Let's Go to Church!

As promised, here is the story I wrote for the Peace Corps Volunteer newsletter. It won the best submission award, because it is the funniest thing you will ever read. I am a really modest person. Enjoy.

Let’s Go to Church!

I live in a small town. 300 people small. So, when I am asked to attend the local Baptist church one to three times every week, I don’t have much of an option to evade the request. Envisioning myself sitting on a crooked wooden bench listening to puro Q’eqchi’ for the next three hours, I ponder the consequences of telling my inquisitor that I would rather have diarrhea while fending off a swarm of angry bats on the dilapidated latrine out back. Because I have done that. Because I know it is more fun than going to the Baptist church.

But I don’t do this. Instead, I dress up by tucking in my favorite short-sleeved, checkered, confianza-building shirt into my blue jeans and lace up my once respectable-looking brown Clarks. I’ve had these shoes for years; they have given support to the soles of my feet on multiple continents, and they desperately crave the attention of an overzealous Antigua shoeshine boy. Alas, shoeshine boys are not to be found in the serene aldea of Candelaria Camposanto in northern Alta Verapaz.

I start to focus on the events that are about to unfold, and I mentally prepare myself. Then, my host mother walks by topless, completely shattering my concentration. I still haven’t gotten used to that. She proceeds to bathe herself and three of her smaller children at the pila in the front yard, mere feet from my room. The children whine and moan, but Doña Paulina is in control and is not afraid to manhandle a youngster to prepare him or her for three hours of holy humdrum.
The children are clean, and off we go. We saunter down the short dirt path to the main road and turn left toward the church. On the gray pavement, the heat from the sun pricks our bodies, its rays already overwhelming at 9 AM. In no hurry to travel the 50 meters to the church, we sizzle on down the road, like lonely pancakes forgotten by an aloof teenager on a diner grill. The heat is tremendous most days in sleepy Candelaria Camposanto, and we move slowly and gracefully, as if we were to go slow enough the sun might not realize we were there and forget to shine on us.
The church is a bright green building, its hues starkly contrasting the muted browns of the wooden huts that line the road. You would never know that this is a church. In this shack of God, this unimposing box of wooden slabs, time stands still.

I enter and take my normal seat in the back right corner of the church. Heads turn and the churchgoers begin their routine staring, forming a sea of fixated eyes and gaping mouths. I am an oddity, a great novelty, and most likely will continue to be one for the remainder of my service. I wave and smile, which is the best way to combat one who is prone to chronic staring and get him to stop. I had previously tried simply staring back to see who would be the first to avert his glance, but Guatemalans take staring seriously, and after 20 seconds of being uncomfortable, I usually look away like a wounded, defenseless deer.
Inside the church there are ten wooden benches, 5 on the left side and 5 on the right side. Women sit on the left and men sit on the right. It reminds me of a middle school dance. My mind begins to wander, and I think about which of these Q’eqchi’ women would make the make the best dance partner. I decide on a woman in the third row with a cherry-red huipil. I then decide it is too early in the service to be losing my mind, and I fix my attention toward the front of the room.

It seems almost anachronistic. Two five-foot speakers loom over other electronic equipment and musical instruments. They don’t belong at all. They seem to be wondering amongst themselves how they ever got so lost on their way to Nashville.
The service starts off with a preacher. I call him the warm-up preacher, because he lacks a certain prowess for the act. He teaches lessons using a Q’eqchi’-Spanish version of the Bible. He is not particularly adept at reading. Through his mumbling and fumbling I can tell that today he is talking about Moses and his miraculous journey out of Egypt. Most of the churchgoers are completely uninterested in what is going on around them. Most prefer to stare at me instead. I consider that I am capturing more attention than Moses, and I smile. Moses parts the Red Sea. I grin and play with my beard.

Looking up, I see that hanging from the ceiling are cheap plastic tablecloths that contain designs of flowers and leaves. It’s as if the church is preparing for a summer picnic on the ceiling. The decorations appear to have been strewn from one end of the church to the other hurriedly and haphazardly, as if the person doing the hanging either really wanted to start a picnic, or really wished he was somewhere else, doing anything else.

There is no time to ponder that, however, because the musicians are setting up, and it’s time for the songs. Far more women than men attend this church, and I have a strong inclination to think that most of the men only come because they get to play with their instruments.
Each church service has singing. Today, it appears that Catalina, one of my host sisters, will be singing. The music begins, and it is deafening. The volume level would be more appropriate for a death metal concert. Then, Catalina begins to sing, and she is shockingly terrible. One man wails on his drums, another thrashes on the bass, a third hammers away on his guitar, and a fourth seems to be viciously attacking his keyboard. The intense noise pummels me; it is too much for me to take. My heart rate quickens, and I begin to sweat. My ears begin to moisten, and I reach to wipe away the fluid pooling near my earlobes. Are my ears bleeding from this music, or is that just excess saldo seeping out, left over from a triple saldo day spending spree gone wrong?
Catalina continues to “sing.” I think the prerequisite for being a church singer in Guatemala is that one must be able to sing horrendously. Catalina succeeds wildly at this. Her screams escape from her mouth and scatter around the room, searching to pierce any available eardrum, like a drunken knight desperately trying to joust his opponent. I have noticed something about church singers in Guatemala. They don’t appear to enjoy singing. They howl because they have to. They yelp out of a necessity to fulfill their religious duties. Catalina screams stoically and stone-faced. I wouldn’t call it musical. I would say that she either screams or screams louder. As she reaches the loudest parts of the song, she continues to stare straight ahead, unabated, unflinching. Instead of looking like she is in the process of singing, she looks like she is in the process of letting out a big sneeze. Suddenly, the song ends, Catalina, still stoic as can be, drops her Q’eqchi songbook and marches back to her seat.

A man, who appears to be in his mid-forties and is wearing a white short-sleeved button-down shirt and brown khaki pants, walks up to the front of the room, and he begins to preach. He is much more eloquent than his predecessor. As he barks the word of God, my mind begins to wander, and my thoughts get lost in the peaks and valleys of the inflection of his passionate sermon. Lulled into a daze, I begin to focus on other things when I realize that he has switched back to Spanish. I then hear my name and manage to catch the end of his sentence, “and now Jordan will tell us about his country.” People turn around and commence their staring.

Not cool, I think to myself. In an attempt to stall and collect my thoughts, I ask, “Ummm what do you want to me to talk about?”

“Just tell us about the United States,” he calmly responds.

“Ummm alright,” I stammer. What could I possibly say to get these people to relate to my life in the United States? Angry that the preacher has put me on the spot, my mind races as I decide where to begin. I look up, as if the summer picnic tablecloths possess the answers, and I begin to talk about religion in the United States and about the numerous religions and churches that we have. I see some grins and nods of affirmation, and I realize that I am on a roll. Then, for some reason, I think about elementary school history, and the words “melting pot” jump into my head. I talk about how the United States is a nation of many different peoples from all over the world. I find myself blurting out, “In the United States, Africans, Asians, and Europeans live together in peace.” Knowing very well that most of my audience can’t understand a word of what I am saying, the absurdity of my current situation hits me. I do my best to stifle fits of laughter. Soon I am finished describing the incredibly dazzling utopia that is the United States, and everyone seems satisfied. I exhale deeply.

The service soon comes to end. I breathe a sigh of relief as the preacher brings things to a close. Suddenly he calls a woman up to the front to say a few words. I can only see her back as she rises from the second row and walks to the front, but I can see that she is carrying a baby. She turns around, and I realize that she is breastfeeding a small child. She continues to breastfeed her child during the entirety of her 3-minute remarks, because, of course, that is what you do in church.

The often topless host mom with some of her children.

The church.