Preacher Chris?

February 11

I don't consider myself a preacher or anything close to being one, though I don't mind public speaking. Here, the Africans don't care what you think about your talents or lack of talents. Some of the young African soloist who I've heard sing in front of their churches remind me of the previews for the first episode of a new American Idol season. So when it comes to Americans visiting this country, the people here throw you up on the pulpit and expect you to start talking. Or at least sing. I'm told it has something to do with the fact that Tom and I are white, and therefore different, and therefore captivating lecturers. It certainly makes me feel special.
So what I've learned is that I must be prepared for anything. Always have at least a Bible verse or two in mind and be ready to say something really profound, or really not profound at all. Either way, they'll be extremely grateful.

My first Sunday morning in Guinea-Bissau was spent at the local pastor's church, which is held in the FLAME school building since his tiny, humble church building is too small to accommodate his growing congregation. You know those pamphlets that church greeters hand you as you walk into an American church that outline what's supposed to happen during the service? They don't have those here. They would have been helpful this day. Tom and I were seated on the front. A translator sat to my left and another sat to Tom's right. Pastor Chenda hadn't told us what to expect, or what he expected us to do. Early on in the service, he asked me to come up. I wish he had asked Tom first, then I would have had some idea of what to say/do. So I said hi, thank you, it's my first time in Africa, yes, and much warmer than America. Then I asked Chenda if I should talk some more. “Yes, please,” he said smiling. So I shared some experiences in my life and the reasons why I consider myself a Christian. I was up there for about 10 minutes. Five minutes shy of my 15 minutes of fame.

Two days later I spoke to the church “adolescents” -- the teenagers. Because Africa's demographics are much younger than America's, this crowd basically made up half the church congregation. I spent a good chunk of time preparing a really deep theological talk, but then when I saw how young the audience was, I decided to basically toss my notes. Before I spoke, my translator gave the kids a long lecture about staying awake and paying attention. He also assigned one of the older kids to stand near the back of the room and block the only exit less one of the kids needed to leave to use the bathroom or get some fresh air while I spoke. I'm not sure if this would be legal in some countries. Anyway, I figured now at least I had a captive audience. So I started off by saying I would speak for four hours. Ha ha, just kidding, I said. I went on for 20 or 30 minutes talking about how God is our personal Father. Some of the kids dozed off. Never hire me as a Sunday school instructor.

After I gave my “sermon,” I said I'd be happy to answer any questions about God or about America. For the next 45 minutes, I answered questions about America. It was a great Q&A time.

Canchungo is about 1 ½ hours from Bissau, the capital of Guinea-Bissau. Not including the trip from the Bissau airport, where we flew in to, I've been to the capital twice so far. It's a great place – insane traffic, overflowing minibuses and taxis outnumbering other cars three to one. Even by African standards, Bissau's traffic rules are horrific. The joke is that your average minibus can carry at maximum 12 people in neighboring Senegal or Gambia, but here it's at least 17 or so. Basically as many as you can cram in with the guy at the rear hanging out of the back with one hand on one of the double swinging doors, always open.

If you live in Guinea-Bissau and want access to the Internet, you have to come to Bissau. And the best Internet cafe in town crams you in like sardines. But nevertheless, assuming the connection isn't down, you have access to the outside world. The Superbowl and the Super Tuesday elections were all old news by the time I learned about their outcomes.

Bissau is a crazy place. A few days ago, Joel and Dique (the pastor's sons) and I and a guy named Tom (a different Tom than my teammate Tom Crompton) went there in the morning and sat down at a restaurant for breakfast. It was about 10 a.m. They served us the one item on the menu that day. I'm not sure what it was called, but it resembled beef strogonoff -- with bones. At 10 a.m. ... I ate a few bites.

Later on, we did a little tourist shopping, hit up the Internet cafe, and ran some errands. There was a specific African wrist ornament I wanted to get, so Joel pulled up on the side of a busy street and he and I got out of the car. We crossed the street (which constantly fluctuated between two lanes and three, depending on how aggressive and courageous the drivers were feeling) and its median (a ditch), dodging cars along the way. On the other side was a line of shops with one narrow, unmarked alleyway between two buildings. For whatever reason, a steady stream of people were coming in and out of the alleyway. We walked in, and suddenly there is was: The Bissau Mall. Hundreds of people bustling along this narrow corridor with vendors of every kind on either side. The pathway was maybe 5 feet wide, but jam-packed with people. Trinkets, clothes, stuff and more stuff for as far as I could see (which, with the wall of people in front of me, wasn't very far). It was as if we had walked into the African version of the Magic Wardrobe. So bizarre. The place was crowded. Imagine taking all the people from an American mall and cramming them into a walkway a tenth its normal size. This was Bissau Mall (or at least that's what I call it).

A couple days later, I discovered the equivalent in Canchungo – the Canchungo Farmer's Market. As Tom (other Tom, again) and Regina (Joel's girlfriend) and I were walking along the dusty road in Canchungo where many of the vendors sell machetes, pants, underwear, door hinges, string, and just about everything else – Regina stepped into a narrow, nondescript entryway between two vendors. Suddenly, the entire hidden city of Canchungo opened up before my eyes. Tables and tables of fruit, vegetable and fish vendors lined a large, crowded, crammed market. I had been in Canchungo for a week and driven down this road at least a dozen times, but I had no idea this place existed.