Workshops
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The Five Pillars
Of Medicine
A little bit of East Africa...
A little bit of East Africa...
I was adopted at the ferry port in Dar es Salaam by my self-appointed taxi driver, a round man that reminded me of a ladybird, who confidently grabbed my heavy bag and waddled through the pulsing market. This unsolicited adoption was somewhat of a relief after the frenzy of the port, everyone desperately vying for tasks and shillings. As soon as we pulled off with a rusty creak, I realised this man understood that the road was his. His style simply informed other cars, tuktuks, bicycles, pedestrians, and trucks alike that he was coming through. Choosing to ride over pavements when the opportunity presented, he sailed through the streets as if blown by the wind. Right of way was naturally assumed and I don’t believe we stopped or even slowed once en route. He must have had some secret rank all the others knew about. Handing me my change as I got out, he cheekily gave me change according to the price he wished, not the one we’d agreed. With a twinkle in his eye and that deep African laugh I couldn’t help laughing too and conceding. Maybe he’ll put it towards fixing that creak.
Like most tropical cities Dar es Salaam is a blend of overhanging greenery and frenetic commerce. Simultaneously chaotic and in seamless flow, the nickname for Dar is Bongo City, meaning “clever” or “smart”, referring to the skills needed to survive in this huge urban jungle. Hustle culture is rife here and each life overlaps with the other in a mat of “everything of possible”.
The inner city is full of the dusty thrive of urban African life, persistent hooting, the rhythmic chinking of the groundnut sellers, old Maasai men sitting on the street’s edge selling herbs and remedies from deeper inland, the tinny call to prayer from the dutiful mosques…. Accompanied by the background drilling and clanging characteristic of a city in continual becoming, it seems to unfurl in ongoing sprawl. The lining of the city is an ever widening swathe of “unplanned housing”, makeshift homes for the growing number of folk flocking to urban areas in the hope of etching a living.
​​First night in Dar and I could feel the nonstop movement. After a yoga class on a rooftop I was whisked of to the Alliance Française where a local Tanzanian band was playing lively traditional melodies on timeless African instruments: kalimbas, koras, congas, backed by an eclectic base guitar, to the delight of the bouncing audience. The beats went on while my energy dwindled in the insistent heat, and I hailed a taxi to head home. Once again another charismatic taxi, this one more like riding a camel with overactive shock absorbers. Nearly running out of pep on the highway, the car was forced onward only by the sheer concentrated will streaming down the driver’s face. Some loose clanging things at the back melodiously chimed in their own eccentric after party.
I was curious to explore downtown Dar and waved down a bajaji (tuktuk) after breakfast. My young driver putted along as the streets got thicker and thicker with activity. A steady hum of commotion slowly consumed us, and he patiently wove through all manner of interruption until we got stuck down a tight lane wedged in market stalls accosting us with colour, commerce and creativity. His panicky reverse told me I was not alone in overwhelm. We quickly aborted my mission of finding Kitenge fabric in the belly of Dar and beetled out of there a fast as our wheels could carry us, back to the respite of expat-laden uptown.
​The next morning I headed to the bus station at 4am with a conscientious taxi driver who wove deftly through thumping party goers at the end of their night, looking for one last dance. Settled on the bus, I was soon moving northwards on my way to Arusha. Our movement coincided with the first glow of soft morning light, revealing lines of makeshift wooden shacks coming to life with the day. Kerosene lamps lit for sleepy stall holders as they began to creak their stalls to life. Vendors sweeping the dusty ground around their stores-on-wheels, selling fake watches, Hello Kitty wallets, fluffy florescent lighters, and other things you might need at five in the morning. Young boys stretched out on prayer mats laid on the porch of their parents’ shop reading Q'uran after the morning Azan, and young children in their purple uniforms made their way to school.
A delightful eleven year old who spoke beautiful English with soft Swahili curves was my seat mate. She soon took it upon herself to be my translator for all bus announcements, and in between got chatting about all manner of thing. I learned she aspires to be a neurologist, after first crafting a time machine to have some questions answered. I’ve no doubt she’ll manage both. In the meantime she used up most of my phone battery watching cartoons. In commercial breaks she told me the history of Tanzania, from the early arrival of the Portuguese in the late 15th century and how on their arrival “we were barbarians”, to tales of how thelatePresidentJuliusKambarageNyerere brought independence to the country in 1961, all verbatim as it would have been told in a textbook. As the day wore on and scenery changed from dusty expanse to mountainous green, she began diplomatically drawing parallels between our two cultures. She seamlessly spoke about, “You people, Americans... “. I explained to her that I’d spent a mere two weeks in America in my life, and no ancestors hail from there. She quizzed me further on my exact origins, which I explained were a few generations in South Africa, and before that Eastern Europe. She clapped her hands together conclusively and announced, “then that qualifies you as American!”. The rest of the journey was spent with her asking why our noses were so long, hair so soft, and eventually falling asleep on my lap.
Arriving in northern Arusha was a lush cool reprieve from the humid heat of the coast. A few days in I went to visit a nearby bush clinic of a European doctor I'd heard about. My driver was a lovely gentle elder of the Chagga people, who too informed me of Tanzania's rich history and tribal lands, as we wove through gentle hills of yellow wild flowers, donkeys, and mud huts. Coming up a rise not far from our destination we were stopped by a crew of elderly gentleman on the road who seemed to be in some sort of debate. We soon learned that the road below was flooded, and could we kindly take this wounded Meru elder to the clinic in question in exchange for accurate directions. Cutting through some slender back paths surely not meant for vehicle use we eventually came upon the road guilty of flooding and the opportunistic ducklings now making use of it, and soon after arrived at the clinic.
Treating with both allopathic and traditional herbal remedies, one side of the compound held an enclave of huts with medical services such as radiology, sonograms, a birthing clinic and such. On the other side were a collection of natural treatment rooms, with biofeedback machines, a medical massage area, and Maasai roots and herbs brewing slowly in tincture bottles. Inspirational quotes lined the walls of the clinic, nestled in a landscape of Acacia trees and distant volcanoes. It was impressive and inclusive, the deep partnership of the wisdom systems at hand. It was clear that this was a place to treat the spirit, uplift the mind, and nurture the body, all at once. Some great hearts and minds were behind this.
Wanting to venture further into the expanse of the African bush I hired a car and set off for a few days inland. I woke before dawn on a drizzly morning and jumped in the car for an early start. Travelling along the road watching the sun peak through clouds onto a nearby volcano was entrancing. As the mist cleared and the daylight grew, the landscape became more sparse and thorny, concrete houses becoming mud huts, anything commercial falling away to be replaced by stick-bound kraals, cattle and gullies. I’d organised to meet my guide on the road, who was waiting for me on his motorbike, and followed him down the dusty track to my accommodation. We had lunch and headed off to first meet the nearby Datoga craftsmen, a tribe skilled as blacksmiths and pastoralists. The Datoga are originally a tribe from Sudan who migrated south about two hundred years ago. After clashes and fighting with the Maasai over cattle they eventually took refuge in gentler Tanzania.
My guide and I were welcomed into the square hut under the lone tall tree by the women, and given there was no other way to communicate I was offered some beautiful songs as a welcome. We headed out after to the fire round the back and I watched as one man rhythmically fanned the flames in front of him with a fire blower crafted from cow skin, and the other gently placed chunks of sliced up old padlock into a mould atop the ashes and the metal promptly melted to liquid. With a thick hammer and enchanting song, the blacksmith began to fashion it into thin strips that would eventually become brass bracelets. The visit took us into early evening when we chose to rest and have good start in visiting the Hadzabe in the morning, who are tucked a good way further into the bush.
I woke into a sparkling purple dawn to head out in time to go hunting with the Hadzabe people. Collecting my guide en route we traveled through the sleepy village, taking a back road that veered off the main dusty drag. The village huts petered out around us and gave way to thorny scrub. Over and around hills speckled with Acacia, Desert Candelabra and smooth rocks we eventually came over a small rise that revealed a dry riverbed. This was now to be our road. We descended the river bank into the sandy terrain and began to head up river, the wheels of the little Rav 4 I’d hired gleefully swinging this way and that. Eventually we found the road leading off the riverbed into more scrubby thorny bush. As we moved my guide showed me the previous habitat of the Hadzabe by their recently abandoned grass huts as they'd moved to follow the animals. Theirs is a nomadic life, moving onwards as the herds dictate.
​​Passing the early morning traffic of Iraqw women ushering charcoal laden donkeys down the dusty path, I was told of their origins and how this Kushite tribe originally came from Iraq and moved slowly south over the centuries, through Somalia and Sudan. One of their main crafts is to burn Acacia wood to a perfect charcoal and supply this for sale to the Datoga blacksmiths, who then use this to craft their metal spearheads for the use of the Hadzabe hunters.
Eventually we arrived at a clearing amidst the scrub and come to a stop. As I climbed out the car I could hear the nearby singing of women punctuated by claps and clicks, and was gestured to walk in the direction of the song. The Hadza people, best known of late for having the healthiest gut microbiome due to their diet and habitat, are a nomadic hunter gatherer tribe living direct from the land and animals around them in Northern Tanzania. They have little contact with the village life nearby and prefer to remain tight in their clans, as each day's survival depends on constant nurturing of their needs. As we arrived I was greeted warmly by a circle of men sitting around a smoky fire, wearing skins and preparing arrows for the next hunt. I was transfixed by a skilled arrow maker swiftly spinning feathers onto the end of a spear in order to make it streamlined in flight. The deftness of his hand spun weightlessness into his hunting tool as if he’d done it a thousand times.
One of the hunters noticed my interest and, disrupting my hypnotised stare, suddenly began offering me a very animated explanation on each of the arrowheads and their corresponding animals. !Kasama, a charismatic young storyteller, made it clear exactly which animal he was speaking of, the nature of the hunt, and the manner of response and demise on being speared. After this brief embodied explanation we got the signal to follow the hunters out of the camp as they moved silently to find “digidigi”, the smaller animals. We had to move with pure focus as their stealth and speed in moving through the bush could have one lost fast. Luckily every so often a spear got stuck in a tree and we'd earn some rest as the hunter calculated how to retrieve it, precious as they are. Soon each hunter began to spread out in search of his snack of choice. I landed up on the trail of !Oma kai xhokhila, a charming young hunter with exquisite aim. He’d stop every now and then and effervescently explain to me which spear he was using and why. Each time he got a little bird he’d bound back with enthusiasm to tell its name and imitate why it had earned this title. My guide had to do very little translating with these spirited explanations.
On returning to camp, with a little row of birds strung from !Oma kai xhokhil's belt, we were met with a circle of dancers, singing as they moved. I now had a chance to meet with the women and some cuddly babies who made a beeline for me. The mother of the main cuddler, in an attempt to reel in her child's attention as well as mine, began to hollow out some porcupine quills and thread them on a string with colourful beads as she skilfully crafted a simple necklace. With this she managed to wrest her baby back, and continue her day's work.
On the road back to Arusha I noticed a group of Maasai moving rhythmically outside their village. I slowed and opened my window to hear their singing. Seeing me, the chief's son ran over to me invite me to join them. Granted, they are all the chief's sons as said chief has fifteen wives, yet this one was elected spokesman as he had near perfect English. He warmly gestured for me to come closer and the group began to offer a hypnotically beautiful welcome song that rang through my dreams for nights after.
​​​They ushered me with them inside their kraal and my new friend showed me the design of their homes and how they make their huts so sturdy with a combination of clay, cow dung, ash and water, each with a small divide inside that allocates a simple cooking and sleeping area. The boundary circle of the kraal is made out of thorny Acacia bush, as is the inner circle which keeps the cattle in at night, safe from thievery and other wildlife. The nightly "door" is a bundle of thorny brush shoved in place that no cow would dare challenge. It all lasts for as long as it needs to, being a nomadic group.
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The Maasai are a proud and graceful people, a Nilotic tribe endemic to the Nile Valley. Maasai language is distinct from the surrounding Bantu tongues as it stems from a language family closer to Saharan tribes. Their finer features show this origin too. Their lives are intimately interwoven with their cattle, a symbol of wealth, status, and a source of their main nutrition, being meat, milk and blood, with herbs from the surrounds often included as medicine. Livestock are so central to their world that the exchange of cattle is used to symbolised major transfers in life, acknowledgements and compensations. If a man happens to be away at the time that his wife gives birth to their child he will have to pay a head of cattle to her family as remuneration for his absence. Regardless of the circumstances, each birth is accompanied by a celebration where a cow is sacrificed and mixture of blood and milk is drunk.
Maasai lives are marked by rites of passage that have them clearly aligned with the tasks and responsibilities of each particular age. From as young as five the boys are tasked with caring for their first cattle, herding them as they graze and generally keeping them safe and well, while the girls learn to cook, clean, collect herbal medicines and keep the home base in good order. It is traditional to have a hole burned through the ears at about five years old with a heated metal rod, and later at around age seven have one on the front bottom teeth taken out with a knife. This came from the need to make space to feed someone in the case they got lockjaw (tetanus) from their cattle. A circular scarification is also branded on the cheeks, often with markings inside, all of which serve to remind them of their tribal identity and honour therein.
So important is maintaining a strong genetic code in the tribe that in the case a baby is born deformed it will be placed outside the cattle kraal by night, and in the morning when the animals come out the child will either be killed by the stampede, or if survives will be recognised as a 'chosen one' and be honoured and trained as a healer, a vocation that usually follows a family line. In a lineage of medicine people the males will initially become warriors for a shortened period of about eight years before they then turn to their training and become healers, "Oloibani" (prophet) in Maasai and "Mganga" (healer) in Swahili. Ways of healing are most commonly dealt with by herbal medicine from the abundant plants and trees around. Roots, leaves, herbs, barks can resolve not only physical ailments, but also emotional and psychological ones. If there are circumstantial issues such as personal conflicts, or cattle being stolen, the healer may have dreams with remedies on how to prevent this. Alternative to this is to receive a divination where the medicine person will use an elongated gourd with several stones kept inside, and throw these stones onto a mat to assess the reading. From the number and configuration of these stones they will divine a diagnosis and prescription for the patient.
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Circumcision will happen when the village father thinks its right, and it is usually between the ages of twelve and seventeen. Members of the same boma (kraal enclosure) will undergo this initiation together. In this four day ritual, the third day is when they circumcise. For this time the boys are in blackened clothes, traditionally sheepskins darkened with charcoal, and white face markings which play the role of averting eyes from the boys during this period. The white shapes pull focus from their eyes and help the boys avoid contact. A cow and goat will be ceremonially slaughtered for each boy before his circumcision, which is said to ease the process for the circumcision and transition from boy into manhood.
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In the early morning of the circumcision they are washed in icy cold water with various herbs and four white river stones, which is said to chase away all the history from their past, any wrong doing of the child is dissolved. It is a completely new start. During the process of the initiation the boys will be led by their uncles into the enclosure covered with only a cow skin and moving backwards, symbolic of leaving the phase of childhood and entering into the unknown. It cannot be the father that accompanies the boy due to the potential shame if the boy cries out during the cutting. The uncle will sit on the ground with his back against a hut, and the boy will be lying across his uncle's lap being supported through this process. It will be a man from the Ndorobo tribe, not the Maasai, that will do the cutting. The cutting itself is a slow and meticulous process, giving time to process the pain and also contain their reaction. The ultimate is to undergo this ceremony without a sound and without moving a muscle. ​
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The only "anaesthetic" is the trance induced from their being washed in extremely cold water that morning, and their singing and dancing continuously into an altered space thereafter, which is why they are led into the enclosure and guided through the ceremony. During this process they are tormented by the warriors, some even provocatively hitting them, to build a fire inside them and tire them further into an entranced zone. After the procedure the father congratulates the boy and commends him for his strength and endurance, and tells him, "Wake up! Get up! I'm going to give you a cow". They boy's response is to say, "No! I will not wake up until you give me more!". The father offers another cow, and so it goes. The foreskin is taken and put in his bed and he is led out of the enclosure under his cow skin cloak and taken to drink melted sheep fat, also fed to mothers straight after birth due to the nutrients needed to rapidly heal.
The blackened clothes and white face markings are worn for around three months from the circumcision while they are 'incubating' as warriors. Through this time they only walk amongst themselves, avoiding females, which eliminates the possibility that they will get aroused and disturb the healing of the skin from their circumcision. In these three months they do not drink water, only milk and blood and eat dried meat, which is said to accelerate recovery. This sacred period gives them time to heal and integrate this new status in life. After these three months there is a ceremony where the boys are painted in red ochre and are given the red cloth, a knife, a spear, and a 'rungu', a knob headed wooden club specifically designed to cave in the enemy's head. This is when they are proclaimed as warriors. The earlier trials have earned them the right to wield these weapons, together with the lived experience of severe pain which grants an element of responsibility. In days gone past this is the age when they would go out in clans, pillaging and stealing cattle, and the red ochre then would serve to drive fear into the enemy. Nowadays it is more for beauty.​ After this initiation these boys are then 'Moran', warriors, and will wear red for the next twenty years while in this phase of life. Three things mark the warrior in Maasai tradition: not wincing in pain during their circumcision; the ability to prolong ejaculation in their initial lovemaking; and the successful hunt of a lion. Thereafter in their mid thirties they will became a 'Laiban', an elder, and can be included in decision making for the village and wear any coloured cloth they like
Now that they are circumcised they are able to be married and large ceremonial marriage dances happen every so often for those around the age of sixteen and above to meet. The fathers of these youngsters will meet and discuss good matches for marriage, and marriage ceremonies can happen in groups of four couples at a time. Female circumcision is traditionally also part of the culture and happens later in life just before marriage. It is currently illegal for girls to do this and many of the youth who have gone off to schools and universities are choosing not to,. Yet there is still an underground movement for those who want to undergo this rite and "become whole" in the eyes of their people. Those who have gone off to school are also choosing their own husbands and not being matched by the elders.
After this rich time I arranged a flight back to Dar at tenth the time of the bus (lest I be called an American again). After some days of work there I woke at 4am to make my way to the nearby dirt road to await my taxi to the airport, standing under thick Boababs branches through which the full moon gleamed benevolently. Another predawn airport run, another hour of silent scream, as my taxi driver wove in unyielding blind faith through the speckled traffic. Several near misses, with his foot on the gaslighting, and eventual deliverance the airport for a twenty minute flight to Zanzibar.
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The old city of Zanzibar, Stone Town, is designed in the ancient Arabic style of narrow winding alleys and beautiful wooden carvings around the windows and doors. The door carvings tell a story of those who originally lived inside, whether they were fishermen and had knowledge of the stars for navigation; or wealthy tradespeople; slave dealers, spice traders... as well as how many families lived within those walls. Carved tales of their status and religion line the streets... ​​​
Since the 1700s the Omani empire held fort in Zanzibar, originally setting up there as a trading port and to intervene in the Portuguese domination of the East Coast of Africa. So intrinsic was the relationship that developed between Oman and Zanzibar that in 1840 the Sultan of the time moved the capital from Muscat to Oman. From this time it was known as the Sultanate of Zanzibar, and remained under Omani rule until 1964, when a fierce revolution toppled this rulership in two days. Many folk in Zanzibar still feel the aftertaste of the 1964 revolution, where military forces from the mainland, egged on by opposing British, American and Russian agendas, suddenly erupted in a violent genocide and expulsion of the Omanis. For two days anyone in Arabic attire was mowed down from the air, and on land were brutally killed up close. Local African families hid in their homes, waiting for the sound of gunfire to pass. With the regime successfully toppled it now fell under African rule and Zanzibar was taken under the care of Tanganyika, today's Tanzania as the merging of Tanganyika and Zanzibar had the country become 'TanZania'.​
Despite it's rough history, Swahili culture is extremely warm and inviting. With the society a cultural mix of African, Omani and Indian descent there is a sense of tolerance and inclusiveness. After all, you're on a gorgeous abundant tropical island. The coast of Zanzibar is bizarrely pleasant. Its like being in a picture perfect screensaver of turquoise lapping water, soft sands and waving palms. The tidal shifts are extreme and every six hours a different landscape presents, as low tide reveals a world of shallow coral with locals harvesting seaweed, and high tide has the waters crashing up against the steps to your accommodation. With cow drawn carts, banana plantations, plentiful palm trees and overflowing spices it is the quintessential tropical island and engenders the warm welcoming attitude of "hakuna matata", no worries. There is a sweetness in the Swahili spirit that leaves a lasting impression, a timeless relaxation and expansiveness in possibility. An aftertaste that feels like a gentle balm to the soul.
September 2024
Adventuring in Tanzania once again...
I returned to this special part of the world for some work with an amazing bunch of people, and followed on afterward to reconnect with the Maasai family I’d met a few months ago. My guide and I had stayed in touch and he had organised for me to meet some healers on my return. After a long drive from the green mountainous region into the dry savanna land that is Maasai territory, I eventually arrive at the boma of the family I had met last time. I see my guide waiting for me under a low thorn tree in the midday African heat. After warm greetings he climbs into the car and we head off to find those healers that he had prepared for me to meet ahead of time, an ‘oloiboni’ (prophet), a midwife and a herbalist.
Driving back along the road I’d just come from he gestures for me to slow and then points to where I should turn off the road onto, well… not a road. I swallow my impulse to tell him this is a hire car, and move slowly through the brush as we scrape through thorny bush and past mud huts, greeting elders and children taking refuge from the heat under trees, and eventually arrive at the boma that is to be our meeting place. A boma is a circular homestead, crafted with protective walls of thorn tree limbs and fashioned into a wide ring. Inside it houses several mud huts of a particular family group, and an inner circle holds the cattle safely at night.
We walk to one of the huts along the back of the boma, near the back gate where it opens onto the expanse of wide savanna and cattle herds grazing nearby. Slowly an elder, wrapped in colourful red and pink cloth and sporting a cowboy hat, steps outside and takes a long slow moment to size me up. He scans me piercingly, then ushers for me to step inside the hut. Inside is empty aside from a small brown goatskin on the floor, and a few small calabashes atop containing powdered bush medicines. Orkitoko has me sit in front of him and give him a garment of clothing, my scarf, for him to do the reading on. He hands me a long hollow bull horn filled with marbles and stones and asks me to spit on them to infuse them with my energy for an accurate read. He slowly begins asking questions and giving advice according to the pattern in which the marbles fall on my scarf.
This goes on for some time and I’m allocated certain medicines to drink and wash in to open my way. We exchange gratitudes and ceremonially close the conversation, and I’m lead outside to meet the midwife and herbalist who are waiting for me under the thorn tree. As I grew them I notice all three of these healers have distinctive eyes. The eyes of someone who knows deep medicine, who is the bush and the sky itself, channeling through human form.
Namayane and Melau greet me warmly, and are curious to know about what interests me about their form of practice. I ask her some questions to get the conversation flowing and she begins to tell me about her craft as a midwife, sharing that the main remedies in her craft are the use of fat, blood and fermented milk, pertaining to different maladies in the birthing process. I ask if she and Melau, the herbalist, ever combine forces with herbal remedies in supporting labour. Their combined response is an emphatic “no!”, making it clear these fields are not mixed in the sacred birthing process. Herbs and tree “dawa” (medicine) are eaten with meat stew as preventative and fortifying measures. The process of birth uses only the three liquids from the cow.
Melau begins to share a little of his story, he was born with this knowledge, embellished by the skills of his father too, this craft being a lineage-old knowing. He spent six months out in the bush as a child, learning from master herbalists about each individual tree. Notably, he spoke of the importance of using only one tree at a time in medicinal treatment, it is not common practice to mix medicines, except in special circumstances for spiritual healing where one medicine will activate or allow the effect of the other.
Acacia are a central part of Maasai life in many regards, the yellow, black, and umbrella tree Acacia all having different benefits. Largely it cleans blood and give strength when in convalescence, including providing strength for breastfeeding mothers.
The more spiritual influences and practices are under the guard of the “oloiboni”, not the herbalist. His interest is in the wellbeing of the body, the “real” world.
Another beautiful visit under the hot African sun.
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