Machumane

Yesterday one of my students arrived in South Africa for her semester abroad. This of course makes me think about my semester abroad; my four months spent living in Africa. Today, I remember the time I met a Sangoma.

A Sangoma is a witch doctor. For most Americans, the closest we will ever come to meeting a witch doctor is seeing one on t.v. ... in which case we will most likely assume that he or she is crazy, or uneducated, or a con-artist. This, at least, is what I would have thought until I met Machumane. I met Machumane after having lived in South Africa for just over three months. During that time I had learned to let go of most of my expectations and ideas about the way the world works and what truth and normalcy are. I am telling you this simply so that you understand that when I met her, I was more disposed to be open to her than I would have been even a short time earlier. This being the case, I fully understand if you now reading this think I am crazy for telling you that I once met a witch doctor and I believed her.

Machumane received a calling to be a traditional healer when she was seven years old. Receiving a calling is not like choosing to be a teacher or a lawyer; there is less choice involved, less freedom. In fact Machumane tried to refuse her calling, which she received in a dream, but became very ill until she gave in and began training. She trained until she was sixteen at which point she "pumered" or became an official Sangoma. When I met Machumane we were both twenty. I was a liberal arts student from a private school in central Minnesota and she was an African witch doctor: clearly we had much in common.

The night we met, Machumane was to dance herself into a trance so that she could communicate to her ancestors for advice and guidance in regards to healing a member of her tribe. Machumane's colors are red and white. She wears red and white beads around each wrist and ankle, around her neck. Her hair is laced with what appears to be a mane of red and white beads. Around her waist is wrapped a skirt of dangling pieces of fabric; around her ankles she wears rattles made out of beer bottle caps.

Machumane begins with burning a plant that is supposed to ward of evil spirits and promote a positive atmosphere. The dance begins with drums, a horn, and a chorus of voices. Apparently Machumane's is a particularly musical family meaning that her trance utilizes more music than most. She cannot get into the dance without the drums. This means that if she wakes up in the middle of the night and needs to do a dance, her family wakes up with her to bang the drums. Everywhere I look in this cow-dunned hut, there are kids. This is Africa where your niece is your daughter and your cousin your brother. With so many children running around and joining the music, it is impossible to tell who belongs to who. I think it is because here, everyone belongs to everyone.

The actual dance is hard to follow. Here is this woman, entirely in her own element, gallivanting around this kitchen hut, marching, kicking, skipping to the beat, and it is hard not to acknowledge that she and this are beyond words. She is moving to the rhythm in her head.. to the voices and spirits inside of her. They are leading her steps and her music. At times, she puts down her hands and gets quiet. She kneels on the floor and begins a call and answer session with the audience. She is calling for the ancestors. She gets up and begins again with new energy and song. And the trance goes on like this for over an hour. Sometimes she is weeping, at others, she is obviously rejoicing. And the drums, the horn, the singing and the dancing continue on. Eventually, Machumane casually bends over and begins to release the rattles at her feet. We are told it is over.

I don't have a clue what the words that were sung and spoken meant. I don't know what a trance feels like or what she dreams and how she heals people. I do know that this is a deeply prevalent part of their culture. It is something they believe in wholeheartedly. It is an honor to have this call; to be this person in their society. And to them, this dance, this trance, is normal. This is their everyday.

This is their everyday and it is so far from my everyday it is unbelievable, there is little comparison. I try to dance with them. I am clumsy. My feet don't move in that way; my body doesn't flow naturally to that rhythm. I look awkward and out of place. And then, suddenly, without even realizing it, I am singing along. I know this song. I am in Africa, in a hut, dancing wildly and foolishly with the friends and family of a local witch doctor, and I know the words to the song... "Shosholoza." Echo, "Shosholoza" .. it's about a train coming from South Africa. That is all I know, but it is enough to be really and truly a part of this moment here and now, to feel completely and utterly at home, in my own element.

The next day I eat lunch at Machumane's hut. She cooks chicken and cabbage; it is delicious. Because of this, I spend the next three days with the most wretched food poisoning I have ever experienced in my life. I have never before nor since felt so much like my body was rejecting itself in its' totality. The food poisoning in conjunction with the captivating quality of Machumane's dance is a perfect metaphor for my entire experience of Africa. Africa to me is a combination of opposites: pain and healing, love and hate, sickness and life, the beautiful and the ugly... dancing and retching.

Africa to me is more than words can describe. Today, I hope that my student can find as much wisdom and life there as I did. Today, I hope that somewhere, Machumane is thriving, living her call, dancing to drums.