By Shari Mycek
4:52 a.m. It is a wake-up call like no other. A huge thud is followed by frantic scurrying overhead. Sleepily, I pull aside the flimsy mosquito netting from my handcrafted Bush bed to peer through floor-to-ceiling windows. Eight baboons – one with a baby tucked tightly to its chest – stare back at me. More thuds, more scurrying. This time I pad outside to see firsthand this strange planet of apes. Thirty-three baboons (yes, I counted) hang from my thatched-roof safari hut, spilling onto trees, and dive-bombing onto a swinging bridge below. Hilarity swells inside, tears sting my eyes and I am convulsed in laughter. A few of the baboons pause to stare as if I am the funny – not they. Then, as quickly as they appeared, they disappear.
4:57 a.m. Only five minutes have passed, and I (barefoot and wearing only a nightgown) have not taken a single photo. The Bush does that, I learn quickly it mesmerizes and seduces you without warning. Now, with time to spare before the morning game drive, I retreat back inside my hut for an Out-of-Africa-style soak in a luxurious copper, claw-foot tub.
I had come to Ulusaba (which, in Shangaan, means “Place of Little Fear”) to see giraffes and lions . . . to experience the flavors and pulse of South Africa. What I had not anticipated in my journey, however, was the powerful healing energy of the Bush itself.
Not long after arriving at the Sabi Sand Reserve (owned by Virgin Record and airline magnate Richard Branson), I had escaped to the Aroma Boma massage hut. “You went somewhere,” says Valda, a svelte Johannesburg native, following an intense Reiki treatment. “I felt a lot of emotion in you; a need for healing around your heart chakra. Go to your room, sit outside, look at the Bush. Cry if you want. Being in the Bush makes you think. There is no TV, no radio, it is very healing.”
I did as instructed – sat motionless on my deck at Safari Lodge which is built on the banks of the Mabrek riverbed (an established elephant path) – and savored the vastness of the Bush: the low shrubs, sculpted Maroela trees, occasional call of an elephant. And slowly, without warning the tears came – huge, ploppy droplets that spilled down my cheeks. Cleansing.
Crying in the Bush is not all that unusual, according to Karl Langdon, a thirty-something, veteran ranger at Ulusaba.
“Many people walk away from here with tears in their eyes – not because they’re leaving or because the staff was kind to them, but because of the impact the Bush made on them. It’s a magical, magical place,” says Karl. “I do two drives a day, three hours each and I’m continuously moved by what I see.”
I think of all we’ve seen in only two days: a female leopard feeding on a baby impala (a delicacy?); trekking on foot behind a powerful, oh-so-beautiful giraffe; watching in wonder while eight lions feed on a buffalo, their faces covered in blood. One of the male lions grew so tired from eating that he had to rest his head on the carcass, his stomach heaving. We witnessed two bull elephants copulating (or at least trying), as well as three leopard cubs swimming.
“I haven’t had a guest yet who hasn’t felt moved by the experience here,” says Karl. “By the second game drive, even the most high-powered executives have leveled out and the Bush starts taking over, talking to them.”
African healing, of course, is inherent not only in live animals – but also in their bones.
Magwaza, a sangoma (traditional African healer), sits cross-legged in front of me. His arms are covered in ceremonial red-and-white beads (a trademark of South Africa); colorful bracelets adorn his wrists; a red wig his hair. He flashes a lopsided grin, one tooth missing, then clasps lion and leopard bones tightly in both hands. Animal bones are the tools used by sangomas to communicate with the spiritual world, the ancestors. But since I am a “non-Native,” he adds shells, a domino, and a die to the mix which, James Mathebula (my interpreter for the day) assures me will provide a better “reading.”
When I inquired about visiting a “real” sangoma, James, a Shangana tribe member and long-time Ulusaba employee, had offered to personally escort me. During our two-hour drive to this traditional Shangana village (not far from a mega-shopping mall and Kentucky Fried Chicken), where a chief, his three wives, twenty-one children, and others reside, James had briefed me on tribal customs and beliefs.
“Shangana believe in the collective powers of the ancestors. When a baby is born, before anyone else touches the child, the grandmother places the child under a tree or on the grass and presents the baby to the ancestors – asking them to guide the child.”
Likewise, sangomas do not decide to become healers; they are “chosen” by the ancestors who inflict on them a serious illness which cannot be cured by conventional medicine.
Magwaza was only fifteen when he became very ill and his parents took him to a sangoma who explained the boy was chosen [to be a healer]and needed to train. Now twenty-five, Magwaza makes a living in goats, cows, chickens, and occasional currency, reading the health and lives of tribal members.
Many people confuse sangomas with witchdoctors, James explains, but the difference is distinct.
“Sangomas are true healers who train for at least two years in the Bush, learning every plant and its medicinal purpose,” says James, pointing to the menagerie of upside-down, drying herbs lining Magwaza’s healing hut. “Witchdoctors simply cast spells for personal or financial gain.”
More than eighty-five percent of South Africans reportedly visit a sangoma on a regular basis. Some seek support for bereavement or conflict in their lives, others for social consult; most however, come seeking a cure for a physical ailment.
In his village, Magwaza treats mainly breast cancer (with a pumpkin-like root plant); and sexually transmitted diseases (concoction of medicinal herbs). Hot tomatoes and steam are his prescription for toothaches; African potatoes are used to cleanse the blood; and python oil is a fave for earaches. He, like both sangomas and conventional docs, report no remedy for AIDS, now of crisis proportion in South Africa. I come to Magwaza with no specific health ailment (not to mention goats or cows) but the healer doesn’t seem to mind. He shakes the bones numerous times before throwing them onto an impala skin. After carefully studying where and how the bones land, he speaks rapidly in Shangaan.
“He says your body is healthy so he has no herbs or remedies to give you. And that you will be well-known for the work you do.”
Magwaza returns to study the bones, then continues, this time excitedly.
“He sees a girl, a daughter.” I nod my head yes. “He says your grandmother (deceased) has a very special gift to give this girl. And you must open the communication. Give the girl your grandmother’s name.”
I imagine announcing to my thirteen-year-old daughter that she will now assume the name, Twyla – and laugh just thinking of her reaction.
But the sangoma is not amused. In fact he is stern, insistent.
“He says you must drape your daughter in a white cloth, bring out the favorite foods and flowers of your grandmother and call to her. He sees much around this girl, something very special. He cannot tell you enough that you must do this.”
“So what do you think? Will you rename your daughter?” James smiles over the steering wheel of the Land Rover. We are back in the Bush now, off the major highway fuming with cars and women balancing market baskets on their heads. A calm has settled over him. “I don’t know. Should I?”
He slows the vehicle to face me, grinning ear to ear. “I can only say that we learn from a very young age in South Africa to acknowledge our abaphans (ancestors) and work with them. They won’t leave you alone until you do. They will keep after you and after you; talk to you in the kitchen, the bath, when you’re trying to work or sleep. And if you ignore them? Their knocking will just get louder . . .”
I think of James’ words as I make my final retreat into the copper claw-foot tub – with its breathtaking view of the Bush.
One more game drive, one more festive, torch-lit Afrikan dinner served by women in mammy-like turbans and men in colorful dress, and I’m home. I feel different, changed somehow from this primal, bigger-than-me place. But renaming my daughter? Worshipping dead people – even if the dead is my much-beloved grandmother?
Doubtful.
But as I wiggle one toe, then another, in contemplation, I feel it. Someone – or rather something – staring. Keeping my body submerged, I move only my eyes to the window. And once more, laughter erupts.
The ancestors have spoken.
Three baboons – mama, baby (and yes) granny – return my gaze.
address book
Ulusaba Private Game Reserve, (800) 557-4255, www.ulusaba.com
Shangana Cultural Village, Hazyview, Mpumalanga, www.shangana.co.za
November/December 2003
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