The Elephant Diaries: being heard

"Welcome, where are you?"
"Coming. Nearly there."
"Where? We can't see you."
"I'm on the street."
"Where on the street?!"
"Don't worry, I can see you."

Of course he can see us. We're in the township in Plett, the sun is setting and all around us people are returning from work, and giving us curious looks along the way. I'm wearing a bright green scarf with elephants on it. Brooke is tall and fair-skinned. Liv has curly blonde hair. We don't exactly blend in.

Finally he arrives, gives us hugs and leads us into a big yellow building which we realise is actually a school. He's all dressed up in a tie and suit trousers, and I vaguely wonder if I'm underdressed. He's a slim guy, around 27, with smiling eyes and a shaved head. We go into a small classroom which cheerful but tired (yellow paint flaking from the walls), and a young-looking woman comes in and introduces herself, and Welcome leaves us to go organise something or other, reassuring us he'll be right back. There is an awkward pause.

"So you girls know Welcome from the elephant park?"
"Yep," we say in unison.

Very awkward pause.

"Have you heard of the apostles of Jesus Christ?" she asks pleasantly and thankfully at that moment Welcome reappears and with him are some other well-dressed men who come in and stand in a line at the side of the room. We perch awkwardly on the kids chairs by the door.

Welcome turns to us and says in English "listen first, then you can join in," before beginning a fast-paced speech to the others in Xhosa. He lowers his head and we follow suit nervously, and he murmurs a wave of Xhosa which washes over us and ends with 'amen'. Then he raises his arms, takes a moment to breathe, and begins to sing.

Immediately the others join in, just one female voice to five males, and words that we do not understand flow around the tiny room like a sea current, mingling in harmonies and dipping in and out of tune but always strong, powerful like a punch in the air. Each voice is loud, deep and clear, and the singers sway back and forth and move their feet like the music is rising out of them from their feet. More people slip through the door as the hour ticks past seven and Welcome soundlessly points them to their place in the room - sopranos to the far left, basses to the far right - and they join in and move their bodies powerfully from side to side. The music gets louder and louder as the choir grows, and it dawns on me that I am never, ever going to be able to join in. The notes are complex and foreign and dance on top of each other with an energy I've never seen in any of the stayed English choirs I've experienced.

We recognise some of the guys who work at the park in the boma - who look equally pleased and horrified to see us sitting there when they come in - and we eye each other curiously. I see Patrick, a photographer at the park, with a little daughter clinging to him, singing a beautiful tenor part. The whole room dances and shakes as feet stamp and arms wave. When a song ends suddenly, or if Welcome wants to correct something and stops midway, there is an echo in the room so strong and immediate it's almost violent. We sit enraptured for an hour before the sound disappears in a shock of final notes and we find ourselves shaking hands - with our newly-learnt African handshake - with every member of the choir. The women grin at us warmly and laugh as they grasp our hands and the men smile shyly but genuinely, eyes lowered, and then it's finished and we make our way outside to wait for the taxi, arm in arm with the altos. But I find it hard to concentrate because the air seems very thin and empty without the collision of 25 souls diving over one another in a race to find the perfect sound. So we get in the cab shouting thank-yous and the other volunteers ask us how it was, but I don't know how on earth to explain it. Eventually I settle on 'loud'.