The day has finally cooled off, so I’m enjoying a nice cup
of homemade hot chocolate as I type this blog. (In all honesty, it’s still warm
enough that we have a fan blowing away over our heads, but I can really drink
hot drinks no matter the weather.) Both Mark and I have enjoyed fantastically
good health since arriving in Nampula, so it’s a bit of a change to have Mark
listlessly lying on the couch next to me, nursing an upset stomach. I feel so
bad for him! Upset stomachs are no fun.
Last Sunday, while Mark was in Mocuba and I was staying with
John and Susan, I had the opportunity to go with John about 100 km out of
Nampula to a small town called Liupo. That morning I woke up early, excited, I
think, and nervous that I might somehow miss our 6:00 a.m. departure. About 15
minutes into my morning cup of tea, I began to feel nauseous, like my stomach
was a jug of volatile effervescent reactions. All of my energy was focused on
keeping those effervescent reactions from being jostled and inspired to further
fizzing. After a roll of dry bread, however, I began to feel a little better,
enough so that I felt confident that I could handle the bouncing to and from
Liupo.
John, David, a representative from Wycliffe Associates, and
Louis, a member of the church we were visiting, set off together. The 100
kilometers flew by. Even though we were bounced and jolted, I so enjoyed seeing
all of the people, the houses, and the rolling Mozambican countryside. At one
point, shortly before we reached Liupo, John pulled off to the side of the road
so we could all relieve ourselves before we arrived in town. The ladies’ room
was the bush on one side of the road and the men’s room was the bush on the
other.
As John was climbing out of the car, he turned to me and
said, pointing to his thumb, “Oh, if you see any beans about this big, do not
touch them! They’re monkey beans and they’ll make you itch forever.”
Okay then. I took a deep breath and stepped into the grass.
It crackled under my flip flops. I picked my way through, walking in the grass
that was ankle high, trying to find a particularly thick patch of chest high
grass to crouch behind. No monkey beans, I
prayed. And no snakes. As I was
walking back to the car, after having accomplished my mission, I felt pretty
bush savvy. I can do this. I’m not scared
by any ol’ African bush!
We arrived at the church in Liupo shortly before 9:30 a.m. The
church service was well underway, and I could hear the congregation singing. As
we climbed out of the jeep, we were greeted by the six or seven pastors who
were all present at the church to kick off the week-long conference that would
be taking place there.
The church building was made of mud bricks and a
grass-thatched roof. Inside, the church was semi-dark. The only light came
through regularly spaced holes in the brick and the two doorways. Strings sporting
thin strips of paper were hung from rafters to walls and fluttered in the
slight breeze that made its way into the church.
Louis melted into the congregation. David, John, and I, however,
were ushered up onto the platform where the other pastors were sitting. I’m
finding this is a fairly common reception when white people visit a church that
is usually all- or mostly-black African. We’re seen as guests, and whether we
deserve it or not, as honored guests. I appreciate the thought, I really do,
but after receiving so much attention for being one of few white people in the
area, being made that much more the center of attention usually just serves to
give me a headache and make me sweat. A lot. So, we sat up on the platform in
our comfortable plastic chairs while the congregation as a whole sat on the low
cement benches that serve as pews in the church.
I wish I could describe the singing in the church. It was
beautiful and vibrant and exuberant. I took videos with John’s camera, so if I
can manage to borrow the camera and download the videos, I’ll make sure to
share at least one when I get back to the States. Once the singing ended and
the pastor and John began preaching, I started getting sleepy. I enjoyed
listening to the Portuguese and seeing what I could pick out from my limited
understanding of the language and its similarities to Spanish. I also enjoyed
listening to the Makua translation. I couldn’t understand a word of the Makua.
After the service, the plastic chairs we had been sitting on
were carried outside and placed under a shady tree so we could sit and chat and
enjoy the cool breeze. I wanted to go and sit with the other ladies (and their
adorable babies), but I couldn’t muscle up enough courage. I kept thinking, Oh, I don’t know enough Portuguese. I won’t
know what to say. They’ll be uncomfortable if I just wander over. Maybe
they would have been, but in retrospect, I wish I had chanced it.
I learned a new Portuguese word while we were there, one
that I don’t think I’ll forget soon: latrina.
Obviously, as is to be expected, there was no running water in the village.
People do their business in latrinas,
which are holes in the ground surrounded by a thick grass wall. I decided that
either the women living in the village are more coordinated than I am or just
less private. While one uses the latrina,
one must keep track of three things: balancing oneself, holding one’s skirt,
and holding the flapping fabric curtain in place over the latrina doorway. I’ll never take a bathroom door for granted again!
In the late afternoon, we walked through the village to the
yard of one of the church members. There, supper lunch was made for
everyone present. By the time we ate, it was about 4:00 in the afternoon, and
my stomach had given up and quit reminding me that I had missed lunch. When the
meal was prepared, one table was brought out and covered with a capulana cloth. Plates, cups, and spoons
were set out for eight, and a pitcher of water was set in the middle of the
table. As the bowls of food were brought to the table, John, David, and I, and
about five of the pastors of the church were invited to come sit at the table.
I asked John, “Isn’t everyone else going to eat too?” The
rest of the church was lounging around on the ground, chatting and glancing at
us every once in a while. John replied, “Sooner or later. There’s a hierarchy
here, and like it or not, you’re at the top.”
I’m not sure I liked it, but I’ve learned about the Makua
people that their culture has a strong sense of hierarchy. They’ve lived that
way their whole lives and it’s not strange or limiting to them. In fact, most
Makua people are more comfortable when meeting new people when they know
exactly where in the hierarchy they fall in relation to their new acquaintance.
So. We were at the top, and we got to eat at a table with a
tablecloth and we had options. In front of me and John, on our side of the
table, was a big bowl of spaghetti noodles, pieces of potato, and chicken. The
noodles were flavored with the chicken gravy and were quite good. If I bit down
on sand grit once in a while, it was all part of the experience. In front of
David, on the other side of the table, was shima,
a polenta-like cornmeal mush, and more chicken with gravy.
Shortly after we finished eating, we started saying our
good-byes. Most people in the church were still getting their food, but those
who knew John personally or had personally interacted with me or David got up
to say good-bye.
Earlier in the afternoon, I had had the opportunity to
practice my Portuguese by asking a group of women, Ha uma latrina cerca? The women had kindly ushered me to the
nearest latrina, and after that, they
kept looking over and smiling at me. Apparently that had broken the ice
somewhat, because these were the women who got up to say good-bye to me. At
that moment, I really wished I had
been a little more outgoing and gone and sat with them earlier!
Regrets aside, my day in Liupo was lovely and enlightening.
Since I’ve already practically written a book on the subject, I’ll conclude
quickly. I can see you all anxiously scrolling, wondering how much longer I can
go on about an experience that lasted less than 24 hours. All in all, visiting
Liupo was a wonderful experience!
--Hillary
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