Magic most fowl in Congo

IN Congo, voodoo is very much like house insurance. Not everyone believes disaster will strike, but it's good to have protection, writes Vanessa Woods.

First find your chicken ... it's a prime ingredient for Congo voodoo / Reuters

WHEN I was eight, there was this boy, Owen, who used to throw rocks at me after school.

Every afternoon he would be there waiting and every morning I would sit in class and wish his various body parts would fall off. My curse never worked, but little did I know I didn't have the right equipment.

"You need a chicken," says Serge, whom I have just met in Pointe Noire, Republic of Congo. "To do a good curse, you must have a chicken."

In Congo, voodoo is very much like house insurance. Not everyone believes disaster will strike, but it's good to have protection, just in case.

The religion of voodoo began not far from Congo with the Fong We tribe of Benin and has some 30 million followers throughout West Africa.

"Do you want one of those?" Guyar points to a writhing mass of fat grubs for sale. We are in Pointe Noire's main market, and Guyar is trying to make sure I don't get lost. We squeeze between the stalls and weave in and out of the merchandise. Anything you want from chicken heads to Chanel bags can be found here at the Grande Marchet.

He pulls me away from the grubs just as the woman selling them plunges her hand in and stuffs a clump into a plastic bag.

All of a sudden, out of nowhere a woman leaps out and screeches: "I will have my witchdoctor put a spell on you!"

Feeling a little like Dorothy in Oz, I wonder if the doctor is a good witch or a bad witch. Guyar guides me from the market into the blazing sunlight and we head down to the beach for a more relaxing afternoon.

Pointe Noire is a port town and the beaches continue in both directions as far as the eye can see.

We pull up a chair with the locals at one of the restaurants, which is really just tables and chairs on the sand, and watch the families enjoying a quiet Sunday on the beach. As the breeze blows in from the Atlantic, the waiters bring us our freshly caught sole covered in chilli sauce.

"So Guyar," I say as the fish melts in my mouth. "Are there really witchdoctors in Congo?"

"Ah, we have so many," comes the reply. "In Pointe Noire there are a lot, because of the mermaids. The witchdoctors are the only ones who can speak to them. You can see them at night on the beach."

"The mermaids?"

"No, the witchdoctor. You cannot see the mermaids. If you see them, you will go mad."

It is a good beach for mermaids, especially a little further north towards the Koulu River. Here the human population dwindles and vast stretches of deserted beach disappear into one of the biggest and wildest forests in the world: the Congo basin.

The last frontier of wilderness, the Congo basin is home to many strange and unusual creatures. Mermaids on the beach? Not impossible.

"So mermaids and witchdoctors," I say. "What do they talk about?"

Apparently, for small requests like say, putting a minor curse on someone who throws rocks at you after school, the witchdoctor can usually manage on his own. For bigger requests, like a large amount of money, the witchdoctor has to call in aquatic reinforcements. Mermaids have a price, however: your soul.

"These mermaids," I say carefully. "Are they black or white?"

"They are pale like you."

"No," says the waitress walking past our table. "They are black, like us."

That's black magic for you ...