Based on a warden’s report in 2002
If it doesn’t have a logical explanation, and/or cannot be scientifically substantiated, I don’t buy it. I am particularly sceptical about those theological phenomena involving spirits or ghosts or anything to do with the supernatural and superstition. Yet, I am perfectly comfortable with the miraculous healing powers of certain plants and herbs if the claims are backed by science.
I suppose I have to admit that at times, I have been dragged kicking and screaming to a homoeopath, which to me is pushing my faith to its absolute limits!
I don’t believe in witchdoctors, shamans or traditional healers. I never have and I doubt I ever will. By the same token, I don’t underestimate the power that witchdoctors and sangomas and others of similar leanings, talents and positions, have over their followers. Nor do I underestimate the incredible faith some have in the often vile concoctions they’re required to ingest, which are put together from pieces of unmentionables, and mixed with ground-up untouchables!
The respect these healers command and the results their muti mixtures produce, has to be seen to be believed. Recently, I used this unquestioned faith by believers in the power of the sangoma to help save a man’s life.
A delegation of representatives of the Olifants work force asked me to convene a meeting to discuss a matter of grave concern. Among these men were my trusted and loyal anti-poaching rangers, game guards and security staff, as well as the formally elected shop stewards of our workers’ union, in all twelve men. One of them, acting as spokesman, came forward and with a sombre expression I’ve not often seen on this man’s face, got straight to the point and said that a member of our staff was changing into a baboon at night and entering some of the women’s rooms. Even though the doors were locked, he reported, this baboon-man managed to get in and have his way with them.
‘How does it get in?’ I asked.
‘Under the door,’ he replied.
‘That’s impossible,’ I said. ‘It’s far too narrow a gap for anything to squeeze through.’
‘This baboon has magic powers and he gets in easily,’ they insisted.
Now came the question I knew I had to ask, but was dreading. ‘Do you know who it is?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he replied and gave me the name of one of our most prominent members of staff, to whom I will refer as ‘baboon-man’ from now on.
He said that the rest of the delegation demanded that I chase him away or they would. I told them that in terms of the Labour Act there was no proof of any misconduct to warrant dismissal. This legalese fell on deaf ears, because they merely repeated their ultimatum and a standoff ensued.
To try and convince me how strongly they felt, they offered another means to confirm this man’s guilt – and that was to consult a witchdoctor. This, they said, would weed out the guilty person and confirm their suspicions. I agreed to their proposal provided they were prepared to pay for the services of a sangoma as I knew they didn’t do any pro bono work. As we were required to get an out-of-town witchdoctor, in an effort to ensure a measure of objectivity, I offered to help with the transport costs.
We managed to get two witchdoctors for the price of one, with the older man appearing to be the sangoma. He not only looked the part, but was considerably older than the other, though I didn’t have the courage to ask whether the younger chap was an apprentice. I was just happy to get the ‘bones rolling’, so to speak. They negotiated the contract, comported themselves in a most professional manner and were punctual, arriving on time at the pick-up point in a late model Mercedes-Benz. Both men were dressed in modern suits, with their traditional garb being brought along in an old leather suitcase, like those used by wealthier travellers in the ’forties and ’fifties.
The mood amongst the staff back at the village was nervously apprehensive. Everyone believed in the power of the sangoma and they all knew the seriousness of what was about to unfold. As far as they were concerned, this was where the buck would stop.
Without too much delay, the two men emerged, both looking the part in leopard skin capes, feathered headdresses, wildebeest tail switches, sticks, bags of bones and bits and bobs off some animals I’d only ever seen in a museum. Then, in a well-rehearsed ritual, they stepped into the circle and began the chanting and bone-throwing almost immediately. They created quite a spectacle. Any twinge of guilt out in the crowd, however small, would show on the facial expression and in the body language of those subjected to the process, which would no doubt give them away. Even if only fractionally implicated, the fear and belief is so strong, that anybody knowing what to look for and watching for these signs would pick up subtle clues. I suspect that this was one of the main reasons why there were two witchdoctors so that while one ranted and chanted, the other observed the crowd. I remember thinking that this was an excellent strategy.
The wildebeest tail switches went swishing back and forth and up and down to the collective chant of ‘Siavuma!’ Bones and other bits were thrown in a loose heap, accompanied by throaty, guttural words I couldn’t make head or tail of. This must have gone on for the best part of an hour. Then suddenly, the tempo slowed, ending abruptly with a finger-pointing accusation that left no doubt as to who the sangoma had singled out. Surprise, surprise, it was the same man accused by the delegation a few days previously. There were no dramatics, just quiet acceptance, some head shaking and mumbling, nothing more. But the drama wasn’t over. There was more to come. Their job done, the two gentlemen, sweating profusely from their performance, began to pack up their gear. This they did slowly and with the same methodical indifference a plumber employs when he packs his tools away after unblocking your drain. Having showered and changed back into their suits, they came down to the office where I handed them their cheque for the agreed R3 500.
Thinking that wasn’t bad for less than two hours’ work, we drove them back to Hoedspruit. But, my problems, and particularly those of the baboon-man, were now further than ever from being solved.
Confirmation from the sangoma gave the staff confidence and renewed their determination: they were now adamant in their demands. They wanted this man gone, to which they added that if I didn’t fire him, they would ‘fire him’ literally, using the infamous ‘necklace’ method! They were absolutely serious and I knew that unless something was done to stall them, they would act out their threat. This man’s life was in real danger. Calling him into my office, I suggested he take leave and get off the reserve for a while until things cooled down.
By now I had established that there was, perhaps, some substance to some of the accusations against him, but it was certainly not serious enough to die for, or even lose his job over. He was adamant he was going nowhere, but asked for a ride into town, which I gave him.
Later that afternoon, he returned with the police, who sat down in reception. From there they sent for those who were threatening him to appear. They did not appear. Draining the two Cokes we had given them, they politely thanked us and then drove themselves to the village. Ten minutes later, leaving a substantial dust cloud behind them, they drove out, making their way straight back to Hoedspruit. What transpired, I later learned, was that the delegation had, in no uncertain terms, told the police to go home, that this was none of their business, and if they interfered they would be sorry.
At that point I knew I had better think of something, and quickly. It was a shocking revelation for management to see how little respect our people had for the police. I knew from the reaction of the police that we were on our own, and that the solution would have to come from within.
The next morning, I called everybody to a meeting, and everyone except the baboon-man turned up. I’d had enough of this threat of intimidation and savage injustice, so I laid it on the line for them. Knowing that the threat of criminal charges didn’t seem to faze them, I still needed to make them understand that the consequences of their threatened actions would be very far-reaching.
Firstly, I let them know that they were not going to kill anybody on the reserve while I was in charge. Secondly, I reminded them that the shareholders had known this man for many years; he had watched their children grow up, and, I said, if you murder him, the shareholders would live in fear of you, and so, would not use your services.
‘Think of it,’ I said. ‘How am I ever going to tell them the man guarding their lodge is a murderer, or the maid in their lodge was party to a gruesome murder?’
Suddenly the penny dropped. They asked me for an alternative solution to this problem. I told them to leave it with me for the time being and that I would get back to them soon. Although they agreed reluctantly, I had at least managed to buy some more time.
Even with these people of legendary patience, I knew that time was of the essence. I had to get help from someone who had first-hand experience with this sort of thing as soon as possible. Calling in a favour from an old friend in the forestry business, he put me onto a labour lawyer who dealt with tribal law issues, and who had knowledge of a similar case. What a relief this was, and when I was told of the possibility that a solution could be achieved by using another witchdoctor, to clean the ‘dirty spell’, I knew there was hope. This would cost another R3 000 or so, I was told, but that was the least of my concerns at that stage.
What was of real importance was that this fee had to be paid by the accused himself, as a demonstration of good faith and, I suspect, as an admission of guilt. So, I called in the baboon-man and put the proposition to him. He accepted without hesitation. I then approached the rest of the staff, who appeared relieved that there was a possible solution and that at least it involved the accused having to fork out a pile of cash. Most importantly, however, it included a witchdoctor’s cleansing ritual.
The following day, our driver went to Ohrigstad to collect the ‘cleansing’ sangoma. Again for reasons of impartiality, he needed to be from as far away as possible, and we all agreed that 100 kilometres was far enough.
This witchdoctor was a younger man and proceeded without too much fanfare and paraphernalia. He was taken to some of the lodges at his request, on which he systematically performed a simple cleansing ritual. He then did the same in the staff village and compound area. The ritual appeared to be based on a mixture of water, a little soil, and something else from his bag of tricks; he then took small amounts of this potion and dabbed it on the door, while chanting a few words. Although this took a lot longer than the previous witchdoctors’ two-hour ritual, he only charged R3 000.
I was surprised that no effort was made by the sangoma to consult with the baboon-man: surely logic dictated that this would be the first port of call? Anyway, I knew better than to question these things.
The following morning, the witchdoctor phoned the office to enquire if all was well. When we advised him that everything was fine, he simply replied, ‘That’s cool!’
We didn’t really know how to interpret either that comment or the need for the phone call in the first place. I had difficulty believing it was a classic example of after-sales service, a follow-up from a true professional, rather positioning it as part of the mind games employed to perpetuate superstition, fear and belief to his own advantage. Being a sceptic, I also assumed he was checking up on the effect of the ceremony and the perceived value of his dubious muddy concoction. The reality was that the materials he used had no potency whatsoever in a physical sense.
Although I remain sceptically unconvinced of any of the individual elements employed by any of the witch doctors, they achieved results which neither I nor the police could achieve – and that’s what mattered. Over time I have asked many believers and supporters of the role of the sangoma why witchdoctors have no effect on me whatsoever. The answer is always the same.
‘But, you are a white man …’