My First Rastafarian Church service

For years I have been fascinated with, what is to me, the mysterious and unspoken culture of the Rastafari. They seem like a culture which has been misrepresented, almost out casted. My aim for this documentary is to demolish the typical stereotypes that comes with the rastafarian religion. Yes, at first everyone thinks the Rastafari culture is an excuse to sit around all day and smoke weed. People believe they are unambitious louts who do not work because they are ‘lazy’. Well these are the questions I will be asking them.



So here I am venturing off in my little white car and equipped only with a maranz, I will be meeting Benjamin, a rasta elder who is the priest in the local church. He resides in a holding in Kenton, 45 minutes away from Grahamstown. Before my arrival I have been told he is the only Rastafarian in the community of Kenton, he has been sent there to spread the word of Jah.

Ben is a true Rastafarian, his hair is wrapped in a grey cloth, and sags about two feet behind his neck. Two of his front teeth have been knocked out as he smiles and embraces me. He tells me he is thin because he only eats vegetables, and only vegetables made on Africas soil – even grapes are out of the question. After he sweeps his house we find ourselves on our way to the Nayabingi church, which means “death to black and white oppressors”. I realise Ben talks a lot, one hell of a lot, and can see how he must be a brilliant priest as he throws out scriptures in his every day talking. On the way he greets many people on the side of the road. He is well known here, almost a celebrity.
The church is situated on a giant stretch of desolate land just outside the Port Alfred Location. It’s a large square room about twenty metres in length and width. The establishment is literally made out of anything the Rastafarians could find, a log from here, cloth from there and a whole lot of black canvas. I was ordered to stay outside, so Ben could consult with his fellow elders to see if I was allowed in. I started to become nervous, before hand my impression was Ben had spoken to the elders already…

After about ten minutes of waiting Ben ushers me in, to what was the most awkward atmosphere I had ever entered. In the far corner glowerd a small fire, next to it was one very young man, about 17 years old and on his right were two older men. The first one was supporting himself against a beam and just stared at me as I walked in, his eyes seemed very blood shot, and a hint of a smile flickered on his face. His dreads were very long, about two feet in length, pointing towards the floor. The Second rastafarian was much older, and looked much bleaker. His dreads were so old they must have fallen out over the years. I sit next to him, he looks at my microphone and maranz, and asks if I’m a journalist..I say yes but assure him I am trying to understand the Rastafarian culture. He nods his head but starts going off at my clothes, yes I should have researched more. I was in shorts and a short sleeved shirt, while all of them were “humble” looking as he called it. In my defence I never knew Benjamin was going to take me to the church on the first day. Next time I was not meant to show more than about 1/7th of my skin- quick mental note! Not a good start.

After sitting down and profusely apologising about my clothes, I realised that the Rastas hardly ever talk. We shared about a five minutes of silence, which I found extremely straining. During this period, an empty coconut shell with a bamboo pipe attached at the top was passed around. The Rastafarians smoked marijuana in the one side of the bamboo, and blew out a very thick cloud of smoke through their nostrils. Later I found out this was their chalice. The smoke was from the weed or ganja which they mulled. This was the herbal sacrifice to their God, Jah. Each time the chalice was passed around the Rastafarians would make the 'two sevens clash'. This is where the hand is held up with index finger and thumb parting. These then touch the Rasta’s index finger and thumb making a heart like shape. As they touch the Rastas draw their hands to their heart and bless the chalice. I have suddenly noticed this herb is definitely not puffed for recreational purposes, instead, it takes the Rastafarians to a different spiritual level. They never offered me the chalice; this was because only elders can smoke out of it. Even the youngster was not offered. I didn’t realise how traditional this entire day was going to be.

After about an hour of sitting around, six more Rastas gather into the church. All male, and all looking exactly the same. They are slight men, and have dreads that any Jamaican would be proud of. The most fascinating of the six was the last that came. He was the oldest Rastafarian. He could not speak English so I was dismayed when I realised I couldn’t have a proper conversation with him. He impressed me because of his full commitment in the chanting.

After about twenty minutes of reading scriptures. Three Rastafarians sit by the drums in the corner. There is one bass drum, and two smaller drums. The bass slowly starts off the beat, and the two drums pick up the rhythm, they almost freestyle throughout the chant. This was the most intense experience of the day. The combination of the drums, the chanting voices and the sheer repetitiveness throws your mind into an unreal world. The more the Rastafarains chant, the more they almost seem as if they are not there in person. One Rastafarian leans on his staff with his eyes closed as he chants. The eldest Rasta paces up and down the far right corner, dancing in a trance like state. The entire chant lasts about forty minutes. Even I found myself thinking about the strangest things, unreal things. The smoke in the air was definitely getting to me. Either that, or there was a sense of an unreal spiritual presence, one I have never felt before.
During the day I learnt two valuable lessons. Rasta time is different to conventional time, or “Babylon” time. As they call it. Rastafarians take everything slowly, carefully. They appreciate humbleness to no end. If you are not humble, you are not filled with Jah. Secondly, everything has a structure, everything has a place. Men sit here, women sit on the other side. No one is allowed by the centre alter except the elder priest. When we have lunch, the bananas must be broken in half and shared with the person next to you.
After lunch the Rastafarians open up a formal meeting within the church. An agenda is brought out and the minutes are read from last week. I felt privileged to be involved in this meeting. We are still looked at with suspicious eyes, one Rastafarian told me “we are careful people. We only trust when we see humbleness”. Up to now I was trying to be as humble as possible, yes I was not wearing the right clothes but I had everything else in check. My moment came when the head Rastafarian asked what my purpose was at their church. It was my first opportunity to speak to all the elders at once. What a strange, nervous feeling. I told them about my aims for the documentary. They had a debate in Xhosa for about five minutes afterwards. Then an overwhelmingly warm feeling entered the atmosphere. As the head Rastafarian, who I later learnt was a man called Judah, told me that they all agree to work with me to spread the word of Jah. On condition that they hear the piece before it is produced, and that no recordings are done in the temple. I happily agreed.
After this we chanted for fifty seven minutes. I once again fell into the strange sleep like trance, the fifty seven minutes felt like ten to be honest. To sum it up, it was weird. We left with everyone hugging and blessing everyone else. They hugged and blessed me as if I was one of them. I had never felt so honoured in my entire life.