Today we headed out yet again for another church service. For as difficult as it was for me to get through the first service we went to, I have fallen in love with these village worship services. Or maybe it's just the villages I love. From the moment we get out of the cars until the point when we try to drive away at the end of the day and they won't le go of our hands through the car windows, we are treated like honored guests in their unique and beatiful worlds.
The village we went to today was quite developed compared to the others we have visited. The potty had a cement floor! And a door! Crotch-level tarps aren't quite as functional for those of us not used to peeing outside. The village had also created a reservoir so that they have the assurance of water, and believe it or not, the World Bank footed most of the bill to build an actual water tower. I know, I know, it is hard to imagine the World Bank actually doing anything for international development without some kind of strings attached. Maybe this was their good deed for 1997 before they ran back to hide behind their bureacracy.
The church itself was made of mud and sticks with a palm leaf roof. It was beautiful. If I ever get to see all the great churches and cathedrals of Europe, I don't think they could ever be so beautiful to me as these little mud churches in the middle of nowhere.
During the service I avoided the mighty uncomfortable 2x2 planks that they used for pews by sitting on the dirt floor along the side wall with all of the little boys. The women were a little surprised that I would want to sit on the floor when I could have a seat, but my spot was a lot more fun than everyone elses! I was aided through the three-hour service by the little hands rubbing my arms to see if they could get the whiteness to come off on them. They examined my watch from every angle and touched my long finger nails over and over again. They were never naughty or loud (one of the women would have come after them with a switch if they were), but just sweet curious little boys.
The village we went to today was quite developed compared to the others we have visited. The potty had a cement floor! And a door! Crotch-level tarps aren't quite as functional for those of us not used to peeing outside. The village had also created a reservoir so that they have the assurance of water, and believe it or not, the World Bank footed most of the bill to build an actual water tower. I know, I know, it is hard to imagine the World Bank actually doing anything for international development without some kind of strings attached. Maybe this was their good deed for 1997 before they ran back to hide behind their bureacracy.
The church itself was made of mud and sticks with a palm leaf roof. It was beautiful. If I ever get to see all the great churches and cathedrals of Europe, I don't think they could ever be so beautiful to me as these little mud churches in the middle of nowhere.
During the service I avoided the mighty uncomfortable 2x2 planks that they used for pews by sitting on the dirt floor along the side wall with all of the little boys. The women were a little surprised that I would want to sit on the floor when I could have a seat, but my spot was a lot more fun than everyone elses! I was aided through the three-hour service by the little hands rubbing my arms to see if they could get the whiteness to come off on them. They examined my watch from every angle and touched my long finger nails over and over again. They were never naughty or loud (one of the women would have come after them with a switch if they were), but just sweet curious little boys.
After the service we had yet another auction in the church yard. My spf 45 was doing nothing in the direct near-equator sun, so I sat in the church and watched through the holes. After a long time, all of a sudden the women were trying to shoo me out of the door. I tried to tell them I was hot, but then I realized that I was about to ruin a surprise that they were planning and let one lead me by the hand back to the group. They put us all in a straight line and came out of the church singing a song that mostly consisted of the word Karibu, which means welcome. That is the word I have probably heard the most since I have been in this country. Everywhere we go we are welcome, welcome, welcome.
Each woman came up to one of us and placed a white Masaai beaded cross necklace over our heads while dancing and singing the Karibu song the entire time. I almost cried. We have never been given anything physical other than food at the other villages, so it was a big surprise. Apparently the mission has a special relationship with this village and Dr. Stickert, who had visited there last year, was not at all surprised. After the presentation of these heavily beaded white necklaces (they are very Masaai - Pastor Haffermann always wears one when he preaches) a man grabbed my hand and started dragging me away to an area where 25 or 30 young warriors were hanging out and watching us.
These guys hadn't come anywhere near the church, but came in from the bush to check out the mzungu (white people). A lot of them were wearing all black (recently circumcised - if they so mych as flinch or make a noise they are shamed) or had hair dyed as orange as construction cones to symbolize that they have been out in the bush and therefore can ask anything of anyone and it must be done for them. All of us girls were put into another single-file line, interspersed with the warriors, and started slowly marching to another area where we lined up opposite of eachother and we FINALLY got to see them jump.
The men started this chant with low noises coming from the back of their throats (there might have been words in the Masaai language but I couldn't tell) that sounded so absolutely ancient and stereotypically tribal. When they really got going, individuals would randomly come out in front of the group and jump a few times in time with the chanting/music, ending in a big huge stomp. The Masaai are the tallest group of people I have ever seen and they jump like they've been playing basketball all of their lives (they've probably never seen one). They just go straight up. It was amazing!
On our way out we had to drop off a few people at the main road, so our vehicles were overflowing with the addition of our Concordia friends. I was in the back of Grant's, which has two benches along the side walls rather than regular seats. We had five people, and I was the lucky one that got to sit on top of everyone else, but mostly being cradled in some random Tanzanian guys lap like a small child at bed time, while my head smacked (not bumped) on the back windom everytime we hit a bump. It was a dirt road. The guy was very gentlemanly about it, but he kept trying to talk to me and since our faces were about an inch and a half apart, I got a headache from trying to focus my vision on him, and from the regular smacking. It was an exceptionally awkward half hour, and I bruised several people.
More to come...
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