Richard Writes:
Perhaps sensing I needed a leg up, Kamikladze pointed in the direction of a decidedly unusual hut. Where most Zulu huts are high-walled with sturdy roofs, these walls came only to my knees. The rounded roof was the dominating feature, and its thatch sloped down on all sides. There was no door, the entrance being instead a small gap in the thatch. Through this hole I stooped and ducked, and thus began my first encounter with a witchdoctor.
“Muhusi,” I said. I had been forewarned by Kamikladze, my excellent host, that this was the appropriate introduction when making the witchdoctor’s acquaintance, and even though I garbled it awkwardly, something seemed to work. An ancient hand stretched from the shadows and bade me take a seat.
At closer range I placed the man in his early 70s, and as I sat I saw he was markedly different from the other Zulus. Even the village grandfathers were a muscular bunch on the whole, but this man was gaunt and withered. From his chin a tattered gray beard spiralled floorwards. He sat cross-legged and hunched, dressed in a fantastic ensemble of beads and robes. Ornaments dangled from his neck, a splendid headpiece sat upon his head, and from this head his eyes, bloodshot and wild, stared out like cinders from a dark cave.
“What can I do for you, young fellow?” he asked in a tired voice. (I paraphrase, of course – the translator who had accompanied me gave a blander interpretation.) This was a good question. Up until now, I had treated the idea of visiting a witchdoctor with a cocky buoyancy, but face-to-face with this fascinating man I was humbled to the point of faith.
“I would like strength for the competition,” I said in a near-whisper. “Indeed? Then I can help you.”
Everything seemed to be going very well, and I watched eagerly as he began concocting a particularly juicy potion. At first it looked like a fine jug of Pimms’ (a British ginger beverage) with just the right amount of fruit, but then he added what were unmistakably decaying vegetables. Worse still, as I stole a glance around the shady edges of his clinic, I noticed with alarm some discomforting labels on the scattered bottles. Brake fluid sat next to a carton of bleach, and many bore foreboding warnings of toxins within. Into the bucket these were merrily sent, and all the while the product looked less and less like Pimms’. He divided the one substance into two bottles, and gave me them one by one.
“Take this, and wash yourself with it. But do not drink it, whatever you do.” Then, reaching for the other bottle of the same: “This you must drink. All of it. But first pay me or it won’t work.”
Some men you can accuse of double standards. Witchdoctors you can’t, so I paid the fee and looked at my purchase. It was a full two-liter bottle, and it smelled formidable. The scent of decay and ferment quite overpowered the original fruit. What would Kamikladze do, I wondered, and therein lay the answer. If I was staying with Zulus, I would do as the Zulus did, even to the point of accepting their medicine over what I was used to. When in Rome, as they say. The fact that Romans never had to drink brake fluid is perfectly immaterial.
The day of the stick fight I baptized myself as instructed. Stinking powerfully of putrid cabbage, I took up the next bottle, and sank a hearty few mouthfuls. It was vile stuff, as I expected, but I overcame the rebellion of my taste buds and forced it down. Closing my eyes, I tried 10 gulps in row, and made impressive headway down the bottle. About one liter in, my stomach started spasming, and with half a liter to go, I felt a disconcerting rumble. If I stopped now, I’d never finish, so breathing heavily through my nose I pressed on and finished the last dregs. It was all gone. For a moment my stomach sat quite still. A short moment.
It never feels good to vomit, but it is far worse when one is losing some damned expensive potion. It came out violently and angrily, and left me feeling pretty spent. I surveyed the vegetables sadly, as my stomach made strange noises of relief. When it comes down to it, it seems the sacred can be just as ugly as the profane. I had asked for strength for the competition; I could only hope that my opponent had got the same kind of strength, and that he too was staring at his own vomit in a village somewhere over the hills.
Mark's Account:
Day 5
Morning came quickly and as I got up off the floor breakfast arrived. It’s 6 a.m. and the temp outside is already blistering. At 9 a.m. we were to be down by the river to prove that we were men. The river is about a two-mile walk away and on arrival we were greeted by the village warriors all sitting around a fire. This a real big tradition. Basically, there is a piece of cooked meat placed into the middle of the field on a stick, and one man then chooses to go and claim that piece of meat. Everybody wants a piece of this meat, so you then have to go and challenge that person to a fight in order to have it. It was our opportunity to compete at full speed with the locals; yes, we did have padded sticks but it was hard all the same. We all stood our ground really well but for me -- I don’t feel switched on. There isn’t a hunger or desire to compete; my mind isn’t there.
On that evening Brad and I were taken to a witch doctor to receive magic potions to give us strength, speed and agility. Hmmmmmm, I think they are trying to tell us something. It was a very strange but comical experience. All the same, I don’t think I will be trying them.
Day 7
This is the final day before the competition. It was time for our final test: three fights each with a local champion without padded sticks at full speed but no head shots are allowed. This was a big deal as for the first time we could potentially get hurt. I felt good and pulled out the best three fights of my life. My mind was on the ball with concentration, I only got hit once and that was on my thigh. I have a perfect stick mark remaining there, too! Ouch! It hurt but this guy went easy on us. All the same I had achieved the Zulu stick fighter status; I was in their eyes a man. All six of us passed the test, but I received a glance and a shake of the hand in acknowledgment for my tough fight. I earned his respect!
After the fights, in interview, he pointed me and Jason out as the better fighters on the day. I had come from the back to be at the front! I definitely have nothing to prove now, but my confidence is growing …
