It happened again - I got trapped in a very long church service. But this time unplanned.
I was invited to have dinner at my friend Alice's family house last Sunday. We had planned it the month before, when I'd had to cancel due to a headache. Unluckily, I had another mild headache that day (even after a spa treatment and hanging out at the pool), but I figured I couldn't cancel again and thus took off to the North of town. It took some time to locate Alice when I arrived, because street names are more of an offer than a necessity. Also, the road she lives on is not paved, and may possibly not even have a name/ number, I didn't check.
She lives with her mother, her sisters and her younger brother and her dad. But I soon gathered that Sunday is a day to meet others as well, because the living room was soon busy with others as well. The living room is also the entrance in Rwandan architecture. It is very common that the guests will only see that room, as the bed rooms and kitchen are considered very private and only for the family. I thus saw people going in and out of doors that led to the kitchen and the bedrooms. This is, by the way, the same thing that happened the day before at my supervisor's house, who had also invited me and my classmate Laura for lunch. Both living rooms contain a number of chairs and sofas and a coffee table, a TV and some very generic pictures of flowers and holy phrases. Each also show off a large painted pumpkin, a traditional gift from the bride to the groom symbolizing all kinds of good things that I forgot. This is, however, a tradition that is now more pursued in the countryside than in the cities. At Alice's, there is also a dining table, which is however not being used often, it seemed, as it was pushed up against the wall. I find it remarkable how little one living room is distiguishable from another, due to the lack of any personal memorabilia.
The importance of privacy in the home is also something I have encountered as an issue in my research. Here it is a challenge to make the wish for privacy compatible with the scarcity of land and the (probable) need for dense urban development. More on this upon request...
After half an hour, a group of people enter, whom I first assume to be relatives: Two men, a woman, and a young man, all in suits/ Sunday attire. I soon find out that they are two pastors, the church's pianist and singer and his mother. They have come to give us a private sermon. At this point I am still rather optimistic, as it is 7pm at night. They surely won't preach long and then have dinner with us. I was sorry for myself soon after, when I realized this unannounced service was likely never to end. My headache was continously growing stronger. There was much praying, singing, reading from the bible, and thanking me as the Muzungu (white person) to have honored them with my presence. At this proclamation, I try to smile politely, inwardly wishing to be invisible and certainly not the Muzungu, who doesn't believe in God and is desperately in need of paracetamol and some sleep (my first interview that next day is at 8pm). All the while, I am not sure whether the event was planned and whether the others are as enthusiastic about it as they seem to be (waving, singing along, many "Amen" and "Halleluja"). Afterwards, I find out that the pastor usually does visit families in the community on Sundays, but not in the evenings.
After some time, the woman requests a pen and some paper. While the others are singing and praying at different volumes and speeds, she starts doodeling on the paper. It was a message from God, as I find out later. The pastor continues to take off his shoes and socks, at times loudly screaming in Kinyarwanda. Parts of it are translated to me by the pianist, but I mostly have no idea what's happening. Just as well, my headache is getting worse. The pastor takes the finished message from God and starts translating it. He rips parts of it off and dictates the pianist ten different messages to write down on another sheet of paper, now in Kinyarwanda. These are messages to Alice's family.
1. There will be no death in the family that year
2. Something with a machine (turns out to be the laptop of one of the kids)
3. ...
(Forgot all the rest, or the pianist didn't translate anymore. I think he realized that I was not capable of listening anymore at that point, with my head in my hand, eyes closed.)
I am sure at that point, that it must be almost over. Not quite. The pastor now asks for water and sugar and mixes the two in a cup. He drinks a sip, Alice's mom drinks a sip, and he continues to spill some of it in the four corners of the living room. There's then more praying by different people. At this point, my memory is cloudy, it had been 2 1/2 hours...
I am proud to say that I did not leave the room once, even though I really wanted to. Of course, noone could've forseen just how bad I'd be feeling that evening and I am glad I was able to get a glimpse of Alice's family life. After a long goodbye, these may apparently take up to an hour in Rwanda, the four left and we were ready to eat. It was 9.30pm at that point. I then got a real idea of how harmonious and relaxed Alice's siblings and mother are in general and with each other. I felt so at home and really wished I could've participated more in the conversation. While all the children speak English, the mom does not. She does speak 3 languages however, so that's my bad!
We had delicious food of course: Rice, potato, cassava leaves, spinach with dried fish and beans. I will visit again. But I will make sure that the pastor has already been by the house that day, cause that particular experiene was a once in a lifetime, I hope.
Just like the gorillas I will go see with my mom tomorrow!
I was invited to have dinner at my friend Alice's family house last Sunday. We had planned it the month before, when I'd had to cancel due to a headache. Unluckily, I had another mild headache that day (even after a spa treatment and hanging out at the pool), but I figured I couldn't cancel again and thus took off to the North of town. It took some time to locate Alice when I arrived, because street names are more of an offer than a necessity. Also, the road she lives on is not paved, and may possibly not even have a name/ number, I didn't check.
She lives with her mother, her sisters and her younger brother and her dad. But I soon gathered that Sunday is a day to meet others as well, because the living room was soon busy with others as well. The living room is also the entrance in Rwandan architecture. It is very common that the guests will only see that room, as the bed rooms and kitchen are considered very private and only for the family. I thus saw people going in and out of doors that led to the kitchen and the bedrooms. This is, by the way, the same thing that happened the day before at my supervisor's house, who had also invited me and my classmate Laura for lunch. Both living rooms contain a number of chairs and sofas and a coffee table, a TV and some very generic pictures of flowers and holy phrases. Each also show off a large painted pumpkin, a traditional gift from the bride to the groom symbolizing all kinds of good things that I forgot. This is, however, a tradition that is now more pursued in the countryside than in the cities. At Alice's, there is also a dining table, which is however not being used often, it seemed, as it was pushed up against the wall. I find it remarkable how little one living room is distiguishable from another, due to the lack of any personal memorabilia.
The importance of privacy in the home is also something I have encountered as an issue in my research. Here it is a challenge to make the wish for privacy compatible with the scarcity of land and the (probable) need for dense urban development. More on this upon request...
After half an hour, a group of people enter, whom I first assume to be relatives: Two men, a woman, and a young man, all in suits/ Sunday attire. I soon find out that they are two pastors, the church's pianist and singer and his mother. They have come to give us a private sermon. At this point I am still rather optimistic, as it is 7pm at night. They surely won't preach long and then have dinner with us. I was sorry for myself soon after, when I realized this unannounced service was likely never to end. My headache was continously growing stronger. There was much praying, singing, reading from the bible, and thanking me as the Muzungu (white person) to have honored them with my presence. At this proclamation, I try to smile politely, inwardly wishing to be invisible and certainly not the Muzungu, who doesn't believe in God and is desperately in need of paracetamol and some sleep (my first interview that next day is at 8pm). All the while, I am not sure whether the event was planned and whether the others are as enthusiastic about it as they seem to be (waving, singing along, many "Amen" and "Halleluja"). Afterwards, I find out that the pastor usually does visit families in the community on Sundays, but not in the evenings.
After some time, the woman requests a pen and some paper. While the others are singing and praying at different volumes and speeds, she starts doodeling on the paper. It was a message from God, as I find out later. The pastor continues to take off his shoes and socks, at times loudly screaming in Kinyarwanda. Parts of it are translated to me by the pianist, but I mostly have no idea what's happening. Just as well, my headache is getting worse. The pastor takes the finished message from God and starts translating it. He rips parts of it off and dictates the pianist ten different messages to write down on another sheet of paper, now in Kinyarwanda. These are messages to Alice's family.
1. There will be no death in the family that year
2. Something with a machine (turns out to be the laptop of one of the kids)
3. ...
(Forgot all the rest, or the pianist didn't translate anymore. I think he realized that I was not capable of listening anymore at that point, with my head in my hand, eyes closed.)
I am sure at that point, that it must be almost over. Not quite. The pastor now asks for water and sugar and mixes the two in a cup. He drinks a sip, Alice's mom drinks a sip, and he continues to spill some of it in the four corners of the living room. There's then more praying by different people. At this point, my memory is cloudy, it had been 2 1/2 hours...
I am proud to say that I did not leave the room once, even though I really wanted to. Of course, noone could've forseen just how bad I'd be feeling that evening and I am glad I was able to get a glimpse of Alice's family life. After a long goodbye, these may apparently take up to an hour in Rwanda, the four left and we were ready to eat. It was 9.30pm at that point. I then got a real idea of how harmonious and relaxed Alice's siblings and mother are in general and with each other. I felt so at home and really wished I could've participated more in the conversation. While all the children speak English, the mom does not. She does speak 3 languages however, so that's my bad!
We had delicious food of course: Rice, potato, cassava leaves, spinach with dried fish and beans. I will visit again. But I will make sure that the pastor has already been by the house that day, cause that particular experiene was a once in a lifetime, I hope.
Just like the gorillas I will go see with my mom tomorrow!
Kommentare
Kommentar veröffentlichen