading the country.”

Misconceptions and misrepresentations are nothing new to the history of santería in Mexico. The sensationalist coverage has done little to generate understanding of the tradition. The Cuban strand of Yoruba (santería) was confined, until recently, to backrooms and secret meetings throughout the country.  Popular culture representations evoke horrific ceremonies with hints of "evil".

The true beginnings of santería date back to the Yoruba people, a large ethnic group from Nigeria and West Africa who practiced what was then called Orisha, a set of complex mythologies similar in many ways to those of the ancient Greek and Romans. The religion came to the New World with slavery, and here the traditions were preserved by masking the ritual in Catholic iconography, a practice that began in Cuba.

The basic theology seeks to maintain a balance with nature. If a person makes a choice that brings imbalance to his life or the world around him, a priest must help him achieve realignment using natural elements (water, fruits, sticks, stones and, very rarely, animal sacrifices).

According to Dr. Yololt González, former President of the Mexican Society for the Study of Religions (part of UNAM’s anthropology department), santería came to Mexico “when…entertainers from Cuba started arriving here in the 40s and 50s due to the film boom. [Film star] Ninón Sevilla was a santera, and so was boxer Ultimillo Ramos.”

To find out about santería, I got in touch with Carlos Sousa, a padrino (godfather) whose father (currently in Cuba performing santería ceremonies) leads a congregation in the south part of Mexico City. Sousa was relatively secretive on the phone and when I asked if there would be drum beatings, chantings and chicken sacrifices, I felt like a tourist seeking the exotic.

According to doctoral candidate Nahayeilli Juárez, santería in Mexico is gaining up to 5000 new adepts per year. “The reasons many people make first contact with santería are related to everyday problems and uncertainties -- illness, love, work, finances," says Juárez, who attributes the increased interest in santería to greater openness toward religion in Cuba and the increasing distance between young Mexicans and the Catholic Church. 

I arrived at Sousa’s on Sunday and was welcomed into a small room where 20 people (mostly Mexican women) sat beside a rectangular table that served as an altar. Sousa was dressed in white, his long hair tied in a pony tail and his neck adorned with necklaces, beads and amulets. The attendees sat on plastic chairs sharing jokes and thin Cuban cigars. 

A statue of Oshum (the Yoruba equivalent of Greek Venus, the goddess of love, beauty and all things sweet) and those of other African deities shared space with dozens of offerings in various stages of decay: California apples, Cuban cigars, limes, money, bottles of rum, a Milky Way and a large package of Ferrero Rocher chocolates.

“My patron saint is Oshum”, says Santa, a 50-something-year-old Mexican woman. “There have been several times when she has performed miracles for me.” She recalls the days when Oshum saved her house from certain fire and burglary.

“We don’t see santería as a religion everyone should practice… and I have heard of cases where priests, with the instruction from oracles, are asked to reject people… usually because they are seeing this as a fashion or some modern thing to attach themselves to, rather than have a real spiritual affinity to," says Shangó.

Mysticism and the occult are everywhere in Mexico: the cult of the dead, the reported apparitions of the Virgin Mary, the recurring altars to Guadalupe, the many elements of superstition. Santería is Africa’s contribution to this hodgepodge, one that, as seen in Cuba, has managed to amalgamate the ancient traditions of the old world with those of the new.