Nov. 10th
We approached a rock hewn church A.A. outside the town of woxu, barreling up a red dirt road in a van, three smooshed into the back, knees knocking, backpacks stuffed whevever a part of the human anatomy wouln’t have fit normally.
The church itself is situated up a staircase made of thick slate steps so wide that you need to take a few steps before you even reach the next one, so steep each stair required a greater than normal effort.
After winding around the thick side of the hill we saw the church , which by itself is not so impressive- it doesn’t strike one as a grand achievement of architecture with elaborate carvings in stone, not so tall you have to arch you neck back to see the spires. Instead it is smaller, a red soft cube protruding from the stone of the mountain behind it.
There were great rock archways fitted with ancient wooden doors, and seemed to me that there were tinges of blue in the wood. Tucked in between the door itself and the archway was a beggar, who pointed to a sore on his leg then reached up to us with a cupped hand.
A priest stood at the entrance, clad in long, ankle length white flowing cloth, just meeting his bare feet, and calloused toes. He had rivers of wrinkles in his face miles deep, and hard eyes, and a graying beard. He did not seem overly excited about a group of faranjes (foreigners) visiting his church, and impromptively decided on an admission fee of 50 birr, a ridiculous sum , especially since people were entering and leaving freely, without charge.
We decided to have just one person go in (which actually turned out to be a good idea, because the inside was quite small, and six foreigners would have greatly altered the mood and would have just been generally crowded.
Because my project deals with the churches, I was the one to go in. I took a tentative step towards the entrance when the priest snapped incredibly loudly while lowering himself to my shoes- I had almost forgotten to take them off before entering holy ground!
I untied my tennis shoes and left them standing in a deep pile of red dust, which surrounds the exterior of the rock hewn church.
Gingerly, quietly, I entered the thousand year old church, immediately engulfed in chant and surrounded by a completely different environment. Colorful rugs lined the floor, so many that they overlapped each other, woven from a straw-like material into geometric, diamond designs similar to those found on the hems of the head wraps. There were a few pillars inside, all hewn from the same rock. The walls were painted brightly with biblical scenes, one wall with black, white, and brown, the back with all types of colors.
Like in other orthodox churches, at the front of the church there is a section closed off by a curtain, inaccessible to anyone but the priests. Although I have asked what is behind the curtain, the reply remains”no one is allowed back there”
I was standing in the center of the church, trying desperately to find the balance of respect, unobtrusiveness, and the responsibility to record what was happening. In between the curtain and myself there was a priest chanting and holding a cup full of heady incense attached to 3 golden chains, which he swung back and forth. To my left there was another priest who alternated with the chanting priest by swinging a thick metal bell slowly, ra-ring, ra-ring, several times back and forth.
Behind me, in the back section of the church, were several drums similar to the ones I have seen in the bigger churches, tied with goat hair, with skin membranes. The sides of these drums had been decorated with beautiful green and white patterns.
Three more priests were seated behind the drums and also behind a stand which was holding a rather thick book, presumably a bible. When the chanting and bell ringing were done, one of the priests began to read from the book, and I was struck by the beauty of the rhythm he used while speaking, almost as if he was singing without a melody. His voice reverberated off of the hollow walls, bouncing back sound waves of scripture off into everyone’s ears.
The congregation was come and go, but always the interior of the church was crowded, this time full mostly of women.
Also like in the bigger church, there were special times during the chanting in which everyone knew to kneel, and touch their foreheads to the dirt, hands outstretched in front. Some kissed the dirt.
I was able to ask the priest a few questions with the help of a translator, but the exchange was difficult and I’m not sure I learned much. I do think I got some good photographs (finally, thank goodness) and also was able to film a little bit, and of course I recorded the whole thing.
It really would help if I could speak Tigrinya. Not only would it help in getting answers to my questions, but it would earn me instant credibility and elevate my status beyond simply another faranje. Sort of the same principle with the wearing traditional dress.
The surrounding community was very poor, even more poor than in Mekelle. None of the children had shoes. When they saw us, at first they were shy, staring, a few whispering “feranji, feranji!” (I should point out that feranji isn’t necessarily a derogatory term, it just means foreigner, which means anyone with a different color skin.
Eventually though their curiosity overpowered their initial shyness and they walked up to us, and these children, unlike those in Mekelle, did not ask for money- instead they asked for pens. One in particular was asking me. He was dressed in a ratty green cotton sweatshirt, covered with dirt and full of holes, and pants in the same condition. I reached into my bag to get my extra mechanical pencil and the little boy’s eyes lit up and scurried away with his newfound treasure.
Two girls caught on and brought us hand fulls of fossils they had found which they proceeded to sell for one birr each. I bought them, and also gave them stickers.
After we visited the church it was time to take a tour of other hospitals in the area, which was a wonderful experience for the medical students, and it let them really get a better idea what the health care system is really made of in Ethiopia.
First we went to a smallish health post in Woxu.