A few years ago I took a Caribbean cruise. It was a Carnival cruise and the ship docked in New Orleans. I had one day to explore this City. OMG! What a wild time.
Yes, Bourbon Street is wild and wooly and stinky. Beads are thrown, bare breasts are flashed. (not mine, of course). The Howl at the Moon bar was packed and the music blared. Howl at the Moon bar may no longer be on Bourbon Street which would be unfortunate because I had a great time at that place. Howl at the Moon. How ironic. Who would’ve guessed then I would write a book called the Daughter of the Howling Moon? Coincidence? There be no such things.
Of course being a fan of the paranormal and a tarot card reader as well, I wanted to go to every Voodoo shop I could find. I confess, I know nothing about Voodoo and I don’t really want to learn. Voudoun is a religion that is best left to the people who know what they’re doing. However, what I do know, I find fascinating.
My first Voodoo shop was my last. Not because I was scared. The people I was with were. The first hint of their cowardliness came before we even crossed the threshold into the shop. A zombie complete with long barbed-wire dreadlocks and a bone through his nose sat on an apple crate at the door. I bee-bobbed right past him thinking it was a manikin put there for atmosphere and to draw the tourists in. Ignorance is bliss. (Sometimes) Anyway, bone-through-the-nose reached out and touched my friend who jumped a foot and damn near peed his pants. Well, you know me. I laughed so hard I about peed mine as well.
The shop was packed with curious tourists all as ignorant as me where Voodoo is concerned. There were love potions, protection potions, little voodoo dolls with pins, all the usual crap that tourists like me eat up with a spoon. There was also an altar with a sign that said, “Do Not Touch Anything on the Altar.” Well, the guy who the zombie almost ate apparently couldn’t read because he touched the altar. In a blind panic he came running to me saying he’d broken something on the altar and what did that mean? Are you serious?
Deadpanned, I backed away for him and said, “You’re cursed, dumb-ass,that’s what it means. Get the hell away from me.”
Yet again, I almost peed my pants as he flew out of the store, back to the hotel, with not even a “good by” thrown at Zombie boy at the door.
I didn’t see any gris-gris bags. What are they? Ah, read the Daughter of the Howling Moon and find out. Deputy Sheriff Benjamin Sol owes his life to one.
Gris-Gris bags. Don’t leave home without one!