More people push into the crowded, mud walled church, finding room to sit on the floor; the benches and chairs are already full.  Krista offers her chair to an adult, and settles herself on the cement floor.

A colorfully dressed young lady jumps up from her seat, bursting out in song.  She is quickly joined by three friends, all of whom are dressed in matching skirts.  They present a lively dance to the beat of their song.  When they return to their seats another group fills the front of the building.  Their dance routine leaves them dripping with sweat, while the rest of us clap along.  Even clapping leaves us practically gasping for breath in the muggy, hot air.

Someone must have needed more minutes for her cell phone; a young man hands over an Mcel phone credit card to a friend at the front of the church.   Other cell phones in the building are also being used, either for taking pictures or texting.

In a break between songs Fabrinyo clears a narrow isle.  We wait expectantly, wondering if the bride has finally arrived.  It is now eleven am; the wedding was supposed to start two hours ago.  A new song breaks out, and capalonas (fabric pieces) are spread on the isle.

Two people enter the back of the church.   The groom’s face is like solid granite without a hint of excitement or pleasure.  Holding his arm as they slowing advance up the aisle is the madrenia, or the “spiritual mother.”   As the groom and madrenia reach the front of the church, the bride and padreno (“spiritual father”) enter the building.  Their faces show no sign of happiness as these two walk on the carpet of capalonas.

The bride and groom situate themselves on chairs on the platform.  The bride looks positively grumpy, although before this day I’ve never seen her without a smile.  The madrenia wipes sweat off the groom’s face, carefully lifting and repositioning his glasses.   The Christmas-tinsel style necklaces (green, gold, and pink) around the necks of the bride and groom lend an air of comedy to the seriousness of their faces.

Besides the tinsel necklaces, the bride’s outfit is something to be remembered.  Her dress was likely a “normal” looking wedding dress at one time, but an abundance of lace has been sewn all over it.  Underneath her veil white headband with black spots resides.  In her hands are a bunch of fake purple roses.

The next three hours bring sermons, vows, and more singing.  At random times various members of the congregation jump up, run to the front of the room, and begin fanning the bride and groom with a spare capalona.  Sometimes the capalona gets caught on the strings running across the room at head level.  The flowers and paper fans that are positioned on these strings survive their disarrangement, and continue to be proper decorations for the event.

After the vows are given the padreno and madrenia step to the front, place their hands one each other’s shoulders, and show the bride and groom how a kiss is supposed to look.  Following the example of the padreno and madrenia the bride and groom place their hands on eachother’s shoulders and kiss, all without cracking a smile.

Later, after placing our gifts on my schoolhouse table, the entire congregation are served plates of rice and beans.   It is now after two o’clock, and the lack of utensils does not stop us from enjoying the scrumptious food.   The cake, made by Sharon, is brought into the building, and the bride and groom begin personally serving minescule pieces to each person.   We are handed one piece by the bride, and then another piece by the groom, who is confused about which section of the church he is supposed to be serving.

As we walk home I ask Sharon, “How is one supposed to describe such an event to those in America?  If you explain half the things that happened they will not believe it!”  Such an wedding must be attended to be completely appreciated. And no, I’m not taking notes for my wedding day. So you will just have to come to Mozambique and attend a wedding here!

(This was a Makonde wedding we attended, not a Mwani one.  Thus is the reason it was at the church.  A Mwani wedding would likely look much different.)

But it is really strange how you can completely forget about something. Forget it so completely that when you see a picture or hear a comment and that item is brought to mind you are surprised.  How could a person forget that vacuum cleaners exist?

But the truth of the matter is that the world of jeans, bacon, libraries, and constant electricity is almost unbelievable some days.

Days such as yesterday, when a knock on the door means that Ntoto has brought me a bowl of rice and matapa that her mother just cooked.  I had spent an hour or so in their yard, holding the baby, practicing my Kimwani, and just generally soaking up their family atmosphere.  When I headed home Fatima offered me supper, and it was arranged that Ntoto would bring the food over when it was done cooking.

Or days such as last Thursday, when I was flipping through old magazines from the USA.  The magazines were to be used in a school art project.  But instead of quickly finding and tearing pages out, I found myself spending an incredible amount of time staring at pictures.   Reminding myself that people really do dress that way.  Realizing with a shock that there is a land where kitchen floors are something other than cement.   A land where there is an absence of colorfully dressed women (floral skirts, polka-dotted blouses, and floral head scarves are an interesting combination – but truly lovely in their own way).

I begin to ponder my return to Oregon; will I remember how to fill the dishwasher after not seeing a dishwasher for two years?  Will I pile my clothes in a basin outside the back door, expecting the guard to wash them and hang them on the line?  Will I feel undressed if I leave the house without a headscarf?  Will I wonder why the neighbors aren’t standing outside my door asking for water at six am?

Perhaps it is wise for me to keep those magazines around to remind me of another world.

“Crazy person, always in a hurry to get somewhere!   Stop and wait until the rain quits!”

I actually couldn’t understand what they were saying.  The combination of the hard rain, the quickness of my bicycle pedaling, and the fact that the sentences were shouted in another language made understanding impossible.  But I can certainly guess what they were saying!

The rain had been threatening all afternoon.   It started just moments before Sharon arrived home.  I was doing schoolwork and watching Micah, Krista, and Josiah while Sharon taught the English class.  Upon her return my plan was to hop on my bike and head home.

And I really didn’t see any reason to change my plans because of the rain.  I have been wet before.  In fact, I have been known to go stand out in the rain for no rational reason other than to feel the lovely wetness.   And the pounding rain was just tempting me to come play in it.

So I wrapped my cell phone and Bible in a plastic bag, hoped my backpack wouldn’t leak, put on my headscarf, and hopped on my bike.  Pedaling up on the sandy street is normally an adventure; this time the adventure did not include dodging children; instead the adventure consisted of bicycling up a river of rainwater that was pouring down the street.

Three minutes later I was on the main tarmac road, and was drenched.   The tiny shops that line the road were full of people crowding inside to get out of the rain.   Most of the said people were watching me, and a number of them were shouting at me.  I tried to take the smile off my face.  There was enough material here for a good town gossip (Did you see that white person tearing past on her bicycle in the pouring rain?  She doesn’t even know enough to come inside out of the rain!) without adding a huge smile to the ingredients.

But there is something so exhilarating about biking through the pouring rain.  When you are so wet that getting more wet is impossible, it is tempting to ride around the block another time.  I didn’t, but if I hadn’t had my cell phone and Bible in my backpack I probably would have.

I pulled off the main road on to our sandy street and braked quickly, managing to avoid ploughing over two boys with an umbrella.  If the whole road had been available it would have been one thing to maneuver around them, but the fact that three quarters of the road is a two foot deep trench makes it a little difficult.  Fences line the road, meaning that a narrow grassy shoulder is all that is left to traffic.  Of course this is the good road; the other road leading to my house is now a five foot deep ditch.

A sharp right and a hard peddle up the bump beside that hole in the road, stop pedaling and coast down the slope, keep to the right around that big hole, turn left quickly to avoid tumbling into the four foot ditch in the middle of the road, then lean to the right as you go around the neighbors’ house.  Home again, home again, jiggity jig.

A very wet, but very happy Jennifer greeted Ana’s concerned countenance.  I love rain!

Abdul, our guard, takes a break from cutting down bamboo.

When it rains, it pours. And cuts gullies in the sandy roads! Riding one's bicycle takes expertise.

More rain damage.

Fatima makes fabulous bread!

She cooks the bread in this oven, and then sells it in the market.

Cute neighbor kids

So perhaps it isn’t unreasonable that it irritates me when I sit in my house at 9pm and hear a movie playing down the street.  Hear, as in hear every word loud and clear.  Half the time they are in English, but even when they are not the tones of voices generally convince me that the movies are definitely not Sound of Music style!

But the other night it was 6pm and the only sound in my neighborhood was crickets.  I sat at my kitchen table, fairly drinking in the silence, trying to explain to Ana the revitalizing effect that natural quietness has on me.  Perhaps my face was enough explanation.

Most days I enjoy the fact that my next door neighbors are literally right next door.  That I can easily stick my head out the door to see if they are home.  I love looking down my street at the mud houses, glancing over to see which neighbor is out front and ready to be visited.

But as darkness descends I want to withdraw.  And withdrawing from the noise is simply impossible in this town where to play a movie or sports game is to turn it up so the whole neighborhood can hear it.  And then I wish for my acres of Oregon countryside.  For a walk in the trees, where the only sounds come from the cows or frogs or perhaps my brother’s tractor.  I don’t exactly wish for silence, just for a lack of artificial noise!

But on a day when silence covers this neighborhood at 6pm I’m sure I have the best of both worlds.  And then I wonder if it is ok if I pray that their TV breaks.

Walk away.  And wonder forever afterwards where that rat went.

It was Sunday morning.  I was in the backyard, puttering around for a few minutes before leaving for church.  Ana hollered at me, “Jennifer, get your camera and come quick!”

I expected a large spider.  Not a rat splashing around in our toilet.  Apparently he had climbed up through the pipe system into the toilet.  And found that he couldn’t jump out of the toilet.  I looked at Ana in shock.  “What are we supposed to do?”

Ana didn’t have a good answer, so I took some pictures.  During this time our rat friend was violently splashing around, desperately trying to get out of his strange prison.

Then we walked away.  I personally, as resident farm girl and generally designated animal killer, was hoping he would just disappear.  I didn’t have a gun, and actually, perhaps a gun wouldn’t have worked in this situation.

I came back five minutes later.  Still without a plan.  But fortunately, I didn’t need a plan.  Because our rat friend had disappeared.  I think he went back down the pipe.

I’m working on a plan for next time.  Actually, I’m hoping there will not be a next time.  But if there is, I intend to be ready!

Katie, Aby, and Josiah practice writing sounds.

Micah enjoys reading "Redwall."

Krista works on grammar.

Of course the problems that Christy (of Catherine Marshall) faced are far different than the challenges that tend to pop up in my schoolroom.   But there are certain similarities between her experiences in the Smoky Mountains and my adventures in Mocimboa.  Like Christy, I am learning many lessons during my time here, some of them related to teaching school and others that have nothing to do with school.

One major lesson for me has been on how much work to assign students on a daily basis.   When Micah and Krista started flying through their daily assignments back in early January, I decided they needed more daily assignments.  When the day’s chapter in By The Great Horn Spoon was short, I assigned two chapters.   Unbeknownst to me, one chapter is quickly and easily accomplished, but two chapters are simply impossible to read in one day.

The first time that this feeling was imparted to me I figured that it was just a bad day for my lovely young student.  The second time it happened I rolled my eyes (not in front of my students!), but learned my lesson.  Now, instead of assigning two chapters in one day, I send home a second chapter to be read in the evening.  And that is apparently perfectly reasonable to the young people.

Another lesson I learned recently had to do with scorpions.  One day I turned away from the table, came back two minutes later, and found a dead scorpion right where I had been working.  Micah begged for possession, so I turned it over to him.  When I commented to Sharon about our day’s find, she explained to me that what we had found was actually the exoskeleton.   I had no idea that scorpions are like snakes, in that they shed their skins as they grow.

Today I found the scorpion to which that exoskeleton belonged.  It caught my eye when I glanced in Micah’s bookbox.  I thought it was dead, because it did not move when I headed toward the trash.   As I dumped it in the trash I decided to play it safe, though, and so I sent a bit of deadly bug spray its way.  When I checked the trash a few moments later some paper was mysteriously waving in the air.  I sent another wave of bug spray into that receptacle.  And the scorpion was pronounced dead at the scene.

Though I don’t remember any class sessions at Corban College on killing scorpians or even assigning chapters to read there are plenty of things from my Corban training that I am putting into practice.  And as I look toward my second year of teaching (yes, I know it is a few months off, but I’ve already started my “next year” list) there are a number of things upon which I will improve…not my scorpian killing skills, though.  I’m content with those!

Singing.  Preaching.  Fellowshipping with believers.  I would imagine that church services the world over include these aspects.  But beyond these broad categories there are a thousand differences between a church service in Scio, Oregon and a church service in Mocimboa, Mozambique.

Animals on the rafters would be one major difference.  If it is not a rat then it might be a gigantic spider.  (I wonder what would happen if a rat was running around during a church service in Scio…or if a spider larger than my hand came crawling along the rafters.)

Rain is another difference.  Not that Oregon doesn’t have rain.  But here it is deafening rain pounding on the tin roof so that you cannot hear the song leader.  Rain that makes everyone smile and try to sing louder.  Rain that is still noisier than you, no matter how strongly you are singing.  Rain that drips through nail holes in the roof.  Rain that drifts through the window (no glass on these windows!).  Rain that leaves puddles inside the building.

Then there is the singing.  You really cannot compare singing from Scio and singing from Mocimboa.  They are both beautiful in their own right.  I miss singing songs with my church family in Scio.  But I absolutely love singing with my church family here in Mocimboa!  The beat of the drum, the animated song leader, the clapping of hands, and the moving of bodies…it may not sound that amazing to you.  But as I join my brothers and sisters singing songs in another language I am filled with a deep sense of the glory of God.   I think it is just one of those things you have to witness to understand.

I could list many other differences.  The backless wooden benches and reed mats.  The mud walls.  The flowers that hang from the string running along the rafters.  The translators.  The young people who present songs on a weekly basis.  The prayer time when everyone prays their personal prayers out loud at the same moment.

The church here is mainly Makonde brothers and sisters. The Makonde are the rival tribe to the Mwani (the “target people” of my team), but as there are no Mwani churches we have chosen to attend the Makonde church.  Because it is a Makonde church all singing and preaching is done in either Makonde or Portuguese and then translated into the other language.  Not extremely helpful to someone who is trying to learn Kimwani…but at least some words are the same in these languages!  Often either Ana or Sharon will translate bits of the sermon for me, so I am able to catch the gist of it.  And I can normally figure out what book, chapter, and verse we are reading from because the books sound familiar (“Luke” is “Lucas”) and Makonde numbers are similar to Kimwani numbers.

I’m afraid my definition of a church service has vastly changed.  Actually, I’m not sure how I would define church service anymore.  Praising God, certainly.  Enjoying fellowship of brothers and sisters, definitely.  But air conditioning? Or rats?  Or rain coming through the glassless windows?  Or a language you can understand?  Some things just aren’t essential.

The heaviness of the pillow struck me again as I walked away with my purchase.  I was used to African pillows being extremely fat, as whatever they stuff them with seems to flatten down very quickly.  But I don’t think I had ever seen a pillow this heavy before.

That night I switched out my pillow to test the new one.   Just to ensure that it was not incredibly uncomfortable.   As I closed my eyes I became aware of a strange noise.  At first I thought my fan was doing something weird, but when I turned it off the noise still continued.  It was a combination humming, chewing, moving noise.   Besides the strange noise this pillow was also uncommonly lumpy.  I quickly decided that whatever insects happened to be inside that pillow did not need to share my bed.

I retrieved my old pillow, and placed the new one against the wall to await a decision.  Perhaps I would open it up tomorrow and see what was actually inside it.

Apparently the rats liked my new pillow better than I did.  The next morning a finger sized hole in the pillow and a pile of fluff on the ground greeted my eyes.  Hmmm, perhaps this pillow was not destined to be used by my dad.

I did not have time to investigate the insides of the pillow that day.  So I left it another night, sitting against the wall. Once again the rats came to keep it company.

This afternoon I ripped open the pillow.  I wasn’t surprised it was so heavy and awkward when I saw that there was a large number of seeds mixed in with the fluffy cotton-type stuffing.   And yes, there were an abundance of bugs enjoying the insides of that pillow.

Today our trash heap proudly displays a pink pillow.   And I’ve added “one pillow” to the Pemba shopping list.  I think this might be the last time I buy a pillow off a chair in front of a mud hut.