COVER STORY : The Rites of the Ancient Ones : Spiritualists Are Often Regarded as Charlatans, but to Practitioners a Visit to a <i> Curandero </i> Is as Spiritual as a Sunday Church Service.

In a small space between a sandwich shop and beauty salon on Vernon Avenue in South-Central sits Bijou’s Store, where scores of troubled and hopeful souls seek spiritual counseling.

Bijou was born in Zaire with what she calls a “spiritual gift.” In her candle-lit shrine filled with the smoke of burning incense, she prays with her clients, prepares herbal remedies, lights candles and reads from the Bible as she counsels them in their daily struggles.

One client, Ritzi Arzu, said she had nightmares that would not let up until she sought out Bijou seven years ago. “We pray and my spirit talks too,” said Arzu, 30, who visits Bijou weekly. “I go into trances and I make riddles. She’s like my mother because she counsels me. When I come here and I talk to her, I feel very peaceful.”

From Huntington Park to South-Central, East Los Angeles and Pico-Union, residents like Arzu flock to spiritualists, curanderos , faith healers and Santeros to perform centuries-old rituals brought from Mexico, Central America, the Caribbean and Africa.

Among those unfamiliar with the mystery-shrouded ceremonies, spiritualists are often regarded as little more than charlatans preying on an unsuspecting, and generally poor, populace. But to practitioners of the rituals, a visit to a curandero is as deeply moving, spiritual and serious as a Sunday service is to the faithful in mainstream religions.

“In the old days, you’d go to your medicine man and he’d rub this oil, or light this candle or say this prayer and that was it,” said Michael Orta, whose family owns two botanicas called Nina Religion in Pico-Union and distributes supplies used in rituals to similar outlets throughout the country from a warehouse in Huntington Park.

“Here . . . it’s all doctors, medical centers and ambulances,” he said, standing amid rows of candles, oils, herbs and beads. “It’s a completely different world.”

But in cities like Los Angeles, the mixture of Western, African and meso-American cultures has led to a cross-pollination of sorts. Bijou, for example, recited the Lord’s Prayer while preparing to counsel a first-time visitor recently.

Seated in a large brown recliner covered with white lace, her lap draped with a white sheet, Bijou, with outstretched arms, instructed her new client to relax. Moving into a trance-like state, she called on God to help him. Her head jerked back as if she had been seized by a spirit and in a resounding tone she cried: “Satan, I cast you out!”

Bijou then quickly reached for a bottle of scented rubbing alcohol and applied it to the hands of the visitor. She then instructed him to write his name, birth date, telephone number and address on the back of a white envelope. In the ensuing silence, she frantically scribbled on the envelope and started to tell the visitor about his life and how past troubles affect his present struggles.

Despite the hybrid nature of the practices of many spiritualists, they are often disregarded because they operate without sanction from the religious and medical establishments. But many believers, especially those from Latino communities, are devout Catholics who say they gain a spiritual fulfillment from non-traditional beliefs that they do not find in church.

“When I go to church, even if I feel that my spirit is going to come and talk, I try to control myself,” Arzu said. “There are too many people who are going to see you there, and they are going to think that you are crazy.”

The practice of these alternative beliefs is not unlike the rituals of traditional religions that have evolved from a variety of sources, said Lara Medina, who teaches a course called Chicanos, Religions and Liberation at UCLA and Cal State Northridge. But as Western beliefs began to take hold, mainstream churches began to purge the beliefs of indigenous peoples, denouncing them as evil or non-Christian.

“Christians fail to see that Christianity pulls from other traditions as well,” Medina said. “There’s no pure strain of religion. All are influenced by other religions.”

It is no accident, she said, that many of the people seeking spiritual guidance from alternative sources are African-Americans and Latinos. While some conventional religions have added cultural symbols to their services, the tendency historically has been to discourage the incorporation of practices and icons that are viewed as pagan, Medina said.

“I think it’s indicative of the attitude that the institutional churches have had all along toward the ethnic expressions of religious beliefs,” Medina said.

As a result, there has been a surge of interest among American-born Latinos who want to learn about the meso-American deities that were forced underground and nearly disappeared from their culture when Christianity arrived with the conquering Spaniards, said Naomi Quinonez, a Chicano Studies professor at Cal State Long Beach and UCLA.

“We have to question whether we want to continue perpetuating a European system or choose an alternative lifestyle,” she said.

Among those who have chosen the alternative is Josephina Gallardo, who erected an altar in her Echo Park home to hold trinkets that people have given her and her husband, Daveed Castro, on their visits to indigenous tribes throughout Mexico and the United States. Together, Gallardo and Castro are known as “Templo Flor”--”Flower Temple”--when they perform spiritual dances of indigenous peoples and teach an amalgam of spiritual beliefs and practices to schoolchildren, prisoners and academics.

In search of their cultural identity, they became interested in their Mayan and Colombian roots about a decade ago when they met Florencio Yescas, a Mexican national who worked to improve relations between North American tribes and Mexicans. He taught them the prayers of indigenous peoples, and Gallardo and Castro have passed his teachings on to a wide audience here.

Gallardo and Castro call on their ancestors for strength and they pray and fast for different celebrations, such as Dia de los Muertos in November. They believe their work today was mandated by the elders 500 years ago when Columbus arrived and “the sun covered over our culture and went into darkness . . .”

“When I do my danza , it’s so strong, so beautiful and yet so scary,” Gallardo said. “Through our struggle and through our pains, at the time when we invoke, it’s so strong the spirits do come out. The energy will tell us what to do in the movements and ceremonias. “

Gallardo’s altar is representative of her beliefs and teachings from other indigenous peoples from North America. Its four circular tiers dominate a corner of the living room and stretch to the ceiling. Below, a chalice to burn copal--a resin burned as incense to give thanks--sits near pictures of Jesus on a cross, the prayer of St. Francis, Mexican candy, a Buddha, an arrowhead and feathers. She calls the shrine the corazon , or heart, of their home.

“The altar is a table to feed you,” Gallardo said. “It’s a reminder. The altar is you. It’s the universe, a symbol in our homes to remind us what we are.”

While most indigenous people converted to Christianity to survive the Spanish conquest, many also held on to their own beliefs and surreptitiously passed them along from generation to generation, Quinonez said. As a result, there has been a blending of Christian practices and indigenous beliefs. For example, Tonantzin, an ancient goddess of fertility, was transformed into the Virgen de Guadalupe, and Chango, the warrior god in Santeria, became Santa Barbara in the Catholic faith.

“That’s why a Catholic church in East L.A. is very different from a Catholic church in San Marino,” Quinonez said. “There’s more candles burning and they have more saints. And the Virgen de Guadalupe, she’s A-No. 1.”

Celia, a state-licensed clinical social worker who regularly visits a curandero in East Los Angeles and asked that her last name not be used, said there is little conflict between seeking the guidance of her spiritual counselor and attending Mass. Her clients, many recent Latin American immigrants, tend to have more faith in a curandero to solve their problems and turn to physicians and therapists as a last resort.

“They feel that they have to have that spiritual connection, which is a lot stronger for Latin Americans,” said Celia, 38, who is often asked by prospective clients if she believes in God. “I think they want to know that I can help them as a therapist. But they also want to know if I have this higher belief that I don’t think I can do this on my own. That is satisfying and soothing for them.”

Celia said her continuing faith in curanderos is deeply connected to her cultural experiences as a Chicana. She and her sister, Dolores, grew up in East Los Angeles attending community gatherings with their great-grandmother and Celia said they witnessed healings and spiritualists communicating with the dead.

“My mother and I have gone to temples here where they still practice spiritualism, in fact, right in the heart of East L.A. On Thursday nights, they would have people come into a garage (at) no charge and have mediums who would go into a trance,” Dolores said. “He does healings. People come in with crutches, and go out walking.”

Medina said the best of these gatherings can build a sense of community, but some beliefs and rituals can also isolate the believers from the outside world.

Still, she said, “I don’t like to criticize people’s practices because who’s to say whether it’s empowering them or not? If the practice enables them to withdraw in their pain, rather than giving them a sense that they can do something about it, it can pacify them.”

Many believers say they can tell good spiritualists from the “quacks” by how they charge customers. A typical consultation costs $20 for about an hour and regular clients work out payments depending on their income. Community gatherings, typically held in garages or tents, collect anonymous donations.

“I think that a lot of people have misused that gift that God has given them to help others by trying to make money out of it. There’s a lot of poor people,” said Celia’s mother, Rosa.

Some spiritualists, such as Bijou, ask patrons to give what they can.

“When I have something (money), that’s the way she works,” Arzu said. “She doesn’t just want your money. She wants to help.”

At Nina Religion, bottles of bath lotions and oils are labeled as “Curious Only,” fulfilling a state legal requirement not to mislead customers into believing they are buying medicine. Nina Religion and all businesses like it are required by the city to obtain a license to operate.

Critics say many of these customers are poor and practitioners and botanicas are merely out for a dollar. Orta acknowledged that 80% of his customers are poor, but “business has grown for us because things have worked for them. All our clientele comes in word-of-mouth. The poor people can’t afford to go to a doctor or leave work or be sick, so they turn to their old-fashioned methods and home remedies.”

His customers seek remedies for broken relationships and physical ailments and use the herbs and oils along with prayers and incantations.

The poor, said Medina, also need to feel they hold some power over their lives.

“When people (pray to spirits not sanctioned by the church) themselves, it’s threatening to the authority,” Medina said. “What’s unique and valuable is it is a conscious pulling of different religions and a way to resist oppression. It gives them some way to have control over their immediate lives.”

While some spiritualists say their powers are a gift from God, many say their knowledge has been passed down through their families.

Orta’s great-grandmother in Cuba passed on to her daughter her knowledge of Santeria, which was brought to Cuba by West African slaves and combines Catholic saints with ancient African deities. She passed it on to Orta’s father and now he intends to pass it on to his son to carry on the traditions of the family and the country they once called home.

Bijou, 48, said her grandfather, a king in a village in Zaire according to family lore, predicted before her birth that she would be born with a spiritual gift.

“He said to my papa before he died that he would have a child who would teach,” she said. “I’ve been gifted. I feel (spiritual powers) just like when you know you are hungry.”

While Bijou openly discusses her work, she admitted that the world of spiritualists and their followers is cloaked in secrecy because many fear ridicule.

“It’s not so much that it stigmatizes you, but people just think that you are a little weird,” said Celia. “I never told my ex-husband about this stuff. It’s that personal. And you don’t want to tell someone who is going to make fun. You just don’t know how people are going to react.”

Although many people continue to keep their beliefs and rituals secret, some are slowly becoming more willing to discuss their reliance on spiritualists.

“It’s always been there, it’s just that we are not hiding it anymore because we’ve gotten stronger,” said Jerry Tello, a family therapist who lectures on the importance of spirituality. “A long time ago, when the Spaniards punished (believers) for it, they took it in their house and set up altars. But they’ve always done it.”

Above all, believers say, the benefit from indigenous rituals and visits to spiritualists is gained only through faith, the common thread that runs through all religious beliefs and practices.

“If you don’t have the faith, even if I put my hands on you then you are not going to be healed,” Bijou said sitting amid the glow of candlelight. “It’s not magic. It’s just faith.”