The Revival

Since arriving in Ebolowa, I’ve gotten into the habit of going to bed and getting up absurdly early: It’s one benefit of not having constant access to electricity and having only the sun as a reliable source of light. So I felt as though I had slept in when I woke up this morning at seven. I was told last night that we would leave for church at about 8:30, so I wasted no time in waking myself thoroughly with a cold bucket bath and dressing appropriately—in a skirt and with my head covered, as their Presbyterian faith commands.

A confession: when I was in the States and would see a Christian woman with her head covered for religious reasons, I would think about how terribly oppressive their religion must be, and that I would never submit to such a practice. Yet here I am, doing just that. Maybe it’s because I’m in a foreign environment (in more than one sense), or maybe it’s because of the positions I’ve seen the women in this family occupy: Mama Isabelle is the matriarch and takes pride in her role in the church; Crystal studied sociology at university; and Audrey wants to be a doctor someday. They don’t seem to be restricted by their religion, but grounded by it. But I’m a stranger, and I’ve been here for less than a week, so what do I know?

Host-mom Isabelle bought a couple of croissants yesterday, thinking they would be easier for me to digest after my recent illness, so I had a croissant and a bit of omelet for breakfast, (Even in terms of food, one can see the impact of French colonization.)

Anyway, I was ready to go, but had forgotten that we are now on “Cameroonian time,” which means that when I’m told we’ll leave at 8:30, it’s probably going to be about an hour after that. Regardless, we got there in time for the 10 o’clock service thanks to my third Cameroonian moto ride (the first two were to and from the bakery yesterday). I was rocking my X Games-reminiscent Peace Corps-provided helmet, and while I’ve only used it thrice so far, I’ve used it to design a game for myself, wherein I try to decode people’s puzzled expressions as I whiz by. If I’m guessing right, they’re usually thinking, “What is that white girl doing here?” or, “What is that ridiculous thing on her head?” or, most likely, “What is that white girl doing here, and what is that ridiculous thing on her head?”

But back to church. For the first couple of hours, the service was quite beautiful, with voices in harmony reverberating off of the corrugated tin roof and women draped in fabulous pagnes. I can’t claim to have had a religious experience, but I was profoundly moved by the jubilant hymns in both French and Bulu (one of the 200 local languages spoken in Cameroon). It was humbling to be able to experience such a beautiful and joyous moment, and to be welcomed into this family and this country.

Normally, this particular church has two two-hour services on Sunday mornings—the first in French and the second in Bulu—but as this was Pentecost, the two were consolidated into one epic four-hour service with in a cement building with hard wooden pews no air conditioning.

I never fully appreciated the expression “like sardines in a can” until seven of us sat in a pew that was probably intended for four individuals, my shoulders and thighs slick with sweat due to the direct contact with the people next to me. I tried to make it through the entire service, honestly. I wanted to make a good impression on my host family and their friends, but there’s only so much a person can sweat before they have to extricate themselves from a situation for fear of becoming nothing but a puddle of perspiration. Initially, it was interesting to see the sort of tennis match between two languages, the preacher bouncing easily between French and Bulu, but as the hours wore on, interest turned to impatience and I was beginning to worry about dehydration. By two o’clock Crystal’s little boy, Jordan, was becoming increasingly squirmy and fussy (as was I), so the three of us walked back to the house, where I took another cold bath.