Tuesday, February 20

“Kiss, what is this kiss?” It’s Joy, an acquaintance who lives with us at the UNICEF compound in Yambio.

“What? I didn’t say kiss, did I? Wait, how do you say it?” I ask.

“Kway-sa,” she says.

“Kway-sa,” I repeat.

I’m trying to learn a few words of Arabic. Today’s word is “fine,” as in “Kafe (How are you)?” “Kway-sa (Fine).”

While the southern Sudanese population is almost entirely comprised of black Christians, most people know Arabic due to the North’s extended rule over the South, complete with its Arabic language and Sharia (Islam) law. By some accounts there are nearly 600 tribes in South Sudan and 100 languages. Therefore, Arabic and English have become the common denominators.

“You know, I have this funny, funny story about a kiss,” says Joy, who proceeds to entertain the entire dinner table.

When Joy’s younger brother was a teen-ager, he received a visit at the family home from his girlfriend. She was quite enamored with him and longed for a kiss. When she did not receive one, she proceeded to whine, in English – something to the effect of “I have not even received one kiss, not one kiss.”

Joy’s mother did not speak English. All she could understand of the girl’s insistent pleas was, “….kiss….kiss….kiss.”

Growing weary of the whining, the mother reached for her pocketbook and said to the young lady, in Arabic, “Look, I’m tired of this. All day long you have been complaining about this kiss, this kiss, this kiss my son owes you. Now, how much is this kiss? How much do we have to pay for you to let my son alone?”

Joy’s brother and his siblings collapsed into uncontrollable laughter, faces reddening, eyes springing tears. A bewildered mother was left wondering further about her children’s seemingly strange behavior.

“Mother, dear mother,” Joy said, still gasping for breath. “Kiss, kiss – it means this,” she said, pantomiming a smooch.

The mother grew silent with embarrassment, as did the girlfriend. In Arabic, a kiss is a paper bag.

****
Warning: Contains crude language bound to upset my dear mother.

Even when we’re all speaking English, accents can present challenges among this motley crew of international workers in South Sudan.
“Brakes?”
“No, bricks.”
“Cartons? What cartons? We don’t need cartons. Oh, you mean curtains.”
“Any bananas left?”
Blank stare.
“Banana? (adding pantomime of peeling a banana).
“Ba-NON-na?”
“OK, if you say so, Ba-NON-na.”

My favorite story of this nature involves the dear sweet Kenyan Lucy, our nurse in Tambura. It’s around Christmas and Kara and I are walking and talking, reminiscing about New Orleans. Lucy’s voice is crackling across the handheld Motorola radio. She and Val are inviting us to join them behind the compound, among the Dinka tribe who are partying among the tukuls. By the time we reach the compound, Val and Lucy have returned.
“How was it?” I ask.
“Oh, I’m so full,” says Lucy, placing her hands over her stomach to emphasize her discomfort. “They forced me to take a hot cock!”
“What?!” I ask, in alarm.
“They forced me to take a hot cock,” she repeated. “I’m so full.”
“What? Wait, are you OK?” I ask, only just then realizing her words.
“Girl, oh my word! Repeat after me: Coke, Coke, Coke.”
“Coke.”
“Good girl. Don’t forget it!”