#kimbisa

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Outside of Cuba, Palo is generally called Palo Mayombe ; however, this is a misnomer since not all lineages and houses are truly Mayombe – in fact, most are not. To my knowledge there is only one (perhaps a couple) Munanzo outside of Cuba that are accepted as a true Mayombe houses amongst the elders on the Island.

In Cuba, “Palo Monte” is used far more frequently to speak to the entire body of Regla-Kongo Palo tradition. Other terms such as Palo Cruzado (‘crossed palo’, denoting heavy syncretization with other religions), Palo Cristiano (‘Christian palo’) and Palo Judio (‘Jewish palo’, not actually jewish, but simply non-Christian) deserve a brief mention. However, these are not specific ramas of Palo, but rather terms that are used to denote the degree of syncretism and mixing in individual lineages and practices.

There are many houses (munansos) and foundational lineages (ramas) of Palo Monte, but commonly they are understood to fit within three major  forms or sub ‘reglas’ within the greater Regla-Kongo:

Mayombe

Biyumba (Vrillumba o Brillumba)

Kimbiza

Palo Mayombe is the oldest and most orthodox form of Palo. The origins trace back to a specific Nkisi cult in the Mayombe region of Cabinda (NW Congo) from where it gets its name and the tradition came into its own in the caves and wilderness of the Pinar del Rio highlands of Cuba. Mayomberos typically shun away from syncretism and are extremely orthodox in our practices. The most well known of the Mayombe houses are the houses of “Batalla Saca Empeño” and “Bejuco Nfinda”.

Palo Biyumba developed out of Palo Mayombe and rose in popularity during Cuba’s war of Independence. It was the first regla to initiate people of non-Bantu ancestry and frequently worked with and developed pacts with dead spirits of no particular blood or spiritual lineage (often times to send them out for warring intentions). It is a vast regla and has many ramas and sub-lineages. Indeed, a great number of houses today are some offshoot of Biyumba. Broadly speaking, Palo Biyumba is more oriented toward the various mpungos and over time some lineages have introduced a degree of syncretization with elements of Ocha and Catholicism.

Palo Kimbisa was popular on the eastern side of the Cuban island and has absorbed many influences from Catholicism to Freemasonry to Haitian Vodou. Kimbisa likely originated within an already syncretized Catholic-Kongo religious tradition from the Kingdom of Kongo following Kimpa Vita’s Christian reform in the 18th C. In Kimbisa the mpungos are paramount and are seen as divinities and saints. Thus, Kimbiseros will venerate the mpungos and focus much of their work calling upon them, instead of upon the dead. The most well known Kimbisa rama is Andrés Petit’s La Regla Kimbisa de Santo Cristo del Buen Viaje.

The Kimbisa prendas/ngangas I have seen also tend to be huge in comparison to Mayombe. Although my elders have reassured me that there are Kimbisa prendas that are built almost identical to Mayombe as there is more variance per house/lineage than across the greater sub-reglas. It is also common to see Kimbisa (as well as Briyumba) prendas with crucifixes. Moreover, many Kimbiseros and Biymberos will make a distinction between prendas judias or prendas ndoki(those without crucifixes and containing the bones of non-baptized individuals) used to curse, kill, and other malefica; and prendas cristianas (with cross and baptized nfumbe) used to heal and general benefica. This distinction does not appear in Mayombe.

Assortment of now defunct/dormant Briyumba Ngangas on display in the Museo Municipal de Regla

Eleggua

Keep me away from everything that is not good for me, even when I think that's what I want or what I'm looking for.

Close all those roads and doors that take me away from my purpose, my place and my goal.

Take my hand, guide my steps and take me by the light to success, prosperity and joy!

La Regla Kimbisa del Santo Cristo del Buen Viaje

Descarga PDF: la regla kimbisa del santo cristo del buen viaje lydia cabrera

We are everywhere. We are in your homes, your workplaces, your churches, covens, iles and yes, your munansos. We have been beaten, robbed, stabbed, and shot. We have been snuffed, silenced and mocked. Our blood is on the walls and floors of the only safe spaces we have. We risk everything–literally everything–just to love our partners and live our truths, and we continue to do so despite the awful violence being visited upon us. Ask yourselves: is this not what warriors do?

I am a transgender queer man who is in a relationship with another man. And, I am a Palero. I am unashamed of who I am and what I am. I am strong in myself and in my ancestors. I (along with so many others like me) have fought and endured a lot to live and love my truth. Contrary to popular images of hexing, blood and violence, my elders taught me that to be a Palero is to be a healer; to minister to the living and to the dead. Now more than ever we as spirit-workers need to step up to the plate, light our fires and raise our voices. We need to be as lions roaring in the night, broadcasting our truths, amplifying the voices of the living and the dead who have been silenced by violence and prejudice, in whichever hideous form it takes (racism, homophobia, transphobia, misogyny, etc).

Part of what makes a warrior is one's ability to step outside of one's comfort zone. People all too often fear what they don't understand, and Yoda was very correct that this line of thinking only leads to violence and suffering. So much suffering could be avoided if we spent more time trying to understand one another. The tragedy in Orlando should not be further dividing us along lines of religion or gender or skin color, it should unite us. It's so much easier to harm than it is to heal. But this is the duty that has been left us. We cannot let fear, cowardice and the actions of the broken and corrupted control us.

So yes, light candles and say prayers, but go one step further.  Take to the streets, extend a hand, be there for someone.  To all of my queer sisters and brothers: You are not alone.  You matter.  Your life has meaning and value.  Stand strong in your ancestors and spirits, keep the faith, and reach out.  And know that you are not alone, because we are everywhere.

I rarely have anything serious to complain about in my life, but today was a rough day.  The hearing for my cousin’s murderer was today.  Long story short, he’ll essentially walk.  To add insult to injury, I’m sick with some sort of crud I likely picked up at work, so I’m off for a couple days (thankfully I have a massive amount of sick leave accrued).  On top of it all, my bank is late depositing my check in my account.  It’s one of ‘those’ days.  Times like this it’s easy to sit around and stew in impotent rage, mope, or feel sorry for yourself.  I think I transited all those phases today.  Then I turn on the news or look online, and it’s a long slew of political posts and bathroom bill rants and generally humans being awful to each other.  It’s hard to feel positive or upbeat.  I question my faith, and feel like the whole world has gone mad around me.  So I need to fix this somehow.  I’ve decided to tell a story.  It’s a true story, and I hope in the telling it may bring someone else who’s having a bad day a smile, or some sort of kernel of hope.  I summon up this memory when I’m feeling down, and it never ceases to bring me a smile.

First, a bit of background: I live on the east coast, just a little bit inland from the Chesapeake Bay.  The bay is like a second home to me.  I’ve been speaking to the bay since I was a small child, playing in her waters, eating her bounty.  I called her Mother, and thinking back on it, after initiating into Palo, how ironic that would all come be.  My family had a wooden boat, an Owens Cabin Cruiser, and I’d spend many weekends at the marina with my father working long hours on the boat, playing along the docks, or cruising the bay.  I’d sit at the bow of the boat with my feet dangling in the porthole, because there it felt like I was a shorebird, skimming the water.  I was both flying, and at the same time one with Her. 

One day while we were out cruising the bay, we encountered an enormous ship cruising into port.  It was a merchant freighter, one of the largest of its kind.  A floating city; each one of its propellers the size of our house (a 2-story).  To this day it was the largest machine I’d ever seen up close.  I was awestruck.  My father gradually guided our craft closer, but it was a dangerous gamble, as our little toy boat could get dragged by the wake of this great leviathan.  We drew up to the port side of the ship, and looking straight up, the hull looked like an enormous wall shooting straight up into the sky.  But at the very top of this wall I could perceive dark faces and people moving about.  This ship had come from the African continent, and who knows how long it had been since the crew had seen other human faces other than their own, after being out in the open sea for so long.  For my young self, it was like seeing people from another world.  But see....that was the magic of the Chesapeake.  That was our Mother.  She was a liminal space where people from all over the world could meet.  I remember standing up on the bow of the boat and waving and waving.  To my surprise and delight, the crew looking over the side broke into smiles and waved back. 

I wonder how I must have looked to them, perhaps like some tiny monkey clinging to the front of a little toy boat.  But I wanted more.  I thrust my tiny hand in the air, making a fist at them, then pulled it down, gesturing someone pulling on a lever.  I wanted them to blow their ship’s horn.  For awhile I gestured, until one by one they left the port side of the ship, disappearing into it’s fast depths, presumably to return to their duties.  Several minutes passed.  Alright, I recall my father saying.  Show’s over.  For a ship of that size, blowing the horn on a whim was something that wasn’t done.  My heart sank, but I understood.  My dad started the engine, and made to angle the boat back out and away from the ship.

Then it happened.

The sound slammed down on us like a hammer, vibrating throughout the bay and bellowing through the air, drowning out the sound of other boat engines, the calling of the birds, our own voices.  It made a long blast and several shorter ones.  What I recall is a feeling that I can only express as utter joy and ecstasy.  I was laughing and crying at the same time, I threw my arms wide, looking like the character Jack from that “I’m king of the world!” scene from the Titanic.  And then there they were--smiling faces, laughing, dancing and jumping up and down and waving.  I waved back.  I bounced, I cried, I shouted.  And it was there, that singular moment, where people from across the world connected.  For them to break protocol in order to bring joy to a strange kid on a boat whom they’d never met and would never see again, it was at once paradoxically such a small and yet such an immense gesture. 

To this day I’ve not forgotten their kindness or their smiling faces.  But now that I’m much older I think about this and compare it to a darker time hundreds of years ago, when Africans sailed into the Chesapeake Bay not as merchants, but as chattel.  I compare that time to what happened when I was a child, and what a strange dichotomy it is.  But it’s one that gives me hope.  I think about the magic that is the Chesapeake, and I think about how strangers from another part of the world performed an act of kindness for a kid they would only ever see in passing.  I think about it over twenty years later, and I still smile.  It’s a precious memory, one of many such gems I keep tucked away in my heart.  But it’s also a learning experience.  When I find myself becoming too bitter, I summon up that memory, and I smile.