Travel Reference
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plaining how the medicine will be dispensed. Simon has brought other Westerners here be-
fore—Americans or Europeans on safari who wished to see the faith healer. He says they
usuallypayasmallfeeandthentheygettoseeMwasapila.But10minuteslater,theformerly
bleary man returns wearing an immigration uniform. Now significantly more imposing, he
explainsthatIwillhaveto“fulfillaprocess”togetpermissiontospeaktoMwasapila.Iaskif
I can fulfill the process on the spot. He sighs regretfully and says it's not within his power to
help me. Simon pleads on my behalf, hinting we might pay an informal fee, but, to Simon's
surprise, this has no effect. Apparently, journalists are not as welcome as tourists.
The immigration officer disappears, and Simon tells me the voice we now hear over the
speaker is Mwasapila. The voice is crisp, medium-pitched, and slightly nasal, and we hear
him list the diseases the medicine will cure: diabetes (“sugar,” as Tanzanians say), hyper-
tension (“blood”), cancer, tuberculosis, and HIV/AIDS. The officer returns saying I need to
travel to Wasso to speak to the district administrator, who will help me obtain the proper pa-
pers. “When you walk to your car, you may just peek at Babu over there.” A man in a tie
standing nearby objects in Swahili, and Simon tells me not to peek at Babu after all. I obedi-
ently look away, hopeful that I will get a chance at a better look later.
Wasso is a 90-minute drive away, and the district administrator is much less patient than the
immigration officer, and equally unbudgeable. I have to return to Arusha, the largest city in
the north, immediately, and I may conduct no interviews. We leave at first light the next day,
and after driving an hour, we spot a minivan from Kenya on the side of the road, its passen-
gersmillingaround.Ipulloverandspeaktoamanwhotellsmehehasjusttakenacupofthe
medicine tocurehisdiabetes. Hiseyesarebright,andhesayswithexcitement, “Already,my
headache is completely gone.” He says he will stop taking insulin in a week if he continues
to feel better.
Another slight man with pale skin approaches the Land Rover. He says, “Excuse me,” in
formal English, his voice high and weak. “I have stomach cancer and diabetes.” His belly
is distended to the size of a watermelon, and his feet are extraordinarily swollen. “This bus
is very cramped, and I very uncomfortable. May I ride in your car to Arusha?” He says his
doctortoldhimhehasamonthtolive,butheisnowhopefulthecancerwillvanish.Iexplain
our car is full, apologize, and wish him good luck.
After several hours, we descend from the highlands to Ngare Sero on the plain, where Si-
monmakeshishome.Heintroducesmetoamanwhosayshisstomachulcersandindigestion
have vastly improved since he visited Samunge last February. This man heard about Mwas-
apila when Lutheran bishop Thomas Laizer came to his remote village in the Ngorongoro
Highlandswithwordofamiraclecure.Aswetalk,theyoungvillagechairmangrabsSimon's
elbow. The Loliondo administrator has sent word by radio that an American journalist might
come through the village, and he must not be allowed to conduct interviews. The chairman
