I had always wanted to go to the Dawn Mass that was
held every Easter in Drumshanbo, County Leitrim. Someone had told
me about it and how special it was – held in the orchard cum garden of the Poor Clare Sisters conven t that is
situated in Drumshanbo. It was to be quite a few years after that conversation
that I ended up going.
We had a cold Winter the year that I went, the
first bitterly cold one for many years . On top of that Easter was
early and thus darkness was lingering longer than usual in the mornings.
I had told my cousin and his wife about the Mass and they were keen to
go. So, bleary eyed on Easter morning with frost still biting the ground, we
set off in the dark. I had just got back from Botswana on the edge of the
Kalahari Desert. My poor body was madly compensating to make the
adjustment from 40°C to – 4°C. In the car I could feel what felt like the nub
of a chilblain beginning to tingle.
We arrived at the convent and like everyone else we
all silently shuffled into the garden and filed over to where an altar had been
laid out on a knoll under a wide sweeping tree, bare of leaves.
The Mass started and the priest’s voice sounded
almost reedy in the dark, sharp air. A mean,drizzling, freezing rain started up
and we all shrunk into our coats. I could feel a bone crunching cold start to
settle into my bones. My cousin’s wife and I glanced ruefully at each other and
huddled up for warmth. To take my mind off my discomfort I thought back to my
time in Botswana…..
Southern Africa – not South Africa but
Southern Africa is made up of African countries as diverse as Portuguese
speaking Mozambique to an eerily 1940’s boarding school Enid Blyton take in
Botswana. There, kiosks are called tuck shops and all is reminiscent of
the cooked pumpkin and polite doe eyed cattle rearing values of Alexander Mc Call’s No.1 Lady Detective, Precious Ramotswe . Gaborone is
the capital city and I remember endless sunny mornings there. However I
always felt a bit trapped in Gaborone. For me Gaborone always held a far
away tantalising glimpse of more exciting parts of Botswana.
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| Driving out to the edge of the Kalahari desert from Gabarone |
Far
off into the faded denim blue of the sky on the horizon at the edge of the city
I would imagine the vastness of the Kalahari desert – my life
before me as far and as wide as how I imagined the Kalahari desert to be. But I
loved those sunny mornings. As I become older and living in rainy Ireland
I have come to realize that crisp, sunny, newly washed mornings are a gift. We
got these every morning in Gaborone, Botswana. And as I walked to the
Ministry of Health or UNICEF office each morning I would consciously decant
all my mind clutter, slow my pulse and look on and on and on to where far
away on the horizon the sky dipped down into the desert . On those
mornings it was as if my life was set out before me like some sort of Wizard of
Oz like path on a yellow brick road – out and on, away from Gabs
and on toward that faded denim horizon where the Kalahari began.That is how my
future life would seem – unknown, vast, a bit scary – and in a strange
sort of way – a peaceful . I would see those glimpses that I had been
shown in the Botswana tourist guide of all the national parks in Botswana,
places like the Kalahari Reserve an extensive national park in the
Kalahari desert with extensive wildlife and the home of the Kalahari Bushmen
who have inhabited those lands for thousands of years. Or the Okavango Delta which is the world’s largest
island delta and formed where the Okavango river empties into
a swamp in the Kalahari desert. It is produced by seasonal flooding from the
Angola highlands. The flood peaks between June and August during Botswana’s dry
months when the delta swells to 3 times it’s permanent size attracting animals
from kilometres around and creating one of Africa’s largest concentrations of
wildlife. Then there is the Tuli Block which is a series of privately
owned game farms demarcating Botswana’s south- eastern border. These are
longed for oases of peace and bits of wild
land that existed in those imaginings of when we were young and had adventurous
excursions into a wild tangled abandoned suburban garden and thought that we
were the only ones to have ever discovered it. Children in a world that
adults could not follow us into. And so it is today where it seems now that no
part of the world is now uncharted. Parts of Botswana are like those bits
of the world where globalization cannot follow us – where we can feel that we
are the only ones to have discovered it. And like the adults who back
then governed our lives, no GPS system, U tube, BBC world or other
loud, controlling, revealing influences to invade that tangle of uncharted
territory.
My mind was brought back to the Easter Dawn
Mass by the mutterings of the chilled and hunched congregation saying
the “I Believe”. A lone blackbird began to sing in the
orchard as the Mass progressed and a sheen of light appeared on the
horizon.And then my thoughts returned back to Botswana.
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| Some Botswana foods at the Nutrition Day |
On my last weekend I went to a Nutrition Day
at one of the health centres in a village near the Kalahari desert.
There had
been gospel singing going on there as part of the event and the choir
were truly breathtaking. We were all swept up in their singing. A mangy dog had
sat in the middle of the barn where we all were – in front of the singers. He
sat as if putting on his own act and began to noisily scratch himself. We all
shifted uncomfortably as we imagined fleas launching themselves off him
in all directions like people off a sinking ship , panicked by his
frenzied scratching . The singers wore lilac coloured T shirts and the choir
master a rather natty young man, wore a long Teddy boy like frock coat picked
out with lilac trim to match the T shirts of the singers. The choir master had
a gentle almost St Francis of Assisi manner with the dog. Whilst clicking
his fingers together and not missing a beat he smiled benevolently down at the
dog beneath him. Then the choir master led the choir around in a conga
everyone clapping , swaying and singing, wending their way round the dog as he
bumped clumsily against their legs. No sneaky kicks, no recriminations, no
shooing away. Like the achingly blue sky, the sable desert, the bright blinking
children giggling and looking on laughing at the dog, all and everything was
part of that gospel celebration including a mangy dog with the love of an
audience. The voices of the choir rose in a crescendo and we all started
to sway almost hypnotically until they ended with sharp
exultant cries of “Pula”, “Pula”, “Pula” .
In the Setswana language of Botswana, pula means life but
directly translated – it means water, With 80% of Botswana as the Kalahari
desert – water is life and it forms a continuing running
thread through everyone’s lives as they go about their daily business.
Even the currency is called pula which indicates how much a part of their life
force that word is – saving or buying precious commodities
with their valuable currency
Back to Easter in the Poor Clare’s garden
Drumshanbo – the priest was coming up to the Communion in the Mass and
more birds had joined the blackbird’s lone chorus.I could see the Arigna mountains begin to take on a wan
grey pinkish hue in the distance. The melancholy aspect of the morning
was drifting away and people were raising their heads and looking around a bit.
Then as if a curtain had been drawn back, suddenly it was light and the
birds could now all be heard and like the choir in Botswana they were lifting
the spirits of everyone in the Mass. People were beginning to turn to each
other with relieved smiles looking to the day ahead. The priest was
talking about redemption, the darkest hour before dawn, new
life,resurrection and I knew exactly what he meant. The short journey of
that Easter Mass from the lone black bird in the freezing darkness to a fully
fledged Spring morning had shown me that other more spiritual journey so
clearly.
And as I watched the priest give his final blessing
in a stronger sun- warmed voice I wondered what the choir in Botswana would be
doing if they were there now, standing behind the priest under the still bare
tree. In my mind’s eye I could see the priest bending down to
gently pat the mangy dog exchanging a winking and knowing glance
with the like – minded Francis of Assisi choir master. Like the
birds in their tumultous clamour the choir would be singing and
clapping and swaying in rhythmn to the music. And I knew that as
they sang, they would be letting out an exultant shout – “Pula!”, “Pula!”
“Pula” – water, life, surging force and most of all – a brand new
shiny clean life for us all in the garden of the Poor Clare
convent as we went from darkness and silence into the light
and birdsong on that bitingly cold Easter Dawn morning.
