Ask me what the first music single I ever bought was and I'll give you one of two answers, depending on how impressed I want you to be. If I want to avoid embarrassment, I’ll happily tell you that it was Runaway by The Corrs, at which most people nod with moderate approval. However, if I’m in a less vain mood, I might blurt out the other single I bought on that momentous day, which was Witchdoctor by the tragic late-nineties flash-in-the-pan band Cartoons. The song is something of a cartoon in itself, given that it plays upon the western perception of what a witchdoctor actually is. The persona of the song seeks love advice from a witchdoctor, whose prescription is restricted to the zany, unintelligible line "Ooh eeh, ooh ah-ah, ting tang, wolla wolla bing bang". Obviously the song is just a bit of fun (and, let’s be frank, more than a little embarrassing) but the stereotype of the witchdoctor rings loud and true within it, and as we all know, stereotypes are always a few notches short of the truth. So when, in August 2008, I was given the chance to visit one during my time volunteering in Zambia’s Linda compound near Lusaka, I found myself eager to investigate the myth and see for myself whether the Cartoons’ lyrics rang true.

A group of us had been meaning to go for a few weeks, ever since we chanced upon the sign outside her modest home. It seemed to me to be an opportunity that I simply had to take up, given that back home such practices weren’t so culturally prominent, and that before I could truly rule out its viability as a medical option I had to see for myself how the custom worked.

Firstly, I had to overcome a couple of Western naiveties. The first of these was that she would actually call herself a witchdoctor. The notice outside her home simply read “DR. MULONDE: DOCTOR FROM MALAWI”, which of course was a stark contrast to “DR. MULONDE: I'M A STARK RAVING MAD WITCHDOCTOR WHO WILL DANCE AROUND FOR A BIT BEFORE GIVING YOU A DANGEROUS CONCOCTION MADE FROM ALL SORTS OF GRIM DETRITUS! AND BY THE WAY- OOH EEH OOH AH-AH, TING TANG WOLLA WOLLA BING BANG!" In fact, I was to discover that she would regard herself in as high esteem as doctors from a more scientific background, and would imply that she had great respect for modern medicine. Hence to necessity for me to lower my second naïve assumption: that she would have a bone through her nose and a human skull in her hand, which kids' story books from my childhood seemed to lazily obsess with.

Before we saw Dr. Mulonde, we decided to ask some locals what their views on such practices were. The overwhelming response we received was that they believed witchdoctors to be con artists and fraudsters, cheating desperate people out of money that they couldn’t afford to lose. Many told us that although the nearest affordable healthcare unit might be miles away, they would still rather make that trek than receive unreliable care on their doorstep. Whether they told us this because they were genuinely sceptical or simply to avoid embarrassment in front of us was unclear, but regardless of this, witchdoctors such as Dr. Mulonde and faith in their work thrive even in the poorest parts of Zambia, including Linda. When a local community worker told one lady that sexual contact may have been the reason for her becoming HIV positive, she was violently shown the door and accused of having used black magic to give her the illness.

Before we even met her, Mulonde didn’t do herself any favours. Following our enquiry about consulting her, she gave us a grossly inflated quote of ZKw30,000 (roughly £6) each for the privilege, which prompted one of our party to give up on the idea altogether. “I was reluctant to pay her anything”, he scorned. “But that’s just fucking ridiculous. She won’t get a penny out of me.” Her efforts to rob us in broad daylight of course made me all the more sceptical, but unlike my disgruntled friend curiosity got the better of me. After some hard bargaining, we managed to reduce the fee to ZKw 30,000 for the whole group, which worked out at a much happier sum of ZKw4000 each. This I was willing to pay. Dubious as this woman’s approach to us was, I was still rather excited about this little venture.

She greeted us at her door and told us, via a translator, to remove our shoes before we entered. The reason for this was never made clear but we did so, and, again as instructed, sat cross-legged (which is a really uncomfy position to sit in over the age of about ten, don’t you think?) in a line against the wall opposite the entrance. The room wasn’t artificially lit, so the only light crept in through a small, veiled window to my left and it took a few moments for our eyes to adjust from the direct contrast of the searing late-morning sunlight outside. Within seconds of sitting down, my bony behind was already feeling the tremendous discomfort that accompanies being perched upon a cold, stone floor and suddenly a substantial part of my being hoped this wouldn’t take long.

We were instructed to bow our heads and close our eyes. Again we obliged, and Dr. Mulonde then commenced proceedings with a prayer. Whether or not this was a strictly Christian oration wasn’t apparent, although she had explained beforehand that before she could host the spirit which could detect maladies she must first demonstrate her devotion to a higher being. Initially she mumbled incoherently (I hope God put his good ear to her) but after a short while we were allowed to lift our heads to see her chanting and clapping, whilst doing a dance that somewhat resembled the hokey-kokey what with all the limbs flapping about. An assistant who stood at the back of the room to my right accompanied her vocally and in the full throes of the dance passed her a plastic bottle, which she grasped with both hands and occasionally supped from.

As intriguing as it was to view such a unique spectacle, it soon became a little melodramatic. Her breathing became very irregular, her body heaving and her chest rising and falling sharply. Her limbs began to shake wildly, and soon the rhythmic chanting was replaced with prolonged, hoarse gasping from the back of her throat, like she was trying to gargle without any liquid. It was an image of struggle, her body seeming to resist some kind of transformation with every jerk and twist. As she writhed about the room, the ritual took on a more sinister tone when she threw her head back and began to cackle hysterically. Her eyes bulged with a combination of defiance and fear as she surveyed us one by one, before she fell to the floor on all fours and released a piercing scream, wincing and raising her head to the ceiling. Regardless of what we all made of these histrionics, Mulonde was certainly giving her all. After a few moments she stopped screaming, bowed her head and all was silent and still.

She took a quite lengthy pause to compose herself before slowly, and very calmly, rising to her feet. Via her translator, she informed us she had now taken on spirit and if anyone would like to ask it or her any questions they could do so.

By this point I had become quite bemused with proceedings. I want to make it perfectly clear that I approach the subject of spiritualism with an open mind, and fully understand that mediumship is a widely believed-in and respectable faith. I write this as the son of spiritual mediums- my father also being a spiritual healer- and I have total respect for what they do, having been regaled with some remarkable instances of their work. I am by no means a bone fide believer but equally will not sit here and deny the viability of spiritualism outright.

But this was nothing short of farcical. Speaking for all of us who were curious to discover the contents of the plastic bottle she’d been drinking from, someone put it to her. Her answer confirmed what I had suspected in that it was chibuku, a cheap, opaque beer made readily available for poverty stricken locals to drink their troubles away. When asked why this was necessary for the practice, she simply replied that the spirit she was hosting had requested it. Never mind the absurd logic behind a spirit having physical needs- I was more taken aback by the presence of an alcoholic ghost! Can you imagine?!

One particularly pertinent question aimed at her queried whether or not she had the ability to practice black magic. To this she answered that it was not beyond her powers to do so, but that she was not willing to harm anyone. It would be morally corrupt and besides, it would tarnish her reputation as a healer.

She also told us that she could only summon eight spirits depending on the purpose of the client’s visit. For example, one spirit may be able to diagnose an illness whereas another would be more useful in locating a lost possession. Hearing this, one member of our group, whose beloved Superman t-shirt had been missing for some time, asked if she could find it for him. A touch absurd perhaps, but nonetheless it would have been the perfect test of her powers. Unfortunately she declined the challenge, instead suggesting that to do so he would have to return after booking a separate consultation with her. This way she would be able to summon the correct spirit.

Despite this, she did invite us to be given a brief 'check up’ there and then, which I welcomed the idea of; by now I was in such discomfort that I was hopping from one buttock to the other. It would also prove very interesting given that another of our group had recently contracted a strain of malaria following a stay in Siavonga on Lake Kariba. He had come down with cold sweats, aching and extreme fatigue so he had gone to a practitioner of modern, Western medicine who diagnosed him with the illness and gave him some tablets to take. It would be genuinely fascinating to see if Dr. Mulonde’s more traditional methods would lead her to the same conclusion.

She invited him to join her in the centre of the room, so he hoisted himself up and walked over. She held both of his hands for a short while and closed her eyes. A few moments later she released his hands and told him that he was fine. Bare in mind, of course, that it had been less than a week since his earlier diagnosis and that he’d been confined to his bed for most of that time. It seemed quite apparent that she was wrong. When we told her this she responded calmly, but not without a little nervousness, that perhaps the reason for her inaccuracy was that he hadn’t signed in officially via the patients’ book, which of course, is a pretty daft explanation indeed.

Had she been a little more tactful, she might have taken the same strategy as one particular witchdoctor (of sorts- a raindoctor, to be precise) encountered by the legendary nineteenth century explorer David Livingstone. Livingstone decided one day to question the traditionally held belief that raindoctors had the power to ‘charm’ the rains from the sky at will. A variety of unsavoury matter would be used by these doctors, such as jackals’ livers, baboons’ and lions’ hearts, charcoal produced from burned bats, “hairy calculi” from the bowels of old cows (I believe I know what he meant by this given that I was fed ‘hairy’ looking innards on more than one occasion) snakes’ skin or vertebrae and “every kind of tuber, bulb and plant to be found in the country” as charms for this practice. They were ever hospitable to Livingstone, although understandably he suspected their shaky logic.

When Livingstone, a staunch Christian missionary, argued that only God could bring the rain, the raindoctor replied that he was indeed praying to God but with the aid of his charms. Livingstone’s retort was that, as it is stated in the Bible, such charms aren’t necessary in influencing God’s will.

At this point, the raindoctor played a very cunning tactic. He argued that God had put Livingstone and his fellow white men in a socially favourable position with privileges that he was ignorant of. He didn’t despise white people for having such advantages so why should Livingstone and co. look down upon the knowledge of certain medicines and charms that, in return, God had granted his own people, just because whites didn’t understand it.

Judging by his account, Livingstone appeared a little shaken by this. With no effective counter argument in his armament, he repeated his argument that rains could not be charmed by human medicines.

To which, the raindoctor dealt his trump card. “We are both doctors,” he said. “When a patient dies, you do not give up trust in your medicine, neither do I when rain fails [sic]. If you wish me to leave off my medicine, why continue your own?”

Livingstone was stumped. Of course, he remained wholly unconvinced by the raindoctor’s practices, but he still had to concede that “I never succeeded in convincing a single individual of their fallacy, though I tried to in every way I could think of. Their faith in medicines as charms is unabounded.” He, rather like we in that little room, could not successfully dissuade the convictions of the witchdoctor.

And so we return to modern day Zambia. Recognising the difficulty in converting traditionalists towards Western methods of healthcare, in recent years the Zambian government has attempted to incorporate some of the less controversial aspects of traditional practice into its Ministry of Health amidst the growth, since colonial times and the rise in urbanisation of the influence of Western medicine. Although these medicines are put under heavy scrutiny by the government, such efforts have evoked criticism from ‘modern’ practitioners who question the viability of retaining traditional practices purely for the sake of it. On Lusaka’s Cairo Road, amidst the banks, fast food outlets and high-rise office blocks stand the odd chemist, stocking expensive, imported pharmaceuticals for those who can afford them. Some members of the groups I travelled to Zambia with were medical students who put their knowledge of Western medicine to the test in Lusaka’s main hospital, as well as providing check ups for street children and children living in poverty in the Linda compound with no resistance.

However, traditional practitioners such as Dr. Mulonde continue to thrive and ply their trade openly in spite of the growing cynicism towards them. Whether you respect these people or not, it’s important to note that, tellingly, they admit that they cannot provide cures for illnesses that are beyond the grasp of even Western medicines. Mulonde herself made it clear to us that the one thing she could not treat effectively was HIV and AIDS. Perhaps if a cure is ever found she will claim to have one too, but at least this demonstrates some degree of honesty which avoids giving false hope to the estimated 70% of Linda compound’s 35,000 inhabitants that are HIV positive. It also suggests that, in a similar vein to Livingstone’s raindoctor friend, she respects the practicalities of Western medicine and the thought of that it is a viable alternative to her work. I half expected her to defiantly deny that our friend was ill, but her awkward response to the news demonstrated a reluctance to reject modern medical practices. In this way even she has been personally influenced by the modernisation of healthcare in Zambia.

And so Zambia is sitting on the fence, for now. Caught between the pressures of retaining cultural traditions and defying change off the back of colonialism, and of using Western models to improve the quality of life, Zambian medicine has developed into a mixture of old and new. The mysticism of witchcraft inevitably draws in many of the sick and lame willing to resort to desperate measures even if they are sceptical. Not that I’m in any way suggesting that the elusive t-shirt was in any way as immediate an issue, but the friend in question was still considering that invitation even when we left her. As for that old stereotype, I’m afraid I didn’t actually see too much in Dr. Mulonde to fully dispel it, although her attitudes towards her work were too complex to be reduced to such a level. And finally, with regards to the missing t-shirt, my friend never saw it again, which prompted some of us to suggest that perhaps she used her powers to trace it for herself. Well, you never know.