Baba Who? Babalú!

Again and again, Babalú-Ayé appears in close association with dogs. But he is not alone, as other orichas also include these universal animals. We deliver scraps to the curbside after major ceremonial meals, where dogs feast, thus placating Echu so “he will give us food,” as an elderly priestess once explained to me. Ochosi, the hunter, also includes two small dogs in his tools, and Ogún is said to eat dog in Nigeria. I have even heard Cuban elders recount a ceremony no longer performed, where Erinle eats dog. The natural habits of the dog are instructive. Living in the house in close relationship with people, the dog always wants to go into the street. Beyond the street and into the forest, the dog senses what cannot be seen to chase down game or lead its owner back to town. Crossing domains and capable of great aggression when necessary, the dog also licks open wounds on itself and people around it. In many places, people believe that the saliva of dogs actually heals in some way

Most Lucumí lineages give Babalú-Ayé with very simple “tools” inside his vessel. Usually, he takes two metal dogs and two metal crutches. These items are washed along with the other fundamentos and stay inside the vessel, forming an important part of the altar. Although most Arará lineages seal their Asojano vessels, they too see the crutches as one of his most common attributes. While the imagery seems to come directly from the chromolithograph of Saint Lazarus, it does open up a new way of understanding the deity. The road, or manifestation, of Babalú called Joto Sojuca is said to be responsible for illnesses in the legs. Elders say he is the ancestor of the güira , a kind of gourd tree, and he lives in two closed gourds. Naturally, he takes crutches too. Unable to move unassisted, Babalú-Ayé must support himself externally to stay upright and mobile. He can march forward confidently. Casting the crutches forward, his shoulders ache as he lifts his weight up. His feet drag as

On the way to Rincón, pilgrims move along the road in the dark. Often you cannot see them, but the sounds they make are unforgettable, if hard to describe. People drag themselves across the asphalt, scraping their clothes and their flesh against the hard pavement as they lurch forward. The huge effort of dragging their own dead weight makes them pant or gasp when they rest. Bleeding from open wounds on their hands and legs, they sometimes moan as they push on. The groaning in the darkness makes your skin crawl. The mute and private quality of this pain is hard to escape. The body suffers mutely or at least without words, as author Elaine Scary has pointed out in her book, Bodies in Pain . Because pain is an internal experience, it is impossible to make reference to shared or objective features. Words for this pain or the suffering of illness are hard to find, but not impossible. People do talk about what is happening to them, if only in short sentences: “It hurts.” “My knees are b