Welcome

Apparently, it is rare for the internet network to go down in the village, much less for two days.  But my first two days in the village were network-free.  And here is where my values betray me; for all that I am ready to surrender many of the comforts of Canada for the opportunity to do something valuable and for the opportunity to experience a new freedom of self-sufficiency, I have on Achilles' Heel, and it is more tender than I knew; I still require that connection.  I hope that I am not deluded when I say that it is not an addiction; it is, however, a weakness in some respects.  But is it any weakness to wish more than anything to communicate with people that I love, when I should theoretically be able to but cannot?  There is also a lot of work that I am doing that affords me the opportunity to be here; that cannot be neglected.  To serve is a privilege, one that I pay for through labour that is sold in the West.  It is important work.  Do I sound like an addict justifying my addiction?

But to the village.  Yesterday, I attended a service of the Seventh Day Baptist church (as a matter of culture rather than faith, I should mention; my faith is complex and seems to be best expressed in the Anglican church; Baptist is a little distant from where I'm at), where the main preacher is also a chief sponsor and director of the Same World Same Chance project; his name is Mikimba.  The church is in Kibombomene proper, and to get there I walked five kilometres through an open area that seems to be an old riverbed, now overgrown; through cassava plantations; through old maize crops; and along the Solwezi-Chingola highway.  At the highway, children and women, and the occasional cluster of men, were there.  They are Goderich-friendly; if you have been to Goderich from out of town, you will know what I mean; at first I am eyed suspiciously, but then greeted widely when I greet first.  The only difference is that in Goderich, one is not greeted with such teeth.  The colours here are in stark contrast to one another and seem to taste like rich food, like barbecue with thick sauce.

The church is a russet building of one room, perhaps the size of a classroom.  I sit with Kennedy on a hard wooden bench; Marissa sits on the other side with the women, wisely choosing a seat at the very back so that she can lean backward.  Mikimba acknowledges me, and asks Kennedy to come up and translate his sermon (he speaks it in Luvale).  It is about the dead man who was thrown into Elisha's tomb and immediately came to life; not through any power of Elisha, as he was just a man, but through the power of God; just as, indeed, through the power of God, people no longer have to fear "we whites", but that we might actually sit together in the same church.  Then the people sang; their sound was improbable and did not seem at all to be connected to the small bodies with mouths hardly opened that was producing it.  The sound of an African choir in Canada that practices for months is there in this church, untrained, unrehearsed, spontaneous.

Then, a choir from a neighbouring church processed to ours, in something like a uniform.  Their sound is more impressive again.  They also bring a "guitar", which is an instrument about nine feet in length with three strings; the base is big enough that it can be sat on while the instrument is played.

I am asked to the front to be welcomed.  I do not understand the welcome; it is mostly in Luvale.  But then the choir erupts again and so do the people in song; I am asked to dance with them and I do.  We all dance together, and everyone comes up and welcomes me one by one, grasping their forearm, shaking my hand and bowing, or hugging me on one side, then the other.  The sound is cacaphonous and impossible, the smell is rich but not unpleasant and reminds me of dust and work, the callouses are softer than office skin.  Mikimba grabs my hand and we dance together as drums and bass guitar play, low to the ground, a move I learned at a Congolese club in Montréal, and he seems impressed.

The service continues; it is four hours altogether.  I go back to Mikimba's house and have a lunch of nshima, rape (it is a vegetable here with a terrible name but terrific flavour), eggs and fresh chicken.  Wonderful.  My laptop has finished charging using Mikimba's solar system; but alas, no internet, and I am getting very anxious.  No one knows, at this point, that I have arrived safely and that all is well.  I think to hitch to Solwezi right then, but Mikimba wisely points out that by the time I get there everything would be closed; best to wait until morning.  I agree.

Marissa lets me use her phone with little time left to call my parents and ask them to spread the message that I am well.  We walk back to the house; we eat popcorn and I drink a cider, and then I am in bed by eight o'clock.

The mud hut will cost about $40 to build, and another $2 to clear enough land for a 25 m by 50 m garden.  The soil here is rich and wonderful; anything can grow, and if it is watered, it can grow all year round.  The people are wonderful; news spread about the church and my dancing, and now there are no more suspicious looks; the wide and deep greatings happen immediately.

There is so much potential in this land where survival is easy and there are no distractions and few preconceived ideas.  The future of education may well come from Africa.

But there is a lot to do.