Voodoo Taboo Part Two

After the Caribbean island minivan almost crashed into the ditch and the sugar cane that was rushing by, our driver regained her composure enough to place the speeding Chrysler back on all four wheels.

Our driver appeared as if in shock, and obviously not only because of the near mishap on the narrow and lonely roadway. With everyone in the minivan in a tacit of recovering calm, we could not fail to notice the eyes of our driver as she anxiously searched the rearview mirror for the man in the top hat and tuxedo that our Marco Beach Girl described as the island undertaker.

As the Chrysler continued to gain speed over the deserted road, a sudden pothole shook the minivan back into reality, brought our driver back from the brink of panic, and prompted our Marco Beach Girl onto the road of inquiry.

“Tell us what it means?” Our Girl who saw the undertaker demanded in a determined voice. “Tell us about the man and the sunglasses and the walking stick. The dark man with the top hat and the dusty tuxedo with tails. The man I believe was the island undertaker.”

“Oh, my lady,” our shaken driver began speaking over her shoulder as she continued to drive.  “Most of these islands have an old adage, you see. We islanders are ninety percent Catholic, ten percent Protestant, but one hundred percent Voodoo. In modern times, the old Voodoo is rare but also very taboo. The man you saw at the sugar mill was indeed the island undertaker. He is a very bad man and he is thriving wherever we find dread, danger, and doubt. He is always placing a lot of pressure on the mind of every islander. He is the old Voodoo man that never gets older.  He can cast a spell and make the steel drums sing a tune that no one wants to hear—but you are compelled to listen to the haunting anyway. He is in the lonely places with dread. He is only found when he wants to follow. He dwells in the shadow, never in the sun, but his walking stick can go anywhere as his tool and scepter. My old granny says the orb atop the walking stick is a rough diamond, and all who have tried to steal the glowing gem are now zombies that can never find the peace of the grave. It is said the Voodoo man’s walking stick is always hungry and goes walking alone.”

When her chilling tale was complete, everyone in the Chrysler shivered, including our driver, but she held on tight to her command of the vehicle. After another few moments of bouncing in silence along the island roadway, we topped a rise after climbing out of another valley of the endless sugarcane. Shining before us was the deep blue Caribbean Sea. As we descended toward the sandy rim of beaches and the volcanic greenery of the little mountains, a hook of land reached into the sea to embrace an old fort with crumbling ramparts.

As we reached the coast and were rumbling alongside the breaking waves of the sea, our driver punched in the button for music on the stereo. When the peeling and melancholy notes of steel drums began, she abruptly punched the button again and the sound of rushing wind and road noise replaced another awkward silence.

When at last, the minivan came to a stop and the doors were open, we were once again bustling into the colorful mainstream of island life in a very old harbor-side village. Our driver agreed to meet us back at the Chrysler in two hours’ time, and when another islander led us up a steep cobblestone path from the colonial settlement to the fort at the end of the harbor’s hook, we were taken aback by the windswept view. 

The military force of the colonial pioneers certainly knew their business. A formidable artillery barrage would never again offer a report from the large rusting cannon pointed seaward, but at the peak of the colonial conquests, the strategic placement of the battlements would have indeed offered a high protection for the harbor, the town, and the slave market that was once a thriving entity far below.

With the gusting wind, a claw at our every feature, we crossed over the top of the stone works and finally regained the ground where our driver and the Chrysler minivan were waiting. Apparently, in our absence, the lovely lady, who was our driver, was determined to make amends. Upon climbing aboard the Chrysler, we were welcomed with the cheerful sounds of Reggae music coming from the aforementioned stereo. We cruised along the beautiful coast road on the way back to the ship, and as we rode over the island thoroughfare, there was no mention of the dread, the desolate sugar cane valleys, or of the haunting rum factory and sugar mill that was most certainly a ghost town.

As we rolled into the harbor and saw our ship, our creepy altercation from earlier in the afternoon was something we all knew would be the topic for cocktail hour and beyond. Saying goodbye to our very special taxi driver was unforgettable, and when our lovely lady shed a brief shower of tears after hugs and a gratuity, the frozen moment was something none of us would forget.

Aboard the cruise ship at sunset, a steel drum band was playing and the haunting melody was tugging at all our thoughts. When the forlorn chorus came to a finish, we were suddenly aware of another three couples that were having a boatload of cocktails at the table next to ours. One of the men was boasting loudly about his newly acquired souvenir from earlier in the day. “I’m telling you,” the older man began, “We took this broken-down taxi from the town and drove over the mountains into a valley with a wrecked rum factory. Our taxi driver was the strangest dude ever. He was a tall dark Caribbean man with big sunglasses. He was wearing this old-style threadbare tuxedo with tails, and when he was not driving the taxi, he wore a top hat. He reminded me of some kind of eerie undertaker. He was a scary old man and the weird thing was wherever he drove, a dark cloud seemed to follow the car. When he dropped us off, I offered him five dollars in cash as a tip, but he just shook his head and gave me his walking stick. He insisted I take it. It really is a cool stick with some kind of crazy crystal on the top. Funny thing is I know I dropped it off in my stateroom but now I can’t find it. I’m not worried, because I know it has to be somewhere on the ship. After all, what’s it going to do - walk around by itself?”