Friday, January 12

In the few days I have been here in Yambio, Martha and I have adopted the habit of a long evening walk. Each night we take a different route, winding through the market or through gatherings of tukuls. We attract attention. I am white and obviously not from these parts. Martha, who is our nurse, is from the Upper Nile region of South Sudan. She is noticeably tall, endlessly thin and has glorious black skin. By her account she is black and the people here are brown. Despite her usual timidity, she strides with confidence through town, calling back to the men who notice us, switching between Arabic, Swahili, and English as necessary. She even knows a bit of Zande, or at least enough to issue greetings. Martha easily answers my endless questions about life here. She is Nuer, a tribe of pastoral people that moves frequently in search of water for their long-horned cows. Martha left for Uganda during the war and was schooled there as a nurse. Along our walk we encounter Samuel, our HR manager, on his blue bicycle. “Samuel, you are all over the place. Every time we go out we see you,” I say. “Well,” he replies, “if I am all over the place then you must be too, because I see you everywhere!” At the young age of 27, Samuel has four children, which is not uncommon here. Though both he and his wife are from Yambio, his wife and children live in Nairobi. The schooling there is better, Samuel explains. Martha, too, is away from her child. Abby is 3 and lives with Martha’s brother in Nairobi. Many of the nationals and ex-pats working for IMC have families elsewhere. Leaving family behind -- be it immediate or extended -- for a job is not unique to Americans in the international public health and development fields.

We are having such a good time walking and talking with Samuel slowly pedaling beside us that we don’t realize the distance we have come. We are 4 kilometers from the compound and darkness is setting in fast. We turn around and pick up the pace. When darkness takes a complete hold, it becomes difficult to see my feet. I choose my steps carefully, avoiding potholes, ruts and rocks. The smoke that never seems to leave the air chokes us. I love and hate the passing motorcycles that both provide light and shine that light in our eyes. When we are nearly to the compound, Richard, our logistician and finance guy, cruises up on his motorcycle. We both jump on and he delivers us – relieved, tired and hungry -- to the UNICEF gates. We agree to either start our marathon strolls earlier in the evening, or to pay attention to our watches.