The Bible represents a god called Mary, Mary is a white and she loves peace, so for anything concerning bringing peace, they summon her. The beer bottle represents a god call Jok Kirikitiny.
Kirikitiny is a god from the Karomonjong ethnic groups — he is concerned with protection. The small syrup bottles contain a liquid substance which she takes before starting her work, it makes her see and hear from the gods. Repair broken marriages or relationships. So now let me ask you again, do you still think witch doctors are bad people?
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Once they settle on the price — five hundred shillings — the man opens his box. The crowd gasps and backs away. I wedge in closer, drop to one knee, and steady the camera.
The man spins toward me, six-foot snake in hand. But I lower the camera. Seeing this, he says something to Hans. Anyway, you should take his picture. I have already paid. I raise the camera and try to focus on the miserable snake as the man, a menacing grin spreading over his face, thrusts the snake close to the lens, withdraws it, then thrusts it close again.
As we leave the phony doctor and his dwindling crowd, Hans, sensing my disappointment, promises to find me a real witch doctor. He leads me to a dusty clearing near the bus station where about a dozen practitioners have set up tables to sell their potions. We approach two teenagers slouching near a table covered with corked bottles of oils, herbs wrapped in newspapers, and powders in crucibles.
The most popular remedies he sells are for stomach ailments and sexually transmitted diseases. He can only advise on what course of action you should take to change your predicament.
In hand-painted letters, it reads: Prof. After hopping over a ditch, pressing through a grove of banana trees, and edging around a thatched fence of dried banana leaves, we find ourselves in Dr. The cement walls, though apparently sturdy, are breeding moss and in dire need of a paint job. Around the windows, messages are scrawled in paint; one reads in Swahili : If you are serious, it will take only thirty days. An iron-grid door and bars in the windows protect the house, but the backbone of the home-security system, I later learn, is the bottles buried in the yard.
The front door is open. I peer around him. On the cement floor of the front room is a straw mat underneath a pile of blankets and surrounded by bananas and mangoes in various states of decay. Corn husks and more batteries are scattered about.
I see nothing in the house that requires electricity, not even lights. The house is dark, cool, and damp, smelling of mildew, urine, and animal musk. A message painted on the far wall reads: Do not enter with shoes. Suddenly a screeching mass of fur leaps toward us. Hans jumps back, nearly knocking me off the porch. As if on cue, the monkey — roped at the waist and tethered to the doorknob — saunters into the doorway.
Hans laughs nervously. The monkey retreats into the shadows, chattering and picking its way through the rotten fruit. Hans and I wait on the front porch. I ask him if I should take off my shoes when the doctor arrives. He surveys the floor inside, where, at that moment, the monkey has decided to defecate.
After twenty minutes, a man comes strutting into the front yard wearing a black derby, a powder blue Members Only jacket, and a sulfur-colored shirt and matching pants bearing the logo Cat Diesel Power. His basketball shoes are stylishly unlaced.
He has bloodshot eyes and stained teeth, and wears sideburns, a mustache, and a scraggly goatee. The doctor greets us with a broad smile and a complicated handshake.
He apologizes for his lateness — he was in Moshi, ten kilometers away, for lunch. Suddenly looking very concerned, he says something in an ominous tone.
It is a common impression among people I meet in Tanzania. Nearly everyone seems to suspect that I suffer profound mental retardation because of my limited knowledge of Swahili. Hans relays the message to the doctor, who appears understanding and invites us into his office, the second of two rooms in the house.
Hans and I follow him, edging our way around the watchful monkey. The office is also in an advanced state of disarray. The doctor finds a clearing in the middle of all this and takes a seat. His nurse, a teenage boy wearing an Islamic hat, brings in two stools and offers them to Hans and me, then quietly reclines in a patch of sunshine against a wall the color of dried blood. Frequently, the role of witch doctor was passed down from one generation to another. In many villages, they came exclusively from one family tree.
Most generally picked their own successor and typically began their training at an early age. The successor would generally serve as an apprentice until such time as the serving witch doctor was no longer able to carry out his duties. In most cases, the witch doctor held such an important and respected position that the villagers generally looked after him until his death. Inquire Now. What healthcare disciplines do Work the World cater for in Tanzania?
What other countries can I travel to on a Work the World elective? What is the Work the World house like in Tanzania? Related Blog Posts.
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