This morning I went to church. I have been meaning to do so for a while, since it is such a large part of the Tanzanian culture and I was very curious to discover more. I was brought up in a church-going Church of England family, but did not continue the practice as an adult. Nevertheless, my views on faith are as-yet undecided, and so I like to think my mind is open.

I was told church was at 8 o'clock, so I dragged myself out of bed and was ready in plenty of time, having donned my one nice dress. However, it turns out we didn't leave until 8.30, for a service that started some time after 9. I walk past the church on most days, and it is a large building in a fairly modern style. But until today I had not been inside. I was a bit nervous as we walked there - myself, Rose and her two sons - especially when they told me there would be a point where, as a guest, I would be asked to introduce myself to the rest of the congregation. Oo-er! As we entered, my first impression was how plain it was inside. The floor was very rough concrete that has seen better days, and there was absolutely no adornment on the walls. The alter looked much like a table with a cloth draped over it. A very clean, white cloth, with an embroidered cross, but nevertheless a table with a cloth. The pulpit was the same. And there were a few pot plants to make the place look nice. The many windows were all glazed.

As regards the layout, the area in front of the altar was about 5 metres square and empty. The "arms" of the cross were slightly raised and had chairs for the choir. In the "leg" of the cross there were wooden pews separated by a very wide aisle, but which had been filled with plastic chairs.

Rose is one of the soloists in the choir, and so she sat in the designated area, leaving me, Sam and Jerry to sit in the front row. I was quite grateful of this, as I couldn't see all the people behind me who I know would be staring at the white woman with braided hair in a church. I counted about 130 people in total - and this was the second service of the morning.

The church's denomination is Lutheran. As the people gradually arrived, the choir struck up a song, accompanied by 3 guitars and an electric organ. The organ was on pre-set, and I'm sure I recognised Bossanova No. 5... The music was very up-beat and lots of those already in their seats were clapping and swaying in time. Some people were carrying vegetables, which they placed up on the dais near the altar. I asked what they were for and was told they are gifts which then get sold to the profit of the church. There came some maize, some pawpaws, some beans.... and then someone quite unassumedly plonked down a live cockerel.

It had its legs tied together, but was naturally disturbed and squawked rather loudly when put down. It hopped awkwardly for a few metres and flapped its wings before proceeding to poo in the middle of the church. No-one blinked an eye.

The pastors (4 of them) then came in and everyone sat down. The cock was still there. As were the pawpaws, which also had no means of escape.

We started with a few songs to which everyone - bar me - knew the words. It wasn't nearly as gospelly as I'd expected, but the tunes were nevertheless upbeat and catchy. To one side of me sat an old man, who looked for all the world like one of Eddie Murphy's barber-shop characters from Coming to America, and who sang with much more gusto than tonality.

One of the pastors then stood up at the front of the church. He, like his fellow clergymen, wore a very simple white cotton cassock, with an applique ribbon cross. Very unassuming. He announced a reading from the bible, which was followed by a flurry of activity from the congregation: every member of the congretation had brought their own bible and were expected to read out loud with the minister. However, they were clearly not au-fait with the order of the chapters, and as the minister started reading, no-one had yet found the right page. When he finished, everyone breathed a sigh of relief at being able to stop frantically flicking through the pages. And the cock once again pooed on the floor.

After a few more songs, one of the other pastors with slightly fancier embroidery on his cassock came into the centre of the floor. Aha, I thought, this'll be the sermon.

Incorrect. He proceeded to read out some job announcements. Nothing my CV was suited for. It was also the time for the introductions. He asked all guests to stand up and introduce themselves. A few others stood up and said their bit; I folllowed suit, albeit very nervously and garbled. But at least I did it in Swahili.

When we eventually got to the sermon, a man with a black satin shirt with a silver-star print pattern went up to the pulpit. If he were in England, I would have easily mistaken him for a psychic medium or perhaps one of those religious healers who causes the audience to speak in tongues and can cure cancer. Instead, he started a reading from the bible, and thanks to my recognition of the words "loaves" "fish" and "5,000" I ascertained which bible story he was discussing. I couldn't help but think it was lucky Jesus didn't use a cockerel to feed the five thousand, or the poor trussed-up bird may well have pooped on his shoes in indignation.

He then came down into the empty "plaza" in the centre of the church and began his sermon in earnest. If there were a school for teaching how to preach in a gravelly voice, say "praiz-a the lawd-a" and rouse a crowd, he would graduate magna c** laude. With the aid of his microphone, he very passionately began preaching the Word of God. I didn't really understand much, but he got the congregation participating, declaring Amen at regular intervals, and laughing along with his jokes.

The sermon went on for about 40 minutes, and I did begin to lose interest, simply through lack of understanding. At the end, we all bowed our head for a solemn prayer and a sombre hymn. During this time, a young toddler decided to wander round the church - unchecked by his parents, as is the way here - and his attention was caught by the cockerel. Whilst we were all reverently singing in low voices, he proceeded to walk up and kick the poor bird across the floor. The bird was buffeted along the ground, but not a single person did anything about it (I'll write a future blog post on animal treatment here). Once again, the toddler kicked the bird like a football, who ended up as what I can only unfortunately describe as spatchcocked on the floor, unable to move. At this point - I feel in consideration of the disruption caused to the prayer rather than the torture of the bird - the mother ran up and took the child away.

The choir then started a more rousing song, and it was the time for the collection. A deep basket was placed on a stand at the front of the church, and the congregation filed up, row by row, to drop in their donation. Everyone was very careful to put their hand deep into the basket, in order to hide how much they were (or, to be cynical, how much they weren't) putting in. I had come prepared, and since I was one of the last to go up, I peeked into the basket and it was certainly very full of 500 and 1,000 shilling notes. It was also full of envelopes as part of the church's planned giving. Those who participate have an envelope with their name and number on, and a record of how much they have given each week.

We all sat down, and then another basket was brought out. So we all got up again and filed round for more donations. I had been warned about this  - apparently the baskets are for different causes. This continued for a third time, but the donations were significantly fewer this time round.

The next stage of the service included "special events" - a baptism and what I took to be the confirmation of some older boys who had returned to the church after a period of absence. I was by this point hot, bored and with a numb bum. But my attention was diverted by a little girl who decided to wander over and sit next to me. Very cute!

The service was shortly over, and we all stood up and traipsed out into the open grassy area in front of the church. The little girl took my hand and walked alongside me; I had no idea who her mother was or whether she minded her child being abducted in such an unwilling way!

We then all stood outside, and the pawpaws, maize and the poor cockerel were brought out and promptly auctioned off to the highest bidder.

That was the service over. I had thought at that point people might come up to me to enquire about  my being there, but they were clearly too shy - or more likely assumed I would not understand. Only one lady braved it and asked me a few questions about where I was from. But I appreciated the gesture.

So, three hours after the service had started, we left church and plodded home in the midday sun. All in all it was very interesting, and I wish I had been able to understand more of the service. Has it converted me? Possibly not. I'm afraid I still don't see the need to believe in God to be a good person and live a good life. That may change in the future as I continue my self-imposed examination of faith. But for the time being, I'll give next Sunday's service a miss. 

And the cock? He went for 16,000 shillings.