The Ugandan Adventure: Part VI: Meeting Nicholas Cage and Receiving Homage

One of the stranger things to happen to me of late was a discovery of a time portal, through which I (and a few friends) could travel to any point in history. Furthermore, it allowed us to communicate across the eras. One friend travelled through to the 19^th Century, at which point he walked into a shop to buy a sandwich, only to discover that the menu did not have any prices on. When the sandwich arrived, it lacked any bread (it was, essentially, a pile of chicken pieces) and cost £20. I, on the other hand, went to Ancient Rome where I encountered the Hollywood actor Nicholas Cage, who was a traffic warden. Furthermore, he was also a traffic warden in the 19^th Century, and the present day. He had gone for a career change to become the Doctor Who of road traffic.

‘I knew this would happen’ I hear you say. ‘Your great learning has driven you insane, Josh’ the distant voices cry. No, as it happens. This was yet another malaria-tablet-induced dream. Despite what the naysayer may say, I am completely sane, or at least my good friend the King of Assyria tells me so.

To move onto more sensible climbs, I will tell you about religion. Ugandan style. You see, when I first arrived in Uganda (at my hotel with a view of a million dollars in Kampala), I noticed there was a picture on the wall. Who was it of? Not the Pope, nor the Ugandan President, but rather the Archbishop of the Anglican Church of Uganda. For those who are used to the nice, cosy image of Anglicanism in the Church of England (where it would be rather unusual to find pictures of our dear Archbishop Justin Welby hanging around in the leading hotels in the country), Anglicanism in Uganda is a different kettle of fish. For one thing it is thriving. And I don’t mean ‘The-church-has-a-nice-new-young-couple’ type of thriving, but rather, ‘the-church-has-a-nice-new-large-village-of-two-thousand’ type of thriving. Although Roman Catholicism is still the largest denomination, Anglicanism is not too far behind.

I realised this when I went to a village in a Kuman region (a district near Soroti) for a Confirmation Service (for children and young people - and a few older ones as well - who are being confirmed into the Anglican denomination). Not only was the whole village present for the Confirmation (the church was packed to overflowing - it would make many a British ‘mega-church’ blush), but I also discovered that the local school was Anglican, its political representatives were Anglican, and I think even the animals were the ‘spiritual-but-not-religious’ type of Anglican as well. This is not the type of liberal incense and candles Anglicanism that you would find in the American Episcopalian Church, or the quiet little Matins Service in an English Country Parish. Instead, this is full-blooded African Anglicanism: a service can easily last five hours (with a two hour sermon), with a strange combination of a translated version of Cranmer’s Book of Common Prayer and hypnotic traditional African music (repetitive, with call-and-response, dominated by voices, drums and African harps). Even though the bishop was garbed like his European Medieval predecessors, his faith is full-throttle Conservative Evangelicalism. He preaches with an astonishing passion and energy and without notes. Sometimes he is so loud, the microphones start screeching. Once again, in contrast to much Western Christianity, his is a typically African sermon of death, judgment, and hope in Jesus Christ. A two hour sermon is quite usual for him.

The whole village processes to church

Indeed, with the village churches packed, the Cathedral in Soroti packed (easily over a thousand in each of its four Sunday services), and a total of 276 schools in the Soroti district alone, it appears that the author of the book ‘The New Christendom’, Philip Jenkins, is right: Christendom is no longer found in Europe or North America, but in Africa and South America (and increasingly in China and the Far East). Whilst religion in Europe has taken three centuries of battering by an increasingly confident secularism, introducing public secularism into somewhere like Uganda would probably cause the country (or at least the educational system) to collapse. The ancient tribal religions have mostly fled into the shadows of the country; Islam is a minority. Secularism is nowhere to be found. Christianity is culturally, socially and politically dominant.

I got a taste of how much things have changed. To a certain extent figures like bishops have taken on the traditional role of the tribal elders. Roles can take a long time to change in cultures; the gestures may remain the same even if the type of person in a social role has changed. In this village in the Kuman region, the whole church gathered into a line to shake the bishop’s hand. But where this differed from a Church of England model is that the bishop stayed seated at the front, and the church processed to greet him there. And when they did shake his hand, they would kneel before him, as if he were a tribal elder: not just the women - as is the custom of the Kumi - but the men as well. I also was greeted thus: people would walk up to my chair and kneel before me as they shook my hand. In a sense, I was paid homage.

This is a pleasant experience to have, despite my egalitarian principles, and I have decided to introduce this gesture as soon as I head back to the UK.

Tune in tomorrow to see more fun, sun and adventures in Penduck of Life’s Ugandan Adventures. Tomorrow we’ll be encountering the children of Uganda, and how Ugandan six-year-olds are better than me at football, and have an interested habit of staring at me… endlessly…

The Ugandan Adventure: Part IV: A Tale of Two Weddings (Chapter One: The Day I Brought Shame Upon Myself)

It appears that across the Christian world (which includes post-Christian to those who are sensitive about these things…) that Saturday is still the preferred day of choice for weddings in that, for my last two Saturdays I have been in attendance for festivities. Last week was a church wedding; this week, a traditional Eteso ceremony. In which case, for your entertainment, amusement and interest, I shall regale you with the finer details.


Wedding 1: When Thomas Cranmer met Afro-Pop Wagner

 

The Procession of the Groom

Sometimes, cultural accommodation can take a step too far. One often finds this among those who have spent far too long in an alien culture: upon returning to their mother culture, they have feelings of shame, guilt and regret over some of the friends they may have made, spouses they may have taken, or activities they may have participated in. My dear readers, I now share this shame. ‘Why?’, you may ask. ‘What possible, horrific thing could you have done that makes you feel in such a way?’ Others may ask, ‘Have you taken on a Ugandan wife? Have you taken part in some ancient sacrificial ritual?’ No, neither of these. But, in order to justify myself in what I have done, the story needs to be told.

The beginnings of the bridal
procession

I had been invited to a wedding in St Peter’s Cathedral, Soroti, by Bishop George. Whilst waiting for the service to start, I happened to meet two German girls who are here in Soroti for a year doing charity work with Soroti Diocese (when you encounter fellow Europeans in Africa, you always have the urge to talk to them). Furthermore, I was being given honoured greetings by everyone (a sure pull towards the failings of pride). And then, everyone told me, ‘Remember to take pictures!’ A certain rebellious spirit arose in me - ‘unlike in churches back home’, thought I, ‘pictures shall be taken of this wedding! And during the service as well!’ And so I did: whence the groom processed up the aisle (for yes, in Uganda both bride and groom get processions!), I took photographs from the side of the church. Yes reader, I was not an official photographer, but I still snapped away. I beheld the simple Afro-pop melody with the older ladies dancing around the groom as he processed, shrieking their pulsating falsetto (which is a sign of joy), and I happily took more and more pictures.

Yes, dear reader, I processed in front
of the bride...

Perhaps I was trying to impress the German girls (‘Look at me! I can be incultural too!’); perhaps it was the rising heat that caused evil thoughts to emerge in the chambers of my mind; perhaps it was a sheer sense of fallen rebelliousness that drove my vaulting ambitions. But oh! I went too far! The ushers said to me that when the bride comes I was allowed to stand in front of the procession. I could process in front of the bride. And so I, callous and unthinking of my dear ones back at home, followed their advice. Whence the bride processed up the aisle - to the sound of an Afro-Pop version of Wagner’s ‘Here comes the bride’ - I gradually walked backwards ahead of her, taking pictures and even a video. Yes, I broke that ancient unwritten English law: I blocked people’s view of the bride. I took their attention. In doing so, I became an Other to myself. I now realise the wretch that I am.

The rest of the service was a curious mixture of Thomas Cranmer’s Book of Common Prayer (1662 version), translated into Eteso, with Afro-pop hymns (and a long, long, long sermon from Bishop George: he sure can preach!). One of my favourite points of the wedding was hearing a young lady reading the scriptures in a 1950s Church of England style, but in a strong African accent. At the point at which each of the couple said, ‘I do’, the whole of the congregation would cheer (including whistles, vuvuzelas, horns, and pulsating falsetto shrieks). Everyone had a tendency to wave flags over the couple as well. And after only two hours, it was over.

This was in mighty contrast to the second, traditional Eteso wedding…

But that, I’m afraid, will have to wait until tomorrow. Be sure that it contains many elements I now want included in my own wedding (including a song sung about me plus the presentation of alternative brides) and a few things I don’t want (myself having to pay a dowry plus the paying of fines if I am late).

The Ugandan Adventure, Part III: The Ten Hour Funeral

Before I arrived in Uganda, my friend Lucy called me to say that a retired Ugandan bishop had died of a snake bite in his own village. Papa Bishop Geresom Ilukor (Bishops are affectionately named ‘Papa’ in Uganda) was a major figure in both the Ugandan church and Ugandan politics. After his retirement (he was bishop of Soroti from 1976-2000) he advised many minor politicians, and was much respected (even by the Ugandan President). I didn’t realise just how important of a figure he was until I arrived in Soroti.
http://chimpreports.com/index.php/special-reports/crime-investigation/12560-snake-bite-kills-teso-bishop-ilukor.html - a link to a Ugandan newspaper. They've got a picture about 'Papa' Bishop Gereson, with some information



The beginning of the funeral procession

After my long, long, long journey through potholed roads, I rested for a few days in the Guest House in Soroti, before being invited by Bishop George of Soroti Diocese to attend the funeral. And so, on Friday 6^th, I awoke early to drive to Kumi where the funeral was being held. Kumi is a smallish town (a little smaller than Soroti), where the hotel toilet has a sign with an unfortunate typo: ‘Please remember to flash after toilet use’. Nevertheless, for a town so small, the turnout to the burial was astonishing. They tell me there were enough chairs for 12,000 people (we all sat in a large square with the bishop’s coffin in the centre). But so many people turned up that they estimated nearly 20,000 present. Amongst these arrivals were bishops, pastors, ministers of government, leaders of universities, business leaders, the chairman of the ruling National Resistance Party, the Prime Minister, the President’s personal representative, and many, many more. After an initial bit of liturgy and song at the beginning of the funeral (three choirs got up to sing traditional African farewells), all of these figures began to give their eulogies.

I can't even begin to show you the size of the event...

In the Church of England, we usually have one or eulogies, in total lasting ten minutes. In Uganda they have… well, I lost count. One eulogy easily lasted an hour. Considering most of it was in Kuman or Etoso, or in very thick Ugandan-English accent, I couldn’t understand most of it. And so I sat and waited. The service started at 9.00am with the arrival of the body. By 10.30am the liturgy had finished, and the eulogies began. Nearly five hours later, at 3.10pm, the Archbishop of Uganda stood up to preach. In the midst of the sweltering sun (thankfully we had canopies above us), I heard perhaps fifty or more eulogies - almost as many speeches at Justin Welby’s leaving service at Durham Cathedral. They even had a doctor’s report for the cause of death. Other than frequently falling asleep, I spent the time noting that the police were walking around selling huge framed pictures of Bishop Geresom, that phones would frequently ring and people would easily have a subsequent conversation (it happened to one speaker mid-eulogy…), and that suddenly the programme would be changed at a moment’s notice.

After the Archbishop’s sermon (which lasted another hour in his thick Lugandan [Kampala region] accent), we all got up and had a feast. Yes, around 20,000 people were suddenly fed. Huge lines of people crisscrossed the field; in about forty minutes, nearly everyone had been given food (and only about ten fights broke out). An astonishing achievement. (It was good quality food as well, even if I had to eat sloppy wet rice with my hands…)

A few of the queues for food

Afterwards, I experienced one of the most humbling moments of my life. I was invited to the house of the bishop’s widow, to mourn with her. I felt unworthy to be there (after all, who am I but essentially a tourist in this country?). For half an hour, maybe an hour, we sat down in the darkening house as a blush red sunset faded over the horizon, its last rays tenderly casting fine lines of red and yellow across the room. The women around the widow, and the dozens gathered outside the house, hypnotically sang a long, hauntingly beautiful dirge, over and over and over again. Occasionally, in the midst of the tragic melody, I would hear a women breaking down in tears outside. After the dirge was finished, there was an intimate silence. After which point Bishop George prayed; we hugged, people cried, we shared the grace. And then, at 7pm, ten hours later, we left.

They don’t do funerals like this back home.