Going to the Chapel

Here at CCS, there are local volunteers. Usually kids- mostly boys- who are around twenty years old, maybe in school, maybe not. They volunteer their time to help us at our placements, which is nice to help the language barrier. The boys are dashingly handsome, friendly, outgoing and so much fun. They take us out and around town, and on the weekends, we sometimes accompany them to what we call, “shaky shaky.” Just a local pub, that turns into a crazy nightclub with lots and lots of dancing. I’ll leave the details out, I don’t know if everyone (I mean my parents) would like to hear about shaky shaky.
The only girl who is a local volunteer has become one of my good friends. She was contracted to work with a different women’s group each day of the week, but I was a bit greedy with her, and she ended up becoming a great presence at KIWODEA, she and I were initiated in on the same day. Initiation isn’t anything other than getting a beaded bracelet that says KIWODEA, and they photograph and dance and pray when they put it on your hand. Quite cute, actually. Eventually Clara’s presence at KIWODEA became apparent, and with the position of Direct of Micro Finance loans being open, we suggested that she try to fill the position. Having just graduated from University, she needs a job, and I am excited to inform you that Clara was hired by KIWODEA. This is good for many reasons, but one of them being that we have never had a paying position in our organization, and now we are starting to be in a position where we could afford to hire her!
Clara took me shopping one day, it was rather interesting. The clothes here are all pretty much second hand clothes that are shipped over from places like America. The Africans don’t acknowledge that they are second hand, merely because they don’t know. Therefore, there’s usually only one of each piece, so you have to hope to find something in your size. We stopped by to meet Clara’s parents at their store, and Clara’s mother took my hand and walked us up and down this busy street, helping me to find clothes. I was really only looking for some simple white tanks or t-shirts, it is a lot warmer here than I thought it would be, and for some reason I packed at least five grey sweaters- No, I have no idea what I was thinking when I packed. So Clara’s Mama drug me around tossing clothes at me, talking to me in Swahili, and making me try outfits on in places that were definitely not dressing rooms. Somehow, I came away with a rather tacky pair of “baby-phat” looking capris with a silver gold belt, and some weird top that I cant seem to explain. When I asked Clara to take me shopping, I clearly did not realize what I was getting myself into, I seriously think I was hoping that there was a hidden GAP somewhere in Africa, and Clara would be able to take me there. Don’t worry, I am fully aware of my ignorance! Laughing the whole way through, I had to buy something- good thing everything here is inexpensive!
At work the other day, Clara invited me to go to church with her. Of course I didn’t pass up the invitation, and after a night of good Indian food and lots of wine, Gemma and I somehow rolled out of bed, and began walking to town at 7:15AM. Everyone was on the road, in their church clothes, walking the same direction, and when we turned around, Kili was watching us without a cloud in the sky. I wasn’t able to find Clara until after the ninety minute service, so Gemma and I- the only white people- sat in the back of this massive Catholic church that held over fifteen hundred people. They pack them in, I was practically sitting on the woman next to me. The eight o’clock service is mostly English, which was nice, even though I didn’t really understand much besides the Lord’s Prayer. We started singing, and then drums started playing, and soon we were fully immersed in the service, clapping our hands. It is a pretty conservative church so there wasn’t dancing or swaying or anything like that. The kneelers were made of just wood, it felt like you were kneeling on a 2X4- I will never complain about those nice padded ones we have in the states! Thenn, during communion, they started singing, “Hear I am Lord, It is I Lord….” It flooded back memories of Catholic school, the last time I was in a Catholic church, and the other day a local orphanage sang the song for us, outside, in their courtyard and the sun set behind the banana trees. I looked around me, and realized where I was and the song kept getting louder, and the drums kept a steady beat, and I stood there with tears streaming down my face. I am not a religious person per say, but there was something about that moment, that made my eyes well up and throat choke as I smiled and cried at the same time with the vibrations of that song pounding through my body. It was an experience I will always remember.
Clara came up from behind us at the end, and hugged me with her huge beautiful smile; we stood under that warm African sun and laughed about not finding each other.