Week three in
The location of places in this small part of
A metola is a curious phenomena that exists around the world under many different names that seems to spontaneously arise in any economy in which very few people have cars and subsidized public transportation is non-existent. The basic principle is a man and his friend drive back and forth along a route, picking up passengers and dropping them off, the only passenger limit appearing to be the number that can cram in the vehicle and still have the door shut. One man drives while the other is responsible for collecting a not-quite-standardized fare. In
On our first adventure into Mangochi, we had the joy of experiencing Malawian transit first-hand. The metola that pulled over to pick us up was already packed to the gills (at least I thought this until I saw another metola several days later with at least half again the number of people). Despite my protestations that there wasn’t enough room, Jesse and I were hoisted aboard. I ended up sitting on a boy named ‘John’s lap and Jesse crouched in the bed of the truck until he was asked to stand to make more room. At one point I counted 23 of us in the back of the truck and 4 in the front. Thankfully, the metola driver had some sense of the safety of us passengers in the back and plodded down the road at a nice safe speed of 35 mph.
As for Mangochi, I do not have much to say. It’s a town where we can purchase supplies, but I’ve yet to find a reason to go there apart from restocking the pantry. The more interesting adventures occur within a 2km radius of our little cottage.
Last weekend I had the privilege of experiencing two events that gave me a little insight into the importance of religion here in
The other remarkable aspect of Saterday’s ceremony was the religious acceptance that pervaded the entire program. The region around Mangochi is in a large part Muslim, so the two main speakers were an Islamic sheik and Catholic priest. The speeches were both greeted with enthusiasm as well a the appropriate Christian or Muslim call and response. The linguistic ability of those in the room was also commendable, as the ceremony was conducted in three languages: English, Chichewa, and Arabic. Even though the 3 hours passed slowly, in the end I was glad that I attended.
On Sunday, due to Jesse’s friendly chatting with a man named Bennett, we were invited to attend church at a small Anglican church across the road. One doesn’t turn down invitations like this, and since we were curious to experience local religion, we accepted. A student named James came to escort us in the morning and to act as translator since the entire service would be in Chichewa. Three things stand out in my mind after the two-hour service. One, church building was perhaps one of the most humble religious structures I had ever seen. Measuring 20ft by 50ft, there were no chairs, only woven grass mats, and the wooden ceiling beams sagged under the weight of a tile roof. Small glass-less windows lit the room and the alter was cover with a simple white cloth and a few flowers. Being visitors, we were provided with two chairs in which we awkwardly sat as the congregation sat before us on the floor. Two, the singing was amazing. The sound of the congregation singing together was beautiful and fervent, with no voice timid or silent. I would have liked to join in, but the words were all Chichewa and the melodies unfamiliar. Three, an isle down center divided the men from the women and children, with the women’s side out-numbering the men by at least 5 to 1. I was absolutely astounded by the number of small children- some sitting in their mothers’ laps, others tawdling from one lap to another, and still others, probably not more than 2 or 3 years old, wandering out of the back of the church on their own. All were adorable, and I spent the hour that the preacher gave his sermon, entertained by their small theatrics. After the service we were greeted by every member of the congregation and I got to shake many hands- many shyly offered by the little ones.
Perhaps my previous description of the singing did not fully convey my appreciation. Let me clarify: I am in love with the singing here. On nights that the power goes out, the girls and boys that live at MCV gather in impromptu groups and sing for hours. It is such a treat to lay in bed listening to their songs in the dark. It is a sound that I have never experienced in the
I will have to save the rest of my stories for the next post. To my friends and family in the
-Jes
Hi Jes,
ReplyDeleteYour stories are great. I especially like to hearing both yours' and Jesse's perspective.
Take care, Mom
It took me long enough but I found you. Nice to get your perspective too.
ReplyDelete