What do I see now?

Having gone through all these steps, I still don’t understand the signs on this loincloth, nor do I understand the exact role that it played in rituals and ceremonies. What I do know is that this loincloth matters to me.

What do I see now? I see a loincloth that was handed over to a Ducth museum by a Creole obiaman in 1962. I see a cloth that is charged with the history of Suriname.

Think about it: slaves were traded for one piece of cloth per slave. Keeping the best fabric in Africa, each slave went aboard wearing the cheapest piece of cloth to cover up their loins. That piece of cloth was the only thing they had, and in between that cloth and the human skin, the winti spirits and gods accompanied the enslaved women and men to Suriname.

Upon arrival in Suriname, the ones that were still alive received a new piece of fabric, right before they were sent into torturous labor on one of the colony’s many plantations. It was not for another one, two or sometimes even three years that a slave would receive a new piece of fabric. Thus, most of the slaves worked on the plantation in clothes that were more holes than fabric. From the moment a slave was sold, to the years on the plantations, a piece of cloth was something precious, but also something that wore off, and something of which there was never enough to save and treasure.

Thus, fabric became the ultimate form of luxury and status among the freed Afro-Surinamese population. Fabric was one of the most important components of the treaties between the Ndyuka and the Dutch colonizers. And all was red, white and blue, from the city of Paramaribo to deep into the rainforest. Gifting loincloths marks the moment that a child becomes an adult.

Cotton cloth became intertwined with the religious life of the Creole and Maroon population of Suriname, with blue being the color used to fight off the Evil Eye (See the linked story below), to fight off evil spirits, and to guide through any process of separation, such as death, mourning, but also birth. See van der Pijl 2007 (This links to the Ampuku winti, the video shows an interpretation of Ampuku's dance, performed by Untold & Black Harmony)

And then, there are the bright, white signs sewn onto a dark background on the loincloth. This heightening of colors also happens to be the summum of beauty for the Creoles and the Maroons: dark skin and white teeth, as color pops on an even background. This stark contrast makes the white stand out for the ancestor spirits that followed the slaves to Suriname.

Eddie Smart sold this loincloth to Ger van Wengen, not knowing that for someone like me, son of a Surinamese father, it would be a very tangible way to reconnect with my roots. When I look at this cloth now, I see birth and death; I see humanity and slavery; I see suffering and healing, safety and danger. But still, there is little about this cloth that I know for sure.

What do you see when you look at this cloth?

Postscriptum

The day after this story went live, a good friend helped me to get this article by Van Wengen: ‘Creools volksgeloof in Suriname’ (Creole popular religion in Suriname), 1967, 1(2) p 17 (Fig. 2). The first paragraph reads:

In March 1966 the National Ethnographic Museum opened its newly arranged Americas-wing. From now on, Suriname will be represented with its own modern and large vitrine. Centerpiece of this vitrine is a mannequin doll. It is dressed in the attire of a Creole religious specialist, the obiaman. The soll is seated between all of the paraphernalia that the obiaman needs to do his work.

It was not this text that caught my first attention: on the right is a picture with the caption “Obiaman”. This must be Eddie Smart, with his loincloth wrapped around his waist. Looking into his eyes, I realize that all the paraphernalia are secondary to Eddie, but as so often happens, the things outlive their owner.