Madness. Gambling debts. Lost love. And a cure for them all – or so the fliers on our windscreens promise. Could it be that mainstream medicine has somehow missed these “magical” cures? A sceptic at heart, I struggle to believe it. And by “sceptic” I of course mean: sensible person who relies on proof, not misdirection, hope and chance. But I do enjoy encounters with the strangest of characters, so I went undercover for a visit to my friendly local herbalist.
Madness. Gambling debts. Lost love. And a cure for them all – or so the fliers on our windscreens promise. Could it be that mainstream medicine has somehow missed these “magical” cures? A sceptic at heart, I struggle to believe it. And by “sceptic” I of course mean: sensible person who relies on proof, not misdirection, hope and chance. But I do enjoy encounters with the strangest of characters, so I went undercover for a visit to my friendly local herbalist.
I randomly picked one “Dr Simbwa” as my subject; all I needed was a plan that would hide my journalistic intentions. First, a realistic but not-too-sensitive ailment. Weak erections are clearly the speciality of experts like Simbwa, but that satisfied neither criterion in my case. No, I’d need to stick to what I know. I settled on weak and puny muscles – entirely believable (some might say obvious) – with a request to turn my chorister physique into that of a body double for a barn door.
The good “doctor” answered his phone promptly on my first call. The sound was poor, but I made out that I should go to KFC on Beaufort Street and call for further instructions.
Twitchy about departing the leafy suburbs (and in no way aided by warnings from my buddy Tom that I’d soon be turned into muti), I emptied my wallet of all but 70 rand and an expired driver’s license – things I could handle losing. Checking directions on Google Maps, I wondered if this strange man knew of technology like this.
At our agreed location, it occurred to me what an appropriate spot it was to meet a man with such dubious credentials. Colonel Sanders himself was not a real colonel. The title was an honorary one bestowed on him by the governor of Kentucky.
Simbwa arrived punctually. He bore no resemblance to the white-coated, bespectacled doc I’m used to. Sneakers, dark jeans and a grubby green jacket didn’t fit the bill of a traditional healer either. “Come, let’s go,” he said.
As he shuffled ahead of me towards his office across the road, I thought I’d better check my finances would cover his fee. “Consultation is seventy rand,” he said. Uncanny. Precisely the sum I had left in my wallet in the hopes it would suffice. But like I said, I’m a sceptic. Simple probability is all one needs to brush off that sort of coincidence. It was, however, a timely reminder of how people are swindled by these peddlers of esoteric remedies: desperation coupled with chance and the convincing façade of a healer.
I followed Simbwa up the tiniest staircase I’ve encountered and into his pokey office while he explained he was Kenyan and had studied his trade in Nairobi. Part of me had hoped for jars of salamander eyes and shelves of potion books, but the bland room contained nothing more than a yard-sale lounge suite which may have been pleasant 30 years ago. “Sit down,” he instructed.
I explained my skeleto-muscular dilemma in my best Thespian, and waited. “We can do for you,” replied Simbwa. “We have those herbs that make it wake up. I give you those herbs, you take it, you drink it. You get it?” Really I didn’t, but I nodded him on. “You drink it every day when you go to sleep and it will make those nerves to wake up. It takes only two weeks!” “Where do these herbs come from?” I enquired. “I get it from the forest, even the mountains,” explained Simbwa in a somewhat hushed voice, “from all over Africa. We bring them, we mix it, we make some research so that we may experience this one is active on this one, and this on this. I can make it for you in 30 minutes.”
Rather entertained by the whole thing, I expressed some worry about how awful this muck would taste. “It tastes a bit bitter,” admitted Simbwa, “but somehow sweet. It’s in the medium.”
And this two-week miracle would cost me only, wait for it: one thousand rand. “It’s not a lot,” Simbwa assured me, “because it is what you want and it is not only working on the nerves." He informed me that it also "acts on many other diseases. It will clean your body – there are germs in there.”
An innocent laugh, maybe. But the man’s next claim, that he has cured diabetes, struck me as laced with danger. How many desperate patients believe in his undocumented methods, shun treatments with published histories, and then crash when the endorphin rush wears off, I wonder.
Returning to my original question: no, medical science has not missed ways to pack on muscle in 14 days – take your pick of anabolic steroids for that. And the point is not that I’m too unimaginative to believe there’s a herb under a mushroom found only in one secret forest in Uganda that can do it safely. It’s about transparency, regulation and standards. In one word: proof. Any doctor should know that.
