As the Mississippi sun glints through the coloured glass on the bottle tree, I think about the haints. I’ve been told that the “tree” has been built to catch these dark spirits and protect those who sleep here from their mischief and malice. I’ve heard how the scribbles and sketches that cover the walls in the shack where I’m staying are there to confuse the haints, and that there may be a kitchen colander placed in the ceiling so they get distracted by the holes. The door to my bedroom is painted “haint blue” – a shade designed to make the spirits think they’ve reached sky or water, and will continue on their way rather than swoop through the home.
I’m deep in the Mississippi delta, a land of superstition and mysticism. Where local lore, long-held traditions and spiritualism seep through the swamps, fields and towns. It’s a region that has seen hardship, tragedy and tales of unimaginable cruelty, but it is also where resistance grew, resilience persisted and cultures flourished in harsh conditions. After all, this region fostered one of the world’s greatest music movements; in Clarksdale where I’m gazing warily at the bottle trees, blues runs through the veins of the city, played late into the night at juke joints, rising from record players in bars, and drifting off front porches.
