The next day began at 4:35 a.m. I'm not really sure how I ever got up on time on this trip, since I made the critical mistake of not bringing my alarm clock, but I always did. I got up. I brushed my teeth, I threw everything I owned into my backpack (which, by the way, made it safely to Nampula, but was missing a few pens, which I find odd. Why just take a few pens?) and carrying water and pastries purchased the night before, I went down to meet Mark. A few minutes later Mark arrived. A few minutes later, our driver did not. I have learned one thing about travel in Africa -- always have a backup plan -- even if the backup plan is, "Well, I guess we're not going!" In this instance, however, it was vitally important that we get where we wanted to go. So Mark and I started walking (#4) at an incredible pace towards the train station. We were to be riding the train to Cuamba, an eight hour trip. We simply HAD to get there early because we really wanted to be sitting for that trip. We entertained hopes of getting the "Special service" but when we arrived (out of breath but in good time) at the train station, we discovered that our train didn't offer it. Oh well. We settled on some seats in the middle of one of the cars. When I say "seats" what I really mean is a wooden bench, by the way. After some rearranging, we were in the position we would be in for the entire 8 hours. I was lucky enough to have a window seat. There were, I think, three in our row and four in the row facing us (not including the babe in arms, who ate CONSTANTLY through the entire trip!) We were the only white people I saw in the train, and indeed, all day. This was definitely a local form of transport. The train was very interesting. It was the main transport along that route (there were armed soldiers with kalishnakovs on the top of the train, which was alarming). Anyway, at every stop the people would be there offering their wares... onions, fish, tomatoes, bananas, and some people on the train would have things to sell too. The people on the train would buy, through the windows, what the people in the village were offering, and then sell it later on down the line. So they would buy an enormous number of onions at stop #3 and sell it at stop #10 where they were only selling bananas. It was like a moving commerce machine! Anyway, I thought it was really interesting. Despite the crowding and the soreness of my rear end, I really enjoyed the trip. It only seemed like a recipe for disaster.
      When we finally arrived in Cuamba we were met by an elder of the church there. He took us to the pastor's house (the pastor had the cutest son... Marco. I later got to hold him... there are pictures!) From the pastor's house we went somewhere else, which I assumed was the church. I started taking pictures. Oops. It was the elder's house. Oh well. They served us a tea (which here consists of an instant coffee called Ricoffee, which is not too bad. It has an interesting taste caused by the addition of chickory. Also offered are tea, buns with margarine and a jam-like substance.) Then, we went to the real church. Cuamba was the first place that Mark and I really got attention for being white. No matter where I went, the adults never seemed to notice -- never stared or commented or anything. But the children?!? In almost all the languages of the region the word for a white person stays the same "Mazungu". I should mention that it is not derogatory or anything. Anyway, as we walked to the church, the children around us went wide-eyed and started calling out "MAZUNGU!!!!" By the time we got to the church, we had quite a following. The church itself was the project I was supposed to photograph. It, like most Mozambican churches I have seen, is big and cement. Their old church is much smaller and thatched. Unfortunately, the church at Cuamba is not quite done. They came up about $200 short for necessary finishing touches like windows. They used great ingenuity in getting as much done as they had, however. For example, all the metal in the building came from the door of an old car. They worked very hard to get as much done on the church as they had. It was very impressive. After I took enough pictures of the church (most of them with a crowd of delighted and posing children in front of it) we went and had an introduction. I am getting much better at speaking to people in a language they don't understand. Mineral Presbyterian Church, you should know that you have been greeted by churches all across Mozambique, and have given your greetings in return. I hope you don't mind! After the little introduction meeting, held in the old church with the leaky roof, we went to yet another elder's house to have a prayer meeting. It was very nice and relaxing. They even had a Bible in English for me. Part way through the service, Mark was asked to read the scripture in Portuguese, and myself in English. As he was reading, the power went out, which he claimed was a miracle. (He doesn't really like reading in Portuguese...) The meeting continued with lamplight. But oh! When I stepped outside I was amazed at the stars! I had not seen them so clearly! They were absolutely beautiful and brilliant in the dark night, through a perfectly clear sky. I could have looked much longer than I did. Cuamba was, without a doubt, one of the most hospitable places I have been. After the prayer meeting they took us to a hotel/restaurant. We had been expecting to put our sleeping bags to good use on someone's floor, but for some reason, they decided that was not appropriate. They paid for our dinner and put us up in a hotel for that night! That is not the usual thing at all. Indeed, three of them were even up at 4:05 the next morning to get us to the bus station on time. That is true hospitality.

  The lovely town of Nampula

 

 

 

 

  The view from the train about 5 hours out

 

 

 

 

 

Our final destination in Cuamba

 

  Cuamba was overshadowed by a beautiful mountain. This was taken from the elder's yard.

  The kids who followed us everywhere. The girl wearing the green tank top was a particular ham!

 

 

  These are the joints made from the old car body

 

The prayer meeting. I am holding the pastor's son, Marcus.