Kuuliza si ujinga

On Sunday i went to the Pentecostal church in the village. As I walked into the tin-roofed mud building with pink flowers on the walls, I felt like I had stepped into the American South in the 1930s. The Pentecostals here are all about music, and about half the service was singing, accompanied by a drum, two guitars, a rattle made from circular pieces of metal hanging on nails from a small cross, and a horseshoe-shaped piece of metal hit with a metal rod to make a sound like a bell. The music and enthusiastic singing was quite beautiful. The preaching was very emotional and intense compared to the more sedate Catholic service I went to last week, but the preacher was nice and introduced me to the congregation (this sort of thing happens often enough that I've stopped being embarassed by it).

So, why all the sudden going to church? Well, mostly because people want to take me. I previously stated that there are two churches in the village; actually, there are at least three. I've now been to all of them and met all the preachers, not to mention the Catholic monks and nuns (one of which is the only other white person in the village!--he's a Swiss monk who must be at least 70). They're generally friendly and they're good people to know in a place where religion has such an influence. Plus, it's always fun to answer the religion question (well, my father's Catholic, sort of, my mother's Jewish . . .).