Faith and suffering on the shores of the lake of sorcerers - Part 2/2

How far will suffering take us? Are border situations an important crossroads before going astray? And what role does ritual sacrifice play in all this? I sought answers at a black mass in Catemaco.

WARNING: THE ARTICLE CONTAINS GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF DEATH, SOME MAY FIND THE FOLLOWING PHOTOS AND VIDEOS DISTURBING.

Part 2 – SUFFERING

„Black magic puts in, white magic removes,“ Haciano Cruz, a one-legged vendor of tegogolos on the shores of Lake Catemaco in the town of the same name, explained to me.

In case you're wondering what tegogolos are, they're the local pride and golden fleece - they're snails that live only here on the rocks in the Lake Catemaco and are a renowned delicacy in the town and the region around it. And for some, like Haciano, they are also the only source of income. Next to witchcraft, shamanism, white and black magic.

Haciano, a street vendor and connoisseur of local traditions. (Photo: Václav Lang)

He loaded a cup full of them for me, along with shrimp and salsa, and went on to say, "White magic is used by shamans. Black magic is used by sorcerers."

“That's the difference,” I understood. Haciano nodded.

"And nahual is another thing altogether. Nahual turns into a pig, a bird, a horse, a dog, a lot of things..."

“And then it does harm,” I added.

"Yes. For instance, if someone wishes to prevent his friend from doing business, he will seek out such a person and he will arrange it for him. They take the dirt from a grave and pile it up for the acquaintance's business," the vendor instructed me.

“All this for envy?”

“Exactly!” Haciano almost shouted. Envy, as I mentioned in the first part of this reportage, is taken seriously here.

“And if, on the other hand, you want business to be good for you, you have to have aloe, and you have to add seven pieces of garlic to it, a horseshoe, and seven colored ribbons.”

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It was Thursday, March 6, the last day before the magical portals opened here in Catemaco. At least, that's how the locals tell it. On Friday, the town fills with superstitious people from all over Mexico to seek the help of local shamans and witches on the day their powers are supposedly strongest. And then there's the evening witches' march, which is more of a glamour for the out-of-towners.

In the first part of this report, I showed you how difficult it can be in these parts of the world to tell the authentic from something that's just pretending to be the real thing. I found out that not everyone here who claims to have supernatural abilities is being serious with you. That a lot of people are exploiting the reputation of this place for their own enrichment. That some of the local occultism is just a tourist attraction.

Faith and suffering on the shores of the lake of sorcerers - Part 1

But I also knew that on the night of the first Friday in March, many places held real witchcraft rituals behind closed doors. At least real in that those who participate are deadly serious. And the deadly here applies literally, because killing and blood is part of it.

But how do you find something that by its very nature is meant to remain hidden?

You mustn't be in Mexico. A country where street gossip and connections will get you anywhere you need to.

I tried to write to Alison, the girl from the jungle - if you still remember her - to see if she knew, had any idea... And she did. I didn't even have to wait so long, and she'd already forwarded me an invitation to one of those black masses, to be held somewhere in the backwoods outside the city on Thursday night to Friday.

How important is “the truth”?

Well, the mass... Looking at the video invitation, I rather got the impression that it was inviting the audience to a theatrical performance or a circus. The protagonists were a trio of men and a woman, all dressed in colorful witches' robes and with all sorts of witches' props, to the point where they looked more like a scene from a fantasy movie than someone who would be invoking Satan at a secret convention at night. The video inviting this event could have been screened in a movie theater easily; it had quick cuts, dramatic shots, voiceovers, even drone footage. And at the end of it, information on where and when the mass would be held.

I was perplexed all over again. Shouldn't the black mass be non-public and shouldn't there be some shady figures rather than these well-dressed, good-looking buffoons? Shouldn't it be held in an unknown location and shouldn't the invitation be wrapped in parchment and written in blood? It was clear to me: it must be a tourist trap and they'll just want money.

I was sick of the whole witches' ballast around the Catemaco lagoon. But I also knew I had to bring back some pictures from here. Taking pictures of some local rituals was my chance to not leave the “cradle of witchcraft” empty-handed. After all, I reasoned, the event was happening and I was here to bear witness to it. Whether it's authentic enough, I'll let the reader decide.

Black mass at the Catemaco lake. (Photo: Václav Lang)

According to the invitation, the mass was to take place 10 kilometres from the town of Catemaco, while - if you still remember - I lived another 10 kilometres away on the shore of the lagoon in the village of La Victoria. Which complicated the situation, as I had no idea how I would get back to my accommodation sometime in the middle of the night after a black mass somewhere in the jungle. And how would I even get there?

But I didn't entertain those thoughts just yet; it was sure to be a night full of surprises anyway, and planning its course now was useless. After dinner at a simple homestay in La Victoria, I caught the last pickup going into town and pulled into Catemaco before 8 o'clock. There I had to improvise. Ideally to go somewhere near the taxi drivers and secure a ride into the jungle with the promise of a night pickup. By the way, would you trust anyone in these parts to pick you up in the middle of the night somewhere in the jungle? I had no choice.

But before that, higher powers brought Rodrigo my way. He was standing outside one of the many half-empty restaurants along the boardwalk around the lagoon, offering toritos to passersby. My Achilles heel!

It's an alcoholic invention from the state of Veracruz that could be compared to eggnog or Baileys, but with exotic flavors, often masking more than a small amount of alcohol. I couldn't resist making sure it was homemade.

“Of course, fresh,” Rodrigo nodded, “I make it myself.”

“Can I taste it?”

“That you hesitate!” He plunged his hands into his bag and handed me a full liter bottle.

“Just the cup, that's enough,” I argued. Rodrigo was a little disappointed, but especially found the cups lacking.

“Well, keep an eye on this place for me, I'll run to the market,” the man said, and ran off into the darkness. I was left there alone with his bag full of homemade cocktails for sale.

He finally returned with a stack of plastic cups and poured his drink into one for me. It tasted divine and strong.

Somehow I didn't want to leave him. I had another cup and chatted with Rodrigo about life in Catemaco. Across the street, an oversized poster hung from the terrace of one of the houses inviting me to the black mass I was going to. It had the same figures on it as in Alison's video. My doubts about authenticity were raised again.

But Rodrigo tried to explain to me that it was all part of tradition and local folklore. I wondered if some of the locals were exaggerating a bit to attract tourists. This almost offended Rodrigo. "No, no, no, they are not exaggerating. Look, I'll tell you again: Catemaco is a place that's famous for this culture. Whether we're talking about culture or tradition. The products they offer are part of the Catemaco tradition. A lot of people are looking for that, and you have to respect that."

“It does,” I nodded, "it's just that a lot of people have warned me about charlatans, for example. Or aren't they here?"

"I can answer that exactly: Why? Because a lot of people say what they want to say. And that has to be respected, too. It's all about respect. Everything has to be respected."

That was a bulletproof argument, though, and I preferred not to tease him any further, so I said goodbye and continued down the boardwalk.

Unexpected encounters

Less than two hours remained till the start of the Mass. I still hadn't figured out how to get there. I bought a can of beer and looked out over the lake drowned in darkness. In the distance on its shore, I saw flickering dots of yellow light. A fire, perhaps. The distance didn't suit me too well, but maybe the darkness was distorting. I was almost certain that the fires marked where the night's activities would take place. What else would be going on there on this day?

I figured I'd try to get there. I crossed the boardwalk and, past the last remnants of the development, followed a sort of dirt road along the lake. I felt that this was again the moment when my adventurous expeditions traditionally turn into spectacular disasters. Even though anxiety began to grip me in the darkness, I ordered myself to continue.

In the distance, right on the road, I saw more fires. I was heading towards them. The first one was burning abandoned in the middle of the road. No one was there. Or so I hoped. But at the same time, this desolation made me all the more afraid. Someone must be around, but I can't see them!

I continued on to the next fire in the distance. Suddenly I noticed a movement in my back. I turned and recognized a silhouette in the darkness. There was nothing to do but grit my teeth, keep calm and hope it was just another curious person like me. I continued to the next light in the distance and the shadow followed me.

A replica of an Olmec head I came across in the dark. (Photo: Václav Lang)

When I was within sight of them, I could distinguish a familiar object in the flickering light. A giant boulder with a carved face! The head of the Olmecs! An artifact from pre-Columbian times. Lights from a nearby campfire on the road bounced across the stone face. On the other side, they were letting us know about the silhouettes of a group of people having a bonfire.

I pretended to take a picture of the stone phenomenon. The silhouette in my back continued with me. I greeted the group by the fire and took no further notice of them. Until I heard, “We're from the capital!” announced one of the figures, "I hear there's some sort of black mass going on here. How are we going to get there? Are we going right?"

The Black Mass was not without blood. (Photo: Václav Lang)

Apparently, some person in the group was well acquainted with the local traditions and now he was explaining to them that they were going wrong and that the black mass was happening a little further away. "You have to follow the road and then turn towards the lake. But it's a short distance," said the young man on the scooter. That made me move closer. “You mean the mass of the four witches?” I asked.

The group turned to me. “Yes,” the boy said. "There are several of them around town. But this one you say is still about seven miles away."

“We can go back and get the car and drive there,” the Mexicans from the capital suggested.

The higher powers probably wanted me not to miss this event. “Would you have room for one more?” I asked.

“Sure!”

“Great, let's go!”

“What about your buddy,” they asked, pointing to the shadow that had emerged from the darkness where he had followed me, now also inspecting the Olmec head, only to disappear again without a word.

“That's not my buddy,” I said, “he just followed me the whole time.”

“Strange,” someone in the group remarked.

Together we returned to town, where we bought three cartons of beer. A guy on a scooter informed us that the entrance to the mass was free, but it would be nice to bring an offering for Santa Muerte. "She likes alcohol. Or drugs," he instructed us. Then the four of us - me, three other guys and one girl - headed northeast along the lake shore.

After about a quarter of an hour of driving, we found a turn off the main road leading somewhere unknown. We pulled off the road and followed this unlit trail descending to the lake. Soon it became a ready-made tankodrome, and we were bouncing around inside a big sedan, packed in like sardines, with cartons of beer under our feet. There was no doubt we were on the right track, the worse part was arriving at the finish line in one piece.

Finally, we saw a house lit up with neon lights and cars parked in front of it and a swarming crowd of people. We parked and went to join the others. So far, it looked more like we had arrived at some private rave party where soon the snorting and mass banging would begin. This house in the jungle didn't look like just any house, but a large multifunctional villa with a garden. Not just anyone in Mexico owns one of these.

An excerpt from a video report I took that night (you can find the full video in the exclusive section of the article):

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