Some kine grass where he de cure some kine sick dem
This week I had the privilege of hosting around 20 folks from Mambu, the village that is about 500meters in elevation from me, at a medicinal plants training. The week holds some of the most boring, interesting and most amusing events of my Peace Corps career. For the most part, participants were chosen based on their previous involvement with medicinal plants or their need to learn for medical reasons. More than half of the group was made of up traditional (or native) doctors (or healers).
I didn’t really know too many native doctors before this week… mainly because they kind of freaked me out. If you look around (ha… next time you are in a taxi in the NW of Cameroon) at the backs of other passenger’s necks, you will see a series of º inch long scars closely packed together. One of the more typical procedures at the traditional doctor’s office is to make these tiny incisions and then pack a poultice of herbs over the top (I learned this week that these are sometimes chewed by the doctor first. Ew.). One volunteer in NW is working closely with the traditional doctor to see how HIV/AIDS might be spreading through unhygienic methods (i.e. lots of Czech-made razor blades). So, there’s the cutting… and then the fact that the doctors are often spiritually oriented… they have been known to make black magic charms to kill people, or to force unruly white women into marriage, or to give an enemy a bad sick. So, yea… I have just kept my distance until this week.
The first day made me a little nervous. Around 5 of the participants were wrinkled old men in traditional black caps with decorated with Big Man tokens (red feathers and porcupine quills)… they were mostly reserved, some of them looking suspiciously at other participants. We started the training by having them write their expectations and fears for the training program. Three explained that they didn’t have any fears, but if the rest of the group wanted to learn something from them, they would have to pay. Of course, the men who felt so strongly didn’t have the ability to write for themselves, so I copied down their remarks. Well, that was it for the intimidation. This is not to underestimate the traditional doctor’s wealth of knowledge on local concoctions, but I have a feeling that they would need to write my name on the charm for it to work.
We kindly explained that they didn’t need to share anything, but the protection of their intellectual property was going to hinder development of Cameroon… and shortly thereafter, the group discovered the traditional doctors to be nothing more than a group of Old Pas (and one nutty Old Ma) who want to eat their achu and laugh and yell at each other and be crazy. One Old Pa explained that he had been to South Africa, Gabon, Nigeria and Ghana to sell and teach about his medicines. He was a really funny little man. I’m pretty sure he’s never left the NW province, and his trips to Bamenda are probably not all that regular. He really liked me, and suggested that I marry here. We tried to squelch the idea that there is a cure for AIDS (many of them advertise that they have the power), and we clarified what typhoid really is (has nothing to do with your nervous system, Pa). Black magic stayed out of most of the conversation, and we tried to promote safe and effective means of treating people with herbs (teas, tinctures, rubs and such). I doubt that they will give up the slashing or the black magic, but they seemed to take our straightforward training really seriously. It’s a start.
Other than that the week was marked by a good deal of discussion on suppositories, diarrhea and piles (I just kept hearing the work “anus” and “shit” within the garbled pidgin… over and over and over), huge pots of herb water, burnt bones called “black stone” that suck out pus or something, Old Pa gas, and heaps of green that I saw as… well just green… and they all saw as “grass where he de cure some kine a sick.” And it rained every day no later than 2pm, just as we would finish and I had to ride my bike back down the hill.
I didn’t really know too many native doctors before this week… mainly because they kind of freaked me out. If you look around (ha… next time you are in a taxi in the NW of Cameroon) at the backs of other passenger’s necks, you will see a series of º inch long scars closely packed together. One of the more typical procedures at the traditional doctor’s office is to make these tiny incisions and then pack a poultice of herbs over the top (I learned this week that these are sometimes chewed by the doctor first. Ew.). One volunteer in NW is working closely with the traditional doctor to see how HIV/AIDS might be spreading through unhygienic methods (i.e. lots of Czech-made razor blades). So, there’s the cutting… and then the fact that the doctors are often spiritually oriented… they have been known to make black magic charms to kill people, or to force unruly white women into marriage, or to give an enemy a bad sick. So, yea… I have just kept my distance until this week.
The first day made me a little nervous. Around 5 of the participants were wrinkled old men in traditional black caps with decorated with Big Man tokens (red feathers and porcupine quills)… they were mostly reserved, some of them looking suspiciously at other participants. We started the training by having them write their expectations and fears for the training program. Three explained that they didn’t have any fears, but if the rest of the group wanted to learn something from them, they would have to pay. Of course, the men who felt so strongly didn’t have the ability to write for themselves, so I copied down their remarks. Well, that was it for the intimidation. This is not to underestimate the traditional doctor’s wealth of knowledge on local concoctions, but I have a feeling that they would need to write my name on the charm for it to work.
We kindly explained that they didn’t need to share anything, but the protection of their intellectual property was going to hinder development of Cameroon… and shortly thereafter, the group discovered the traditional doctors to be nothing more than a group of Old Pas (and one nutty Old Ma) who want to eat their achu and laugh and yell at each other and be crazy. One Old Pa explained that he had been to South Africa, Gabon, Nigeria and Ghana to sell and teach about his medicines. He was a really funny little man. I’m pretty sure he’s never left the NW province, and his trips to Bamenda are probably not all that regular. He really liked me, and suggested that I marry here. We tried to squelch the idea that there is a cure for AIDS (many of them advertise that they have the power), and we clarified what typhoid really is (has nothing to do with your nervous system, Pa). Black magic stayed out of most of the conversation, and we tried to promote safe and effective means of treating people with herbs (teas, tinctures, rubs and such). I doubt that they will give up the slashing or the black magic, but they seemed to take our straightforward training really seriously. It’s a start.
Other than that the week was marked by a good deal of discussion on suppositories, diarrhea and piles (I just kept hearing the work “anus” and “shit” within the garbled pidgin… over and over and over), huge pots of herb water, burnt bones called “black stone” that suck out pus or something, Old Pa gas, and heaps of green that I saw as… well just green… and they all saw as “grass where he de cure some kine a sick.” And it rained every day no later than 2pm, just as we would finish and I had to ride my bike back down the hill.
posted by K at 12:39 PM
1 Comments:
You make me smile and laugh out loud every time I read your posts. Your blog is always so interesting AND humerous! Keep us posted. Can't wait to see you.
Love, Aunt Sharon
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