“Everything we do, comes back”

I’m on a train heading towards González Catán, a small town on the outskirts of Buenos Aires. I’m going there to attend a “limpieza” ritual (purification ritual) officiated by a devotee of San la Muerte. I had already met this person, E., during an interview in one of the many coffee shops along Avenida 9 de Julio. I asked if it would be possible to attend a ritual as a researcher, and E. was immediately open to the idea. He explained that in addition to private rituals, he officiates other types of rituals that I could attend, and he suggested I come to his home for the year-end purification ritual. This is a ritual he performs for all devotees who wish it, and for this purpose, they provide him with a photo of family members or friends, so that E., through the ritual, can ward off negative energies from them and thus propitiate the start of the new year.

At the train station, E. greets me with a smile, holding his one-and-a-half-year-old son, G., in his arms. The landscape outside the capital shocks me every time. Next to a car, a horse trots, pulling a wooden cart, while half-naked children run through the muddy streets. At E.’s house, I’m welcomed by his wife, R., and their five children. The house has four rooms and light blue, peeling walls, while a small Christmas tree stands precariously in front of an altar to San la Muerte (figure 1).

They show me in, and in the best Argentine tradition, we start our conversation sipping good mate. Just one cup, one bombilla (straw)—the epitome of sharing. The cup passes from hand to hand, almost acting as a witness to the unfolding conversation.

E. patiently and exhaustively answers all my dilemmas. A new universe, ripe for exploration, is unfolding before me—a universe where the line between good and evil is as thin as a sheet of paper, and where the concept of morality, of what’s right or wrong, gets lost in a scale of grays where black and white don’t exist. E. poses a question to me: “Someone asks me to officiate a ritual to heal a cancer patient, and another asks me for a venganza (vengeance) ritual. Which would you consider the good action and which the bad?” I answer, laughing, expecting the trap that will follow—”But what if I told you the cancer patient is a person of bad reputation, and the person asking for vengeance is a mother of a raped daughter? Where is the good, where is the evil? San la Muerte is not good, he is not bad; San la Muerte is just, but severe with those who err, and his devotees know that todo lo que hacemos, vuelve (everything we do, comes back).”

Only now do I begin to understand why, if some popular devotions in Argentina are, if not recognized, at least accepted by the Church (like the devotion of the Gaucho, for example), the normalization of the practices and beliefs of the devotion to San la Muerte is made more difficult by the strong moral ambiguity of this figure.

We have dinner, the children go to bed, and around the red table remain E., his wife R., their twenty-year-old daughter, and me. E. tells me he’ll need them as helpers, especially for the preparation of the ritual, which will be longer than the ritual itself. I ask if his wife and daughter also officiate rituals. R. tells me yes, and E. interjects, saying that sometimes, rituals officiated by female devotees of San la Muerte can be more effective because, and I quote him directly, “the Saint is jealous of his women.” M., however, tells me no, she’s not a devotee; she only practices Umbanda, which leaves me a bit perplexed. When I ask why, she tells me she respects the Saint but isn’t a devotee because tiene miedo (she’s afraid). I point out that I’ve been told Umbanda sometimes involves animal sacrifices and that rituals can be performed for genuinely malevolent purposes. Therefore, it’s hard for me to understand how an Umbanda ritual, which involves the possession of officiants by spirits and animal sacrifices, could inspire less fear.

E. explains that this is precisely the point. In Umbanda, with an animal sacrifice, the entities “are happy,” and the problem ends there. In the case of San la Muerte, however, the sacrifice is personal. Umbanda obligations are limited to a few simple practices, while with the Saint, one must make compromises, such as seven-day fasts, prayers, offerings, and thus the responsibility is greater. For this reason, E. states, it’s easier to work with Umbanda than with the Saint, as the former requires less personal energy expenditure.

Meanwhile, M. and her mother busy themselves around the room; my watch shows 10:17 PM. Tonight, E. will officiate a spiritual “rito de limpieza”, a purification from negative energies for all those who have requested it and who, for this purpose, have provided him with a photo of the interested subjects (which, for privacy reasons, I am naturally not allowed to see).

The two women begin to move all the furniture to create a central space in the living room and clean the floor. E. continues talking to me in the meantime. M. hands him a cigarette—he’s not a smoker, he tells me, but he smokes a lot during rituals as part of the preparation; indeed, smoking, like drinking alcohol, is considered a practice for channeling energy. San la Muerte rituals can be officiated in houses adequately adapted for this purpose, like E.’s, where the perimeter is protected by amulets buried at the corners of the dwelling (his wife smiles, telling me I have nothing to fear inside).

Night is preferred over day for a simple matter of tranquility, although specific hours are associated with certain rituals. The three change their clothes, putting on clean, more comfortable attire, and take off their shoes. E.’s wife places three small plates with cones of food on a shelf (figure 2). It’s explained to me that these are mashed potatoes. Raw spicy meat is added to one of the cones, and another is sprinkled with a red spice. The food offerings serve to attract the Saint’s energy, but the dishes also vary depending on the person officiating the ritual. Elbio’s wife, for example, prefers to use sweet food like candies or jams, but the use of sweet, savory, or bitter also depends on what is being requested, E. tells me. But what happens to the food at the end of the ritual? I ask. Being a “rito de limpieza”, the negative energies will be removed and concentrated in the food; therefore, the food will subsequently be buried in a field to prevent anyone from touching it, or worse, eating it.

M. steps outside with a type of censer filled with dried herbs to trace the perimeter of the house and then the perimeter of the living room. The purifying smoke is passed around everyone present, including me. E. begins to draw on the floor. He’s using a piece of white volcanic rock chalk, he explains to me. “Pomice?” I ask hesitantly, unsure if the Italian word sounds exactly like its Spanish counterpart. “Pemba,” he replies. E. draws a five-pointed star inscribed within a circle. I get up, curious, to observe more closely. E. finishes tracing what he literally calls “the portal,” with a XIII in Roman numerals at the center of the star—the cabalistic number of death—and two small scythes, one at the bottom left and one at the top right, symbols of good and evil (figure 4).

The ritual circle is completed by placing three statuettes on top of the star. There’s San la Muerte in red, seated on a throne, San la Muerte in black with a scythe in hand, and in the center, San la Muerte in black and white holding up the world. In front of these are placed the food offerings, along with drinks, the candles, and a glass of vinegar with an egg submerged in it, also meant to absorb the negative energy that will be removed. The ritual circle is now complete. His wife and daughter turn off the lights and sit on the couch while E., seated in front of the circle, smiles at us:

“Ciao, me voy (bye, I’m going).”

E. looks at the photos one by one while calmly continuing to smoke; I think he’s already gone through an entire pack. Next to him is a bottle of gin, from which he occasionally takes a sip, sometimes spitting it out (figure 5).