Down Down Devil

I like to play a little game at school. I like to count how many times a day my school would be sued if it was in America. One mark for each student hoeing, drawing water, or mopping the floor. One mark when I see a teacher dragging a child by the arm. Another for each prayer said before assemblies, staff meetings, and classes. Ditto for the required Bible Knowledge exam. One more for each teacher sleeping with a student.

Last week, school had a field trip and I lost count. 23 student sardined into the back of a Ford pickup truck, too tightly packed to even sit.

“Tipemphere,” Madame Mosingolo, the leader of SCOM (School Christians of Malawi), said. “Let us pray.”

As we pulled out of school, a good two hours late, the students broke into thunderous gospel music, their praises uninterrupted by bumps in the road or the collapsed bridge with caused us to take the other back road. They would have continued strait for the 2 hour ride the Chawale if only the truck did not run out of gas a mile from our half way point, where there was also a BP station. We sent a student off with a few water bottles and a handful of Kwatcha bills. I sat in the shade of the maize that lined the road and watched the students as they huddled in groups, rehearsing their sermons and putting the final touches on their scripture themed dramas. An hour later, the student returned with diesel and we hit the road again, briefly stopping only to pay a small bribe for a permit fee at the police station (during which time we left the students completely unattended at the busy market).

After arrival in Chawale and the usual half hour of greetings, I ran off to eat lunch with Mary Beth, a Peace Corps Volunteer from my training lass. During lunch, no less than 15 students, teachers, and neighbors stopped by to “greet” us. In Malawi, greeting entails walking in, shaking hands, asking how someone is, and then sitting silently with them for 5 awkward minutes. Each one made a passive aggressive comment on the fact that the students were eating lunch next door, and the teachers kept asking where I was. We steadfastly continued with our lunch, stretching our rice and eggs into a three hour production. With a full belly, I showed up to the prayer meeting an hour before scheduled departure, which I figured would limit my time there to maybe two hours.

On the way over, Mrs. Ziyaya, the wife of my now transferred headmaster (ironically transferred to Chawale) who I had grown quite close to during site visit and my first few weeks in Dzoole, looked at my feet and pulled me to her house to bathe.

After inspecting me, she deemed the rest of me clean, which puzzled her. How could someone have bathed, yet have feet that remained stained with dirt, permanent flip flop stains on my feet’s tops, a cracked brown layer on the soles, and toenails lined in black. The symbolism slapped me in the face as Mrs. Z grabbed the soap from my hands, commanded me to sit on the bench she pulled into the batha, and scrubbed my feet with soap, a stone, and a loofa. We walked hand-in-hand to the prayer meeting.

I entered the classroom to thunderous applause that was, for my first time in Malawi, not meant for me. It was meant for Jesus.

“Up, up Jesus!” the student preacher screamed.

“Up, up Jesus!” the students screamed with delight, in perfect unison.

Down, down Devil.

Hallelujah! Amen.

HALLELUJAH!?!??!?!?!??! AAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNNNNNNN.

People spoke in tongues… at least I thought so; it may have just been very quick Chichewa. Students did chaotic dramas in which Chamba (pot) smokers, whores, and truant students were reborn when they found Jesus. Hallelujah! AMEN.

“I’m - a - born - again. IMA IMA BORN AGAIN!” went one gospel tune.

At 6:30, three and a half hours of preaching, singing, stomping, and Hallelujah-ing after our scheduled departure, I wanted to knock myself unconscious with one of their bibles. The teachers each made their closing sermons, and the teacher from Chawale turned to me and thanked me profusely for being there. “I hope you learned something,” he said smugly; he had clearly heard that I have not been attending church regularly in Dzoole. “Even if your friend was missing,” he added, as if he had forgotten Mary Beth’s name. The last 20 minute seemed longer than the first four hours.

As we said our good byes for another half hour, he asked me three more times where my friend had been and shook his hands, clicking their tongues to their teeth disapprovingly. They did not seem to mention that not only did none of the other Chawale teachers attend the meetings, but three of them had biked to town during the meeting to get sloppy drunk, as they did every Sunday.

I sat in silence the entire ride home, looking at the star streaked sky. I reached my house at eight, 13 hours after I met the students outside the school that morning, and felt blessed to be home.