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The sun was just peeking over the rooftops of a Havana neighborhood near La Plaza de la Revolución as Hiroshi, our tour guide–turned–spiritual guide, led us back to Marco’s house. Marco, the babalao of Hiroshi’s religious community, had scheduled a Santeria ceremony for me just hours before my return to the United States. A few days earlier, my friend Colleen and I had gone to Marco’s house for a consulta to assess the energies in my life. After throwing a bowl of stones and bones, he prescribed the sacrifice of a goat, a chicken and a savage rat. Since I’m not a practitioner of their faith, I asked if it was appropriate for me to participate in that ceremony. Marco, Hiroshi and Marco’s assistant shrugged off my concerns, assuring me that it would be better to follow Marco’s advice than to risk the consequences of skipping the ceremony. In typical Cuban fashion, once we arrived at Marco’s house we waited a few hours, watching Univision on the flatscreen TV. Eventually, we saw Marco, Hiroshi and Marco’s assistant haul in a goat, its front and back legs tied together. Finally, Hiroshi beckoned for us to go into Marco’s office. It didn’t have much furniture, but the accoutrements of Marco’s professional and daily life crowded the room. Altars lined one wall, a machete and a few knives hung on another and a cell phone charged on a wall outlet. Marco’s assistant carried the goat in and laid it near my feet. Hiroshi held the chicken upside down by its legs. A white sack that contained what I guessed to be the savage rat jumped around on the floor. The ceremony began. Marco chanted and Hiroshi and Marco’s assistant chimed in at different points. Marco intoned the words in an African dialect with the same efficient familiarity the pastor used for communion rites at my childhood church. Although the experience at Marco’s seemed so foreign to me, it didn’t faze the men in the room and clearly the neighbors didn’t mind. After a few minutes of chanting, Marco drew out a knife while his assistant wrestled open the jumping white sack. The assistant swore and drew back his hand. “It bit me!” He closed the sack and Marco jabbed it with the knife. The jumping stopped. The chanting resumed. Hiroshi brought the chicken over to me and passed it up and down my body, rubbing the feathers on my arms, legs, back and stomach. He handed it to me and told me to hold it. With no warning about what was going to happen next, he took a swig of liquor, stepped behind me, spun me around to face him and spat it in my face. While I blinked the alcohol out of my eyes, Marco’s assistant took the chicken back and Marco stabbed it and put it in a plastic bag. The goat was still laying on its side, its head resting near my feet. Hiroshi had assured me before we began that the goat would be cooked and shared with the whole neighborhood at a block party barbecue. I tried to focus on that as Marco’s assistant approached the goat. I closed my eyes, prayed for forgiveness, and opened them only after hearing the goat’s soft final moan. Marco concluded with another chant. Hiroshi ushered us out the door and into a waiting, royal blue 50s Chevrolet. Marco handed me the plastic bag with the chicken and Hiroshi told me we had to throw it into a forest. We were in the middle of Havana, but the driver seemed to know exactly where to find a cluster of trees. I tossed the bag into the “forest,” noticing a few other sacks scattered around the trees. We grabbed our things from our casa particular, I washed my face and hands and then we headed to the airport. I will never know if that ceremony saved me from negative energies or if the orishas were satisfied with my offering. But I will always be grateful to Marco and Hiroshi for giving me a chance to try.