I walked among lengthening shadows cast by a setting African sun. Along with my companions (an American journalist, a Maryknoll priest and our bodyguard) I traveled between villages the best way one can in that world --- on foot.

Distances there are not measured in miles or kilometers, but in hours. There are no roads, only dusty, uneven, rock-strewn pathways such as the one we were negotiating. Two hours on such a path is a short journey for the locals; two days would be considered substantial.

During the second hour of our journey, I paused on a hillside and turned to view a deep valley, spotted with numerous, small groupings of thatched huts, where Nuba families had lived for centuries. As the warm auburn faded, I began to realize that this place where I stood was, surely, similar to the Holy Land in the time of Christ.

A land traversed on foot along narrow, dusty pathways; an arid terrain at the peak of its dry season; a land where distant neighbors passing each other would invariably pause for greetings. It is, after all, unheard of for two Nuba to pass on one of these trails without offering a warm smile or a gentle hand on the other's shoulder (their traditional greeting).

Another characteristic of the Nuba is the unavoidable condition of their feet. Many go barefoot, while many others wear crudely fashioned shoes (often made from the rubber of discarded automobile tires). So inevitably, their feet become caked in the soil of the earth. It seems to form an extra layer of skin, perhaps an added protection from the harsh elements.

Seven years ago, almost to the day, I was in their world, celebrating Easter in the Nuba Mountains of Central Sudan. Of the wonders I observed among these wise, gentle people, one in particular stands out during this time of Easter seven years later. It humbles me to consider what it must mean to kneel down and wash the feet of a fellow Nuba, and how doing so must be an act of deep humility.

I consider this in light of my own faith tradition of the washing of the feet; a ritual performed in numerous Catholic churches each Holy Thursday. Pondering the ancient origins of this tradition, I am reminded that Jesus performed this act no less than a dozen times at the Last Supper, cleansing away the soil of the earth, that layer of skin, from the feet of each one of his disciples.

Knowing of this since my youth, from having read the Gospels, it wasn't until composing this reflection that I came to realize what an event that cleansing must have been. It was no simple act.

And, in the rough, dry land of the Nuba, few acts are simple. Few greetings are matter of fact. Few meals are prepared in haste. Few stories are told with abandon or heard with nonchalance. Few prayers are offered without an awareness of immediate suffering or some solemn remembrance of the dead. All things are done with a pace and deliberation owed to realities of the land they inhabit. All things are done very close to the earth and, in a true sense, very close to God.

David Tlapek is a writer and filmmaker living in Los Angeles. His most recent documentary depicts the creation of the tapestries in the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels.