‘Memento' Sunday

I’m sure all 3-5 of you are just waiting on the edge of your seats in anticipation of my description of my Catholic church experience this morning with the girls next door, Pamela and Agnes (especially those of you who know my opinion of the church establishment), so I’ve decided to start with that experience first, and then work backwards (again). So, today is ‘Memento Sunday.’ For the millions of readers who have joined this blog after the debut of ‘Memento Monday,’ this is when I write about my experiences in backwards order (a la the film ‘Memento’—if you haven’t seen it yet, please do so… it is FREAKY!).

But, not as freaky as my first time in a Catholic church in a long, long while. Since I did grow up Episcopalian (Anglican/Church of England, for those outside the U.S.), the service itself was quite familiar, like most Catholic masses I've attended, it’s basically the same as that with which I grew up. The only major difference in this case is that the entire service was in Chichewa, so I couldn’t understand a thing (much like the ‘old English’ services I grew up with, so no big deal), so of course I couldn’t really participate, which is just as well, due to my ambivalence about organized religion.

Another huge difference is the singing. Wow. The singing is AMAZING. I am now convinced that there is not one person in Malawi who cannot sing. No joke. I have never heard any bad singing since I’ve been here… no one off-key, no screeching, nothing of the sort. Perhaps it’s just that those who cannot sing just keep quiet. Ah, if only that woman in my church growing up had done that (my brothers and sisters know the one… bleach blonde woman—fake blonde, I think… Mrs. Voght I think her name was… I’m sure she’s not reading this--, so it should be o.k. to give her name ;-). It’s possible that if that woman and a few others had sung a little less boisterously, I might still be a Christian today. Fat chance.

But seriously, I do think had I grown up in the church here, I might still be going, just because the type of singing and music is so much more joyful, uplifting, and enjoyable. The choir is relatively young and includes a good mix of men and women with incredible voices. And none of that awful “church music.” The sound is more like African dance music. And yes, some people actually get up to dance during the ‘hymns.’ If I do attend another service, I’ll try to record some of the songs to upload onto this blog if possible. It’s really quite amazing. I now can see where the African American gospel church traditions may have originated. Really good stuff.

Another big difference between this church and the ones I’ve experienced back home is the lack of padding on the kneelers, and the presence of small benches rather than pews. The benches do have backs on them, but they’re quite stiff and upright. In any case, it makes for a very uncomfortable two and a half hours. That’s right. The mass was a full 2 and ½ hours long! Toward the end, I started praying for it to end. Is that sacreligious? My prayer was answered, however, as the end came about 10 mins. after my little prayer. Maybe I’ll have to become a believer after all. It was funny, because the communion finally came almost 2 hours into the service, so I was thinking, “OK… this is it. We’re done.” The reason I felt this was because I used to wait for that moment when attending church back in the day. I remember always being happy when communion came, because that meant it was all almost over. I think that was just followed by a short prayer or chant thingy, then the final hymn and we were outta there. (well, after the ‘social hour’ my parents always stayed for, but I won’t get into that). In this case, however, it was not over so quickly. Instead, the priest went into this long explanation of how to use the rosary (I guess many people are still learning). There were some jokes told during that part, but of course I couldn’t understand… too bad for me. By the way, the priest was one of the Fathers who attended the dinner I attended at Sister Anastasia’s house a couple of weeks ago. Unfortunately, I can’t remember his name, though. He seems to be quite the comedian. A good quality in a priest. Should be required. And they should let them get married, too (the Anglicans do). Don't get me started.

One other big difference with the church here is that when they take the church offerings, they don’t just pass around the plate. Instead, they call out the names of different saints, and then different people get up to give their donation to that particular saint. I just took Pamela’s lead on this, and went up when she told me to. I have no idea who the money was for, but I gave my 10 kwacha. When I asked her, she said it was “to help the priests.” Hmmm. I definitely have mixed feelings about that one. I’m guessing we gave to that fund because that might be the one that supports Sister Anastasia as well. She wasn’t there today because she’s at a retreat in Dedza, about 2 hours north of here. She’ll be gone for two weeks. Amazing. Those girls still go to church without her. I suppose someone will certainly report back to her if they notice the girls are not there. I also think they really like church. They didn’t even think it was too long! Ya, amazing. It’s probably the singing. That’s what it would be for me, definitely.

Oh, and back to the paying off of the saints. The other interesting thing is that toward the end of the mass, this woman got up (my guess that she was the church accountant), and she started reading off how much money each saint got. I wonder if the saints tally it up somehow and then answer more prayers that week to gain popularity so they get more donations the next week. I think it’s all just some popularity contest. Some saints definitely got a lot more money than others. I really wish I could figure out what this is all about. Any Catholics out there? Do you know what this is? Please explain!

The final big difference I noticed is that for communion, only the priest got wine. Everyone else got that round piece of cardboard the Catholic church likes to call bread---and let me tellya, that's the last thing you want after 2 hours with no water. And they do that thing where the priest puts it right into your mouth. Luckily, Pamela informed me that I could put my hands out for the bread, as that’s how we did it in our church… the other way just would feel too weird. I decided to take communion (oh, I hope I don’t get struck down), as technically I’m baptized in some sort of Catholic-like church, and well, I just wanted to follow the crowd. I think that’s the first communion I’ve taken in at least a decade. So far, no lightning bolts. I’ll keep you posted.

So, all in all, it was a good morning at church. I think the best part is that this is where people celebrate community, and I think they really appreciated seeing me there. It was all my decision, and no one made a big deal about it, which was cool. And, in a weird way, it was o.k. I think it was the singing. I’ll probably come back, just for that.

The other story I had to tell today is about one of my last excursions in the car. As I may have mentioned in an earlier entry, I was planning to go to Blantyre on Friday to buy a few things for the house that I cannot find here. If I haven’t already explained, Blantyre is the most developed city in Malawi, and is named after a city in Scotland. There’s a big connection between Malawi and Scotland, due to a Scottish missionary and hero by the name of Robert Livingston. He is a hero because he worked to stop the Arab slave trade in Malawi in the mid-1800s. He was a good guy, for a missionary. He actually helped free the people, and had a good heart. He’s also the major reason so many people here are Christian, and also started a Scottish rite church in Blantyre, as well as a few other places. I may have to check the facts again on him, as I don’t have my handy-dandy Malawi travel guide with me right now. In any case, it’s because of him that Blantyre got its name, and also became the commercial capital of Malawi. I'm also part Scottish, so it's good to hear a Scottish guy did some good things for the people here.

So, on Friday morning, I set out on a journey with Carlos to visit Blantyre, meet with some of my embassy contacts, and do a little shopping. Carlos needed to buy a T.V. – ya, he’s the only foreigner here I know that will have a T.V. and cable service. I have a feeling that I won’t be seeing much of Carlos once the T.V. is hooked up. He’s already warned me, though he says he only wants to ‘watch the news.’ We shall see. (BTW, after 2 trips, we still haven't found a T.V. for Carlos... long story... Electronics market is hidden somewhere!)

As you may have guessed, something happened on the way to Blantyre. Things couldn’t just go smoothly on my first road trip in my new car. No, no. This is me we’re talking about. And this is driving. In Malawi. You know… wrong side of road, wrong side of car, wrong shifting hand, yadda yadda yadda…

So, we’re cruising along, and actually do quite well on the road to Blantyre, with no real incidents (except for this bloody SUV – yes, they’re a menace in this country too). The idiot was overtaking someone on a hill, and of course I crested the hill and saw him coming with little room to avoid a head-on collision. Let’s just say my choices were to hit a group of people walking along the road on my left, or hit the guy head-on. In the end, I slowed down in a panic, hoping there was enough road for him to overtake the group of cars he was passing before sending Carlos and I straight to the afterlife in the process. Quick ‘n painless. That’s all I ask. I’m here to tell the tale, so you know how that one ended.

Other than that harrowing experience, everything went well. I remembered which side to stay on, I didn’t drift onto the dirt shoulder more than once or twice, and all bikers and pedestrians barely noticed the inexperienced muzungu cruising along in their midst.

That was until I actually got into Blantyre. Carlos had been there before, so directed me toward the big shopping center where we would meet the embassy people and then do our shopping. As I was heading there, thinking all was fine (after some crazy roundabout that kinda freaked me out), it happened. I hit the curb on the passenger side. Carlos tried to yell and warn me, but it was too late. I didn’t just hit it, I smashed it. And the tire. AAARGH! Of course, now it’s starting to feel like kharma.

Luckily, we were almost inside the parking lot, and there was an available space closeby, so we could just pull right in, flat tire and all. As always, there was a nice man in the parking lot ready to help us out. He helped us to change the tire (and yes, I had a spare and a jack… whew! Yes, I’d forgotten to check, and yes, I’m an idiot…)

Of course, once the tire was changed, we realized it was pretty low, so we went to the nearbye BP to get air put in (ya, this was Blantyre… shopping center with Petrol Station… Hallelujah!).

After that, the young man who helped us told us he knew of a place where they could patch the tire, so he directed us to the area, and told us to park the car. He assured us that if he took the tire, he could get a good price for us, but if we went with him, they’d charge us the ‘muzungu’ price (i.e., ‘jack it up,’ and I’m not talking about the tire). Yes, it’s true, and I suppose not surprising, as it’s like this in many places around the world. The outsiders get charged more. Because we understand this, Carlos and I didn’t even flinch. We said, ‘OK’, and let him take the tire, and all of his personal belongings from the car, and then watched him roll the tire up some alley and out of sight.

Now, I know you’re all thinking we were complete idiots. Perhaps so. However, in Malawi, this is how things work, and my experience (so far) has been that for the most part, people are pretty honest and moral. Now, the guy did come back about 5 mins. later and told us they’d charge 1,000 kwacha (about 9 bucks) to fix it, so we agreed. Now, this is where we probably were idiots. How do we know that was the real price? Certainly it could’ve been considerably less, but he may have told us it was more to get his own cut. Duh. Anyway, we agreed, and he went back to the place again, after telling us it would take about 20 mins. to fix. In the meantime, I had a lunch appointment with my embassy contacts, so I was concerned about making it in time, as it was already about noon. After a quick call, I was assured that lunch wouldn’t start until about 1 p.m., so we were in good shape.

After waiting for about 10 minutes, that’s when Carlos said it. “Jennifer, do you realize that we just gave that guy the tire, his things, and 1,000 kwacha, and we have no idea where he went and if he’ll ever come back?" Uh, yeah. Duh. Dorks. Been living overseas for a long time. But still stupid. Or maybe it’s just Malawi. Somehow you just feel like you can trust people here… maybe not completely, but when it comes to the big things. So, we waited. 10 mins. 15 mins. 20 mins. 25 mins. 30 mins. Finally, Carlos asked one of the street vendors if he knew the guy, and if there really was a tire repair place in the neighborhood. They ensured Carlos that everything was on the up-and-up. Ya. Right. They could be part of the racket. And there we were—Dorks. Duh.

5 more mins., and there he was. Our trusty good Samaritan came back, but no tire. He actually came back to tell us it’d take about 10 more mins. Whew! Now we knew we hadn’t been taken for a total ride. Perhaps a partial one. We’re both pretty sure he got a cut of the deal, but that’s o.k. As long as the tire gets fixed. So, after waiting a few more minutes, he did return with the ‘rebuilt’ tire. I did some pretty major damage to the sidewall, so they actually had to stitch it (very low-tech, of course), but so far, it’s holding well. It got us through the afternoon and evening on Friday, and on another trip to Blantyre and back yesterday. That time I took Deliwe, and we had a great time. So far, the tire’s still holding. I’ll keep you posted. Tiwonana mawa!