Sunday, Sept. 2

Tonight I fell down the rabbit hole. The Alice in Wonderland “How did I get here and what is happening?” hole.

The day started in an ordinary – if not unusual for me – fashion. I went to mass at the Catholic Church with my good friend Stephanie, a Canadian police officer who is serving with the United Nations Mission in Sudan. The small church is quickly overrun by the 9 a.m. English mass, requiring instigation of Operation Bring Your Own Chair. Our friends at the Christian Brothers NGO allowed us to borrow plastic chairs; they live adjacent to the church, naturally. When we returned their chairs, they invited us over this evening to watch a movie.

So tonight we gather in their simple courtyard, perched on fluorescent green upholstered chairs, nibbling on peanuts and sloshing down either Bell (which the locals will try to convince you stands for “Be Educated Live Long”) beer from Uganda or Pilsner (People in Love Should Never Entertain Rumors) beer from who knows where. This is when the rabbit hole opens up, and not just because we are drinking beer with a priest and near-priests (one of whom we’ve secretly renamed the Christian Groper for his half-hearted, harmless attempts at breaking that celibacy vow).

From an unseen side courtyard door enter three orphans, of varying heights, carrying water buckets. A woman who lives in a home adjacent to the Christian Brothers has taken it upon herself to care for the youngest of orphans, many of whom have lost their parents to AIDS. “Gunie pie” we say in greeting, shaking their delightfully dirty hands. They reciprocate with shy little “pie-tay” responses. They readily eat some peanuts. They wander casually out the opposite gate, their chubby butts playing hide and seek beneath their shirts (here, a child is dressed if they are wearing a shirt; pants are optional). We drink beer. There is no hint of the movie we were invited to watch.

As we swap stories about nothing important, something to my right catches my attention. It’s a man suffering from acute flaccid paralysis. The disease, quite common here, has rendered his legs useless. He is the same man who this morning at church greeted us so warmly (“Hello, my sisters”) in a powerful voice backed by a strong smile. He has left his arm-powered three-wheeled bicycle next to the Land Cruiser under the carport and is shuffling on his hands – protected by rubber flip-flops – to a wooden chair set back from our circle. He is wearing one of the public health T-shirts ubiquitous to this region, this one asking people to report any child with polio to the health department. I’m told the man lives nearby and is a regular visitor to the Christian Brothers. Lucisa brings him some food and an orange Fanta soda, as well as some peanuts. He looks quite content. We drink beer.

A few minutes later, two nuns donning solid blue dresses and matching habits enter the yard. They make the rounds of the circle, shaking each of our hands in the required Sudanese way. They don’t stay long. I can’t help but notice that one takes a Heineken as she leaves. We drink beer.

As the sun sets, the evening demands a stronger reaction. The laptop we are using as our sound system is playing mushy make-out music that only the invited couple seemingly having an extra-marital affair enjoys. We boycott that and take in some old school Madonna; only in retrospect do I appreciate the irony of choosing this particular singer. We drink beer. We dance. The Christian Brothers are up out of their seats, showing us their Tanzanian moves. Even Father Thomas has submitted to my playful chiding and is on his feet. We move until the sweat pours from our brows and the energy flows from our veins. We laugh with the moon and look with wonder at the stars, all of which appear brighter than ever from the bottom of this rabbit hole.