is sometimes left to trade secondhand accounts about how the world works, and why. Within sorcery discourse, Muedans perceived the irreducible complexity of their world even as they carried on making their world complex.
D OCTORS K ALAMATATU
Despite frequent visits to Kalamatatu’s home in the village of Matambalale—where I based myself most often and for the longest stints during fieldwork in 1994 and 1999—Marcos and I were never able to find his home without guidance from a village youth, even though it was clearly marked by one of the largest and most distinctive mango trees in the village. We joked often about this, wondering aloud if this powerful healer had ringed his home with camouflaging medicinal substances, as we were told healers sometimes did.
When I returned to Matambalale in 1999, we were able for the first time to locate Kalamatatu’s yard unaided. The elder had died. As we stood wistfully, taking in the scene of the healer’s abandoned compound, I realized that I had no picture of the yard, his and his wife’s houses, and the tree. I had pulled my camera from my field bag and focused for a shot when I heard the voice of a woman, admonishing me.
“Why would you want a picture of that?!” she scolded me. “Of all the houses in this village, why must you take a picture of that one, in ruins? Why not take a picture of a house in good condition? We are proud too, you know!”
“No, Mama,” Marcos called back to her, respectfully. “It’s not because the house is in ruins that he’s taking a picture.”
The woman now stood only a few feet away. She remained perturbed.
Marcos put his hand on my back, looking at the woman. “This one,” he said, “was a friend of the elder.” He now pointed to the house. “Many times, he visited the old man in that house. He is taking a picture now as a remembrance of his friend.”
The woman looked carefully at me. “Andiliki?” she said. “Is this Andiliki?”
I did not recognize her face. I did not know if she knew me by appearance or only by name. “I am Andiliki,” I confessed.
She reached for my hand and greeted me. “You’ve come back to visit us!” she announced.
“Yes,” I said.
Marcos then asked her if anyone in the village tended to Kalamatatu’s affairs. She told us that we should speak to his nephew, who was away from the village but expected back in a few days.
When we returned on the appointed day, Marcos, Tissa, and I were met on the edge of Kalamatatu’s yard by his son, Lipapa Kalamatatu. Lipapa took us to his own house, just a few dozen meters away. There, we sat in awkward but brief silence as we awaited the arrival of others whom Lipapa had summoned to join us. Within a short time, we were introduced to four other men: another son, Laja; a nephew (sister’s son), Duarte Felipe; another nephew, Henrique Maulide; and a “younger likola brother” (probably a mother’s sister’s son), Calisto Simoni.
When all were assembled, Lipapa began to speak. Since we had last seen Kalamatatu, he told us, the elder had suffered from headaches and backaches. He became quite ill once, but recovered. Some time later, however, he fell ill again. This time, he did not recover. He died in 1996, Lipapa reported.
“Was this illness provoked by uwavi [sorcery]?” I asked.
“No,” Lipapa responded, nonplussed. “It was a natural illness.” His words were steady and assured. “It had nothing to do with uwavi. He wasn’t attacked, nor did he injure himself.”
I expressed my sentiments. “Kalamatatu was a good friend to me,” I said, wondering if my words would be considered appropriate.
“Namene [very],” the entire group responded in unison with an enthusiasm that surprised me.
To this, Lipapa added: “It’s true. You were great friends. The old man received your visits many times. He had great confidence in you.”
I was not certain what Lipapa meant by “great confidence,” but his statement filled me
D OCTORS K ALAMATATU
Despite frequent visits to Kalamatatu’s home in the village of Matambalale—where I based myself most often and for the longest stints during fieldwork in 1994 and 1999—Marcos and I were never able to find his home without guidance from a village youth, even though it was clearly marked by one of the largest and most distinctive mango trees in the village. We joked often about this, wondering aloud if this powerful healer had ringed his home with camouflaging medicinal substances, as we were told healers sometimes did.
When I returned to Matambalale in 1999, we were able for the first time to locate Kalamatatu’s yard unaided. The elder had died. As we stood wistfully, taking in the scene of the healer’s abandoned compound, I realized that I had no picture of the yard, his and his wife’s houses, and the tree. I had pulled my camera from my field bag and focused for a shot when I heard the voice of a woman, admonishing me.
“Why would you want a picture of that?!” she scolded me. “Of all the houses in this village, why must you take a picture of that one, in ruins? Why not take a picture of a house in good condition? We are proud too, you know!”
“No, Mama,” Marcos called back to her, respectfully. “It’s not because the house is in ruins that he’s taking a picture.”
The woman now stood only a few feet away. She remained perturbed.
Marcos put his hand on my back, looking at the woman. “This one,” he said, “was a friend of the elder.” He now pointed to the house. “Many times, he visited the old man in that house. He is taking a picture now as a remembrance of his friend.”
The woman looked carefully at me. “Andiliki?” she said. “Is this Andiliki?”
I did not recognize her face. I did not know if she knew me by appearance or only by name. “I am Andiliki,” I confessed.
She reached for my hand and greeted me. “You’ve come back to visit us!” she announced.
“Yes,” I said.
Marcos then asked her if anyone in the village tended to Kalamatatu’s affairs. She told us that we should speak to his nephew, who was away from the village but expected back in a few days.
When we returned on the appointed day, Marcos, Tissa, and I were met on the edge of Kalamatatu’s yard by his son, Lipapa Kalamatatu. Lipapa took us to his own house, just a few dozen meters away. There, we sat in awkward but brief silence as we awaited the arrival of others whom Lipapa had summoned to join us. Within a short time, we were introduced to four other men: another son, Laja; a nephew (sister’s son), Duarte Felipe; another nephew, Henrique Maulide; and a “younger likola brother” (probably a mother’s sister’s son), Calisto Simoni.
When all were assembled, Lipapa began to speak. Since we had last seen Kalamatatu, he told us, the elder had suffered from headaches and backaches. He became quite ill once, but recovered. Some time later, however, he fell ill again. This time, he did not recover. He died in 1996, Lipapa reported.
“Was this illness provoked by uwavi [sorcery]?” I asked.
“No,” Lipapa responded, nonplussed. “It was a natural illness.” His words were steady and assured. “It had nothing to do with uwavi. He wasn’t attacked, nor did he injure himself.”
I expressed my sentiments. “Kalamatatu was a good friend to me,” I said, wondering if my words would be considered appropriate.
“Namene [very],” the entire group responded in unison with an enthusiasm that surprised me.
To this, Lipapa added: “It’s true. You were great friends. The old man received your visits many times. He had great confidence in you.”
I was not certain what Lipapa meant by “great confidence,” but his statement filled me
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