Nubian Massage

Sudan Studies, Number 11 (January 1992)

I would have felt no worse if an adult camel had taken a notion to couch its full weight on my chest. I had been running around ineffectually on a patch of sand on the Nubian island of Nulwetta playing football, when one of the island's sturdier son's barrelled into me. As the tiny point of pain somewhere to the left of my heart radiated outwards like a dark stain developing on a white 'jellabiya', my appreciation of the Nubian sunset slid behind an all obscuring horizon of pure agony. Convinced that breathing was about to cease, I steeled myself for the worst as each rasping inhalation of twilight dust sent shock waves through my body.

Nulwetta is situated in the heart of Nubia between the villages of Abri to the north and Delgo to the south. It is several hours away from the most rudimentary hospital and its inhabitants rely for medical help, both by necessity and preference, on a traditional 'folk' doctor which the more melodramatic would take great relish in referring to (quite inaccurately) as a 'witch doctor'.

My predicament came to the attention of a Nulwetta schoolboy called Fatih and he took me to the local 'doctor', who very quickly satisfied himself that none of my ribs was broken, before producing a jar of 'dilka', a type of oil, with which he proceeded to give my ribcage a vigorous massage. Despite the supposed soothing effects of the oil, his fingers felt like a fleet of tiny steam rollers. This treatment over, I was instructed to meet the 'doctor' in his house after a couple of hours for more of the same.

Fatih and I walked the sandy streets of Nulwetta towards the 'doctor', Abdel Fadil's house in the dying moments of sunset. Fatih informed me that Abdel Fadil was famous as a 'baseer' in the area and that people came from up and down the Nile to seek his consultations, rather than go to the modern doctor in Abri Hospital. At the house we drank the obligatory cup of sweet milky sunset tea, ate local 'meenain' biscuits and waited for Abdel Fadil who duly arrived and wasted no time in setting his steam rollers to work on me again.

After this second massage, the 'baseer' produced an empty jam jar and some paper. He tore the paper into five strips which he then fashioned into small cones. With his cigarette lighter he lit the first twist of paper and when it was fairly blazing, dropped it into the jar, through whose mouth, it spat bright energetic flames. When the business end of this fire-breathing implement was pressed hard against the damaged ribs, I started involuntarily letting a breathless supplication escape from my lips.

I needn't have worried. The flames soon expired as the oxygen sealed into the jar by my chest was consumed and my flesh was sucked in tightly around the rim of the jar, so that when Abdel Fadil let go, the jar did not fall to the ground but stuck fast to my ribcage, protruding improbably at right angles. After a pause during which the inhabitants of the room admired the effect Abdel Fadil's vacuum had created, the jam jar was dragged slowly across the surface of my chest without the seal being broken. This new technique caused me to utter several gasps of pain and displeasure, which unseemly display of weakness elicited peals of laughter from the assembled horde of Fadil children. The entire process was repeated five times before I was allowed to ease my 'jellabiya' back up over my chest and shoulder, wincing as I did so, in far greater agony than I'd been in before I'd sought assistance.

Brick-making on Nulwetta

'Baseer' which is defined in Hans Wehr's Arabic English Dictionary as, "endowed with eyesight" and, "having insight" (or "possessing knowledge") was the name used by islanders to describe Abdel Fadil's calling. Two years later in al Ghaba, I was to witness an old blind 'baseer' treat a footballer's wrenched knee by applying the red hot head of a six inch nail to the damaged area. The boy had submitted to the 'mismaar' without displaying a hint of fear and swore later that his injury had been healed. Abdel Fadil's amused reaction to my unheroic inability to refrain from flinching during his jam jar operation had been to comment (not unkindly) that I was the first 'khawaja' he'd seen who was a coward.