BECOMING A SANGOMA Religious anthropologious fieldwork in Francistown, Botswana Wim van Binsbergen |
Journal of Religion in Africa,
1991
1. Introduction
In my ongoing research into the
urban therapeutic scene in Francistown, a rapidly growing town in
northeastern Botswana, I set out to contrast (van Binsbergen
1990a) the symbolic and organizational features of two dominant
religious expressions: churches of the spirit, and mediumistic sangoma
cult lodges. Tracing the biographical and therapeutic trajectory
of a number of inhabitants of Francistown, it turns out that the
social and psycho-somatic complaints of patients in both types of
therapy are very similar. However, the sangoma
cult idiom seeks to establish, in the
consciousness of the clients, a coherent image of a viable and
meaningful social order anchored in the village, adorcism (de
Heuschs term; cf. Lewis 1990) of ancestors and continuity
with the past persuading them to embrace a traditional
world-view that until then may hardly have been part of their
adult consciousness. A minority of the patients become permanent
adepts of the sangoma cult,
swelling the ranks of the lodge membership which, in addition to
recruited patients, comprises selected members of the
consanguineal and affinal kin of the lodge leader. Through the
person of their leader, each lodge is tributary to the
regions dominant territorial cult of or Ngwali.[2] By contrast, the Christian idiom
emphasizes personal rupture vis-à-vis the rural-based kin group,
exorcism of ancestral and other rural-associated spirits
(foremost the Shumba or Lion
cult), and reinforces the clients as
participants in an urban capitalist economy experienced by them
as painful, meaningless, yet attractive. Thus my project is
situated in a fast growing body of recent literature on healing
and socio-cultural transformation in Southern Africa.[3] To me as a European researcher,
Francistown proved a painfully difficult environment to explore
questions of historical African religion, even when such religion
was evidently a major component in the urbanites
consciousness. The present paper describes how I struggled to
solve this research problem, and in the process became so
involved with the sangoma cult
that the purpose of the field-work itself had to be reconsidered
not to say was defeated.
Botswana is the fourth place in Africa where, since 1968, I have
conducted field-work on religion and therapy. Those familiar with
my work have seen me pass through a rather rapid succession of
paradigms: from the positivist collection of quantitative data on
the recruitment of spirit mediums (faqír,
pl. fúqra) in the
highlands of northwestern Tunisia, via Marxist reductionism
explaining away cults of affliction (particularly the Bituma
cult) in western Zambia as a local idiom expressing the
articulation of modes of production, to a symbolically somewhat
more sensitive exploration of the convergence of bodily and
territorial symbolism in Manjak oracular cults in Guinea Bissau.
In my first Tunisian field-work I remained an observing outsider,
encountering the shocking directness of the epiphany of the
sacred through ecstatic religion for the first time in my life.
Parallel to the professional fuqra
sessions as staged publicly at saints festivals as well
as in the relative privacy of a homestead, those who were not
eligible for faqir-hood
(or who had dropped out of that status because of its
socio-political marginality) would frequently, as part of an
evenings musical entertainment among kinsmen, friends and
neighbours, stage perfect imitations of the fuqras
art, and it was on those occasions that I learned the bodily
movements, singing and respiratory techniques attributed to the
initiates. In 1970, during a genuine session, I was
allowed to dance along not just with the imitators but with the fuqra
themselves; I entered into an incipient trance, but was
immediately called back, primarily by my first wife who was
present. The restrictive brand of social anthropology I was
reading in the Netherlands at the time did not stimulate any
further analytical explorations into the ecstatic experience
itself, and only two decades later a long novel written in the
non-academic intimacy of my mother tongue (van Binsbergen 1988)
was to serve as the outlet for what I had not been able to
capture and come to terms with in scholarly discourse; as much of
my other literary work has been moulded out of the spill-over of
field-work experiences (but deriving its primary inspiration not
from field-work per se but
from a more general personal quest, one leg of which forms the
subject of the present paper).
In my next, and much more extensive, Zambian field-work I was
again drawn to the study of ecstatic religion, but while I was
deeply involved with a family of cult leaders and adepts, and
sponsored several sessions for that familys junior women,
my personal ritual participation remained confined to shaking a
rattle in the chorus and attending to complex logistics ensuring
the presence of drums and firewood. I noted the amazing
similarity between the Zambian adepts dancing and trance
and the Tunisian forms, and I avidly consumed papers on the
spread of ecstatic cults across the African continent in recent
centuries. However, the success of my Marxist interpretation of
the Zambian material prevented me, once again, from sounding out
the ecstatic depths, let alone plunging into them myself. The
idea that the widespread ecstatic approach to healing could be
more than an external research topic, could be incorporated into
my own personal life, was still far from me. Instead, I was
persuaded to provide an informal outlet for western medicine at
my rural research site in Zambia, and this unexpected and
unqualified exercise of the doctors role gave me immense
satisfaction (van Binsbergen 1979a, 1987); steps were taken to
formalize this initiative through the establishment of a local
clinic, to be financed with Dutch aid money, and to be staffed by
the Zambian government, but this project aborted due to the
absence of sustained organizational support at the local level.
By the late 1970s, my repeated field-work and thus increasing
involvement in the life and language of the Zambian Nkoya began
to pose serious problems of personal and family boundary
management in my movements back and forth between western Zambia
and western Europe, but even when this had me thoroughly
disorientated it was still only jokingly, flippantly, that I
considered the possibility of phrasing my being torn between
there and back again (van Binsbergen
1979b) in terms of possession by a Zambian affliction spirit
much as I had learned to interpret the cults of
affliction in terms of traders and labour migrants
boundary crossing, geographical and cultural displacement, and
the linkage between distinct socio-cultural complexes termed
modes of production. Yet, was the situation of these
African travellers not reminiscent of the anthropological
field-workers?
It was only in 1983, during new field-work on the therapeutic
effectiveness of oracles and land priests in Guinea Bissau
no ecstatic religion in this thoroughly
Apollinic gerontocratic culture, except perhaps in
secret womens cults I had no access to , that I
crossed an essential boundary and became a
participant-as-patient, deriving benefits of personal healing
from an idiom which only months before had been utterly unknown
to me. These cults did cater for the local rice-cultivating
villagers, but a large proportion of their clients were returning
labour migrants from Senegal and France, and in addition their
clientèle comprised non-locals from all over Guinea Bissau and
Southern Senegal: people who had to use a national lingua
franca in their contacts with the cultic
personnel and whose understanding of the cults
transactions was only based on such simplified symbolic and
aetiological interpretations as could be explained to them in one
or two sessions. The priests response made it clear that in
these respects their distant African patients did not
fundamentally differ from me or from occasional other white
(Portuguese) clients. Intrigued by the ease and eagerness with
which I embraced Manjak society, a western-trained psychiatrist
with whom I undertook the project jointly in general a
sober positivist ventured an explanation which was to take
on a new meaning in later years: could I be the European
incarnation of an African?
The above summarizes what I
brought to my field-work in Francistown in 1988. Focussing on the
contemporary transformation of culture in an urban setting (which
was thought to mediate between a rural-based tradition and the
modern state), I was of course keen to explore the urban
manifestations if any of the regions Mwali
cult. Yet I realized that the limited time available for
field-work and language learning (a year, later fortunately
augmented by shorter trips but still far too little), the
urban setting, the need to look at many other aspects of the
Francistown socio-cultural scene in addition to historic
religion, and the territorial claims long since pegged out by
others who happened to be my closest academic friends, would
prevent me from making a major contribution to Mwali studies. At
the same time, considering my academic work so far it was to be
expected that religion would loom large in my approach to
socio-cultural transformations in Francistown, and that the urban
trajectory of cults would provide models for my analysis of other
aspects of the urban society. While the scale of the urban
community would force me to supplement my participant
observation with the use of survey methods, I had long put aside
the positivist optimism that had guided my Tunisian research.
Likewise, while the project was conceived as a study of the
culture of peripheral capitalism, I had become convinced that
only the selective incorporation of Marxist ideas in mainstream
anthropology (embourgeoisement,
in other words) would allow us to benefit from both the gains of
recent Marxism and of a hundred years of symbolic, kinship,
political etc. anthropology. And yes, I hoped (rather naïvely,
as it will turn out, but eventually not in vain) that new African
field-work with a substantial religious component would mean
another installment of the personally liberating and healing
insights that had come my way in Guinea Bissau, and would further
define my own existential position towards an Africa that from an
arbitrarily chosen research site in my first graduate project had
become my conscience, my second wife, one of the main puzzles of
my life.
This should provide sufficient background for the (entirely
factual) narrative section that is to follow.
2. A meal in the country[4]
Nata, September 1990. At the
fringe of the Kalahari desert, two hundred kilometres northwest
of Francistown. Prior to this afternoon, this village had stood
out mainly as the place where my nostalgia for other, dearer
parts had hurt more than anywhere else in Botswana. Along the
perfect tar road, near the filling station whose pumps were still
hand-operated (but where the best French fries of the whole of
northern Botswana were on sale, as well as a larger international
assortment of alcoholic beverages than in the tax-free shops of
many European airports), one could always find remarkably poorly
dressed Zambians, waiting for transport which even they could
afford, to reduce or add to the three hundred kilometres which
separated them here from their own country Zambia, where I
was so much at home and which contrasted so sharply with booming
Botswana. The aerials of the Nata police compound tower high
above a few shops and a much larger number of thatched round
houses, with chickens and goats and said to be largely inhabited
by San people, the sedentarized descendants of the hunters and
collectors who form the original inhabitants of this land. Here
one speaks Tswana or Kalanga; the San language does not belong to
public life, and somatically the San can hardly be distinguished
any more from the Bantu-speakers who have been placed over them
as cattle lords, shopkeepers and civil servants. Ten kilometres
before arriving at Nata, at the edge of wetlands which are flat
and open like the polders of my native Holland, just as full of
birds and cows and with the same light beckoning with watery
reflections, one passes Nata Lodge: a camping and
bungalow site, surrounded by palms and the regular stop-over
for South African tourists on their way to the game parks of
northern Botswana; here the lingua franca is Afrikaans, almost
Dutch.
However, that afternoon picture-postcard Nata, where the
real Botswana begins, formed the end point of a quest to
the heart of Africas symbolic culture.
A quarter of a century after Botswanas independence
Francistown had turned out to be still in the grips of its past
of mining, monopoly capitalism and labour migration, and of the
racial distinctions this had entailed. During field-work in that
town, in the popular site-and-service scheme where we had settled
as the only European family, we had for almost a year hit on
walls of rejection, suspicion, indifference, cramped displays
of modernity and dissembled tradition the common
strategies by which the black urban population of Southern Africa
tries to come to terms with economic and cultural humiliation at
the hands of whites, and to secure an identity underground. The
literature, conversations with colleagues who had wisely limited
their research to the rural situation, and extensive trips with
town-dwellers to their rural homes, had given me some idea of
what went on in the villages around Francistown. In those
villages the African tradition is still rather vital: from
ancestor veneration to the cult of the High God Mwali, from
historic kinship structures to female-centred cults of the
wilds. For many months however I was flatly denied all access to
those aspects of tradition which functioned in the urban setting,
in interaction with wage labour and modern formal organizations.
Half the time even our greetings were not answered. Such
knowledge and experience as I had gained elsewhere in Africa
did not count and to my increasing indignation my
skin colour put me on the wrong side in a grim if largely tacit
racial feud. In the villages we shared the porridge which had
been my daily and often only food in so many places in Southern
Africa; in town, where despite the supply of bread and fast food
this cheap dish is still the principal staple, it was never
offered to us: Whites do not eat that sort of thing.
Nor did our neighbours ever offer us any other food. Little did
the people know that I looked at them with the eyes of a villager
from Zambia, and that my heart resounded with the perplexed cry
by which children in that country challenge the infringement of
their elementary rights: You are refusing me
porridge?! It shows our neighbours embarrassed good
will, however, that our little son Vincent was sometimes
invited to eat with them.
The pressures of this field-work made us literally sick, and it
was not an illness that the western physicians of Francistown
could heal despite our almost weekly consultations. From a few
weeks delightful visit to the Zambian countryside I
returned to face Francistown with increased frustration and
impatience. I refused to play any longer the role of the
despised, oft-burglared white man in a black neighbourhood.
Surely it should be possible to introduce into this urban
environment my knowledge of a kindred African culture, acquired
in Zambia over a twenty-year period, among people whom
much to the hilarity of my Francistown neighbours I
insisted on calling my relatives.
Now the time was ripe. Forced to let the role of researcher be
temporarily eclipsed by that of patient, my wife Patricia and
myself were allowed to step out of our prison of stereotypical
whites. Already at the beginning of our stay we had met Smart
Gumede, a Zulu man who after twenty-six years as a deep-water
cabin steward had been called by his ancestors to become a
traditional healer; he had ended up in Francistown, as far from
the sea as one can get in Southern Africa. He combined his
practice with a small business in vegetables, fat cakes and
firewood. It was to him that we referred as a last resort, short
of giving up our field-work. His response was prompt and to the
point. Against the sorcery attacks we were so obviously victim
to, he supplied magical substances with which to doctor our yard
and bodies; the daily rites through which to administer them,
helped us through our most distressful weeks in Francistown.
Himself a foreigner, he invited us to take a relative view of our
situation in terms not of racism but of Botswana xenophobia. And
from his business he would always give me some food for Vincent
whom he began to call his grandson the first honorary
kinship term to be bestowed upon us in Botswana. Also Gumede
introduced me to his home-boy Joshua Ndlovu, in his fifties a
budding sangoma seeking
to establish himself in the local therapeutic scene, but at the
same time a drop-out secondary school teacher holding university
degrees and diplomas. With Joshua I could discuss sangoma-hood
in terms derived from anthropological textbooks. Impressed by
what I could tell him about Zambian cults of affliction, he
introduced us to his local network of healers and cult leaders,
who rushed to our assistance by word and deed.
Soon we were introduced to a more complex and less mechanical
aetiology, at the hands not of a pragmatic herbalist like Gumede
(who meanwhile became my first teacher of divination) but of sangomas.
One lodge leader interpreted my many complaints (backache,
insomnia, high blood pressure, the theft of a unique book
manuscript on Zambia ready for publication, of my wedding ring,
and of scores of other items from our house) as springing not
from the structure of Francistown society, nor from sorcery on
the part of our neighbours, but from disrupted relationships
between ourselves and our ancestors. We were to improve that
relationship and to regain our ancestral protection and anchorage
by accepting ritual obligations (such as the killing of goats in
our yard, and the wearing of beads); and in the meantime the
administration of herbs and fumigation were to combat the more
acute suffering. We were impressed when in dramatic divination
sessions the specific ancestors were identified who were held
responsible for our suffering: my paternal grandfather, who had
died in my fathers infancy, and a few weeks later at
a different sangoma lodge
Patricias mothers fathers mother. These
were indeed key figures of our family history, and around them
much of the conflict and misery in our separate families had
clogged for generations. I had sacrificed a calf, pigs and goats
before, to saints and land spirits in Tunisia and Guinea Bissau,
and twice a year I would still dedicate special family meals to
one particular Tunisian saint, but I was loath to sacrifice to my
paternal kin from whom for what I thought were excellent
reasons I had tried to run away all my life. However, I
was enough of a religious anthropologist to appreciate the
therapists insistence that my submission on this point,
precisely, would produce the change I was hoping for: The
very force which is afflicting you now, is the one which has
pushed you to be a writer, as my therapist then divined. He
and his colleagues had not the slightest doubt as to the
applicability of their ancestral aetiology to us. Instead of the
alien collective spirits of distant places, it was our own family
history we were made to come to terms with.
There are a handful of sangoma
lodges in Francistown, and the leader of one of them, Rosie
Mabutu, MmaNdhlovu, of the Maipaahela suburb, insisted that we
should frequent her establishment. For a month we would spent
almost every day and evening there, sometimes staying overnight.
Life at the lodge showed us the many layers of ethnic, national
and linguistic identities of the members; in a place where
diversity, displacement, and (in an idiom of ancestral
reincarnation) movement across time were taken for granted and
where all day-to-day interaction was geared to produce a viable
therapeutic community of fellow-sufferers healing each other, the
boundaries that had so long shut us out did not exist.[5] Rosie and her sister (Elizabeth
Mabutu, MmaTshakayile, head of a lodge in the Monarch suburb)
boasted a white man for their grandfather; my first therapist had
incorporated a crystal ball, a present from a grateful white
client, among his principal divinatory apparatus. From whites,
the sangoma lodge
restored us to be human beings, and here we found the first and
only places in Francistown where we genuinely were at home.
But more was happening to us than incorporation into an
accommodating group. We both could hardly talk, think or dream of
anything else any more except sangoma-hood.
Our awareness of time and space was affected as we were
continuously preoccupied with powers which seemed to defy the
laws of empirical reality, with reincarnation reversing the flow
of time, and with divination which, ranging from past to future,
put a deliberate, momentary stop to the very mechanism of time
itself. The academic point that the ancestral beings did not have
any empirical existence in the present time, first became
irrelevant to us, then questionable. Vague ancestral beliefs had
been part of my upbringing anyway, and my previous African
experiences had already merged with this background and with my
Christian upbringing to provide a composite world-view that was
only mobilized at times of crisis; but we were very much in
crisis now.
Patricias redressive sacrifice could only be made in the
midst of her maternal kin, after our return to Europe; in
anticipation we solemnly dedicated and sacrificed a white chicken
from the run in our Francistown yard.
All this magical and cultic activity, involving local celebrities
as officiants, could hardly escape the notice of our neighbours,
and it was not entirely without glee that we got some of our own
back. From pariahs who did not even deserve to be lied to
consistently and elaborately, we were eventually recognized,
perhaps even feared, as being well-versed in the sphere of
healers and spirit mediums. For many town-dwellers it is there
that lies the touchstone of happiness and success, the
traditionally and rurally anchored ancestral censor of their
accomplishments in modern life. And we were moving rapidly into
that domain.
According to a general African mode of thought with which I had
long been familiar (cf. van Binsbergen 1981), serious illness
constitutes primarily an indication that the patient has been
called to become a healer: the ancestors manifest themselves
through illness not in order to destroy their
descendant but to let him or her, via specific ritual steps,
partake of their strength through incarnation. Therefore the
therapies which Patricia and I myself underwent, were to be
combined with training in diagnostic techniques, in preparation
for an expected near future when we would be healers ourselves.
Initially Patricia progressed farthest in this respect, as a
member of a group of women who, under Rosie Mabutus
direction, would both in the privacy of Rosies
lodge, and publicly, out in the townships stage cultic
dances in the black-white-red uniform of hosannas,
adepts of the Mwali cult. From this they derived not only healing
for themselves but also (once the crucial threshold of ecstasy
would have been crossed, and a hosanna ancestral
spirit would take possession of the adepts body)
eligibility for the socially recognized status of healer.
However, in her matter-of-factness Patricia never came closer to
ecstasy than when she fainted at Rosies funeral, whose
sudden death under suspect circumstances put an end to this
therapeutic episode only a month after it had started.
Our hopes were smashed once again and in fact our predicament had
increased, for having progressed from being researchers to being
patients, the latter role could not be brought to consummation
due to Rosies death. MmaTshakayile (emphatically not a hosanna
but a sangoma, a
medium whose ancestral spirit delivers articulate messages) was
supposed to take over Rosies patients. However, in the
confusion shortly after the funeral we were made to understand
that this would not apply to us; little did we realize then that
(while the senior lodge members were still busy with the funeral)
this rejection was a mere invention on the part of junior adepts
and junior relatives, who saw us as a threat to their own
uncertain statuses.
Joshua (whom some blamed for Rosies death she died
immediately after officiating at his house) suggested, as our
only way out, a pilgrimage to the Manyangwa Mwali oracle in
Zimbabwe, to which Rosie had been subservient; there surely we
would be told how to complete the process of redress we had so
hopefully began under her supervision. However, Joshuas
original lodge in Bulawayo could not put us in touch with
Manyangwa; instead we got a letter of introduction and an
escort of uniformed hosannas to
take us to Njelele, another major Mwali oracle in the Matopos
Hills. At the shrinekeepers village, as earlier on in
Francistown, we were not welcome. The reason given was that we
were white. I objected that we came as distressed suppliants, not
as curious outsiders, and that other whites I knew well had not
been refused. But the refusal was absolute, and as I was
conducting the negotiations adepts in trance aggressively crowded
and growled around Patricia who was waiting at some distance.
Leaving behind an eager and disloyal Joshua (who had been granted
access) we heartbrokenly drove back to Bulawayo through the
night. Only in later years, when I finally did make it to Mwali,
did I learn how very high the thresholds for first admission to
these oracles are, realizing that Joshua had taken us on a
fools errand. His later, starry-eyed account of his
nocturnal experience with the Mother of Spirits at Njelele did
not quite help us over our own disappointment.
When soon afterwards we moved back to the Netherlands because my
allotted year of field-work was over, our prevailing feeling was
one of sadness because of Rosies death, and of continued
rejection for which the mass of my more routinely collected
quantitative and administrative data on Francistown society and
culture could not compensate. Nine months later, and largely out
of loyalty to Rosies memory, we did stage the required
major sacrifice for Patricias ancestor in her Belgian
village appropriately sighing under the costs, and
surprised that her relatives had so little of a problem with the
whole thing; and this ended the matter as far as Patricia was
concerned.
Not so for me. My field-work in Tunisia and Zambia had prepared
me to appreciate sangoma-hood
within a wider context, and the experiences at the lodge shed a
new light on the data from my earlier research elsewhere. I had
supported Patricias activities in Rosies group in
every possible way. Such esoteric knowledge as I derived from
my Zambian research, a bead necklace and a shell pendant
reminiscent of that period, and the skills in handling the
oracular tablets which Gumede had meanwhile taught me, in the
lodge environment were recognized as manifestations of a kindred
spirit. Rosie had gone to the extent of giving me a set of
consecrated tablets (her regular adepts would practice divination
on virgin dummy tablets), and had supervised my further training
in their use. What with her uniform, daily administrations of
medicine, payment of a substantial entrance fee and being
ritually chased across the Maipaahela river, Patricia clearly
stood out as a twaza, a
trainee sangoma. Since I
had recently undergone therapy at a rival lodge, my own status at
Maipaahela remained ambiguous: was I a visiting initiate trained
in Zambia (I was not),
or was I merely an obliging husband and sponsor who was allowed
to share in the ritual, the training, the day-to-day life and the
meals at Rosies yard? It was only occasionally that I was
invited to dance along with the group, although often I shared in
the singing and drumming. At the same time I felt a stronger
challenge than Patricia did. No doubt there was an element of
inter-gender competition to this. More important was that I, as a
supposedly accomplished field-worker, had experienced the
barriers which Francistown society put before us not only as
emotionally disappointing but also as a shameful professional
failure. I kept hoping that one day, on some later research trip
to Francistown, I could realize the opportunities for rapport
which were being suggested by our contact with healers and
mediums at that stage. If I was not accepted as a temporary
member of that society in my western-defined role of researcher,
I hoped to return in a locally-defined role, within the one urban
sector which had, at long last, accommodated us. And the first
messages that I managed to extract from my newly acquired
divination tablets were precisely on this point: Yes, I would
return to Francistown, and yes, I would then become a sangoma.
Already considerations in terms of a failing field-work strategy
were secondary to my longing for esoteric knowledge, symbolic
power, and performative beauty. After Tunisia and Zambia, my
renewed contact with the ecstatic cult reminded me that this was,
for me, one of the great achievements of humanity, combining
display of self and loss of self, past and present, detachedly
applied performative skills and hazardous abandon. I began to
think that more than twenty years of African religious research
had unknowingly but unmistakably prepared me for the decisive
steps I was now about to take. I realized that there would be
immense satisfaction for me in having Africans accept me in an
African specialist religious role, and I did not mind the respect
they would, and ultimately did, accord me in that status
as they do other sangomas.
But ultimately, when I did come back and did become a sangoma,
I was to find an even greater reward in the chaste closeness of
bodies crammed into MmaTshakayiles small lice-infested
backroom where sangomas
would brotherly and sisterly retire after dancing; in the gentle
and patient ministrations by which Kwani, at seventeen the
youngest of MmaTshakayiles sangoma
granddaughters, tied and retied my sagging ankle rattles; the
subtle stage directions, unnoticeable to the lay onlookers, by
which the stepping forth and falling back of pairs of sangomas
on the dancing ground is orchestrated, lest one dancer steals
the show at the expense of the others; and the certainty of
acceptance when, in the corner of ones eye, one sees the
other sangomas
rallying around from the back, ready to catch ones fall and
thus taking away the last impediments to trance. I was seeking
existential transformation, fulfillment and redress, much more
than anthropological data, across cultural, geographical and
racial boundaries.
An opportunity for renewed contact with MmaTshakayile presented
itself in August 1990, when I was to give a seminar before the
Francistown Town Council, on the more down-to-earth aspects of my
urban research. Checking on our former neighbours in Somerset
East Extension, it turned out that the investments made during
the first frustrating year had unexpectedly borne fruit, and I
was received back into a very different neighbourhood from what I
had left now there was sociability, small talk, concern,
joking, even food for me. A neighbour who the previous year had
never bothered to pay us any attention, within a day had arranged
the desired contact with the Mwali high priest of the southwest
region (i.e. northeast Botswana), and I became an occasional
but welcome visitor to his Francistown villa. How would the sangomas,
whom I had left in the confusion after Rosies funeral,
receive me after a year? With trepidation I called at
MmaTshakayiles lodge, but immediately I was claimed by
the lodge community, and found my proper place there. I was to be
MmaTshakayiles twaza
but even more: she welcomed me back as Johannes, her deceased
elder brother, and at Johannes homestead in Matshelagabedi
village twenty-five kilometres out of Francistown I had the
uncanny experience of being shown my own, i.e. Johannes,
grave. Within ten days after renewed contact, the Tunisian
techniques enabled me to produce, at that same homestead, an
acceptable trance in which, according to the reports I received
afterwards, an Afrikaans-speaking collateral ancestor spoke
through my mouth, old and tired, and asking of course
for porridge. This was the decisive sign of my calling,
and a week later one day after my appointment to a chair
at the Free University, Amsterdam, came into effect I was
initiated as a twaza,
before a massive audience of lodge members, invitees and
neighbours, and with all the trappings: my own sangoma
uniform as dictated in detail by my ancestral spirit under
trance; sacred cloths, as well as bead necklaces and bracelets
which I was to wear night and day for the rest of my life;
elaborate and cumbersome taboos and prescriptions relating to
food, body care, sexuality and ritual for the duration of my
period as a twaza; and
(irregularly premature, but very explicitly) the right to
practice traditional medicine.
Great as the fulfillment was, I was under enormous tension and,
with the classic novices syndrome, passed the night before
initiation fearing it would be my last. One of my few white
friends in Francistown has severely warned me: not having grown
up in Southern Africa, I could not possibly know what I was
dabbling in, suggestion and hypnosis were the sangomas
stock-in-trade, and the least I was asking for was being turned
into a zombie for life; or was I courting Rosies fate? On
the day of the initiation I took my research assistant Ennie
Maphakwane along as my witness although it was her first visit to
the lodge; and for further protection I went to the extend of
collecting from the other end of town MmaMpofu, a motherly lady
whom we had met and lost out of sight again in 1988 and whom I
had found out only in 1990 to have been Rosies senior
adept. On our way, picking up additional firewood at the house
of one of MmaMpofus in-laws who happened to be a Zionist
church leader, I asked him to pray with us for protection and
blessing; fully aware of his relatives ritual status, he
yet obliged graciously, and far from charging for the firewood,
brought it along to MmaTshakayiles yard in his own truck.
All my precautions proved unnecessary. The ceremony (which
included the standard anti-cooking of the sacred foam
of the mpetlelwe root
over my head, and the drinking of blood from the cut throat of a
dying goat; its gall was smeared onto my feet and its inflated
gall bladder tied to a string for me to wear as a pendant) was
entirely public, out in the open yard; at no point was I to eat
or drink anything that was not shared with others. The main
language at the lodge is Ndebele, and most of its members are
paper Batswana from Zimbabwe, but to my relief it
turned out that I was to be initiated along with a woman my own
age, MmaNleya, whose father and husband had come from western
Zambia and with whom I could speak Nkoya she answering
back in the related Luvale language. To humour my white spirit
MmaTshakayile had shown considerable inventiveness of bricolage,
and thus from her large stock of paraphernalia European hats were
produced for her and me to wear during the ceremony, the
goats meat was to be not cooked but barbecued (for Southern
African whites like their braai),
and the fried meat was displayed not on the ground but
(whitemens fashion) on a table. In single file the lodge
population followed MmaTshakayile and me in a procession that led
back and forth, over my sacred white cloth that was extended
between the lodges arboreal shrine and that table, and in
passing everyone would take a single piece of the meat. Scores,
later hundreds of people from the surrounding Monarch compound
flocked to the yard, cheering, ululating especially when a
triumphant MmaTshakayile cried out to describe one by one the
parts of my uniform, showing them to the audience (these
are the trousers of my son, this is the shirt of my
son) and partaking in the free meal that was to
follow. The situation became decidedly hilarious when an army
jeep drove up from the barracks at the other side of Nyangabgwe
Hill: boys who had seen me shirtlessly seated in the shrine with
the foam cooking over me, had rushed to the military because
at MmaTshakayiles they were flogging a white man to
death; for the only occasion they had seen a man take off
his shirt at a public meeting was when corporal punishment was
meted out at the customary court, and it had been more than half
a century since a white man had received that relatively mild
punishment in Botswana (Crowder 1988). The boys did have a point,
though; I shall come back to this.
When we retired to MmaTshakayiles house in the late
afternoon, the tension was released and I had a long crying fit.
MmaNleya came up to me and comforted me: Does it hurt so
much, my brother? To MmaNdhlozi, a South African lodge
member, sister-in-law to MmaTshakayile and the one to interpret
my spirits Afrikaans, my reaction was only too obvious: had
my grandfather not cried for a (wooden) gun to be added to my
uniform, when he spoke through me only an hour ago during my
second trance? Die ou doppie
(that old chap) was getting impatient about his gun, that was
all. The absence of psychologizing appears to be one of the
strengths of sangoma
aetiology. Her husband, a sangoma
who, as a retired labour migrant from South Africa in his late
sixties, made a living as a guard at the still almost exclusively
white Francistown Club, needed even fewer words; he clutched me
and with an emphasis which contorted his face and body, managed
to bring out I I love you.
Whereas my spirit was henceforth to guide my therapeutic practice
by means of dreams and inner voices, MmaTshakayile deemed it
necessary that on her recommendation I would become a member of
the same association of traditional healers she and her senior
adepts belonged to: the Kwame (Legwame)
Traditional Association of Botswana. (Kwame
with its Tswana form Legwame is the name of the
first of the standard four divination tablets, the senior
woman.) In case I would lose a patient, or
would have to carry medicine including game trophies across the
national borders, this guild would protect me before the Botswana
government, by which it had been recognized. Long ago it had been
founded by a herbalist of, again, Zambian origin: Mr. G.R.
Sinombe, who was still its president. For a few years Gumede had
been its treasurer and general secretary, but he had stepped
down during a period which in the associations file at the
Botswana Registrar of Societies office (where I had
consulted it earlier as a matter of routine, unaware that I
would ever join) had stood out as one of financial crisis.
Meanwhile Sinombe had settled in Nata, in the centre of the
northern Botswana region which his association covers. It was
thither that I travelled three days after my initiation, in a
rented car, along with MmaTshakayiles granddaughter Molly
who despite her youth was herself already a great sangoma,
with Mollys husband Tapson a Zambian and a renegade twaza
, and twenty-year old Jane, one of Sinombes eighteen
children, and fellow-student of Ennie's who herself had to
remain behind in Francistown in order to attend her typing
class.
The previous night Ennie and I had
visited Jane, to ask her where we could find her father. It
turned out that he had left for the town of Selebi-Phikwe, in
order to sell the bar which his ex-wife, Janes mother, had
built over the years. Jane had been bitter about this transaction
the court had assigned this property to the children
issued from the dissolved marriage. At the same time Jane
admitted that she had nothing to complain about. Her father
supported her, paid her typing lessons, provided for the two
children (aged six ! and two) who had kept Jane
from educational achievement despite her considerable
intelligence, rented a spacious room for her in a nice house in a
Francistown suburb, and had supplied her with the expensive bed
and spring mattress, with a gas stove, and a wardrobe full of
clothes. My husband? That is my father. He is the one who
looks after me. Her father had not been angry at all when
she had those children; he had merely instructed her to go back
to school after a year, and this she had done. She was not
interested in her fathers work as a leading healer and land
priest, considered it boring, and preferred to play cassettes
with funk music on her new cassette recorder the only
consumer item she had not got from her father but from a boy
friend, and him she hoped to marry one day. Not unusual in
Botswana girls rooms, colour pictures of beautiful women in
various stages of undress were pasted above her bed, and likewise
cut from a glossy magazine there was the headline ME IS ALL
I CAN BE endearing in a town where the awkward
imitation of South-Africa imported styles of dress, hairdo,
speech, recreation and consumption had been the only form of
local culture that I had been allowed free access to; at the same
time the proud adage seemed to confirm that very imitation. Jane
was already in bed, a friend and Ennie sat on the edge, and I
leisurely occupied the only chair. I brought out my divination
tablets and challenged Jane to throw them so that we could see
how serious she was in rejecting the profession of her famous
father. And although at her Nata homestead she must have met
virtually all prominent healers from the region and witnessed
many divination sessions at close range, she let the tablets
bluntly drop onto the concrete floor as if totally ignorant of
the proper way of handling them; they bounced off in all
directions. Diviners tend to make idiosyncratic additions to
the standard set of four tablets, and one of my own peripherals
is a cowry, a cherished religious object in Southern Africa; a
giggling Jane called the attention of her friends to its
resembling the human vulva. Even after I had shown her how to
cast the tablets in a more respectful manner, the combinations
that formed confirmed what she had said: she was destined not
to follow in her fathers footsteps but to have a leading
role in an office, a company.
Ennie tells me that you are interested in Ngwali. Well, you
can ask whatever you want, I know all about it. My father has a
Hill, a Ngwali shrine just outside our yard in Nata,
and of all houses in the yard my own is closest to the shrine, so
I have heard and seen everything that takes place there.
Sometimes people come to consult the oracle; then my father has
an assistant and perhaps that one, or my father, produces the
voice of Ngwali.
A Maiden (of sorts) of Mwali, like the ones who in the past
carried the pots with beer and accompanied the black bull to the
shrine on the hill, where they would dance and request rain; but
now a trainee typist, holding court in a chaste nightdress in a
high concrete-walled room full of funk music, and deliberately
slighting the Voice! And that after the whole of Francistown for
a year had refused to say another word as soon as I shifted the
conversation to Mwali.
My father tells me that Ngwali has always been there, that
she is older than God. But surely that is impossible?
Not necessarily. Look in the Bible, dont you have one
here? Like many Francistown girls, she had a Bible within
reach, and I opened it at the Gospel of John. Here,
dont you see. In the beginning was the Word,
and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.
Mwali is that Word. Perhaps you must look at it this way: before
you can exist as God,
the principle of existing
must have established itself. That first existence, which makes
everything else possible, is the meaning of Mwa-li,
literally.
To lend force to my explanation I made the high-pitched cooing
sound (like a tape recorder reproducing human speech at
manifold-increased speed) which priests of a major cult of the
land in Guinea Bissau, five thousand kilometres of African
continent away, let pass as the voice of their god. I still owe
that god two pigs for the birth of Vincent. Jane is surprised.
Have you then been to Mwali already? How do you know that
voice?[6]
No, I had not yet been to Mwali,
at least, when I went there in distress I was rejected. I am
exhausted after these weeks of preparation and the initiation
itself; the interminable nocturnal dance sessions at
MmaTshakayiles, stamping and scraping the rough soil with
my bare feet; the insomnia and nocturnal agitation alternated
with vivid dreams that invariably revolved around sangomas
and the presence of Mwali; my raids on the shops and banks of
Francistown and through the villages in the region in order to
procure the many requisites for the initiation (the prescribed
clothes, cloth, beads, a goat, firewood, beef, rice, meal and
other food, a considerable sum of money) in so short a time; and
in-between a trip to the capital in order to complete my general
data on Francistown. And now I am lying on Janes bed (or is
it Janes sisters?), in their white house at
Sinombes homestead in Nata, and I listen to Janes
stories while she cooks porridge for me and for Molly and Tapson
whom we can see outside through the open door, sitting under a
tree and getting drunk on the cans of beer which I bought for
them. The house is round and through the window lined with a neat
steel frame I can make out, at a distance of fifty meters, a
small thatched structure the Mwali of Nata, unimpressive
as compared to the rocks and caves I had hoped to see at Njelele,
but deceptively close; although it would still take me another
year to be allowed inside. Jane had resolutely declined my offer
to go and buy chicken-and-chips at the filling station, one
kilometre down the road; instead we bought some meat from her
fathers butchery and now she is cooking a meal for us on
just such a gas stove as she has in Francistown. It is three
oclock, and in two hours time the bus will arrive
with her father, in his pockets the money from the sale of the
bar. Jane wears a smart dress from a South African mail-order
catalogue, but she has wrapped an African cloth over it. I myself
am overdressed too in this village environment, with my jacket
and tie, for I have come to collect my second doctoral degree.
Jane has shown me her photo albums, and the uniform of her sister
who is a sangoma like me
and who turns out to have the same sacred cloths but she
is no longer active in the field. Jane tells me about the
annual conventions of the healers association, when she
and her sister have to cook for scores of members, who fill the
place with their discussions and ritual dances. She tells me
about her two children, whom she gave birth to all by herself,
without the slightest effort or fear. She breast-fed them
herself, and she had plenty of milk, however small her breasts
are at other times, she says; and while stirring the porridge
with one hand she proudly taps her bosom with the other. The
night before, when reaching for the tablets which had leapt away,
she had bent so far out of the bed that her nightdress could no
longer hide her breasts, and the recollection makes me smile. She
is sweet, but I do not fancy her nor she me. Something else is
the matter:
I am very strong. All things of life go well with me. I can
live in town or in the village, wear a dress or a wrapper, it
makes no difference. I am who I am. I am Ngwali. My children are
healthy and I shall have plenty more. This goes back to my
grandmother. She was my mothers mother, but when my father
thinks of her he still has to cry, he loved her that much. Even
though he divorced my mother. MmaBotshelo
she was called, Mother of Life. She died a few years ago when she
was already very old. And last year we had a ceremony in the
family; then I received that name. Since then I have been the
Mother of Life, and I feel it in everything I do.
Tears fill my eyes. After a years struggle in the desert of
commoditified mass culture, it had yet to be in Botswana that, in
ecstatic trance, I had come to be fused with the symbols of
Africa more than anywhere else before; and now the Mother of Life
has led me to the Mother of Spirits. Awaiting the arrival of the
priest, her father, she prepares food for me. Does this mean that
the shattering events of the last few weeks, in which only the
previous night she assumed an overt role, had been nothing but a
strategy on her part, aimed at arranging another meeting with me?
I had met her a few times earlier on the crossroads of my life.
My children were named after her. My poetry is about her. My
scholarly and literary writing is a longing for her, an attempt
to fulfil her mission and to find mercy in her eyes.
Frankly speaking, I am not interested to be just a typist.
You know what I really want to do? To write! I want to be an
author. I would start by writing a book about the life of my
parents, and how one experiences that as a child and how it makes
one suffer. Then it would help, I think, if one is good at
typing. For my brothers wedding I wrote a long poem and
recited it in front of the people. My father was so impressed
that he gave me a hundred Pula on the spot. Many people in
Francistown have to work a month for that kind of money.
Years ago my own life as a writer had started, too, with the
desire to put the sorrow of my childhood on record; but even
somewhat earlier, as a thirteen or fourteen year old, I had
taught myself how to type. In the meantime I had arrived at a
point where I was prepared, certainly in those weeks, to trade my
status of writer for that of sangoma,
to unite not in lasting printed words but in bodily
rhythms and public displays of an elaborate uniform, of dancing
and trance which will fade without a record with the
symbols I have been chasing all my adult life, acquiring an
African status which in my own society can only be considered a
case of tropical sunstroke. Whereas Jane, who had received as a
birthright that which I was yearning for, was groping for the
only type of transformation literary enshrinement
that would allow her to usher her inheritance into the modern
world she belonged to just as much. By all means, Jane,
write. I myself have published a pile of books. I shall help you
to publish yours. In the beginning was the Word.
As if to celebrate her alchemistic fusion of the old and the new,
the village and the town, the earthly and the celestial, Jane
Sinombe takes a sachet of Knorr freeze-dried curry soup from a
shelf, tears it open and sprinkles the powder onto the gravy in
which the beef is simmering. Now this traditional meal will never
again taste like it did only last year in my Zambian village. It
tastes better, and makes one want a second helping. And I am
grateful that she fills the plates for Molly and Tapson and
serves them outside, so that just the two of us, inside, can
cherish this moment together a bit longer.
After the meal there is nothing more to be said, and we step
outside to join the tipsy couple, in the cool of the late
afternoon. Soon we hear a bus pull up on the tar road, a hundred
meters away. A tall, vigorous man of middle age enters the yard,
in his trail a few subordinates who carry all sorts of luggage.
Like any minister of religion or land priest in Botswana Sinombe
is dressed in plain black, but with a surprising twist: a leather
hunters hat with feathers, knickerbockers and a short
leather coat. He has a protruding stomach, and a round face with
the largest cheeks I have ever seen. After a brief stop at the
main house he crosses the spacious yard towards us. Jane
ostentatiously ignores her fathers arrival; she pushes a
Tswana hymn book into my hands, and together we start singing Rock
of ages in that language. Is it then God we
are welcoming? Or Tom Bombadil, after all? (Tolkien 1990). We are
halfway through a second hymn when Sinombe addresses us playfully
in flawless English.
Good afternoon. I must say this for you: at least you can
sing. I bet you were not expecting somebody like me in this
place, were you?
On the collar of his coat I see the golden letters DOEANE
CUSTOMS; he controls a Southern African boundary. Molly follows
him inside the house and makes her report. With such
recommendation, who needs another formal examination; becoming
a sangoma means, among
other things, that specialists are prepared to stake their
reputation in testimony of the novices accomplishment, in a
very real parallel with academic procedure. A quarter of an hour
later I am a somewhat prematurely registered African doctor, with
a certificate to frame and hang on the wall, and a license to
carry with me, complete with photograph and rubber stamp. There
is no formal congratulatory speech but I feel as triumphant as
when I obtained my first doctorate. Sinombes book of
receipts turns out to be finished, but he borrows a page from
mine and on it graciously acknowledges the registration fee of
thirty-five Pula.
The previous day I had prepared this visit by means of a long
conversation with a cousin of Gumedes, a former mayor of
Francistown. Ask him for protective medicine, inyatola,
for you will need that now, my friend had told me. And so I
did, adding a passing reference to Gumede I might find out
more about the conflict that made him leave the association.
Sinombe scarcely rose to the bait, insisted however that he had
raised those boys, back in Bulawayo, and that he was
not dead yet, and then showed me to a nearby open spot in the
forest, where laid out on an unsheltered table, and suspended
from the branches of a large tree, were the medicines. Proudly
Sinombe drew my attention to an elaborate bead headdress of the
Shumba cult another loose end in my research beginning to
fall into place today; the paraphernalia had belonged to
MmaBotshelo but he kept it here, in a spot where Jane, as she
later told me, had never been allowed to go. Nothing is
ever missing from my stock, Sinombe said. I do not
employ guards, but I have my own guards to protect this
place. He selected two types of arboreal medicine, cut of
each type a piece that would fit in the palm of a hand, dropped
the pieces onto the soil and made me pick them up. They would
protect me, not (as I had expected) in a context of
intra-cultic rivalry, but from my fellow-Europeans, when these
would see me embrace what they would denigrate as kaffir
things, Sinombe explained. That will be another ten
Pula.
Perhaps some other time, he explained, at the instigation of
MmaTshakayile, he could take me to the Mwali shrine. I was
however invited to attend the Kwame associations Annual
General Meeting, due to take place the next weekend.
The next morning, back in Francistown, I reported to Gumede at
his consultation room in the Somerset East compound, under the
very smoke of the large new Nyangabgwe Hospital. I proudly showed
him my license. My master had long since joined a rival
professional organization, and chose to be dismissive: the
license was a useless piece of paper, and Sinombe was finished
anyway, a dead man; but I could see he was immensely pleased.
Five clients were waiting under the shelter next to the surgery.
Anyway, why dont you help me attending to them, I am
too busy, must start cooking my fat cakes. With the first
patients I only helped to fetch and unscrew glass jars with
medicine, scrape roots into powder, and give second opinions on
the fall of the divination tablets; the last patient I was
allowed to treat all by myself. We shared that mornings
takings. He sent me on my way with yet more protective medicine
his cousin had told me to ask from him, too.
Ten months later, as I am
finalizing this paper for publication, I have just spent another
month at the Monarch lodge. I was welcomed back as a twaza,
and after reporting on my spiritual progress (dreams, ritual
observances) since my departure in 1990, I was given additional
paraphernalia (including Mollys great gift, a necklace
consisting of a pythons full set of vertebrae). Elsewhere
in Francistown I started a modest practice as a diviner and
healer, giving in to insistent popular demand. With Kwani and
others I roamed the forest around Matshelagabedi for a week,
learning to recognize and dig up the major sangoma
medicines. I had my twaza
infant hair ritually cut, and was chased across the river like
Patricia two years earlier (dropping coins to placate the Great
Water Serpent, who is the sangomas
ally but also his doom). I was once again examined on my
dexterity in divination. And after these preparations I was
pronounced ready to come out as a sangoma,
killing another goat, drinking its blood from one bowl with just
MmaTshakayile, having my divination bones washed in the remainder
of the blood, undergoing a repetition of last years gall
ritual, and for the first time in a year eating inside
meat (heart, liver, intestines) again. The well-attended
ceremony took place in Matshelagabedi, where Mollys and
Kwanis mother (herself a major sangoma)
had brewed the ancestral sorghum beer, and it worked out (with
repeated elaborate libations and prayers at the villages
ancestral shrines, in which to my alarm I was to be a major
officiant) to be as much a sangomas
final coming-out ceremony as my public installation as
Johannes-reborn. What the latter entails in terms of a life-long
commitment to, and responsibility for, MmaTshakayiles
large family now dispersed over two villages and two urban
compounds, I have not yet had the courage to work out. Next year
we are to travel to Zimbabwe and, among other tasks, visit
Johannes surviving cousins and nieces there.
After paying MmaTshakayile the huge standard fee (incidentally,
she helped me pay a substantial part of the expenses of the
coming-out party), the time had come for her to take me to Mwali,
for my definitive empowering as a healer. She would have
preferred to go to the major shrines in the Matopos Hills, but
since there were only a few days left before my scheduled return
home she settled once again for Nata. This time, even Molly was
not senior enough for this assignment, and I travelled with
MmaTshakayile, her sister MmaTedi, the Kwame associations
Vice-President Mr. A. Magambule from Francistown (another
Zambian), and the lodges most junior twaza,
whose task it is to wait on MmaTshakayile. It was strange to
spend another day at Sinombes compound waiting for the sun
to set, watching Janes sister (who does not know me) go in
and out of their familiar round white house, and realizing that
without Jane present I was reduced to an outsider, that happy
personal shrine of our transcultural encounter being closed to me
once more and probably forever. In the afternoon Sinombe spent
two hours alone with me and told me everything I wanted to know
about himself, his life history, and his position in the cult;
I am not God; I am not Jesus; I am uMbetsi,
the Saviour . Still, and despite
substantial financial offerings, the threshold to Mwali was not
yet to be crossed. Sinombe (carrying a leopard skin on his
shoulder), his two female acolytes, and MmaTshakayile and MmaTedi
(the four women covered under white acrylic bed sheets) proceeded
to the oracle to ask permission for me to enter, and I could just
hear the Voice in the distance, but when they came back they
reported that, while acknowledging me as an accomplished healer,
It would only admit me inside the oracle once I returned with a
leopard skin on my shoulder: spuriously alleged to be my
cultures traditional regalia a divine confusion with
ermine? but certainly a sign of seniority in the idiom of
the sangoma cult (and as
such immediately and heatedly contested back at the Monarch
lodge). Meanwhile I was to read Psalm 121 twice daily: I
will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my
help...
Already the next morning I was lucky enough to trace an
affordable leopard skin with the Francistown company that had
tanned the skins of my three ceremonial goats so far. I returned
to Nata, was admitted, and timidly spoke with God.
3. Discussion
Why should the preceding section
take the form of a narrative, alludingly evoking rather than
describing let alone analyzing, phenomena that would be of
interest to the detached student of African religion: cultic
organization, symbolism, ritual structure, performance, the flow
of cash, grace, and power?
One reason is that successful boundary crossing, as a
field-worker and a human being, into an originally alien
religious specialist domain primarily produces knowledge of a
kind that is systematically different from the kind of knowledge
ethnography is made of.[7]
There is no doubt that becoming a sangoma
offers me as a researcher a vast range of information, both of
esoteric knowledge, and of social and bodily patterns which may
not be as accessible to the participant observer who remains an
outsider. But at the same time the very process of crossing by
which that knowledge is gathered, renders the immediate academic
processing of that knowledge into mainstream anthropological
discourse not so much illegitimate (for I am under no obligation
whatsoever to treat my ancestral-derived sangoma
expertise as secret) but irrelevant.
The practical knowledge I claim to have acquired (enough to
convincingly play the role of a twaza novice
and to come out as a fully-fledged sangoma,
is at the same time more profound and complete, more personal and
idiosyncratic, and (as all practical knowledge) more superficial
and patchy than that my learned colleagues have produced on this
topic over the decades.
What does it mean that this knowledge is practical? That it can
produce social action that, in the appropriate setting for which
it is meant, is recognizable and compelling for other actors, and
therefore effective. One of the central questions that I can now
further explore is one that has fascinated me for the last twenty
years:[8] to what
extent is mediumship learned, socially patterned behaviour?
Obviously, someone who is capable of repeatedly producing an
acceptable trance in a culturally alien setting can contribute
towards an answer on this point; but such an answer will not be
attempted in the present paper, for it cannot be based on
introspection alone even though such would not be unusual in
the study of ecstasy and mysticism. The performance, in trance
and in divination, is to some extent moulded by institutionalized
expectations shared by the fellow-specialists and (at a much less
specific and systematic level) by the lay audience. At least as
important however is the gradual unfolding of new expectations
and the invention of new progressively convincing and
acceptable patterns by the specialist in the course of the
performance itself.[9] Here a central role is played by seduction:
a culturally specific communication technique which
evokes, on the one hand, boundaries (prohibiting access to
symbolically charged bodily zones, but also to specific items of
knowledge, action, etc.) and, on the other, a conditional promise
to transgress those boundaries. In this seduction lies the
success of any performer, including the diviner and the
shamanistic medium. The prestige and power attaching to these
roles only partially derives from a permanently institutionalized
social attribution of respect to fixed positions, and largely
from the constant flow of interaction, presentation of self,
seduction, between specialist, fellow-specialists, and lay
audience. In the way of communication and interaction
techniques, there is much to be learned here for the novice, and
much to be appreciated for the academic student of these
phenomena. Although this performative element in mediumship has
been stressed ever since Leiris work half a century ago
(Leiris 1980), its reliance on improvisation and non-verbal
communication makes it very difficult to penetrate with the aid
of established ethnographic methods.
If the religious complex discussed in this paper can be compared
to a language, becoming a sangoma
means becoming sufficiently proficient in that language to
conduct a meaningful if still imperfect conversation with native
speakers; alternatively, writing an ethnographic treatise on
the sangoma complex
would amount to producing a generative phonology or syntax of the
same language, in a meta-discourse that completely abstracts from
concrete speech situations and that would be virtually
meaningless to the native speakers. Both forms of outsider
appropriation are presumably legitimate and presuppose rather
extensive knowledge; but the types of knowledge, and their
relevance to both outsider producers and native speakers, are
different and my choice of a narrative rather than a
discursive analytical format here is to remind the reader of
just that.
In the context of practical knowledge also a peculiar feature of
the sangoma complex
needs to be appreciated: the absolute preeminence of ancestral
and divine empowerment (charisma) over technical skills. Healing
is conceived, in this complex, as the re-alignment of the
natural and the supernatural, and therefore the sangoma,
with his repeated and publicly recognized ancestral
manifestations as the embodiment of the ancestors in the
world of the living is the healer par
excellence, in principle regardless
of the level of his specific technical skills. Of course, the
classifications underlying the divination process and the sangoma
pharmacopoeia, the specific rituals, song texts, drumming rhythms
and dance movements, require a considerable amount of specialist
knowledge acquisition but the scope for improvisation
(legitimated by reference to dreaming) and free
variation is enormous, and virtually any deviation from accepted
practice can be justified by reference to idiosyncratic ancestral
revelations. In fact, in the competition for a share of the
ritual market such idiosyncracies may be rather attractive. The
ultimate test lies always in the spiritual manifestation, and
this more than anything else explains the (otherwise incredible)
ease and speed with which I, a blundering outsider but with some
experience in ecstatic religion, could embark on a crash course
toward accomplished sangoma-hood.
The greatest distortion would be to make the sangoma
appear as a Southern African psycho-analyst with seven years of
academic and clinical training behind him;[10] on the contrary, ecstasy offers a
shortcut to charisma,
and is therefore a literal Godsend to those of us who for
social-structural reasons (because we are women, or junior
siblings, or foreigners, or whites in a black environment) have
no proper claim to the established ascriptive
routes to religious authority.
There is meanwhile a more
fundamental reason for my reluctance to make, at this stage,
ethnography out of the images and experiences I have evoked in a
narrative form in the preceding section. This is the issue of
humility of the initiand (and of the field-worker, who is an
initiand even if he or she never becomes a sangoma)
versus the arrogance implied in the penetration of a Faustian
rationality.[11] A comparison with academic
approaches to religion in North Atlantic societies may help to
bring out what I have in mind. Since the Enlightenment, objective
studies of religious phenomena (of the extent to which these
involve man-made organizations and material apparatus, and
produce such human interactions and speech acts as could be
studied by the social sciences, psychology, psychiatry etc.),
have developed side by side with theology which, while an
academic subject, is more typically a pursuit for
believers. The relationship between these two domains
has been very uneasy at times; only a few years ago Wiebe (1984,
1986; cf. Dawson 1986) in a contentious article has insisted once
again on the need for greater rigour in their separation,
particularly the need to keep empirical studies clear from
theological influences. In African religious studies, this
echoes the criticism Horton leveled as from the 1970s against the
devout opposition of Christians (and Muslims), whose
personal religious convictions are alleged by Horton to prevent
them from being totally objective in their approach to
autochthonous African religion and to world religions in
contemporary Africa (Horton 1975: 394f, and 1984). Now, my
feeling is that, in rather similar terms, the expanding community
of students of African religion and ritual might be taken to form
a kind of devout opposition in this respect, that
with the exception perhaps of a few African-born
anthropologists and a few mental cases like myself, the
imposition of alien (albeit not so much Christian but agnostic,
reductionist, Marxist etc.) interpretative projections has become
a consensual point of departure for scholarly debate on African
religion. Much as we may respect African religion, as students
of African religion we normally assume that it is within our
field of competence to explain it away in sociological,
anthropological, economic etc. terms: African
gods do not exist is the a
priori informing African religious studies
today.
Christians, Jews and Muslims can seek refuge in theology and
there continue to produce such intellectual commentary on endemic
religion as, for the better part of two millennia, has been the
backbone of European and Middle Eastern intellectual life. In
doing so their intellectual efforts are not necessarily less
relevant and less commanding of respect than the intellectual
products of academic students of creative literature: they
provide a systematic commentary that does not necessarily
de-construct, deny, assault, appropriate, explain away, or
destroy the living, creative subject matter of their discipline.
Where, then, is the equivalent of theology for the study of
African religion? Is it to be found in so-called African Theology
(cf. Schoffeleers 1988)? Perhaps, but we have reason to doubt
whether, in the latter context, adequate use is made of the
massive systematic, theoretical and methodological knowledge we
as empirical students of African religion have built up over the
decades. Where is, today, the intellectual refuge where one can
ethnographically comment on African religion without
destroying it?
I refuse to deconstruct my knowledge of sangoma-hood
if, in the process, that means that I am professionally compelled
to kill its powerful images on the operation table of
intellectual vivisection. At the same time, it would be a waste
not to ultimately subject this knowledge to the kind of
systematic academic commentary I and especially many of my
colleagues have shown ourselves capable of. Can one
anthropologically discuss African religion without condescending
reductionism? Is there a viable theology of animism?
Until I have found an answer, I propose to work on a novel whose
working title will be Servant of the
ancestors.
Back to humility; although doubtless I am not the humblest of
persons. I said the boys who interpreted my twaza
initiation ceremony as a whiteman being
flogged to death, had a point. Let me spell out what I meant. To
the extent to which the destructively taking-apart (as distinct
from illuminating intellectual commentary) of African religion
has become the accepted stance in our field of scholarship, and
to the (largely overlapping) extent to which specifically the
African people of Francistown cannot deal with sangoma-hood
and related aspects of their symbolic universe without being
conscious of its rejection by the dominant White and Christian
culture of twentieth-century Southern Africa, to that extent
becoming a sangoma is an
act of atonement, and of deliberate humility.
The white outsider discards his particular uniform of
colour (Hilda Kuper) for that dictated within the local
ancestral idiom and completed by directions from the God of the
Land. The bead bracelets, never to be removed in ones
lifetime, represent the ancestors coagulated semen out of
which the human skeleton is formed but also the iron
shackles of bondage to the lodge, its leader, and sangoma-hood
in general. The downcast eyes and stooped posture when dancing
convey submission. Each exchange of greetings and formal
conversation between the twaza
and senior lodge members, each welcoming of a spirit taking
possession of a fellow-dancer, and the termination of each
sequence of dancing and singing, involve elaborate acts of
bodily submission in the form of prostration, kneeling and
clapping. It hurts to
dance for hours barefooted on the African soil and on the rough
concrete floors of popular housing, and it produces massive
cloven callouses typical of African village women and never found
among shod Europeans. It hurts, and it heals.
The initiand is humiliated, as well as glorified. Once allowed
in, having progressed from visiting stranger to incorporated twaza,
he or she occupies the lowest rank at the lodge. I noted this
change in my own position with a satisfied chuckle: I had been
seduced to enter a rank where I found myself at the beck and call
of lodge members young enough to be my daughters.
At the same time there was undeniable glorification in the face
of the lay audience, whose respectful enthusiasm was far from
lost on me. What did my becoming a sangoma
mean to them?
Because of its history of a hundred years of mining, migrancy,
monopoly capitalism, and land alienation, Francistown and the
surrounding Northeast District have been far more subjected to
conditions of racialist[12] humiliation than any other part
of Botswana.[13] The inroads of mass consumption
and the imitation of South African and worldwide patterns of
electronically-based mass culture (merely additional aspects of
capitalist penetration) also contribute to this. Attachment to
the Mwali cult, traditional healing, ethnic identity, have gone
underground and proved extremely hard to bring to the surface.
Whites do not eat that sort of thing. In that urban
context someone who is unmistakably another whiteman publicly, in
front of hundreds of onlookers, embraced the very cultural forms
which, for fear of humiliation, had had to hide from the public
domain dominated by white culture. Little wonder that in the next
few days the story spread like a bush fire over the fifty
thousand inhabitants of Francistown. I had it recounted to me
several times, while my informants did not realize that it was
me. These accounts clearly revolved around an element of
satisfaction, of restored self-esteem, on the part of the
narrators; they engendered a similar sensation in me. The
production of academic ethnography is a legitimate and inspiring
act of cultural vindication and preservation, but so is casting
bones for my African clients and, when the occasion arises,
reminding them of their ancestral obligations.
Becoming a sangoma is an
act of subversion, academically, but certainly socially in the
context of Southern African towns. Allowing that process to end
in a re-appropriation of sangoma-hood
by reductionist academic discourse (even when produced by
myself), would defeat the whole purpose of the struggle I went
through, and would betray the audience in what they experienced
as symbolic liberation. Let us not be kidding ourselves: however
sympathetic and courageous going all the way in
field-work might appear to be, the radical criticism that all
this amounts to just another form of cultural appropriation and
subjugation, and even a very vicious form is not
easily dismissed. The danger of betrayal is constantly around the
corner. Since nobody is born as an adult religious specialist,
all acquisition of esoteric specialism (in field-work, as in
real life) necessarily involves appropriation, but
the latter has to be redeemed by a commitment to expectations
such as exist within the
religious complex that is being appropriated. This redemption
is absent in the habitual anthropologists appropriation and
manipulation of data. Therefore there is no way back:
becoming a sangoma means
the obligation to remain active as a sangoma.
The point is not whether I believe in the continued capability
of deceased kinsmen to manifest themselves in the empirical
world; the point is that I have made people believe in me as a
carrier of such manifestations, and that I must not fail them.
Even if ultimately this may not rule out the possibility of the
same sort of enlightened, systematic anthropological commentary
that, for instance, allows Roman Catholic priests to write
doctorates on the seminary as a social system, or even as a
bedding for religious fulfillment or disenchantment
One final remark, therefore, on becoming a sangoma
as a strategy of anthropological data acquisition. The relation
between the strategic, voluntaristic versus the compulsive,
inescapable elements does
constitute a problem that, again, cannot be resolved by
introspection, and whose discussion brings out the essential
dilemma of the present paper: the intermeshing of two realms of
discourse an external academic one on the one hand, and
the idiom of sangoma-hood
on the other. When prior to returning to Francistown in 1990 I
gave a paper (essentially van Binsbergen 1990a) at the University
of Cape Town, Harriet Ngubane on the basis of her own extensive
rural research in this field (e.g. Ngubane 1977) questioned the
(unintended) suggestion that one could opt
to be a sangoma: as she
rightly stressed, one has to be chosen by the ancestors, and
fascination and desire are not enough. Implied in her point was a
question of birthright: why should we as European temporary
immigrants in Southern Africa stumble into sangoma-hood
whereas she as a Zulu anthropologist, no less keen than we had
been, had not been able to pass the test of ancestral election?
Was it not more likely that we were merely faking, or to
put it more neutrally were making more out of an
exotic experience than the experience deserved? I
take these points very seriously, and much of the present paper
has been written in implicit reply to them. Whatever the
differences in symbolic emphasis, commercialization, ascriptive
basis, extent of personal bricolage
etc., between rural and cosmopolitan sangoma-hood
(cf. note 5), the fundamental assumption of
ancestral choice is the same in both varieties. However, my
wife and I did display all the symptoms (the ancestral burden or
brooding, felt as pain in the back and between the
shoulders; the nocturnal agitation; the dreams), and that was one
of the reasons why we were accommodated at the Maipaahela lodge.
It was suffering, not a taste for sensation, a search for
community and personal transformation, not for data
that drove us to the lodge. Like my wife, many lodge
members never achieve mediumistic trance but that does not in the
least prevent them from dancing along in uniform with the other sangomas
who are accomplished mediums, and the hosannas
who fall in rigid trance, saturated with Mwali.
My other work in progress on Francistown is there to show that I
am not unduly giving in to the post-modernist temptation of
eclipsing our research subject by the personality of the
anthropologist. Still, now that the study of African religion had
become a well-established industry, it is remarkable that so
little has been written on what it is to do anthropological
field-work on religion; and that what little has been written is
often of an autobiographical nature (for a recent example cf.
Lobo 1990). Perhaps this is the one field in anthropology where
it is really impossible to maintain the pretence of the
researcher as passive, as justifiably absent from the finished
product of polished academic discourse.
We still know far too little about the anthropological activity
as boundary crossing, and how this reacts with the
participants own boundary management. Dealing with other
peoples existential questions, existential questions of our
own cannot be avoided; nor can these all be suffocated under
increasingly convoluted and elegant discourse, no matter how
many levels of structure, transformation, binary and ternary
logic they may contain. In the study of religion, boundaries
while being maintained are being crossed: in the religious life
of the participants, in uncountable ways; in the
anthropologists work, from the fragmented observation of
the participants real life to the finished anthropological
account; and in the anthropologists life, which far from
being sealed off by impenetrable boundaries, merges with the
lives of his or her hosts in the field, and is uniquely enriched
in the process.
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[1]
The field-work on which this paper is based was undertaken in
Francistown and surrounding areas, Botswana, in April-May 1988,
November 1988-October 1989, August-September 1990 and June-July
1991. I am greatly indebted to the African Studies Centre,
Leiden, for funding and encouragement; and to the Applied
Research Unit, Ministry of Local Government and Lands, Republic
of Botswana, for local support. Earlier versions of this paper
were presented at the Seminar on Symbol and Symptom,
Catholic University of Louvain, January 1991, and at the Seventh
Satterthwaite Colloquium on African Religion and Ritual,
Satterthwaite (Cumbria, U.K.), April, 1991. I am grateful to
Robert Baum, Robert Buijtenhuijs, René Devisch, Ørnulf
Gulbrandsen, Adrian Hastings (to whom I also owe some copy
editing), John Janzen, Murray Last, Cesare Poppi, Matthew
Schoffeleers, Elizabeth Tonkin, Richard Werbner and David Zeitlyn
for stimulating comments; mention of their names must however not
be taken to imply that these colleagues are in agreement with the
argument and mode of presentation of the present paper.
[2]
Cf. Werbner 1989; Ranger 1979, 1985; Schoffeleers & Mwanza
1979; Daneel 1970; Mtutuki 1976; and references cited there.
[3]
Cf. Oosthuizen et al. 1989;
Werbner 1989; Comaroff 1985; Hammond-Tooke 1989; Schoffeleers
1991; Janzen 1991; and references cited there.
[4]
An earlier Dutch version of this section was published as van
Binsbergen 1990b.
[5]
In these respects, and in the flexible incorporation of both the
rural-orientated tradition and of the money economy, capitalism
and mass consumption, the variety of sangoma-hood
as found at the Francistown lodges, despite its manifest stress
on Zimbabwe Ndebele ethnicity (under which layers of different
ethnic, national and linguistic identities are implied in the
case of many adepts) differs from the entrenched rural-based
forms of Nguni divinerhood (as described by e.g. Berglund 1989;
Lee 1969; Ngubane 1977; and references cited there). Yet much of
the symbolism and conceptual framework, which is sometimes
fragmented or lost in the cosmopolitan variety as
found in Francistown, Bulawayo etc. (also cf. du Toit 1971;
Staugård 1985; West 1975), goes back to the rural origin and can
only be understood in that context.
[6]
In fact, Jane was mistaken; the Voice commonly heard at the Nata
oracle is that of a wise and cunning old man, sneering and
cackling, but manifestly comprehensible to those familiar with
the Humbe dialect of Shona. The West African oracle does not
produce comprehensible human speech and requires interpretation
by the priests.
[7]
I realize that this is a contentious position. Many
anthropologists have crossed similar boundaries through
initiation, and have happily used the experience as a
data-collection strategy. Some of the dilemmas arising in this
connection are discussed in Fidaali 1987 and Jaulin 1971.
[8]
Cf. van Binsbergen 1972, reprinted in 1981: ch 2.
[9]
The praxeological
dimension; cf. van Binsbergen & Schoffeleers 1985:
introduction.
[10] A
tendency to be found in several of the contributions to
Oosthuizen et al. 1989.
[11] Of
which, incidentally, my Religious change in
Zambia (1981) may well have been one of the
worst examples (as Fernandez suspected at an early stage;
Fernandez 1978).
[12] The
word white occurs with an irritating frequency in my
narrative account. Of course, I use this as a dominant
participants concept as found in the societies of Southern
Africa. Part of the issue at hand in this paper is the tenet of
racialism (the linking of culture with endemic somatic
characteristics) as against
the tenet of the social sciences that all culture is learned,
that therefore the boundaries between alien cultures can be
crossed (e.g., I suppose that becoming a sangoma
could serve as an example of such crossing), and that any claimed
association between cultural forms and somatic characteristics is
fundamentally accidental and immaterial although social
scientists should study such claims as socio-cultural constructs
peculiar to a certain society. The racialist dimension of the
rejection we experienced in the field was all the more shocking
since in field-work elsewhere in Africa my somatic difference
from my participants had not prevented rapport,
not even in an urban environment like Zambias capital
Lusaka but there, admittedly, I chose to concentrate on an
urban minority, the Nkoya, whose orientation towards their rural
homeland created such a high density of intyra-group interaction
and social control that relations between the researcher and that
migrant community were hardly representative for generally
prevailing urban relations in Lusaka at the time. Incidentally,
that somatic difference vis-à-vis ones African informants
is not necessarily a handicap, is clear from the puzzling
experiences of the African anthropologist Yamba (1985).
[13] Cf.
Kerven 1977; Schapera 1971; Selolwane 1978; Tapela 1976, 1982;
Werbner 1970, 1971.
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