A Season In Hell

I was in church and they were praying for me.
I felt touched, and not just because they were actually touching me. They were laying hands on me and praying. Loudly. They were asking Jesus to look out for me.
I raised my hands and thought, ‘Christ, what the hell am I doing here?’
The pastor and his wife were Evangelical Christians. This was hard core. This was hands in the air, singing and clapping, falling over in fits type of worship. The congregation weren’t quite talking in tongues -unless you count Spanish- but it wasn’t far off. They believed in Christ resuscitated. There were no crucifixes or idols in the church. It was bare. They thought if He popped in He wouldn't like to be reminded of how He was killed. I would join them in the church most days, out of politeness. They all prayed for me, they blessed me, they thanked me for my help.
I raised my hands and said, ‘Amen.’ I hope I don’t go to hell for it. If I believed I might actually be worried by it.
…
Well, I wanted a life stripped down and bare and, for my sins, I got it. The village was near banana plantations and pineapple fields. The location didn’t lack for beauty but the houses did. It was poor, very poor. Kids were shoeless and homes were shacks of wood and corrugated iron. I was lucky, the pastor had a fridge. Don’t ask about the bathroom, even the cockroaches avoided it.
We were on the Caribbean side of the country and it was hot and humid. The air was so thick you could kick a ball in the air and it wouldn't come down. The nearest town with any civilisation -and internet connection- was about half an hour away. That town was basic. Compared to the village it was bloody Las Vegas.
In the mornings, we’d work from 7 till about 11 to escape the worst of the heat. We’d clear the terrain, mix and lay cement. Each day we'd work till my muscles ached and sweat dripped off my chin. After lunch, I’d sit on the porch, my body exhausted, my head fried by the heat, and think about it all. This was like living in a pot of dirty boiling water. The poverty, the heat, the lack of any escape. It was unbearable.
Some nights, lying on my filthy mattress, my body hurting and drowning in sweat, mosquitoes feasting on me, the ex-alcoholic grandfather having a coughing fit and the three year old whimpering in his nightmares, I just wanted to run away. I just wanted to get up and run as far away as possible. But there was no escape for these people. They had nowhere to run to. This was their life. It always would be.
…
One day, a young guy helped us mix cement. He invited me round to his house. His mother made me rice and beans. It’s a typical Caribbean dish here, it’s actually called rice and beans in Spanish. I don’t know what’s in it. During the meal she told me that she was married to a German. Before disappearing long ago he had once dragged her by the hair along some railway lines. Her second partner had attacked her with a machete, she showed me the scars. Relatively speaking, the German wasn’t so bad. She asked me if I could help her locate him. She didn’t speak English or German or have access to a computer but she had his name and date of birth. I wrote it all down. I figured that tracking down some piece of shit German was the least I could do in return for a delicious plate of rice and beans.
…
'What language do they speak in England?' one person asked me.
'Is it far away?' asked another.
'Why do you speak Spanish?' asked a third.
'Can I see your camera?' a child asked. 'Will you give it to me?'
'Why don't you shave?' asked the pastor's wife.
…
The pastor’s children weren’t great believers. Often while the parents were in church, they would be at home watching horror films on DVD. One evening I joined them. I figured it was a different type of distraction. And, after all, it was about distraction, it was about having some release from the existence here. Some people had DVDs, some people had God, some people had drink.
I had a bus ticket out.