I feel like a
bovine headed for the slaughterhouse. I’m on my way to Ng’iresi Village, about
seven kilometers outside of Arusha on the slopes of Mt. Meru
We turn off the
main highway and drive up the long dirt road to Mr. Loti’s farm. His stone
house is high above a valley that stretches for miles out to the Serengeti and
beyond. The yard surrounding his home is bursting with red and yellow flowering
shrubs, lush green grass, flowering trees and a large gazebo with a
vine-thatched roof set with coffee, tea and biscuits. It makes the perfect
setting for an Agatha Christie mystery. Fourteen near-strangers, each lured to
this charming locale on the pretense of a cultural tourism program when one by one
we disappear until… But we are served tea and then everything goes to shit,
manure that is. Loti takes us to see his biogas system.
The farm is
quite remarkable because it is almost completely self-sufficient. He uses
biogas (methane gas also sometimes called sewage gas), created by the decomposition
of cow manure, to power his stove and all the electricity inside his house. Any
manure left over is used as fertilizer. No pesticides contaminate the potatoes,
maize, carrots and beans grown on his four acres of farmland. Loti removes the
manhole-sized lid and proudly shows off his digester tank, the place where the
cow pies and bacteria swim together for a few weeks to make beautiful methane
gas. We dutifully gather round and peer inside. Happily, I can’t see or smell
anything.
Biogas is an
energy-efficient marvel for a farm with no TV, stereo, computer, hair dryer,
refrigerator, toaster, washer or dryer. Loti’s setup provides just enough
wattage for the stove, a few light bulbs and a lamp or two that creates a muted
nightclub atmosphere inside his living room.
After
touring Loti’s farm, we explore the village. All of the inhabitants of Ng’iresi
village are farmers and members of the Wa-arusha tribe. The Wa-arushas are
Maasai who’ve turned away from pastoralism to agriculture to support
themselves. Most of the villagers live in dome-shaped thatched huts known as
bomas. Little boys run through the dirt barefoot. Strings of laundry drying in
the sun connect one boma to the next-door neighbor’s. Little girls carry small
bundles on their heads, preparing for the heavier burdens that will come later
as they mature and grow stronger. Palm fronds are everywhere, perfectly framing
the village as if they’d each been carefully placed by movie grips to achieve
the perfect semi-tropical African village movie scene.
Our first stop is to the
traditional healer. Traditional healers or medicine men are serious business in
Tanzania .
In villages where the nearest Western-trained doctor may be hundreds of
kilometers away, this is the doctor. But even when a conventional
medical doctor is available, the pull of tradition often wins out. Many
Tanzanians prefer a traditional healer to a medical doctor.
Using local herbs, trees
and grasses to make their medicines, healers profess to have cures and
treatments for everything from the common cold to uterine cancer to AIDS. The
profession is handed down from father to son. Before the healer dies, he
chooses one of his sons to take over for him and then initiates him into the
inner sanctum of his secret remedies. One of this healer’s sons is here,
watching, learning and wearing a T-shirt that says, "Be safe, sleep with a
firefighter."
The healer speaks in
Swahili. Our guide translates medical conditions and disease names as best he can.
A huge group of children gather round, motionless as stone pillars, with
wide-eyed wonderment. They’re watching the healer, not us, which speaks volumes
about the respect and admiration a traditional healer commands.
The day is hot; the sun so
intense it beats down like a hammer. It is directly overhead so shadows follow
only in tiny slivers clinging to the heels of our shoes. Rivulets of sweat
trickle down our faces as we sit in a circle around the healer, at his feet.
The healer is oblivious to the heat. In fact, he seems to be on a special
mission to raise his body temperature to the highest point possible. He’s
dressed in a baby-doll pink wool long-sleeved sweater. The shirt collar of a matching long-sleeved
pink shirt pokes out from underneath. A pink and white-striped wool ski hat
with a jaunty pink poof of a pompon completely envelopes his head, chin and
neck. Both the sweater and ski hat appear to be woven with the type of prickly
wool that feels like swarms of fire ants are crawling over your skin, bad
enough when you skin is cool and dry, but in the heat? I don't even want to
think about it. Defying the laws of nature, the healer manages to not break a
sweat even though every few minutes he vigorously rattles tree branches and
tufts of grass near our faces as his pink pompom flops about.
Kim, sitting next to me,
is drenched in sweat. Her brown curly locks are glued to her forehead and
cheeks. Her T-shirt clings to her back in big sweaty patches.
“Are you hot?” I whisper.
She looks at me as if I’m
blind and maybe a little stupid since nothing could be more apparent.
“It’s winter here,” I say.
“Winter!”
Kim who hails from Toronto,
knows exactly what I’m saying. How in the world will we survive the summer? We’re
turning into puddles of goo in short-sleeved cotton T-shirts. I have visions of
desert cartoons of ragged men crawling through the sand in search of a drop of
water.
“I’m sure we’ll get used
to this,” she says, not sounding sure at all. 