At 6:00 am the mountains are covered in mist and the cool air is heavy with moisture. Mamisoa is already up preparing hot coffee over the fire and her husband is studying his Bible in a far corner of the church. I slip into a relatively clean, but wrinkled, skirt and shirt and splash some water on my face. I try to tame my rooster-like hair but there is no hope for it. It is what it is.
Soon villagers begin to arrive out of the forest. Because the foliage is so dense their houses are not visible, so they seem to appear literally out of nowhere. Dressed in their Sunday best, they emerge over the crest of the hill with little ones running down the path in front of them.
Pastor Jean calls me over to the trail and points to something in the grass. There, basking in the morning sun, lies the largest python I have ever seen, in or out of a zoo. I warily take a photo. A man beckons me to come deeper into the grass to get a closer shot, which I do. But now I’m thinking about the long walk back to Sakalava in a forest swarming with pythons.
The young worship musicians arrive toting an old guitar and a keyboard. Pascal grabs the guitar, handing a jembe drum to Joantana and a percussion instrument to Gimoril. Soon they’re playing and singing familiar Malagasy songs with complex rhythms and rich harmonies. As young adults fill the benches to start their meeting, Pascal moves to the keyboard. He plays by ear, moving up and down the keyboard in thirds, but he’s a natural musician with a lot of potential. The keyboard dies and he changes the batteries, but they start to drain after only 20 minutes so it sounds very Darth Vaderish for the rest of the morning. The voices of the people, however, are clear as a bell and beautiful. I make a mental note to bring the mini-disc recording equipment next time. I left it behind because of the weight and the length of the journey, but now I’m regretting that decision.
The church soon fills up with more men and women, but not that many children. There is no school in Tanambaovao or anywhere nearby, so the children must be separated from their parents at the age of 7 to go to school. They are sent to live in a distant town, 10 to a room, and it’s not possible for them to come home often because it is too far and too expensive. We ask the parents how they feel about this and they say it is very difficult for them and their children, especially when they are so young. My mind is already spinning and I’m silently asking God for teachers willing to come to this place and the funds to hire them.
The rest of the morning is simply a delight. Cathy tells a couple of stories using the new flannel graph materials that people at home so painstakingly cut and organized. (Seeing the looks on their faces – adults and children alike – it was well worth the effort!) We share communion together – with small chunks of French bread and small cups of juice. I have a thought before the cup touches my lips that maybe, just maybe, the juice is concentrated and mixed with local water – which would make my trek home miserable for everyone. It is a fleeting thought; I bless it and drink.
I talk a bit about God’s love, the very heartbeat of our faith and sing a couple of songs. Pastor Jean speaks about having ears to hear and a heart to understand. We sing many songs, read many scriptures, pray many prayers. No one wants the day to end, but we have a distance to travel and must reach Sakalava before dark. The children line up for sweets and biscuits and the people file out, grabbing our hands, kissing our cheeks, so grateful and loving and welcoming. Everyone gathers in front of the church for a group picture and then collect their plates and spoons for the community meal of rice and potatoes already simmering on the fire.
We say our goodbyes and head for the trail, accompanied by Bruno – a young pastor in training, and the worship team – Pascal, Joantana and Gimoril. I ask them if they would like to hear some American worship music – and of course they would – so I pull up our worship CD, No God but God and crank up the volume on my iPhone. They don’t understand the lyrics, but they love the music. I sing along and, for me, each song and each step is a proclamation as we move through that forest. The earth is the Lord’s and everything in it, the world and all who live in it.
Soon I’m focusing on putting one foot in front of the other as the climbs get steeper and the descents more slippery. We are traveling in the heat of the day and for a Clevelander, it’s brutal. The worship guys are helpful, toting our bags and reaching out a hand to keep us from disaster or half-haul us up an especially steep hill. I only fall once, when the ground under me gives way. Cathy walks in front of me, always saying – ok, now we have a leetle climb. It is only a leetle mountain. I soon come to the conclusion that leetle in Madagascar means something very different than little in the US. But all things come to an end – you just have to keep moving. Eventually the village of Sakalava comes into view. Cathy is eager to see her husband, but the villagers tell her he is not there.
Now Plan A was to meet Ibrahim in Sakalava, travel down the mountain together in the truck, and spend the night in Ampitambe. A storm was brewing, however, and the truck had to get down the mountain before it hit. Because Ibrahim had much business to take care of down the mountain, he couldn’t risk getting stuck up there either, so he left with the truck .
After the initial wave of disbelief passes, Cathy and I have a good laugh and settle in to a neighbor’s house as it fills with visitors. Pastor Drasana (who is one of the most joyful people I have ever met) shares information about the village. There is a deep demonic presence in Sakalava and several of the villagers speak of their terror of witchcraft and evil spirits in that place. I speak of the authority of God over all the works of the evil one and the people look both amazed and a bit worried – as if something bad will happen to me for speaking so boldly.
Suddenly the skies open up and torrential rains mixed with golf-ball-sized hail pounds the mental roof. All conversation stops as people peer anxiously out the window of the small, dark house. Their crops will be destroyed, again. Earlier I had asked the pastor what they do when a cyclone hits. He said they sit in the house like this until the roof blows off and then they move to another house. It sounds like we are in a dryer filled with marbles – I cannot even imagine sitting out a hurricane in this tiny mud-brick house.
The mother and daughter who share this house give us their wooden plank beds for the night, but it is a sleepless night for me. My body hurts, but my heart hurts more as I think of the oppression of these precious people bound in fear. My hurt turns to anger, my anger to prayer. As the mice scurry overhead, I ask God to bring me back to this place – with a Story of Love team.
I don’t know how we’re getting down the mountain tomorrow. Cathy thinks a truck may come early so I set an alarm for 4:30 am, but it’s not necessary. Tonight is not a night for sleeping.