Late December 2011

Adventures in Lundaland


No Chikondu for Old Men


Shortly after returning to the village I went to the computer box (a shipping container with computers within it) and spent half the day writing emails and investigating my trip to Livingstone. On my return bicycle trip I stopped by a friend's house, let's call him Mr. J, an informant who keeps me up to date on all important matters in the village. He told me that I missed "the witches' trial" and that I would have liked to see it very much. We discussed the incident and this is what he told me.

Essentially, a man died of HIV/AIDS while undergoing treatment for it in Angola. He was, however, a resident of this region and as such a witch-hunt was conducted here in order to bring his assassins to justice. Or something. Thus they put the man in a coffin and it magically rose in the air on the backs of four drunk men (possessed by the power of Jesus) who proceeded to hit about seven people (including women) with said coffin. Much like a Ouija-board, the coffin had shown who the real killers were (certainly not the HIV/AIDS) and they were put in front of the chief for a hearing. Since the magic of the coffin (and Jesus) had shown them to be guilty, they pronounced guilty and sentenced to a mix of hard labor in the chief's fields and had to pay a monetary fine.

While this may seem outrageous, as it should, the police had an interesting way of fixing the situation. A police officer rode down to Nyilamba and called for a meeting. He stated that if any more Chikondu activity happened then both the pallbearers and the village headman would be arrested for criminal activity. But the villagers in their despair had a rebuttal "But what if the dead man's blood is charmed and thus causes them to lift the coffin through magic?" to which the officer smartly replied "If it starts to move, bury it on the spot and leave it there". A better response could not have been uttered.


Visit to a Catholic Church


I decided one day that it would not only be good for my social standing to attend a church meeting but I would also be able to get valuable information about the religious practices in the area. The church I went to was a catholic church made of stone and plaster, with a tin roof and benches made of rotten old wood. Services began around 10:00 AM but punctuality was no concern to anyone involved, but when people heard the music began that called most of them to the church rather promptly. Three songs were played on something like a xylophone made of an old bike frame, steel wire, and random bits of scrap metal. A drum was used as well. There were two rows; one for men and young people, and the other for infants and women. The altar was elevated and had a cross suspended on from a roof beam, and had decorative flowers with a white sheet to even it all out. As I wrote my notes I spied that a young man next to me was reading them, and thus I switched to a cipher to confound his efforts.

After the music ended there were recitations of biblical verses, which had the effect of boring people and causing some to fall asleep. There was a short burst of singing, probably to wake everyone up and get them excited again. This was effective for a moment but it was followed up with more recitations, which immediately knocked out the audience as before. Men in multicolored robes resembling rainbow pajamas walked inside the church and everyone started chanting "Nasakilili atata!" (Thank you father) repeatedly,  but then immediately grew disinterested once the men sat down near the altar. The congregation amused itself generally by picking at their nails, doodling in their exercise booklets, and exhibiting a zombie-like gaze. A round of prayer kicked up and everyone became quite animated. Women were kneeling on the ground while men simply sat in their chairs as a procession entered the church. Young girls were stomping around in the aisle with the instruments going full bore as the girls stopped stomping and dropped to the floor. They raised their hands at the sky and touched their hearts repeatedly, and they rocked back and forth on the ground in prayer. Women began to wail and made noises like "AYE AYE AYE AYE!" as drums pounded their beats, and my counterpart (who sat in front of me) showed me a church play-book that told people when to rise (kwimana) and when to sit (kushakama), which I couldn't help it but be amused by considering the scene currently before my eyes.

The pastor stops the prayers and begins to call upon his mob of followers. He waves his arms about and yells "Spiritu! Spiritu!" as his red robes shake all around him. Infants are crawling around in the aisle. People suddenly seem pensive, nervous, and generally uncomfortable as the pastor goes on, "Yesu! Yesu! Eh?! Eh?!" and he begins to belt out his words as loud as possible. The altar boys are grabbing a cabinet that has a slit in it and they place it in front of the altar. Two girls walk up to it and flank it on both sides, which signals to the villagers that it is time to put money in the collection cabinet. They begin to dance up to the cabinet and put money it as people begin to randomly dance about in their rows. Two men stood up and repented for their sins as the pastor pointed at them yelling “Satana! Satana!” with the rest of the villagers ecstatic at their repentance. The whole thing wrapped up just after 11:00 AM and it certainly proved interesting from a social science perspective, but I'm not sure that I will ever attend such a ceremony again.

No Ng'ombu for Young Men


It had started off as any other bush walk. I was using my normal paths into the bush and passed by a few villagers along the way back to my hut. I was heavily armed and sweating profusely as I descended the  rolling hills behind my village, and I was but five minutes from my house when I met a stranger. This stranger, in fact, happened to be a massive snake and I won't soon forget it. I was walking along a bush path when suddenly my body was stumbling upon itself, as if hit by something, and it took a second to realize that I was reacting to a large adrenaline rush caused by something I saw but had not mentally registered. I stopped and looked about five yards ahead on the path and saw something like a large stone on the right side of the path. I focused my vision only to see it start moving and rearing up on itself, and it was then that it registered: snake. It was at least two yards long, probably closer to three, and was likely a black mamba (ng'ombu). I probably stood there for about five seconds in racing thoughts, though it felt like a hour, and I decided the best thing to do was try to kill it. I pulled out my arsenal; a tomahawk, three boomerangs, and a bowie-style knife. I began by picking up a large stone nearby and threw it, though by the time the rock reached the targeted area the snake was long gone. I was disappointed that I didn't get to skin and eat it, but I'm sure I'll have another chance soon. The encounter has also made me a lot more prepared on my bush walks, considering the unseen dangers that could lurk in the tall grass next to your feet.


Conquering Philosophy


Musing on the Heart of Darkness

I read Conrad's Heart of Darkness in about a day and it proved to be quite read indeed. I began it at night, and it was storming out. I put the book down to run to the chimbushi but I had a sudden guest at the door. Or rather, coming from under the door: a small black snake. It was about a foot long and was just thin enough to get under the door, and we had ourselves a bully little duel. I grabbed my walking stick and fought it out, wounding the snake but not killing it. I'm sure it didn't get very far in the rain but the effect, none the less, was that my night became somewhat more paranoid.

The next day I finished Heart of Darkness. It seems to inspire a special sort of horror when you're living in a Central African rainforest. While Conrad may be a product of his time and thus is considered racist by today's sentimentalities, his writings are based on his own experiences in Congo and I often think back to them while biking about the villages. The forms of people behind walls of bush, looking out at me quietly as I go by. The book inspires a sense of desolation in an otherwise lively wilderness. I'd say the main point of the book is that it shows us how living a foreign land can either make or break you, especially if you're a white person living in Central Africa. The so-called “tropical sun” (more on this later) and the bush-gods do things to you. You can be frustrated, maddened, bored, and excited all in a single day. Africa will embolden and strengthen you, or will it degrade your health and your morality. When you look out at the bush it looks back at you and can force you to think about yourself in ways in all together transformative ways. There is a horror to such transformative power and one can only hope he is ready for it, lest he turn into his own sort of Kurtz.