I walk under the archway built of curved sticks behind a man dressed in a purple, second-hand graduation robe. There is a worn red sash draped around his neck and the purple robe drags along the dirt ground, kicking up a path of dust as he walks. Everyone is already there. We are late. But we are supposed to be late. I am inside the ring now with 30 other people. The ring is roughly circular, 30 feet in diameter, market by vertical sticks around the perimeter that rise up 6 feet and are spaced about 6 feet apart. Connecting the posts and enclosing the circle are two horizontal rings of curved sticks, secured to the posts with crude knots made of a sinewy vine.
Outside the circle it is midday, the sun is blazing mercilessly. Farmers either brave or desperate enough to work in this heat have their shirts wrapped around their heads as if they were trekking through the Arabian Desert. Sweat glistens on their muscular backs and runs down the trench that follows their spine. Others, less courageous, sit, drink meijão, and listen to a blaring radio under the protective shade of a giant baobob or acacia. There is no grandiloquence that can overstate the value of a mammoth and powerful, yet motherly and embracing acacia set in the middle of a homestead, providing shade from the sun, shelter from the rain, and a symbol of endurance.
Inside the circle, we have a tree of our own. A giant acacia rooted some 30 yards away reaches out its fecund arms and, like a mother shielding her child, casts a cool shadow over our small ring. I am guided to my seat, a spot directly in the center of the ring, and am instructed to kneel on the meticulously swept dirt. Everyone is facing East, or is it West, maybe North. Nobody knows, but they know that this is the direction that the spirits come from. Maracas behind me lay down a shrill rhythm, hitting every sixteenth note in a frantic sounding shek-a-teck-a, shek-a-teck-a, shek-a-teck-a, shek-a-teck-a. The maracas are made of rusted tin cans filled with corn kernels loosely hanging from a stick that was driven through it to form a handle. Underneath the maracas, an ornately dressed man beats the drum to every quarter note, accentuating every fourth shake of the maracas with a deep and sonorous boom, boom, boom, boom. The explosive drum gives the timbre of the ensemble a tribal, head-spinning quality that propels the rhythm forward and out of control. It feels like it is speeding up, every beat of the drum anticipating the next beat just slightly so that the energy rises up, up and up, over the fence, through the tree and into the sky, reaching a deafening pinnacle in which I can’t even think. I begin to hear inhuman, guttural noises emanating from the crowd behind me. To my right, an important seeming man contorts his body, folding his shoulders inward, and with his eyes rolled back into his head, gives off a strident yelp as he releases the pent up energy in his body and straightens like a spring regaining its form. Behind me a woman’s voice rises and falls in a falsetto with her lips pressed together giving off a shrill bbbbrrrrrrr. As the energy of the drum beat seems to take off like a freight train picking up steam, the people follow in stride. Animal noises rise up from inside their bellies like demons bouncing off the walls looking for a way out. The energy is captivating and stupefying. Lost in the rhythm, you float up into the sky with it. But then, as suddenly as it rose up and captured my consciousness, the entrancing rhythm falls back down through the clouds, through the trees, into the ring and onto the ground with a thud, thump. Everything is perfectly quiet; serene; tranquil. I pop back into consciousness, now acutely perceptive of how quiet it is out here. There are no cars, no factories, just a few birds singing and a quiet buzzing in my ear. A millipede slithers hurriedly across the dirt in front of me, leaving an S-shaped trail in the dust. It crawls onto the foot and up the pant let of the person kneeling in front of me. I don’t say anything.
The service begins. That was just the warm-up. It is Saturday afternoon and I am at the church service of João Baptista (John the Baptist) with my friend and counterpart Alberto. This is a Christian church, although there is no steeple, no pews, no alter, no communion and no minister. Inside the ring, everyone is facing the same direction that we began the service facing. I am in the center of the front row. All of the women are together, clumped tightly together in the back of the small ring. The men kneel in rows in front of the women. The important men, the five or so that have presented themselves to me as “pastors,” are decorated with various motley assemblages of colorful second-hand robes, scarves, and dresses. They are seated in the first row with me.
As the service goes on, it calms down. People rest and recover from the outburst of energy that just took place. The pastor, standing and preaching only a few feet in front of me speaks in a rapid local dialect, his voice rising and falling with the distinct syllables of Ndau that I have learned to recognize. Every few sentences he will gesture towards me, front and center, and I will hear the words “Yen” and “America” in close proximity which means that he is talking about me (they pronounce Ian as “Yen”). At first I smile and clasp my hands together in a gesture of acknowledgment and appreciation. But then he continues to mention my name, over and over. I begin to fear that maybe they have misinterpreted my visit. I fear the jubilant pastor is making promises about me that I didn’t come here to make. He switches to Portuguese so that I can understand, even though hardly anyone else in the congregation understands Portuguese. He says that it is such an honor to have such a special guest in our congregation today; that you should all go back and tell the people that didn’t come today that we had this white person at church today, they will be regretful for missing today’s special occasion; that Mr. Ian brought his machine to record us today so that he can show us later; that white people never forget; that Mr. Ian will be here for two years. I’m not sure what they think or expect of me.
In turn, all five pastors stand in front of the congregation to give their sermon, each one of them beginning their talk by approaching me and shaking my hand, right hand outstretched and left hand perched underneath the right elbow in a show of respect. My name is dropped in all of their sermons. After they have all spoken, I am asked to get up and say a few words to the congregation. Expecting this, I stand up with my friend Alberto as a translator and thank them for accepting me into their community, letting my sing, pray and dance with them, and treating me like family when I have come so far from home. I tell them that I come from America. They have heard the word, but don’t seem to be too familiar with what that actually means. I tell them that you have to fly on an airplane for 18 hours just to get there, that it’s on the other side of the world. The pastor, more worldly than most, describes in dialect that an airplane is something that flies high above in the sky and moves very fast. I thank them again, and assure them that I will make copies of the pictures I take to give back to them as soon as I get a chance.
We close the service with another session of head-spinning, out-of-control rhythm and dance. This time the drummer and two maraca players are in the center of the circle. In this ensemble there are two women each holding three of the crudely crafted maracas and the ornately dressed man has the drum hanging from his neck. They begin to play a slow methodical rhythm. The congregation stands outside the circle, bobbing and clapping to the rhythm. Those who feel the spirit jump into the circle and parade counter-clockwise around the rhythm section which beats in the middle, hopping and stepping to the beat. More people enter. The rhythm accelerates, picking up people and energy like an avalanche cascading down a mountain side. Within seconds the music takes on a life of its own and the dancers feed off of its swelling energy. The drummers face contorts and his lean muscles strain as he now beats at a frenetic pace. Beads of sweat run down his arms and soak the animal skin drum that he is now pounding. The dancers are in perfect sync, stepping, kicking and jumping to the thumping of the drum that is now so loud it is internalized. Every time they kick dust billows up from the dry ground. The circle is shrouded in a dusty haze, but the dancers don’t seem to notice, their palpitating is unconscious. The rhythm seems to be synced directly to their hearts, kicking up dust and pushing blood through their veins simultaneously. It is time. I jump into the circle. I have to time it, like a jump rope, find the opening in the circle as it spins, no longer made up of individuals but now one indistinguishably blurred ring. 1…2…3…go…I’m in. I follow the steps of the person in front of me, like I imagine a fish would do from the middle of a large school. Nobody knows who started one move or the next, but we all kick, jump and step simultaneously. I lose track of time. I don’t know how long I have been in here dancing. My head is spinning. The drum beat climaxes with a deafening finale. And then. Silence. Everyone who had been dancing with me fades instantly back into the crowd, anonymous again. Now, only I remain in the circle, sheepish and suddenly self-conscious. I quickly spin out of the circle and fall back into the crowd to a barrage of handshakes and compliments.
Outside the circle, a man, who I recognize as one of the five pastors, is wearing a poorly fitted and tattered white lace wedding dress. He looks ridiculous to me. The stern, muscular, bearded man fills out the wedding dress so that the lace is stretched to its limit. He wears pants and a shirt underneath the dress. The dress gives him an air of importance and respect among the capulanas and t-shirts that other members of the congregation are wearing. The pastor has his hand on a woman’s head as she sits in the dirt. With one hand remaining on her head he flicks water onto her face and begins to utter shrill cries and yelps that seem to come from someplace outside of his body. His eyes roll back into his head and his eyebrows strain with deep concentration. She begins to convulse, first just her head, and then slowly spreading through her whole body, shoulders, chest, arms, hips and then her feet. Her eyes roll back also. Her chest heaves uncontrollably and she shrieks out with every exhalation. The pastor flicks more water onto her and, sensing something big, heightens the intensity of his guttural cries. They both shake and wail in unison now with an explosive intensity. Something has to give. Like pressure building in a volcano; steam screaming out of a boiling pot. One decisive shriek and she falls to the ground, quiet and shaking, like in the aftermath of an epileptic seizure. The pastor walks away knowingly, confident. Someone leans to me and whispers, “she had a demon” as matter-of-factly as if they were telling me what time it is.
Just like that it is over. We file out of the ring and retreat to the VIP lounge under the tree, where the pastors and I are served meijão, a drink made of corn flour and sugar. It is not bad, but I can only drink one glass. I shake everybody’s hand one more time. Women come up and kneel in front of me, offering their thanks to me. It is time to leave, they say. Feeling like a spectator in my own life, I walk away with Alberto, out from under the protective shade of the great tree and into the scorching sunlight, headed for home.
