Kara, Lucy, Val and I walk the security route today in order to know it should we need to evacuate the compound on foot. We talk about putting a ladder in the far corner of the compound in order to scale the 15-foot brick wall. The first designated meeting point is a large unoccupied house behind us and to the north. The second is behind the smaller of the two elementary school buildings near the Catholic Church. The final is far down the path, at an intersection of teak trees, next to a small crumbling brick wall.
We decide to turn the security route drill into a hike. It’s good to be away from the compound. Tukuls line the narrow, rutted dirt footpath. Villagers stare as we pass, no doubt wondering what three white girls are doing walking in these parts. They instantly warm, however, at our smiles and waives. Some women shake our hands; some we pass on the path respond only out of obligation. The trail descends slightly in elevation and ends at the Yuba River. It’s stagnant and looks dirty, yet one woman is washing her clothes and a dozen boys are flocking in its water. A handful of girls are hiking up the trail with buckets of water balanced on heads. For many in this area, ponds and streams are the only water source.
Back at the top of the trail, the crowd around the Catholic Church challenges our curiosity. We venture a peek and soon we are inside, standing among everyone as if we had always been there, swaying back and forth to the music. A woman slaps a gourd-like maraca in my hand. All the women are on one side of the church; the men on the other. Some women are wearing blue handkerchiefs with white crosses on their heads, an indication of their membership in a church auxiliary group. Their signature high-pitched tongue screams echo off the stucco walls.
The Sunday market is a meager affair. At this hour (4:30 p.m.) the only produce remaining are green oranges. Most of the venders are selling a combination of plastic shoes, women and children’s apparel, salt, soap, and various other household items. The stores and stalls are simple -- wooden platforms held in place with wooden poles, bed sheets spread on the ground, and in one case a stall covered in UNHCR tarp.
At the sound of what promises to be another holiday parade for the holidays, we bolt from the compound to the main road. It’s a small band of Christian, being led by a priest, carrying a white banner decorated with red crosses. Several nuns in white dresses and headscarves are accompanied by children playing small percussion instruments, a man on a conch-like horn, and a few soldiers with AK-47s.
