Last week I considered going to Durban, since classes haven"t started yet and I thought it would be interesting to see something more of South-Africa than just Pretoria. Apart from that, getting acquaintance with new places contributes to your life-experiences, which is of great value, isn"t it? So, together with a brand-new friend I took the night-bus, and after some hours we could enjoy the daybreak in this vibrant city.
After visiting mosques and churches, the old City Hall and the former office of Gandhi, we found it was time to explore the famous Victoria Street Market, where Durban"s cultural melting-pot most clearly appears. Amongst sari-dressed Indian women, colorful fruits, spices and plastic, devout little Muslim boys on their way to the Qur"an school and banging speakers spoiling African music there were ramshackle wooden stairs leading to another dimension: we entered the workplace of traditional healers, or "witchdoctors", who are still the main healthcare providers for black people in South-Africa. I decided to stand the smell and took a seat on a bench in one of the tiny little huts.
There were dozens of jam pots and bottles filled with all kinds of medicines and decoctions of herbs. There were dried plants and animals, and a small, smudgy curtain hiding the consulting 'room". Those animals! Skeletons of goats, rats, and weasels, snake-skins, 'fresh" pheasants and cow"s tails were all hanged upside down the wall. The smell! And what would be happening behind that curtain? After some minutes half of the doctor appeared from behind the curtain, spooning some green powder out of a plastic bag. "What"s this medicine for?" I dared to ask one of the waiting patients who were sitting next to me. She sophisticatedly explained its very effectiveness when women "were not able to satisfy their men". Other people, men and women, agreed with her: it really prevented men from walking away! (I wondered about the meaning of privacy.)
Slowly but surely I got used to the smell and the grimacing dead animals all around me. Wasn"t it time to get to know the healing process? Actually I felt too healthy to be here, apart from the only abnormity I could think of: I slightly missed my 'well-organized", safe and clean country, and I could deeply miss my family and intimate friends. How could they help me? In the meantime, the doctor had taken place in the 'pharmacy" room again. (Was the woman still behind the curtain, or was there a rear-exit? I"d never know.)
After a brief explanation of my problem, its symptoms and my feelings about it, an animated discussion started. An old lady diagnosed the case in Zulu language: Umunu. "Something like homesickness", the English-speaking Vincent explained. Now, what kind of treatment does Umunu ask for? Discussion again, ending in an answer of the doctor himself: "I can not treat you for this, mem. I can only make it worse, because longing for home is one of the fundamental things in life." A big pot was taken from a plank and opened; then half-rotten birds, wings, bills and snow-white egg-shells were spread all over the floor.
"I know you don"t want to go home now", Vincent said, "but this is the best we can do for you." He looked at the bird-remains. "We add some herbs, and make a tonic out of it. I would certainly make my daughters drink this when they would be adventurous like you, just to make sure that they will never forget home. Actually, for you it"s too late already. Once you"ve ever spread your wings..."
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