Even the beauty of blue mountains curving in the distance is marred by dusty land as far as the eye can see, pockmarked by shed-sized houses covered with plastic and cardboard. S.C. There is no time here, only the sharp sun beating down and occasional dusty puffs of wind across dirty pathways, blowing into sandals, ruffling sweaty hair and discarded trash. Mangy dogs weave in and out of the crowds who wait for medical care, looking for the cool shadows behind the army tents where Easley's doctors and dentists work. And then there is a sound, piercing the stagnant air like a burst of fresh rain. Passersby on bikes shoo chickens out of the way, pausing to listen.
Old folks leaning on fence posts turn their heads.
Singing about Jesus Christ. I wasn't prepared at all. As soon as we got off the bus, the kids came running right up to us. I had no idea how we were going to have a Bible school that day. Then one of the Brazilian pastors came over, picked up a guitar and began singing Christian songs in Portuguese.