Exorcisms and Afterthoughts

Botswana is a predominantly Christian nation. There are a multitude of churches (ranging from conservative white-clad ladies to a more extreme sect that drinks gallons of a coffee-oil-sugar mixture to puke out the devil) and my door is frequently being knocked upon by sweet ladies inquiring about the status of my soul. However, beneath the strong religious exterior lay vibrant and unyielding traditional beliefs. Call it Voodoo, call it witchcraft, call it a respect for the ancestors. But whether or not the Batswana partake in its activities, I have yet to meet a single person to discount the role of the spirits in everyday life. Which leads me to a few weekends ago, in which I had my single coolest moment in Shoshong.

I attended a Voodoo exorcism.

My brother here is a traditional doctor, and a guy was sick and came to him. My brother first sent the man to the hospital (I give him points for blending modern and traditional medicine) and he got better, but then fell sick again. Diagnosis of the guy? Americans would say he was suffering from a mental illness, but here it was determined he was possessed by the ancestors. The exorcism went like this: we were about 30 in number, and we lined up and got marked with white chalk/face paint on our faces, took our shoes off, and sat down in the sand. Then we all started clapping out a steady rhythm while people took turns summoning the guy's ancestors by name. After calling them out for a while, my brother's apprentice brought out a slaughtered and dissected goat, and began dropping it in a hole dug in the ground, piece by piece. First was the heart. My brother explained they dropped in the best parts … the eyes for the old men (ancestors), the tongue for the ladies, and also the kidneys for the ladies, because the ladies (ancestors) really like the kidneys. Finally the head was put it, positioned towards the west where the sun sets. The ancestors move with the sun, and since they were summoning the ancestors out of that guy's body, they wanted those spirits to rest where the sun rests. Then the family members took the intestines together, made a circle of it, and together placed it around these stacked body parts while chanting. People then started cheering Batswana style: open your mouth, make a high-pitched scream, and move you tongue from side to side. Kind of sounds like that Indian hand to mouth rhythm you do when you’re a kid and playing pilgrims and Indians. So it's hilarious when old ladies start making this noise. But then, they take the pure white skin of the goat and place it over the hole. Next, the traditional beer that had been fermenting all week in a trashcan next to my house was poured into an adjacent hole. Again, more "cheering." I was told the ancestors really like traditional beer. Then they took the goat meat that was cooked, scooped it out of the cauldron with a chunk of bone and onto some special leaves positioned in the sand. I was ready for a ritualistic bonfire, but then people started chowing down! So the ceremony ended with eating meat and drinking beer, like any good exorcism. (I later asked my brother how he knew if he'd successfully treated his patient. He told me that his wasn't a complicated case.)

It was a great evening on a lot of different levels. Yes, seeing an exorcism is one of those "Peace Corps" experiences that I'll never forget. And also meeting the man we were healing was also insightful. I hadn't known he was at the ceremony until afterwards … and I can only hope my brother cured him. Because he looked like a crazy person. And there was a sense of accomplishment on being let in, on being trusted enough to partake in such a ritual. The ancient rituals are something that are strenuously kept on the down-low from white people, and understandably. We're quick to be judgmental, skeptical and discount such a ceremony's authenticity. I'd spent a lot of time with my brother and his friends showing them that I think there is more to healing than modern medicine. Traditional medicine, herbal medicine, acupuncture, hypnosis and Voodoo … they're all related. They all transcend a rigid scientific approach and push into another realm. Spirits, ancestors, herbs, positive thinking … each creating an atmosphere in which the body can heal itself without chemical tablets.

Now I don't plan on going to med school and do my residency in a cave learning traditional medicine (the story of my brother: his dad passed away, he became severely depressed and went to see a traditional doctor in a cave in the mountains to get healed. He ended up spending four months in the caves and came down from the mountains a traditional doctor himself. His mom was quite upset when this meant he dropped out of law school.) But I do find it interesting that 75% of all Voodoo ceremonies are attempts to drive away illness. And you can't argue with the fact that these people wouldn't place such strong faith in traditional medicine if it didn't work … after all, they've had thousands of years to determine its efficiency. Do I think slaughtered goats and chanting expel demons? It's not my place to say. But I do think that my brother is on to something in blending ancient rituals, mobilizing the community and utilizing modern medicinal resources to drive away illnesses. I wonder what would happen if he made a guest appearance to a psychiatric hospital in the US …

Dreadlocks and Kidnappings.

So I've wanted dreads for two years.

Working at a law firm? No way.
Peace Corps? Thought it was my shot, until I found myself in a conservative Muslim society in Guinea. No dreads.
Peace Corps round 2 in Botswana? Yes ... there's a thriving rasta subgroup here, I could totally pull them off "this side."

So a few months ago, I made an appointment and show up. Three hours later, the guy who was going to do them didn't show up. He had "babalas" ... AKA a killer hangover. No shame in it though- if you tell people you're hungover, then it's a legit excuse. So, no dreads.

Until today.

I found a great lady, she used to own a salon, and she said she'd do my dreads- for free! All I had to do was show up at her place at 9am today. No problem, right? I show up bright eyed for the big day (I was a little nervous) and I see her. Catherine. Bright and shining with a tye-dye dress and a frog-resembling umbrella to shield her from the sun. I didn't remember her looking so crazy. And then she says "Kiki, I promised my pastor I would meet him quickly, will you come with me and then we'll do your hair?" Sure, no problem. She had told me numerous times I had to get to her town 'early' because my hair would take a while. Then last night she specified 9am. O, how convenient, your church starts at 9am? Geez, who would have thought?

So I got kidnapped and taken to church. And no, you all know I'm not a church hater. But I WILL ADMIT to being a hater of 3-hour church services. And a pastor who screams in the mic and my ears start bleeding. And then he exorcises demons out of churchgoers and they pass out on the floor. Yes, they pass out on the floor. But it's okay, because there's a "clean-up" crew who catches the bodies, lays them on the floor, and covers them with cloth. It's like a mini-funeral, until they rise again, potentially healed, about five minutes later.

Okay, so I got taken to church until noon. Big deal. I'm alive. Until we start walking and I find out we're still not going to her house to do my hair- no, we are going grocery shopping. SERIOUSLY lady? Fine. I'll buy some milk and bread while I'm at it.

But then we get to her house, and somehow, instead of getting some sweet dreads, I'm chopping spinach and sauteeing onions. I am now cooking, while a small chicken is running between my feet. We finally eat.

So now that we've prayed, shopped, chopped and feasted I'm hoping that FINALLY NOW we can begin the long process of dreading my hair. I untie my ponytail, let my hair down, and she starts playing. Thirty seconds later she produces the first dread. 30 seconds? Geez ... I had thought this would have taken a lot longer. I look at her first piece of work- and she had taken to strands of hair and twisted them together.

WHAT?! You thought I wanted my hair twisted? I did not come to Botswana to look like Rainbow Brite. So I tell her no, DREADLOCKS! She argues a bit, tell me how hot the Rainbow Brite Twists will look, and then I say, forget it. Next time. So she wants to play with my hair anyways ... it's fine. Usually I like this lady. And before I know it here I am, not with dreads, but two beautifully childish pigtail braids.

And that is the story of how I always look so hot in the Peace Corps.