I made French toast for breakfast, packed lunches (tuna salad with some chopped boiled egg on bakery buns, hacked-up watermelon pieces, plums, and bananas for those that wanted), shooed the chillins out the door, washed dishes, hung up laundry, straightened up, did email, and walked to town where I a) met a goatherd, and b) talked to a bakery saleswoman who pleaded with me to take her to the states.

The goatherd encounter was kinda funny. I was following him through the streets, admiring (wincing at) the one mama goat’s almost-dragging-on-the-ground udders, when I noticed that the guy was carrying a bag of paper cups in one hand and the lead rope in the other. And then I noticed that he was saying something. Specifically: Goat milk for sale!

It kinda gives new meaning to the phrase “fresh milk,” don’t you think?

I caught up to the boy and asked if I could take his photo.

“If you buy some goat milk,” he countered.

“Oh no,” I laughed. “I don’t like goat milk all that much.”

“It’s really good with honey,” he said. Was there a honey bear in his shoulder bag?

I laughed  and made to walk away.

“Okay, you can take my picture anyway,” he said flatly.

So I did.

And then I turned the corner and there was a bakery that I’ve been wanting to photograph.

So I did.
 

The girl, unlike the goatherd, was all sorts of chatty.

At school, I checked out the cookies that aren’t selling. They’re not moldy yet, and people say they like them, but I’m kinda left with no option but to believe they’re just being polite. Because come on, every cook knows that if something is good, you eat it.

I took photos of my husband’s carpentry class.

They are making two tables, via the mortise and tenon method (whatever that is).

My husband fixed the table saw yesterday, so now there’s that.

I made photocopies of tomorrow’s math problems for my baking class (simple fraction reduction), visited with the teachers (there was an interesting discussion on when’s the best age to get married), and made the first inquiries into finding another group of students to tutor. I waited in the library for an appointment with a student who never showed. I attempted to improve my crocheting skills and ended up dropping a bunch of stitches. I planned supper, made to-do lists, and texted my husband.

After a couple hours of Being Present, I caught the bus back to town where I bought two avocados, a flat of eggs, and a bag of bread.

At home, I fixed myself lunch (tuna salad on a bun, a huge, juicy-sweet mango, and some leftover cake and coffee) and settled in for a whole two hours of writing, emailing, work planning, etc.

When the children come home at 2:15, there will be chores, homework, outside playing time, baking experiments, laundry, showers, supper cooking, and bedtime reading…but that hasn’t happened, so I shan’t write about it just yet.

Ps. Speaking of udders and milk: on the bus ride home, I happened to glance out my window and saw a woman. Actually, I didn’t see the woman per say. All I saw was her one enormous breast—nursing baby must of just been detached and shirt not yet pulled back down—dripping milk. I saw the white droplets falling to the ground. Now don’t you wish I had a photo of that?

Thursday Morning Update
My husband just phoned.

Him: “There’s a honey bear in his bag!”

Me: “Huh?”

Him (giddily): “The goatherd! He’s here! He has a honey bear!”

Me (incredulous, because he’s lactose intolerant): “You bought some?!”

Him: “No, but the bus driver did! The goatherd squirted honey into a cup and then milked straight into the cup! It was frothy and everything! You should buy some milk just to see it!”

Maybe I will. Guess I better pack my camera…

In church this morning, there was a healing service. Or something. They sanctified the building by squirting oil on the walls and praying real loud, and then there was a praise/anointing time. The ushers cleared the white plastic chairs from the front half of the building (this, we’ve learned, means that Something Big is going to happen). People crowded up close around the alter. The seriously off-key guitar started up. There was hand clapping, and a bit of swaying and bouncing.

It wasn’t until several songs in that the screaming started. People kept on singing, but every few seconds, someone would scream long and loud. We all sat up straighter and kept our eyes peeled for the action. Soon, a woman, surrounded by four spotters, was escorted to the back of the group. A fifth man hovered close, shouting prayers over her. The woman was screeching and bouncing wildly up and down. After a couple minutes, she fell over backwards onto the floor and someone brought a shawl to cover her.

And so went the next thirty minutes. By the end of the morning, the front of the church was covered with shawl-covered bodies.

This is the second time our Mennonite church has held this kind of service since we’ve been here. I’m beginning to think it might be a monthly occurrence. The first time this happened, the kids were somewhat traumatized. What with all the hollering men, the flailing women, the pushing people over backwards, the spotters, the wailing and sobbing, I can’t say I blame them. Heck, I was a little shell-shocked. This morning, though, my children didn’t seem too bothered. In fact, my younger son laid down in his seat and kept pestering me about what time the service would be over. As though people failing over in church was the most normal thing in the world.

This afternoon, my husband and I were discussing the morning’s events. “What is going through their heads?” my husband asked.

I had been pondering the very same thing. What are the people actually feeling? This culture is so reserved, so stoic and quiet—how can they switch into something so completely different, and in front of a bunch of other people, too?

The interesting thing is: some people don’t ever fall over. Even when the elders are shaking their heads with their laying-on hands, pushing at them so they have to walk backwards across the room, and invoking the holy spirit in no uncertain terms, they stay erect. Are they being stubborn? What does it mean that they aren’t Getting It? What makes a person fall and what makes her stay standing?

Regardless of what’s going on in people’s heads, I am convinced that there is a lot of sincerity. The guy who knocks people over and then flings his hands high in the air and barks Glory to God (the Christian version of the first pump) strikes me as a little showy, but for the most part, I see genuine love and concern in the eyes of the leaders. This is how they care for each other.

In our bedroom this afternoon, I said, “I don’t think these people are any more real or any more fake than people in our home church.”

And only after I said that did I realize how much I agreed with myself. (Don’t you love when that happens?)

There’s a lot of pomp at my home church and in any church I’ve been in. Heck, wherever people are gathered, there’s pomp. (Except maybe at AA meetings—I’ve heard those are pretty raw.) There’s a lot of Saying the Right Words and Minding Manners and Keeping Your Shit Together. There’s also, thank goodness, a lot of profound caring.

Knowing this—that all churches are made up of human beings and that some of the strange customs might be both showy and authentic—helps me to be less wary and fearful, less judgemental.

But don’t worry. I’m not about to get knocked over backwards any time soon.