The
time came for us to leave Mchenga Nwichi. We wanted to stop
over on Likoma Island on the way home, which was not far across
the lake but is part of Malawi, not Mozambique. On the island
lives a famous witchdoctor who is reputed to do 'shamanic flying'
and I wanted to interview him about it. We got to the island
after one hiccup - our engine stalled, and the boat and all
our luggage was completely swamped by waves. Only my DAT recorder
was dry. Our very wet party arrived at Mango Drift, a backpacker
place on the beach; looking like we'd just survived a shipwreck.
Although it was already late, a small group of us decided to
walk to see the witchdoctor. I fixed up my recorder in my bag
so I could record quickly.
The track went steeply uphill, but had been surfaced with loosely-packed
boulders that were over a foot across and very difficult to
walk over. The sun was already setting and we still had quite
a way to go. The boulder track then went downhill into a village,
where children played with a home-made football - a plastic
bag tied round with string. It didn't look as if it would bounce,
but it did. Inside was an inflated condom! A group of smaller
children held our hands and chattered along with us. Over the
village hung a pall of wood-smoke and the light was failing;
distant lightning flashes and rumbles of thunder came from across
the lake.
We'd
already made inquiries about the witchdoctor. Someone said that
he'd been mentally ill and had recovered, acquiring magical
powers in the process. This was the classic shaman scenario.
Someone else added that he was still mad. He was said to look
very striking, with long dreadlocks and robes. Some witchdoctors
just use their powers to cure the sick and remove curses - this
one was said to apply curses too. Andy didn't share my enthusiasm
for meeting the man, but came along anyway. Several times on
the journey he gave me a grave look, pointing to a large crow
that seemed to be following us. "It's him!".
At
the witchdoctor's compound we were met by an assistant. A dozen
or so 'patients' sat in the sand as they waited to be seen.
We were told we could see him very soon, but had to follow some
strict instructions. We were to remove our shoes and follow
him. On taking our shoes off we found that the whole area was
teeming with large ants, that bit like hell and ran up our legs.
Walking on the stony ground was difficult with our soft bare
feet - and we had to brush the ants off every few paces. Each
of us had to pick up a stick, which we must keep in our left
hand only. This was virtually impossible as the ants were crawling
up to our knees by now. As I failed this test, I had the distinct
feeling that I was being secretly watched.
We
were led back to the compound, where a little girl about six
years old sat behind a small dead tree. Around the base of the
tree the earth had been piled into a mound and painted white.
Each of us had to pass our stick through the branches of the
tree to the little girl, who smiled and placed them in a pile.
This done, we were led into a tin shack that looked like a church
and our party behaved accordingly, respectfully removing hats.
There were thankfully no ants inside and we were told to sit
on rush mats on the earth floor. One dim oil lamp hung from
the ceiling so it was difficult at first to see very much. Along
one wall was a line of open windows, hung with white curtains.
Each curtain had a red cross painted in its centre, and the
wind was flapping them wildly into the room. A sort of altar
stood in front of us, with a poster of the Virgin and Child
on the wall behind it. Overhead the rafters were decked out
with old Christmas decorations.
The
assistant returned and asked what we wanted to see the witchdoctor
about. I answered that I wanted to know about shamanic flying.
He nodded, and said that another Mzungu had been recently, asking
the same thing. I'd heard about this guy. He was an author,
writing a book about shamans, and had apparently been given
a potion that kept him a awake for three days and gave him visions.
The assistant then abruptly changed tack, and announced that
the witchdoctor had been called away to the next island to cure
someone, and couldn't see us right now, so could we pop back
tomorrow night? We couldn't, so all trouped out after being
invited to make donations to the 'clinic'. It was now almost
dark and we slowly made our way back through the village and
over the hill of boulders by torchlight. The storm was rumbling
closer now and lightning flickered over the lake. Rainy season
was coming.
Opinions varied as what had just occurred. Most of us agreed
that the witchdoctor probably had really been at home, but why
wouldn't he see us? Maybe he'd heard that we were something
to do with the BBC; maybe we'd failed the ants and sticks test:
maybe it was just a good laugh for the villagers to watch half
a dozen Mzungu's hopping about amongst the ants?
Next
morning we flew back to Lilongwe, and I had a couple of days
to listen back to my recordings again. All the material for
the radio programme was good and I'd recorded other things for
myself. When I got to my favourite recording, the fishermen
that had sung for me on the beach, I couldn't find it. It was
the right tape - but instead of the singing I heard only rustling
and footsteps.
It was the sound of us walking back from the witchdoctor's,
and it was recorded over the top of the singing fishermen!
Somehow, on that long walk home in the dark, my DAT machine
had mysteriously gone into rewind, then into record. On its
own. Recording involved pressing two tiny buttons simultaneously,
and wasn't easy - but the recording was gone for ever. That
has never ever happened to me before, in twenty years of recording.
The most likely explanation is that the buttons were accidentally
pressed by the other things in my bag: but I can't help wondering
about that crow…
Steve Marshall.org.uk