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.
Friday, Aug. 31
Those of you who know me well understand that some of the best years of my life – to date – were spent in Port Townsend, Washington. I learned a great deal about who I am and what I want from life by living in that funky little village of 8,500 on the Olympic Peninsula. No matter where my work and travels take me, I insist that a part of my soul remains in Port Townsend. One day I will return to both. I lead a life that is anything but typical for someone my age. I don’t have a husband, children, a pet, and least of all a home. I do, however, have a mean storage unit in New Orleans. However, at the risk of jinxing my dream, dare I have finally started having thoughts of my “later” years. The dream is to buy a small plot of land, preferably overlooking the waters of Puget Sound near Port Townsend, and build a straw bale house (with a detached yoga hut). I would live off the grid, drawing my power from the sun and my water from the rain. No flush toilets for this property – a latrine is the dream (sorry, couldn’t resist the rhyme). This off-the-grid vision now strikes me as ironic. You see, I am living off the grid now. Here in Yambio, our lives are quite simple. We have two separate properties – one for work and one for home. At home, we have two latrines (equipped with toilet like seats for added comfort), and two showers. The showers are fed by a large water tank that is filled daily by one of our cleaners/water carriers. He used to have to fetch the water from a borehole a couple blocks away and ferry it back by vehicle. But as of last week we have a rainwater collection system. The heavy rains that fall this time of year slide off the tin roof into rain gutters that dump into a substantially sized plastic water tank. This water can then be used to fill the tank that feeds the showers. It also provides our cooks with the water they need to wash our dishes and cook our food. We moved into the house in April, having been forced out of the ridiculously expensive UNICEF compound. The house was never properly outfitted, and since we will be closed by Dec. 1, there’s not much sense in upgrading it. So without a kitchen sink, our cooks wash our dishes in a wheelbarrow in the yard and put them to dry in the sun on a large drying rack. Without a proper stove, they cook like many other Sudanese women – from a charcoal-fed three-legged stove that requires them to bend over or hunker down in front of it. Without a bathroom sink, we brush out teeth outside and spit our toothpaste in the grass. The refrigerator is fueled by kerosene. Our electricity comes from a diesel-powered chitty chitty bang bang generator that runs from 7:30 p.m. to 10:30 p.m. nightly.
I have grown accustomed to this life. I have even become a fan of cold morning outdoor showers. Despite these limitations, we have more than most. The Sudanese by and large live in tukuls (mud huts with grass roofs). If they live in a city with boreholes, they walk to or send their children to gather water in plastic 20-liter jerry cans. If they live in an area without boreholes or wells, they are forced to draw river or pond water, or in some cases, water from nothing more than a large pothole. If they don’t have a latrine, they simply do their business in the bush. In a survey that my dear friend Kara did last fall at our other site in Tambura, it was found that nearly 20 percent of those interviewed lack any sort of latrine – pit or bucket style. You can imagine how this contributes to disease. The situation seems even worse in the capital of Juba. Never a day passed there when I didn’t seem someone (mostly men, but sometimes children) urinating. Doing so in the open is so common that no one attempts to be discreet. I have never understood why the situation in Juba seems worse than in other locations, such as Yambio. I was told by a former refugee that the Arabs who ruled the south prior to war did not allow the digging of latrines. Anyone caught doing so would be told that they were essentially digging their own grave. I have no way to know if this true; often one person’s story is contradicted by another’s. Regardless, it’s painfully obvious that much that this region in highly underdeveloped.
So while for me living off the grid in the United States is a dream, for the people of South Sudan, it is a cold, stark reality.
Photo caption: Speaking of community water sources, this hole in the ground filled with turbid, stagnant water is the community water source during the rainy season for the village of Ndoromo, located about 10 miles north of the Sudan-Congo border. Elizabeth, our training and capacity building officer, and Esto, a primary health care supervision support officer, examine the hole along with Community Health Worker Samuel Appolo (middle). During the dry season, community members hike some distance to a river to gather their water.
Thursday, Aug. 30
Living in Africa, I tend to forget the details of my life in the United States. PIN numbers and access codes, phone numbers and addresses escape me. Birthdays go unacknowledged. Heck, I don’t even know what month we’re in half the time as there is little change in the seasons. But I surprised even myself with this overseas-induced forgetfulness Tuesday evening. A new logistician from France had arrived on a Yambio site visit. In an effort to get to know one another, we were conducting the usual interview: where are you from, where have you worked before, do you have a family, etc. I always have a difficult time answering the simple question: What state are you from? I typically state that I’m originally from Minnesota. If the person knows the lay of the land, I explain that I also spent most of my adult life in Washington State and that I most recently lived in New Orleans. To the latter bit of information, I often add, “You know, the place that had the big hurricane a couple years ago?” I assume that most people know of the situation even if they are unfamiliar with Louisiana. It was then that my mind did a quick calculation and realized that in fact this is the month of August, and that the two-year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina was the following day.
When I left New Orleans in December, the crime rate had been skyrocketing for months and large swaths of the city remained in hopeless ruins. Emails from my NOLA friends indicate that life has become even more harrowing in the Big Easy. Let me outright plagiarize Sarah’s email, as she says it best. “The crime (both violent and white collar) is outrageous. In the last 2 weeks a patron of Pal’s had he throat slit while sitting at the bar by an unstable veteran for no apparent reason, 2 big dog criminal brothers (reportedly responsible for 15+ murders between them) were killed 4 hours apart, one in a hail of 100+ bullets not 4 blocks from your old house at 5pm, several times a day migrant workers who are busting their asses to rebuild the city are robbed at gunpoint of their hard earned cash, there was a huge Justice Department sting at Traffic Court that resulted in so many arrests for embezzlement and bribery that the court had to be shut down for lack of employees, and City Council President Oliver Thomas just pled guilty to bribery in a parking lot shakedown scheme. And after a week of crime Mayor Nagin said, and I paraphrase a bit, “It’s a two edged sword. Unfortunate that so many people are getting killed but at least it keeps people talking about New Orleans. It keeps us in the national media.”
Yesterday I read a news article about the health care system in NOLA. It remains, seemingly, beyond repair. The article told the story of man suspected of suffering form prostate cancer. Due to the lack of doctors and functioning facilities, patients are often forced to travel to distant Louisiana cities for diagnosis and treatment. He was looking at having to go to the city of Houma which I believe is about 50 miles away, but he had no vehicle, and even if he did, he would have waited months for an appointment. He mentioned to his nurse that his niece in Nicaragua who was a doctor. The nurse, even to her own astonishment, found herself recommending that he travel to Nicaragua for health care. Plagiarizing again, I write her here quote from the Times-Picayune: “We felt he would have the support and that it would be a lot less cumbersome and difficult for him to get a consultation there,” she said. "I have been a nurse for 30 years. I never thought I would have seen anything like this."
The organization I’m working for now in South Sudan has programs in something like 24 countries. In the days after Hurricane Katrina, it tried ardently to open programming in New Orleans, but was forced to shelve it plans by politics and bureaucracy.
It’s at times like these that I’m at a loss to explain my country, and even sometimes my own intentions and desires. The other day Elizabeth and I were comparing health care coverage – particularly for the indigent -- in the United State and her home country, Kenya. I explained that depending on one’s location, one could indeed get free or reduced health care, but that services are limited, and often don’t exist in rural areas. “Then why are you people here giving health care to the Africans?” she asked her typical no-nonsense style. Sometimes a question can stop you dead. I can’t explain my country, goodness knows, but I can explain my choices, at least to a certain extent. I could wrap it in bows and pretty paper, but the bottom line is this: I work in developing countries because I want to. There’s no other way to put it. Yes, helping people is important to me and I thrive on it, and God knows the people of South Sudan need it. But in the end, there is no such thing as altruism.
Would it be so for New Orleans, the Broken Easy, my home of yesterday. May God bless it this hurricane season.
When I left New Orleans in December, the crime rate had been skyrocketing for months and large swaths of the city remained in hopeless ruins. Emails from my NOLA friends indicate that life has become even more harrowing in the Big Easy. Let me outright plagiarize Sarah’s email, as she says it best. “The crime (both violent and white collar) is outrageous. In the last 2 weeks a patron of Pal’s had he throat slit while sitting at the bar by an unstable veteran for no apparent reason, 2 big dog criminal brothers (reportedly responsible for 15+ murders between them) were killed 4 hours apart, one in a hail of 100+ bullets not 4 blocks from your old house at 5pm, several times a day migrant workers who are busting their asses to rebuild the city are robbed at gunpoint of their hard earned cash, there was a huge Justice Department sting at Traffic Court that resulted in so many arrests for embezzlement and bribery that the court had to be shut down for lack of employees, and City Council President Oliver Thomas just pled guilty to bribery in a parking lot shakedown scheme. And after a week of crime Mayor Nagin said, and I paraphrase a bit, “It’s a two edged sword. Unfortunate that so many people are getting killed but at least it keeps people talking about New Orleans. It keeps us in the national media.”
Yesterday I read a news article about the health care system in NOLA. It remains, seemingly, beyond repair. The article told the story of man suspected of suffering form prostate cancer. Due to the lack of doctors and functioning facilities, patients are often forced to travel to distant Louisiana cities for diagnosis and treatment. He was looking at having to go to the city of Houma which I believe is about 50 miles away, but he had no vehicle, and even if he did, he would have waited months for an appointment. He mentioned to his nurse that his niece in Nicaragua who was a doctor. The nurse, even to her own astonishment, found herself recommending that he travel to Nicaragua for health care. Plagiarizing again, I write her here quote from the Times-Picayune: “We felt he would have the support and that it would be a lot less cumbersome and difficult for him to get a consultation there,” she said. "I have been a nurse for 30 years. I never thought I would have seen anything like this."
The organization I’m working for now in South Sudan has programs in something like 24 countries. In the days after Hurricane Katrina, it tried ardently to open programming in New Orleans, but was forced to shelve it plans by politics and bureaucracy.
It’s at times like these that I’m at a loss to explain my country, and even sometimes my own intentions and desires. The other day Elizabeth and I were comparing health care coverage – particularly for the indigent -- in the United State and her home country, Kenya. I explained that depending on one’s location, one could indeed get free or reduced health care, but that services are limited, and often don’t exist in rural areas. “Then why are you people here giving health care to the Africans?” she asked her typical no-nonsense style. Sometimes a question can stop you dead. I can’t explain my country, goodness knows, but I can explain my choices, at least to a certain extent. I could wrap it in bows and pretty paper, but the bottom line is this: I work in developing countries because I want to. There’s no other way to put it. Yes, helping people is important to me and I thrive on it, and God knows the people of South Sudan need it. But in the end, there is no such thing as altruism.
Would it be so for New Orleans, the Broken Easy, my home of yesterday. May God bless it this hurricane season.
Monday, Aug. 27
Now is the season for passion fruit and mushrooms. The sour passion fruit have a mucus-like interior and edible seeds that make for a fantastic fresh juice. The humongous, white fleshy mushrooms evoke images of Alice in Wonderland. We bought these beauties for $1 each from these two cute boys, stunned as they were by the white woman with the camera. Next up in the produce season is oranges. We miss the pineapple and await their sweet return. What I won’t miss is the chicken that has taken to laying eggs in my foyer and her noisy rooster husband who crows at all hours of the day and night.
Saturday, Aug. 25
More and more people are getting malaria these days. Malaria is a constant problem here, but more so during the rainy season, which we are in the thick of. Elizabeth has been on an IV drip with Quinine in her room for three days, the usual medicine not having worked its course. We are leaving the generator on later into the night so that we can be assured the IV doesn’t come out, which would cause her to bleed to death if she were alone in the dark, asleep, unaware. Moses has been being a good nurse, bringing her IV bags and medicine, and opening a new vein when the other gave out. That is when he’s not being called on by others. Our senior medical staff does not provide clinical services but rather oversee our in-clinic services and public health efforts. However, at times they are called upon by our employees and our friends who rightly so don’t want to go to the poorly run hospital, operated by another organization. Friday it was Richard’s baby (the one I wrote about previously who nearly died in the days after her birth) who wouldn’t stop crying. Moses believes it was a viral infection that came on as she was being weaned. When Moses went to Richard’s house the following evening as agreed, neither Richard, the wife or the baby could be found. Moses believed they had gone to a witch doctor. Then our operations manager’s sister had an earache. Next, a woman who had previously been treated by our former doctor for rabies was brought forth again by her family. Because no anti-rabies antigen could be found in town at the time, the rabies has set in. It seems now that not much can be done. However, our guard’s burns are healing well. He came to work last week with a swollen, charred hand and lower arm. A mishap with kerosene created a fire that burned down his tukul (hut-like home) and damaged his skin. In true stoic, Zande style, he didn’t bring it to our attention, but when we became aware he was promptly given a ride home and provided with a few household items we has in storage. Today, his skin is healing and he says he’s in no pain.
Note: I have yet to figure out the caption process on this blog. In this photo, Moses is on the left and Qu (Big Boy at Home) is on the right.
Note: I have yet to figure out the caption process on this blog. In this photo, Moses is on the left and Qu (Big Boy at Home) is on the right.
Friday, Aug. 24
The man whose leg was amputated after his motorcycle crashed into our Land Cruiser has returned to Yambio from our hospital in a neighboring state. Our staff picked him at the airstrip and brought him to our yard, where he was greeted by nearly every one of our employees as well as his friends who had gotten word that he’d returned. The afternoon found his family gathered en masse outside their tukuls welcoming him home. He is on crutches; when his stump is properly healed, he will be fitted for prosthesis from the International Committee of the Red Cross. We are hopeful that now that he has returned the judge will see fit to release our driver from prison and our vehicle from impound.
****
The husband of Susan, one of our cooks, had his own run-in with a motorcycle in nearly the same location as our accident. If I understand Susan correctly, his arm and leg are broken, or at least seriously injured. Of course she didn’t mention this to us (we find out through others) and continues to beam that beautiful smile and say everything is fine. Seems her husband was “footing” when a Senge crashed into him, or as they say “knocked” him. Here, the word Senge is synonymous with not only the word motorcycle, but with danger. Senge drivers, particularly the boda-boda (slang for border-to-border for-hire transportation) are almost without fail young men whose bodies are heavy with testosterone. Ripping down our dirt roads, they weave in and out of bicyclists, children, and pedestrians, sometimes missing their mark. It seems not a day goes by where an accident – minor or serious – isn’t had. It’s said the Senges that came from Congo are cursed, and as such their drivers are unable to control their driving. People here are if not afraid of all things Congo, are at least superstitious. In Congo, you can sell your soul to the spirits who live in big houses underneath the river water so that your wishes and desires come true. In exchange, any number of family members you have identified will be made to die by the spirits. There, a certain type of vegetation is said to suck the blood of any human or animal that passes through it. Carrying a bible is the only means of protection, I’m told.
****
The husband of Susan, one of our cooks, had his own run-in with a motorcycle in nearly the same location as our accident. If I understand Susan correctly, his arm and leg are broken, or at least seriously injured. Of course she didn’t mention this to us (we find out through others) and continues to beam that beautiful smile and say everything is fine. Seems her husband was “footing” when a Senge crashed into him, or as they say “knocked” him. Here, the word Senge is synonymous with not only the word motorcycle, but with danger. Senge drivers, particularly the boda-boda (slang for border-to-border for-hire transportation) are almost without fail young men whose bodies are heavy with testosterone. Ripping down our dirt roads, they weave in and out of bicyclists, children, and pedestrians, sometimes missing their mark. It seems not a day goes by where an accident – minor or serious – isn’t had. It’s said the Senges that came from Congo are cursed, and as such their drivers are unable to control their driving. People here are if not afraid of all things Congo, are at least superstitious. In Congo, you can sell your soul to the spirits who live in big houses underneath the river water so that your wishes and desires come true. In exchange, any number of family members you have identified will be made to die by the spirits. There, a certain type of vegetation is said to suck the blood of any human or animal that passes through it. Carrying a bible is the only means of protection, I’m told.
Monday, August 13
Yambio is dead.
The news came this morning from the Washington D.C. senior desk officer for the country programs of Chad, Central Africa Republic, Darfur and South Sudan. He arrived yesterday, his mere presence in our office a sign that the troubles are anything but slight. All but the essential staff will be out of work by the end of the month. And by November 1 or so all 108 people who rely on IMC Yambio will be jobless. All the community health workers, maternal child health workers, clinical officers, cooks, cleaners, watchmen, gender based violence team members and drivers. The human resource manager, the logistician, the finance manager. The construction managers. The support supervisors.
At this moment in time, it appears that my job is safe, as are the jobs of the other two expatriates here: Moses, our Kenyan vaccination nurse and Elizabeth, also a Kenyan nurse, who is our training and capacity building officer. Clearly, if this holds true then we will be moved to other sites. I am relieved that I still have a job, and full of remorse at the thought of letting people go. We are the major health provider in Yambio County. While there are other primary health care facilities here, they are not being supplied regularly with drugs and the employees are not being paid.
Of the four IMC sites in South Sudan, Yambio is the least financially solvent. The donor we are most dependent on at this location wants to move to the eastern side of South Sudan, following the repatriation process for returning refugees. Western Equatoria State’s repatriation process is nearly complete, and though that is not the sole reason why we are here, it is the reason this donor is interested in funding here. We applied for other funds from other entities, but today our last hope also rejected us. And with the financial crisis we are in, there is no more time to try.
The timing of the death knell is less than opportune. Ryan, our field coordinator, left on Friday, joining the half dozen expatriates to be sacrificed. Moses will become the new field coordinator, but now he is home on R&R. For many reasons, major decisions cannot be postponed until Moses’ return. So the task of deciding who lives and who dies by the end of August is left to me and Elizabeth.
Yambio is dead and we are numb.
The news came this morning from the Washington D.C. senior desk officer for the country programs of Chad, Central Africa Republic, Darfur and South Sudan. He arrived yesterday, his mere presence in our office a sign that the troubles are anything but slight. All but the essential staff will be out of work by the end of the month. And by November 1 or so all 108 people who rely on IMC Yambio will be jobless. All the community health workers, maternal child health workers, clinical officers, cooks, cleaners, watchmen, gender based violence team members and drivers. The human resource manager, the logistician, the finance manager. The construction managers. The support supervisors.
At this moment in time, it appears that my job is safe, as are the jobs of the other two expatriates here: Moses, our Kenyan vaccination nurse and Elizabeth, also a Kenyan nurse, who is our training and capacity building officer. Clearly, if this holds true then we will be moved to other sites. I am relieved that I still have a job, and full of remorse at the thought of letting people go. We are the major health provider in Yambio County. While there are other primary health care facilities here, they are not being supplied regularly with drugs and the employees are not being paid.
Of the four IMC sites in South Sudan, Yambio is the least financially solvent. The donor we are most dependent on at this location wants to move to the eastern side of South Sudan, following the repatriation process for returning refugees. Western Equatoria State’s repatriation process is nearly complete, and though that is not the sole reason why we are here, it is the reason this donor is interested in funding here. We applied for other funds from other entities, but today our last hope also rejected us. And with the financial crisis we are in, there is no more time to try.
The timing of the death knell is less than opportune. Ryan, our field coordinator, left on Friday, joining the half dozen expatriates to be sacrificed. Moses will become the new field coordinator, but now he is home on R&R. For many reasons, major decisions cannot be postponed until Moses’ return. So the task of deciding who lives and who dies by the end of August is left to me and Elizabeth.
Yambio is dead and we are numb.
Thursday, August 9
For the second time in a week we have a goat hanging upside down from our mango tree, a sharp knife slice by slice exposing the grizzly white underside of its hide. We’re preparing a second party for a goodbye no one anticipated. The financial despair of our country program has come to light. We are seriously overspent. How we got to this point without notice is the question of the week. The casualties to date in the form of layoffs are six ex-patriots, including Ryan who has learned from and shared with Sudan every day of the past 16 months he’s been field coordinator in Yambio and Tambura.
Two days ago Ryan gathered all the office and compound staff into our office. Perched on rusty metal folding chairs and their sturdier mahogany counterparts, the people who rarely see the inside of the office – the cooks, watchmen, cleaners – were nervous and misplaced among the desks and computers. The air was thick with the bodies of Africa. Each holding a letter containing a lot of legal language that probably was lost on even the best of the English speakers, they fixed their attention on the white guy in shorts sitting on the edge of his desk, casual American style. Explanations in English were translated into Zande – words and phrases like end of August, without jobs, donor funding, hope for the best.
The meeting was short, a few questions were asked, and then the breathless air moved. Soon the staff were laughing and joking in the yard, in true Zande style. Always time for a laugh, despite wars and layoffs and uncertainty. A strong people that will survive despite all.
And so tonight the expat and national IMC staff sit under the mango tree for the last time with Ryan with plates of nyoma choma (Kiswahili for roasted meat, in this case goat), chapatti and ugali on our laps, bottles of warm Coca-Cola at our feet. The night air is cool, the stars are bright, and I want nothing more to escape this reminder that the end is near.
Two days ago Ryan gathered all the office and compound staff into our office. Perched on rusty metal folding chairs and their sturdier mahogany counterparts, the people who rarely see the inside of the office – the cooks, watchmen, cleaners – were nervous and misplaced among the desks and computers. The air was thick with the bodies of Africa. Each holding a letter containing a lot of legal language that probably was lost on even the best of the English speakers, they fixed their attention on the white guy in shorts sitting on the edge of his desk, casual American style. Explanations in English were translated into Zande – words and phrases like end of August, without jobs, donor funding, hope for the best.
The meeting was short, a few questions were asked, and then the breathless air moved. Soon the staff were laughing and joking in the yard, in true Zande style. Always time for a laugh, despite wars and layoffs and uncertainty. A strong people that will survive despite all.
And so tonight the expat and national IMC staff sit under the mango tree for the last time with Ryan with plates of nyoma choma (Kiswahili for roasted meat, in this case goat), chapatti and ugali on our laps, bottles of warm Coca-Cola at our feet. The night air is cool, the stars are bright, and I want nothing more to escape this reminder that the end is near.
Saturday, July 28
Just a few small things – a headlamp, my passport, the medication I’m required to swallow daily. Yeah, when it comes down to it, if I had to run that is really all I’d need. Ryan’s thrown a long-sleeved shirt and some mosquito spray into the quick run bag. Water should be included, but I’m not taking this emergency preparation too seriously.
The occasion? A public holiday. South Sudan has been war free for two and a half years, but tempers can flash over the most innocuous situations, particularly those involving the tribes. And never doubt that here everything is tribal. Today honors the first president of South Sudan, John Garang, who was tragically killed in a plane crash in eastern South Sudan only months after signing the 2005 Comprehensive Peace Accord that officially laid the guns and bullets to rest after 21 years of death, despair, starvation and misery. Garang is as much of a hero as anyone can be in South Sudan. His photos decorate billboards at the Juba airport, they hang framed in stores and offices, and adorn T-shirts worn by the youth who are full of enlightenment and revolution. Nearly every public speech ends with a tribute to Garang. But the enthusiasm for him is somewhat muted here in Yambio. Garang was from the Dinka tribe. Western Equatoria State, however, is the stronghold of the Azande tribe, so much so that it’s referred to as Zande-land.
Yambio authorities decided the day would not be honored as it would throughout the rest of South Sudan with the requisite effusive speeches under the unforgiving sun in Freedom Square. Instead, a football match would be the main event. This did not sit well with the Dinka on the JIU, the Joint Integrated Unit, an armed force comprised of soldiers from the north and the south that are assigned to major cities and sensitive oil areas. So the Dinka issued a decree: If the government authorities did not start making speeches honoring Garang by 3 p.m. they would start shooting.
The compound at which we live is directly across from the police station and Freedom Square. If shooting were to occur on this day, it would occur in the square. So we decided it best to spend the afternoon at the office. It is two kilometers away at the far end of a road that connects to Congo.
Now, at the end of the day, we realize that violence did not visit. But the notion that a day dedicated to a man who helped usher in peace could erupt in violence is, well, hard to comprehend.
The occasion? A public holiday. South Sudan has been war free for two and a half years, but tempers can flash over the most innocuous situations, particularly those involving the tribes. And never doubt that here everything is tribal. Today honors the first president of South Sudan, John Garang, who was tragically killed in a plane crash in eastern South Sudan only months after signing the 2005 Comprehensive Peace Accord that officially laid the guns and bullets to rest after 21 years of death, despair, starvation and misery. Garang is as much of a hero as anyone can be in South Sudan. His photos decorate billboards at the Juba airport, they hang framed in stores and offices, and adorn T-shirts worn by the youth who are full of enlightenment and revolution. Nearly every public speech ends with a tribute to Garang. But the enthusiasm for him is somewhat muted here in Yambio. Garang was from the Dinka tribe. Western Equatoria State, however, is the stronghold of the Azande tribe, so much so that it’s referred to as Zande-land.
Yambio authorities decided the day would not be honored as it would throughout the rest of South Sudan with the requisite effusive speeches under the unforgiving sun in Freedom Square. Instead, a football match would be the main event. This did not sit well with the Dinka on the JIU, the Joint Integrated Unit, an armed force comprised of soldiers from the north and the south that are assigned to major cities and sensitive oil areas. So the Dinka issued a decree: If the government authorities did not start making speeches honoring Garang by 3 p.m. they would start shooting.
The compound at which we live is directly across from the police station and Freedom Square. If shooting were to occur on this day, it would occur in the square. So we decided it best to spend the afternoon at the office. It is two kilometers away at the far end of a road that connects to Congo.
Now, at the end of the day, we realize that violence did not visit. But the notion that a day dedicated to a man who helped usher in peace could erupt in violence is, well, hard to comprehend.
Friday, July 27
Val’s eyes are tearing over as we stand at the dirt airstrip waiting for the mosquito-sized UN plane to pick her off this Yambio planet. The scene is surreal. Police recruits dressed in white scrubs are slashing the tall green grass running the length of the runway, singing and swinging their blades in shifts. A police captain blows a whistle and the recruits run across the strip, cheering in unity, to gather around a big man in a navy blue police uniform. Lurking in wait nearby is the mammoth UN helicopter with the floppy bunny rabbit ear propellers. Under the all-new iron-roofed open air waiting area are disaffected passengers, slumped back in their plastic chairs, legs spread akimbo in resignation.
The plane is late and we are anxious. This week has been nothing but wait. Val, our first-ever gender based violence (GBV) program manager, is off for her Canadian home, having tendered her resignation six weeks early out of frustration in working for an abusive boss. A few days prior we learned the news that -- beyond the limited prospects for future funding -- our program budgets throughout South Sudan are seriously overspent. And now, just now as we tune our ears to the sky for the whine of the plane, we’re told that one of our GBV employees, a single mother of an infant, not only has Bell’s Palsy but also HIV.
I wish for a different ending for Val. She deserves more for all she has given in successfully launching a potentially controversial program to end violence in the home and community. Under her tutelage, 10 GBV team members I’m now tasked with managing have conducted dozens of workshops and awareness raising activities to combat inter-marital rape, the forced early marriage of girls as young as 14, epidemic levels of domestic violence, and the Sha’ria-influenced laws that allow women to be incarcerated for adultery (mind you, even if they’ve been raped) or for fleeing abusive and violent relationships. They have explored the intersection of GBV, alcohol and HIV. They have trained police captains, health care workers, students and government officials. They have done if for Val, for themselves and for their communities. The work will go on.
The plane is late and we are anxious. This week has been nothing but wait. Val, our first-ever gender based violence (GBV) program manager, is off for her Canadian home, having tendered her resignation six weeks early out of frustration in working for an abusive boss. A few days prior we learned the news that -- beyond the limited prospects for future funding -- our program budgets throughout South Sudan are seriously overspent. And now, just now as we tune our ears to the sky for the whine of the plane, we’re told that one of our GBV employees, a single mother of an infant, not only has Bell’s Palsy but also HIV.
I wish for a different ending for Val. She deserves more for all she has given in successfully launching a potentially controversial program to end violence in the home and community. Under her tutelage, 10 GBV team members I’m now tasked with managing have conducted dozens of workshops and awareness raising activities to combat inter-marital rape, the forced early marriage of girls as young as 14, epidemic levels of domestic violence, and the Sha’ria-influenced laws that allow women to be incarcerated for adultery (mind you, even if they’ve been raped) or for fleeing abusive and violent relationships. They have explored the intersection of GBV, alcohol and HIV. They have trained police captains, health care workers, students and government officials. They have done if for Val, for themselves and for their communities. The work will go on.
Oy-yaye GBV program.
Oy-yaye Yambio.
Oy-yaye Val.
Monday, July 23
The emergency call from our boss came on our second night on the road. With two colleagues, I was in the middle of a 20-hour road trip from Juba to Yambio, a muddy pothole roller coaster ride. With an uncooperative satellite phone, the only thing we could make out of our boss’s message was Yambio, motorcycle, medevac. We were to learn the full terrible story later. A speeding motorcyclist slammed into the side of one of our vehicles as it exited our work compound. Though our vehicle was barely moving, the hook on the front of the vehicle’s winch had somehow hooked onto the motorcycle, pulling it underneath the vehicle. The driver was badly injured – blood squirting from his mangled leg. His female passenger was lying nearby, having been thrown from the bike.The next hours were a confusion of police dealings, family negotiations, phone and radio calls. The young man was rushed to the hospital and prepped for surgery, in and of itself not the best option in an ill-equipped developing country hospital. The family, however, refused the operation. They wanted us to medevac him to a better hospital – to a hospital that was operated by us (the Yambio hospital does not fall under our command). To the casual onlooker, it would appear that we could easily meet such a demand. We are a medical organization, it’s true, but we do not have a doctor on staff in Yambio (all our care in the village clinics is primary health care, rendered by minimally trained community health workers and maternal child health workers). And we certainly don’t have an airplane on standby. Try explaining this to a family that only sees an organization with vehicles, satellite phones, handheld, radios and two compounds, and one whose staff is frequently boarding UN flights to other destinations for R&R. It was feared that the community might revolt against us, accusing us of having run over the motorcyclist. Hence, the call from our boss, warning that if the situation worsened we would not be allowed to continue on to Yambio.
In the end, with much difficulty, a UN airplane was secured and the patient was flown hundreds of miles to our hospital in the neighboring state. The motorcyclist’s leg was amputated. There was no way to save it.
Our vehicle has been impounded for an indefinite period of time by the police who subsequently took it on a “road test” without our presence and demanded $50 for doing so. Again, this may not seem to be an inconvenience, but without enough vehicles it is nearly impossible to deliver drugs to our clinics, to make site support supervision visits and conduct on-the-job trainings, and to continue refurbishing modest clinics in remote underserved locations.
Worse yet, Victor, our driver, has been incarcerated in prison. It was more for his safety than anything else, but the truth be told he cannot be freed until the young man whose leg was amputated returns. This could be months. Once the motorcyclist’s leg heals, he will be taken to the International Committee of the Red Cross in Juba for prosthesis.
In the end, though we were not at fault, we will likely be ordered to pay thousands of dollars to the motorcyclist’s family. Another NGO in Yambio, who shall go unmentioned, recently was ordered to pay $10,000 to the family of a man that their driver hit and killed. And considering we just received word this week that lay-offs are in the works for ex-pat and national staff alike due to funding problems, this is not being taken lightly.
My introduction to Victor came in the prison yard. As he works in our Tambura site, located some 12 hours away, I had never met him. Wearing a DARE T-shirt from Coon Rapids, Minnesota, this 26-year-old who appeared no older than 19, was downtrodden. He subverted his eyes as he shook my hand and then followed the guard’s orders to sit on the concrete step of the administration building. Milton and I were ordered to take a chair nearby, allowing us to converse, but not to touch. Our visit would be monitored by the nice guards with their guns and bayonets. We were relieved to learn that Victor had resumed eating, which he refused to do for the first few days of his incarceration. His first wife had come down from Tambura in order to visit him daily, no doubt improving his spirits. And we had brought him a sleeping mat and a blanket so that he could put something between his body and the cold prison floor.
So, now we wait. We wait for the young man whose leg was amputated to return to Yambio. We wait for our vehicle to be released from impound. We wait for Victor to be released from prison. And we wait for judgment.
**Photo explanation: This picture is the true depiction of Victor. He took it upon himself to give attention to this small boy who had been abandoned by his mother in Tambura. Obi is now being cared for by his uncle in a neighboring community, but Victor remains Obi's beloved "uncle."
Friday, July 20
Things have gotten mighty strange in Yambio since I was last here five weeks ago. Warnings of witchcraft are as frequent as the rains are long. It seems that the returning refugees coming from Congo are being accused by the community of practicing witchcraft – specifically, skinning human beings and draining them of their blood.
The stories go like this: A man hired a motorcycle driver to take his wife and baby to a distant location. When the destination was reached, the motorcyclist did not stop. Instead, he drove into the bush, and tied the woman to a tree. He then proceeded to drain the woman’s baby of its blood, killing it then. He then prepared to do the same to the woman. She, however, asked if she could first say a prayer. He allowed her as much. Just then, a snake dropped from the tree, bit the man and killed him. The woman picked up her dead baby and walked into town. Is it true? Who knows?
The second story: A woman survived an attempt by a man to skin her alive. As she was paraded into the police station (here, victims of violence are often taken first to the police station to complete a report before being allowed medical treatment. We are working hard to change this), the long, thin, red scar down the length of her spine was visible to the crowd that had gathered as the word spread throughout town. Is it true? Well, she did indeed have a scar down her spine. Our gender based violence team visited her in the hospital, only to learn that the incident was more likely attributable to an attempted rape. Both she and her uncle, the perpetrator, were incredibly drunk. He attempted to have sex with her. She refused. She passed out and when she awoke discovered the cut down her back.
The third story: Several man were arrested on suspicion of having blood in their jerry cans, more commonly used to transport water from boreholes to home. Is it true? Not likely. Draining someone’s blood would most likely cause death. Yet, no one has reported that their family members have died or are missing. My friend, Stephanie, a police officer with the United Nations Mission in Sudan, monitors police work here, but cannot demand action, least of all the production of allegedly bloodied jerry cans.
The reports of skinning and blood draining brought such alarm to the populace that a 10 p.m. curfew was imposed throughout the city. It lasted for two or three days before a new announcement came via a vehicle equipped with a bullhorn: there is no witchcraft; the accounts are nothing but rumor. The priest at the Catholic Church reiterated this at Sunday mass.
However, a few days later the police were at it again – arresting a driver and four men in his truck for having jerry cans filled with human blood.
There is no doubt people are scared. One man said he went outside at night for a “short call” (think latrine). Someone shined a flashlight in his direction. He fainted from fear, falling and injuring his leg. Another man was bicycling in the dark when a pedestrian asked him for a ride. The pedestrian did not take no for an answer and jumped onto the bike. The bicyclist shrieked with fear, summoning the neighbors, and proceeded to accuse the man of attempting to drain his blood.
It appears the rumors may be thinly veiled attempts to discriminate against the returning refugees who spend the exile in Congo. It is widely believed that witchcraft is practiced there. Try telling people here that there is no vegetation in the jungles of Congo that sucks human blood. Most often, seemingly crazy beliefs come from a nugget of truth. A colleague tells me that blood draining is in fact practiced in West Africa, where the blood is used to cast spells. The blood-letting always increases around election time, she says, when people are casting spells in hopes that one candidate wins or the other loses.
Suffice it to say, while there have not been major problems with the reintegration of thousands of returning refugees, the populace is experiencing a change as people come home. During the protracted war, some people sought refuge in Congo, some in Uganda, Kenya, Ethiopia, and Central Africa Republic. Though they are of the same land and likely of the same tribe, they now have different practices and beliefs that can easily be misinterpreted. We are humans and we are often afraid of the unknown. As for me, I’m not buying it until proof is had.
The stories go like this: A man hired a motorcycle driver to take his wife and baby to a distant location. When the destination was reached, the motorcyclist did not stop. Instead, he drove into the bush, and tied the woman to a tree. He then proceeded to drain the woman’s baby of its blood, killing it then. He then prepared to do the same to the woman. She, however, asked if she could first say a prayer. He allowed her as much. Just then, a snake dropped from the tree, bit the man and killed him. The woman picked up her dead baby and walked into town. Is it true? Who knows?
The second story: A woman survived an attempt by a man to skin her alive. As she was paraded into the police station (here, victims of violence are often taken first to the police station to complete a report before being allowed medical treatment. We are working hard to change this), the long, thin, red scar down the length of her spine was visible to the crowd that had gathered as the word spread throughout town. Is it true? Well, she did indeed have a scar down her spine. Our gender based violence team visited her in the hospital, only to learn that the incident was more likely attributable to an attempted rape. Both she and her uncle, the perpetrator, were incredibly drunk. He attempted to have sex with her. She refused. She passed out and when she awoke discovered the cut down her back.
The third story: Several man were arrested on suspicion of having blood in their jerry cans, more commonly used to transport water from boreholes to home. Is it true? Not likely. Draining someone’s blood would most likely cause death. Yet, no one has reported that their family members have died or are missing. My friend, Stephanie, a police officer with the United Nations Mission in Sudan, monitors police work here, but cannot demand action, least of all the production of allegedly bloodied jerry cans.
The reports of skinning and blood draining brought such alarm to the populace that a 10 p.m. curfew was imposed throughout the city. It lasted for two or three days before a new announcement came via a vehicle equipped with a bullhorn: there is no witchcraft; the accounts are nothing but rumor. The priest at the Catholic Church reiterated this at Sunday mass.
However, a few days later the police were at it again – arresting a driver and four men in his truck for having jerry cans filled with human blood.
There is no doubt people are scared. One man said he went outside at night for a “short call” (think latrine). Someone shined a flashlight in his direction. He fainted from fear, falling and injuring his leg. Another man was bicycling in the dark when a pedestrian asked him for a ride. The pedestrian did not take no for an answer and jumped onto the bike. The bicyclist shrieked with fear, summoning the neighbors, and proceeded to accuse the man of attempting to drain his blood.
It appears the rumors may be thinly veiled attempts to discriminate against the returning refugees who spend the exile in Congo. It is widely believed that witchcraft is practiced there. Try telling people here that there is no vegetation in the jungles of Congo that sucks human blood. Most often, seemingly crazy beliefs come from a nugget of truth. A colleague tells me that blood draining is in fact practiced in West Africa, where the blood is used to cast spells. The blood-letting always increases around election time, she says, when people are casting spells in hopes that one candidate wins or the other loses.
Suffice it to say, while there have not been major problems with the reintegration of thousands of returning refugees, the populace is experiencing a change as people come home. During the protracted war, some people sought refuge in Congo, some in Uganda, Kenya, Ethiopia, and Central Africa Republic. Though they are of the same land and likely of the same tribe, they now have different practices and beliefs that can easily be misinterpreted. We are humans and we are often afraid of the unknown. As for me, I’m not buying it until proof is had.
Sunday, July 1
I have found myself saying the word “fantastic” a lot lately. Well, at least when it comes to the question of “How was your R&R in Zanzibar?” Fantastic, simply fantastic.Zanzibar is an archipelago of small islands in the Indian Ocean off the coast of Tanzania. The islands are marked by breathtakingly beautiful beaches, acres of spices, and the unique fusion of Arab, Indian and Portuguese architecture.
One of my closest friends from graduate school in New Orleans, Leigh Ann, is living in Zanzibar for six months, and I had the pleasure of staying with her. Leigh Ann is doing research for her dissertation in order to gain a doctorate in public health. Working with the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and a Zanzibar-based organization, she is conducting several surveys to determine the HIV prevalence rate among high-risk groups. This is no easy task on an island that is 99% Muslim, and in an area where the government criminalized gay and lesbian sex in 2004.
Leigh Ann’s apartment within the World Heritage Site of Stone Town provided an amazing observation point. Stone Town is a fascinating maze of streets that are no more than 20 feet wide. Think of a compressed version of the French Quarter in New Orleans. The dwelling units are all townhouses ranging from three to five stories. Leigh Ann’s third-floor apartment sits atop a two-story apartment in which her landlords live. And atop her apartment is a screened-in porch of sorts that is half of the size of her apartment. It provided stunning views of the Indian Ocean, the rooftops and balconies of neighboring apartments and townhouses, and the active streets below.
Zanzibar is a delight for the eyes, and, as I learned from my balcony perch, an auditory adventure. The call to prayer, issued five times daily from the numerous loudspeaker-equipped minarets of Stone Town’s mosques, echoes off the concrete walls and corrugated tin roofs -- exotic, mysterious and melodic, save for when it’s issued at 5 a.m. from a building only 20 feet away. Other sounds: the delicate tinkling of bicycle bells pushing pedestrians aside; motorcycles growling through the labyrinth of ancient streets, honking at the rounding of each bend; the fast-paced clacking of coins signaling the nut vendor’s rounds; men chatting of the day’s events and conducting business in Kiswahili; children running and shrieking with joyous abandon in the safe, darkened nighttime streets; and the shuffle of flip flops and the click of heels on concrete streets.
Yet the adage that a picture is worth a thousand words still holds true. For my version of 1,000 words in picture form, check out my photographs at http://www.flickr.com/photos/girl4peace
I am new to Flickr and didn’t realize that once your photos are loaded you can’t rearrange their order. The Zanzibar photos begin on page 3 with the “Ferry works” photo.
Monday, June 11
The beauty of a blog is it’s a one-off method of relaying what’s happening in one’s life. The curse is that it requires regular feeding. And at times there’s nothing in the cupboard, so to speak. Even in the wilds of South Sudan, there is routine, monotony, and even boredom – things that are not worthy of broadcasting. But, under the threat of being pummeled by rotting mangoes from one hungry reader, I hereby attempt to gather some thoughts and observations.
***
In a region swimming in oil, there is a fuel shortage – at least in Juba where I live. As a result, the city is rationing its electrical system. Blackouts are becoming routine, but last evening’s was not. The lights in the kitchen, the bathroom and one coworker’s room were functioning, while my room and my neighbor’s room were plunged into stifling darkness. In addition, our field sites in Yambio and Tambura are suffering from a drought. The rains have started, but they are infrequent. Wells are dry and people are being forced to walk farther to gather water.
***
Last week I had the pleasure of escaping Juba and spending seven glorious days in Yambio County, my home for nearly three months upon my arrival in South Sudan. The community is walking friendly and so we often take long, meandering walks on the dirt paths winding around the mud huts and through the mango trees. On one evening I strolled with Elizabeth, our Kenyan nurse, and Val, our Canadian gender based violence program manager. Our walk took us briefly down into a ravine of sorts, at the bottom of which is a watering hole.
Two days later our field coordinator was summoned by a representative of a certain county government department. The government official demanded to know why the two white ladies and the Kenyan were walking around and scouting out mineral sources. We are, he says, stealing minerals. Yes, that’s right, minerals. It’s a mystery to us how we are doing this, but I find that logic has no home here. He demanded to see our passports; our field coordinator refused to comply until the request comes in writing. It just so happened that the following day I flew back to Juba and the Canadian hit the road to return to her field base. So, from the standpoint of this government official, it probably appears we are running scared. On top of it, our field coordinator’s work permit has expired. So, what sounds like a ridiculous accusation that should otherwise go unregistered, could bring us some heartburn. All NGOs are here at the government’s invitation – an invitation that can be unceremoniously revoked at any moment, though to my knowledge this hasn’t happened.
It’s clear that this county department wants something from us – money, use of our vehicles, etc. Last week they came around to the NGOs looking for money in order to construct a building. Our field coordinator donated only about $25 in order to help them purchase nails. Perhaps this small amount was seen as an insult.
***
My first night back in sweet sweet Yambio I attended a small party our field coordinator threw for his expatriate and national staff. After feasting on roasted goat and other tasty dishes, we pulled our chairs into a circle under the mango tree and shared some beers. One among us asked everybody to share stories, jokes or riddles. “Do you know what love is? Can you spell it?” The answer: I-t. “Why is 6 afraid of 7?” The answer: Because 7 8 9. We were all a bit confused, however, when one person told the true tale of a father who routinely defiled his child under the unobservant eye of the child’s mother. The apparent moral of the story: communication with your coworkers is important. Really? Are you sure? Perhaps we shouldn’t buy so much beer at our staff parties.
***
Juba, the capital of South Sudan, is a city by most definitions, but in many ways it’s a village. As such, it’s not terribly uncommon to be offered a ride if you’re footing it, as they say. On Friday night the invitation came from a man in a pickup truck. We were about to hop into the bed of the truck when we realized that he was wearing a neck brace and had a huge bandage wrapped around his head. Something had fallen on him, he explained. “I have six titties,” he said. What? Come again? Titties, he said, pointing to his head. Oh, stitches! Six stitches! Why, yes you do. Thanks, but we’ll walk.
***
And then you find yourself in a restaurant where the New Orleans' theme song “Mardi Gras Mambo” comes on the stereo and you look around and wonder “Where exactly am I again?”
***
In the battle between house and office here in our Juba location, the house has won with a total knockout. We have temporarily rented an office space in order to alleviate the crowding, and to afford the much-needed separation of work and home. The air conditioned office looks out over one of my favorite places in town – the pizza restaurant. So now instead of being harassed by the smell of fried foods wafting from our kitchen, I am tantalized by the odor of doughy, cheesy pizza. Is there no end to the torture one must endure?
***
And then you find yourself at a party with guys named Go Go, Bongo and Qu. Our all-time favorite name to date, however, is Godsent Moses – which, as a friend points out, is the only name that in itself is a complete sentence.
***
In a region swimming in oil, there is a fuel shortage – at least in Juba where I live. As a result, the city is rationing its electrical system. Blackouts are becoming routine, but last evening’s was not. The lights in the kitchen, the bathroom and one coworker’s room were functioning, while my room and my neighbor’s room were plunged into stifling darkness. In addition, our field sites in Yambio and Tambura are suffering from a drought. The rains have started, but they are infrequent. Wells are dry and people are being forced to walk farther to gather water.
***
Last week I had the pleasure of escaping Juba and spending seven glorious days in Yambio County, my home for nearly three months upon my arrival in South Sudan. The community is walking friendly and so we often take long, meandering walks on the dirt paths winding around the mud huts and through the mango trees. On one evening I strolled with Elizabeth, our Kenyan nurse, and Val, our Canadian gender based violence program manager. Our walk took us briefly down into a ravine of sorts, at the bottom of which is a watering hole.
Two days later our field coordinator was summoned by a representative of a certain county government department. The government official demanded to know why the two white ladies and the Kenyan were walking around and scouting out mineral sources. We are, he says, stealing minerals. Yes, that’s right, minerals. It’s a mystery to us how we are doing this, but I find that logic has no home here. He demanded to see our passports; our field coordinator refused to comply until the request comes in writing. It just so happened that the following day I flew back to Juba and the Canadian hit the road to return to her field base. So, from the standpoint of this government official, it probably appears we are running scared. On top of it, our field coordinator’s work permit has expired. So, what sounds like a ridiculous accusation that should otherwise go unregistered, could bring us some heartburn. All NGOs are here at the government’s invitation – an invitation that can be unceremoniously revoked at any moment, though to my knowledge this hasn’t happened.
It’s clear that this county department wants something from us – money, use of our vehicles, etc. Last week they came around to the NGOs looking for money in order to construct a building. Our field coordinator donated only about $25 in order to help them purchase nails. Perhaps this small amount was seen as an insult.
***
My first night back in sweet sweet Yambio I attended a small party our field coordinator threw for his expatriate and national staff. After feasting on roasted goat and other tasty dishes, we pulled our chairs into a circle under the mango tree and shared some beers. One among us asked everybody to share stories, jokes or riddles. “Do you know what love is? Can you spell it?” The answer: I-t. “Why is 6 afraid of 7?” The answer: Because 7 8 9. We were all a bit confused, however, when one person told the true tale of a father who routinely defiled his child under the unobservant eye of the child’s mother. The apparent moral of the story: communication with your coworkers is important. Really? Are you sure? Perhaps we shouldn’t buy so much beer at our staff parties.
***
Juba, the capital of South Sudan, is a city by most definitions, but in many ways it’s a village. As such, it’s not terribly uncommon to be offered a ride if you’re footing it, as they say. On Friday night the invitation came from a man in a pickup truck. We were about to hop into the bed of the truck when we realized that he was wearing a neck brace and had a huge bandage wrapped around his head. Something had fallen on him, he explained. “I have six titties,” he said. What? Come again? Titties, he said, pointing to his head. Oh, stitches! Six stitches! Why, yes you do. Thanks, but we’ll walk.
***
And then you find yourself in a restaurant where the New Orleans' theme song “Mardi Gras Mambo” comes on the stereo and you look around and wonder “Where exactly am I again?”
***
In the battle between house and office here in our Juba location, the house has won with a total knockout. We have temporarily rented an office space in order to alleviate the crowding, and to afford the much-needed separation of work and home. The air conditioned office looks out over one of my favorite places in town – the pizza restaurant. So now instead of being harassed by the smell of fried foods wafting from our kitchen, I am tantalized by the odor of doughy, cheesy pizza. Is there no end to the torture one must endure?
***
And then you find yourself at a party with guys named Go Go, Bongo and Qu. Our all-time favorite name to date, however, is Godsent Moses – which, as a friend points out, is the only name that in itself is a complete sentence.
Tuesday, May 9
Signs that my work life is not normal:
1) If I pull back my bedroom curtain (a bedsheet taped into place) from my bedroom window which, strangely, looks into the rest of the hoffice, I see my desk. In fact, I can open the window and grab something off my desk if I’ve forgotten it in my hasty commute home.
2) Incense has become as essential on my desk as a ballpoint pen. It masks the smell of burning grease coming from the kitchen, a mere 20 feet away.
3) Due to the lack of electrical plug-ins in the hoffice, our cook is forced to plug the blender and his small food processor into the power cord on the floor between our desks. This is not to be topped by his frequent trips to the deep-freeze (the only thing approximating refrigeration in our hoffice; a real refrigerator is making a slow journey from Kampala, Uganda) which is also lodged in the midst of our desks.
4) We have become accustomed to seeing one another in towels, sarongs, and boxer shorts with the comings and goings to the communal bathrooms.
5) Yesterday Alfie asked me if I had a headache. I was sprawled out on the sofa – which backs up against Tolbert’s desk – after an intense day at the computer. It was 5:30 p.m., which by my book is the end of the day, but in a house that is an office and in an office that is a house (house + office = hoffice), the separation is forgotten. “No, just relaxing in the privacy of my own home,” I quipped.
6) Also yesterday, I attended a meeting with my boss and the program coordinator – in the program coordinator’s bedroom.
Running a 10-person office from a five-bedroom house that sleeps six (and more on any given day, depending on visits by field staff) is as glamorous as it sounds.
1) If I pull back my bedroom curtain (a bedsheet taped into place) from my bedroom window which, strangely, looks into the rest of the hoffice, I see my desk. In fact, I can open the window and grab something off my desk if I’ve forgotten it in my hasty commute home.
2) Incense has become as essential on my desk as a ballpoint pen. It masks the smell of burning grease coming from the kitchen, a mere 20 feet away.
3) Due to the lack of electrical plug-ins in the hoffice, our cook is forced to plug the blender and his small food processor into the power cord on the floor between our desks. This is not to be topped by his frequent trips to the deep-freeze (the only thing approximating refrigeration in our hoffice; a real refrigerator is making a slow journey from Kampala, Uganda) which is also lodged in the midst of our desks.
4) We have become accustomed to seeing one another in towels, sarongs, and boxer shorts with the comings and goings to the communal bathrooms.
5) Yesterday Alfie asked me if I had a headache. I was sprawled out on the sofa – which backs up against Tolbert’s desk – after an intense day at the computer. It was 5:30 p.m., which by my book is the end of the day, but in a house that is an office and in an office that is a house (house + office = hoffice), the separation is forgotten. “No, just relaxing in the privacy of my own home,” I quipped.
6) Also yesterday, I attended a meeting with my boss and the program coordinator – in the program coordinator’s bedroom.
Running a 10-person office from a five-bedroom house that sleeps six (and more on any given day, depending on visits by field staff) is as glamorous as it sounds.
Wednesday, May 2
My bedroom is the most popular. Between my two windows there are somewhere near 50 black flies crawling about the screens – unfortunately on the inside, not the outside. My colleagues don’t have the opportunity to make this same observation in their rooms. I ask Lulu for an explanation and he says, “I think it’s these pink things.” Somehow along the way I have acquired a lot of pink accessories. Pink toenail polish, pink Chacos, even a pink watch. Lulu has consequently dubbed me the Pink Lady. This is better than his secret nickname for another among us – Red Bull.
***
Our cook, Mousa, a shy and capable young Sudanese man, showed up very early Saturday morning to tell us he had to go to Uganda. His father had died. He returned this morning to tell us the funeral and subsequent family meeting were fine, but that upon their return by road they encountered a vehicle in northern Uganda that had been burned by rebel thieves. The seven passengers had been killed and robbed of their hearts. It sounds like the word of our favorite nemesis – the Lord’s Resistance Army, which has been terrorizing northern Uganda and southern Sudan for 20 years. Peace talks (called the “cessation of hostilities”) resumed last week here in Juba between LRA representatives and Ugandan government officials. Similar talks were derailed last year when the LRA stormed out and headed back to the bush. Everyone is hopeful the talks will lead to a solution whereby the rebel soldiers will finally stop their evil deeds. Sometimes it seems there is no limit to the pain we can cause one another. [post-note for worry-warts: I am nowhere near where this atrocity happened and have no intention of going there.]
***
Today is Christmas at 31 Hai-Jalaba (our house/office, or “hoffice” as I call it). Anne, our boss, has returned from a weekend trip to Kampala, Uganda, bearing gifts. Cheese, Pringles, a bottle of white wine (and she doesn’t even drink!), four coffee mugs to replace our teeny tiny tea cups, real cotton sheets to replace our ridiculous polyester-blend sheets, dried soup mixes, pseudo-maple syrup, and a large tin of gingersnap cookies. Also on this day, in a move seemingly designed to send us into blissful overdrive, the city electrical system has been restored. Air bordering on cool is being pushed from a crudely installed wall unit throughout the hoffice. We immediately closed the doors, shut the windows and breathed – comfortably – indoors for the first time since we moved in nearly two months ago. At dinnertime, we gather for a Lulu improvised meal of rice and red sauce around the plastic dining table – outside. Old habits are hard to break.
***
Our cook, Mousa, a shy and capable young Sudanese man, showed up very early Saturday morning to tell us he had to go to Uganda. His father had died. He returned this morning to tell us the funeral and subsequent family meeting were fine, but that upon their return by road they encountered a vehicle in northern Uganda that had been burned by rebel thieves. The seven passengers had been killed and robbed of their hearts. It sounds like the word of our favorite nemesis – the Lord’s Resistance Army, which has been terrorizing northern Uganda and southern Sudan for 20 years. Peace talks (called the “cessation of hostilities”) resumed last week here in Juba between LRA representatives and Ugandan government officials. Similar talks were derailed last year when the LRA stormed out and headed back to the bush. Everyone is hopeful the talks will lead to a solution whereby the rebel soldiers will finally stop their evil deeds. Sometimes it seems there is no limit to the pain we can cause one another. [post-note for worry-warts: I am nowhere near where this atrocity happened and have no intention of going there.]
***
Today is Christmas at 31 Hai-Jalaba (our house/office, or “hoffice” as I call it). Anne, our boss, has returned from a weekend trip to Kampala, Uganda, bearing gifts. Cheese, Pringles, a bottle of white wine (and she doesn’t even drink!), four coffee mugs to replace our teeny tiny tea cups, real cotton sheets to replace our ridiculous polyester-blend sheets, dried soup mixes, pseudo-maple syrup, and a large tin of gingersnap cookies. Also on this day, in a move seemingly designed to send us into blissful overdrive, the city electrical system has been restored. Air bordering on cool is being pushed from a crudely installed wall unit throughout the hoffice. We immediately closed the doors, shut the windows and breathed – comfortably – indoors for the first time since we moved in nearly two months ago. At dinnertime, we gather for a Lulu improvised meal of rice and red sauce around the plastic dining table – outside. Old habits are hard to break.
Monday, April 30
Moses, our driver, is speeding us along to work down the newly created, impossibly wide dirt road. It will eventually be paved, bringing the grand total of blacktopped roads in Juba to two, and subsequently becoming, I fear, a road of death due to the fact that the crazy drivers will only now go faster. We swiftly pass a caravan of slow-moving vehicles. Moses says the vehicles are from Khartoum. Oh, yes, the returnees, I say, thinking that I’d read somewhere that returnees were coming from the north this week. One van full of clapping singing people seemed to confirm my hypothesis. But as we hone in on the lead vehicle I see that it is anything but a returning refugee jubilation. A handful of people are crowded around a wooden coffin draped in white in the back of a pickup bed. This evening on the way home, just around the corner from our house, I hear women ululating -- an equal opportunity utterance marking both joy and sorrow. Another coffin being loaded into another pickup truck. I can’t help but wonder how they died, how old they were, whether they would have died of the same cause had they been in a developed country.
***
Never try to make poor-man’s Thai food. Our cook is away, but being as I’d only been able to cook one meal for myself my entire time in South Sudan, I relish the idea of making a simple dinner. What to make? We are limited to dried goods and a few random vegetables. I decide on macaroni noodles. But, I want vegetables and protein in some sort of effort to have a balanced diet, so I mix the noodles with sliced cucumbers and peanut butter. Do not attempt this in your own home, no matter how desperate you may be.
***
Never try to make poor-man’s Thai food. Our cook is away, but being as I’d only been able to cook one meal for myself my entire time in South Sudan, I relish the idea of making a simple dinner. What to make? We are limited to dried goods and a few random vegetables. I decide on macaroni noodles. But, I want vegetables and protein in some sort of effort to have a balanced diet, so I mix the noodles with sliced cucumbers and peanut butter. Do not attempt this in your own home, no matter how desperate you may be.
Wednesday, April 4, Mozambique
We’ve decided that the portal to enlightenment is bad roads and difficult travel. This is decided while the wooden beaches beneath us are slamming against our tailbones like a meat tenderizer to a flank steak and the dust in the air is worming its way into our every pore and fiber. We are in northeast Mozambique on what will be an eight-hour journey by road and sea to an island within the Quirimbas National Park.
It’s my first R&R break and I’m ecstatic to be in a new place, and one that is marked by beauty. One of the perks of this job is that every 10 weeks we get a nine-day paid break – complete with per diem and airline expenses. With me is Ryan, the field coordinator of our site in Yambio, where I was based for nearly three months before being relocated to the capital (Juba). Though I had never met Ryan until I landed in South Sudan, it seems we’ve been following one another around the globe. Like me, he spent his formative years in Minnesota before relocating to the Puget Sound area of Washington State, and eventually on to New Orleans in the post-Katrina mayhem. Like me, Ryan is a former Peace Corps volunteer. And like me, he’s keen on seeking new adventures and checking out as much of Africa as time and money allows. And so when he invited me to go to Mozambique with him, there was no hesitation.
We’ve spent a few peaceful days in the peninsula town of Pemba, lounging with the locals and the small backpacker contingency. Now the island of Ibo beckons. And so at 4:30 a.m. we rise to and join the small group of Mozambiqueans huddled beneath a tree to await the bus. As the sun begins to rise, an open-sided truck already holding people and cargo lurches to a halt near our tree. Fellow travelers begin amassing around it, jockeying for a position. Please don’t tell me this is our bus, I say to no one in particular. But there is no time to pause; people are already alighting and choosing a hips-width spot on the crudely hewn wooden bench that lines the perimeter of the truck bed. Luggage is strapped to the roof, bags of rice and sugar are laid on the floor and two chickens whose legs are tied together are shoved under the bench. This is really Africa, I think to myself as Ryan and I settle at the back end of the bed. We’re lucky in landing the best viewing position on the truck, I determine. With my feet perched atop a large cooler holding what smells to be fish, I count 17 people in the truck.
The town is quietly awakening as we pass through on smooth black-topped roads. The ocean, which we see from both sides of the road, is ebbing out on her morning stroll to the other side. The lush trees and tall grasses are gently bobbing in the breeze. It is so beautiful – and so different from the sweltering, pungent, garbage-ridden streets of Juba. But before we’ve even reached the town’s boundaries the truck is slowing to a stop. A gaggle of street vendors engulfs the trucks; outstretched arms bearing toothbrushes, pens and long yellow bars of laundry soap are thrust at us. Please don’t tell me we’re picking up more passengers, I mutter to Ryan, as hips shift and feet begin battling for foot space. The new passenger, and old man, is left to stand, hanging onto the roof; the money-taker is hanging from the ladder off the back end. We are now 22.
As we pass through villages of square homes crafted from mud and grass, trails of barefooted kids run behind the truck. “Mzungu, mzungu,” they yell excitedly, announcing to all that we are white as Ryan gives them the thumbs-up sign. But now that we have turned off the pavement onto a dirt road, reality announces itself. After only a few kilometers my black shirt is red-brown with finely ground earth. My sunglasses have become handy dust goggles and a cotton scarf a face mask. We soar up and slam down with each rut. My arm is sore from hanging on to the truck side. My back feels bruised. Four hours and one mechanical break-down later, I am done. We have two more hours ahead of us.
This transportation adventure is the height of those we’ve experienced this week. On our first day in Pemba we decided to take the town bus to nowhere in particular as a sort of cheap sight-seeing tour. Only four people were riding the clean, modern bus when we boarded near the old town section. Within 15 minutes we both had babies on our laps, grandmothers at our feet and armpits in our faces. The bus became so packed that, when we reached our stop, the only way we could manage to disembark was by crawling through the windows and jumping down to the road – a move that did not please the bus driver. A few days later we were hitching a ride on an 18-wheeler Coca-Cola delivery truck after pretending to be guests at Pemba’s five-star hotel (no one knew otherwise as we swam in the oceanside infinity pool and sipped drinks among taxi-dermied big game heads in the high-brow bar).
At hour six our bush taxi drops us in a town that albeit quaint, is nowhere near the ocean. We are afraid to even contemplate that we may have been on the wrong truck the entire time, limited as we by an inability to speak Portuguese. The driver, however, knows we need to get to the island. He points at a fellow passenger and indicates we should follow him. We walk for about 10 minutes across a land void at this moment of the sea and emerge in what appears to be someone’s yard. A handful of people are resting beneath a beautiful baobab tree, carved with the names of previous visitors, waiting for the small wooden boat for the island. After one hour and 15 minutes on the water – with one man bailing water from the boat’s bottom the entire time – we see the island on the horizon. The charm of this former Portuguese colony and its crumbling mosques, churches and homes awaits.
Indeed we do feel enlightened.
Tuesday, March 27
“No, no, we cannot drop this boy here. We are too far. We will take him back.” I’m insisting. Moses, our temporary driver from Uganda, is smiling at my words in a bemused way that is not mocking, as if to say, “Whatever you say.” The boy appears to be about 12 years old. I can tell from the horizontal scars lines across his wide forehead that he is a member of the Nuer tribe. “The boy should be in school,” I say to no one in particular. Instead, he is selling gasoline – a translucent orange liquid beaming beautiful in the bright sun – from clear, plastic recycled soda bottles. Moses has run out of gas, a situation that wouldn’t normally be a problem with the number of freelance gasoline salesmen on the roadside. I have no local currency on me, however, and the boy doesn’t recognize the $5 bill I give him. Our only choice is to take him with us to Customs Market where Lulu, our logistician from Ethiopia, is purchasing a bicycle for our new cook. Lulu is retrieved, the boy is paid in local currency, and Moses is ready to take us home. But the boy. We have brought him four kilometers, by my estimate. He’s eking out a living, for his family no doubt, selling gasoline from the roadside. The least we can do is take him back to his sales point. The boy, who would not have thought twice about being dropped at the market, smiles widely from the back seat, thrilled at the rare chance to ride in a vehicle.
We push through the market, drafting behind a herd of long-horned cows that has no intention of yielding. All of humanity is here. Buses filled with people traveling to and from Uganda and Kenya. Cars honking out messages of urgency. Woven grass mats piled as high as a building, waiting for purchase. Smiling women peeling and selling candy-sweet pineapple from bed sheets spread on the ground. Tall, sunglassed, shirtless men decorated in white ashes, each carrying a long switch. Knots of men playing dominoes under a lone tree.
We’re in Juba, the “capital” of South Sudan. It’s been my home for one week now and will be for three months coming – perhaps more, depending on my fate. I have been transferred from lovely little Yambio to our new country office. Juba is proving to be exactly as it had been described – hot, dusty, unpleasant, and outrageously expensive. But, as South Sudan begins to shift from emergency mode to recovery mode, it’s vital for us to have an office in this city. All the state government bureaus are here, as are all the United Nations agencies and, at last count, 110 NGOs. With more UN vehicles than cattle on the road, this place is more the headquarters of a massive humanitarian relief effort than a Sudanese city.
Moses drops me at UNOCHA. By virtue of having received little to no sleep the prior evening, I am blessed by our country director’s suggestion to sleep in a rented tent. Our new IMC house/office (hoffice, as I call it), with its whimsically painted courtyard and ceramic tiles floors, will be beautiful and comfortable, once established. But for now it is nothing more than a flop house. We are sleeping on mattresses on the floor, getting comfortable seeing our coworkers in their pajamas, keeping our fingers crossed that there’s enough water in the storage containers that feed our showers and sinks, and running a generator as noisy as a jet plane from 7 p.m. to 11 p.m. to fuel the electric ceiling fans. Without fans, the heat is unbearable. Temperatures regularly exceed 100 degrees during the day. Once the generator is put to rest each evening, I drag my mattress outside to our veranda for the night’s sleep. Last night, the neighbor’s tape-recorded Ugandan music, blaring throughout the neighborhood, kept me awake and staring at the stars through my jerry-rigged mosquito net. Only the 6:15 a.m. call to prayer from a nearby mosque convinced him to call it a morning.
The tent at UNOCHA, complete with an electric fan and laundry service, is a tremendous bargain at around $40 a night. By comparison, the shipping containers, converted to living spaces for ex-patriots, near our house go for $110 a night; meals are extra at $35 a day. We are living in a false economy. All goods for sale in South Sudan are trucked in from Uganda or Kenya; there are few production facilities here. Little of the money ex-pats and NGOs spend in Juba stays in South Sudan. And many of the Africans employed by them in Juba as drivers, cooks, and guards are Sudanese. This is the capital and there are the amenities of such – a university, several radio stations, public transportation, a cell phone network, a pizza restaurant, and an electrical system that occasionally works. But the lack of development, a result of the 20-year civil war, is more evident in Juba than in Tambura and Yambio, perhaps because it lies in sharp contrast to the culture of aid work -- our air conditioned container units, our food buffets, our wireless internet connections and satellite telephones, and our four-wheel drive vehicles. In Juba there are homeless people – homeless in a country where most living structures are made of nothing more than mud and grass. I was not aware of any homeless in Yambio and Tambura. Here there are substantial piles of rotting garbage and crumbling brick homes hinting at the days of colonialism. In Yambio the garbage, for the most part, is contained to the market. Despite being a capital city, Juba demonstrates that Sudan is far from meeting human development standards related to basic needs, health care, education, and gender equity. Having never been in any African country other than Sudan, I cannot compare. My colleagues assure me that this place is like no other on this continent.
Lulu wipes sweat from his brow as he looks for matches to light the night’s candles. “It’s like going back to the beginning of time,” he says.
We push through the market, drafting behind a herd of long-horned cows that has no intention of yielding. All of humanity is here. Buses filled with people traveling to and from Uganda and Kenya. Cars honking out messages of urgency. Woven grass mats piled as high as a building, waiting for purchase. Smiling women peeling and selling candy-sweet pineapple from bed sheets spread on the ground. Tall, sunglassed, shirtless men decorated in white ashes, each carrying a long switch. Knots of men playing dominoes under a lone tree.
We’re in Juba, the “capital” of South Sudan. It’s been my home for one week now and will be for three months coming – perhaps more, depending on my fate. I have been transferred from lovely little Yambio to our new country office. Juba is proving to be exactly as it had been described – hot, dusty, unpleasant, and outrageously expensive. But, as South Sudan begins to shift from emergency mode to recovery mode, it’s vital for us to have an office in this city. All the state government bureaus are here, as are all the United Nations agencies and, at last count, 110 NGOs. With more UN vehicles than cattle on the road, this place is more the headquarters of a massive humanitarian relief effort than a Sudanese city.
Moses drops me at UNOCHA. By virtue of having received little to no sleep the prior evening, I am blessed by our country director’s suggestion to sleep in a rented tent. Our new IMC house/office (hoffice, as I call it), with its whimsically painted courtyard and ceramic tiles floors, will be beautiful and comfortable, once established. But for now it is nothing more than a flop house. We are sleeping on mattresses on the floor, getting comfortable seeing our coworkers in their pajamas, keeping our fingers crossed that there’s enough water in the storage containers that feed our showers and sinks, and running a generator as noisy as a jet plane from 7 p.m. to 11 p.m. to fuel the electric ceiling fans. Without fans, the heat is unbearable. Temperatures regularly exceed 100 degrees during the day. Once the generator is put to rest each evening, I drag my mattress outside to our veranda for the night’s sleep. Last night, the neighbor’s tape-recorded Ugandan music, blaring throughout the neighborhood, kept me awake and staring at the stars through my jerry-rigged mosquito net. Only the 6:15 a.m. call to prayer from a nearby mosque convinced him to call it a morning.
The tent at UNOCHA, complete with an electric fan and laundry service, is a tremendous bargain at around $40 a night. By comparison, the shipping containers, converted to living spaces for ex-patriots, near our house go for $110 a night; meals are extra at $35 a day. We are living in a false economy. All goods for sale in South Sudan are trucked in from Uganda or Kenya; there are few production facilities here. Little of the money ex-pats and NGOs spend in Juba stays in South Sudan. And many of the Africans employed by them in Juba as drivers, cooks, and guards are Sudanese. This is the capital and there are the amenities of such – a university, several radio stations, public transportation, a cell phone network, a pizza restaurant, and an electrical system that occasionally works. But the lack of development, a result of the 20-year civil war, is more evident in Juba than in Tambura and Yambio, perhaps because it lies in sharp contrast to the culture of aid work -- our air conditioned container units, our food buffets, our wireless internet connections and satellite telephones, and our four-wheel drive vehicles. In Juba there are homeless people – homeless in a country where most living structures are made of nothing more than mud and grass. I was not aware of any homeless in Yambio and Tambura. Here there are substantial piles of rotting garbage and crumbling brick homes hinting at the days of colonialism. In Yambio the garbage, for the most part, is contained to the market. Despite being a capital city, Juba demonstrates that Sudan is far from meeting human development standards related to basic needs, health care, education, and gender equity. Having never been in any African country other than Sudan, I cannot compare. My colleagues assure me that this place is like no other on this continent.
Lulu wipes sweat from his brow as he looks for matches to light the night’s candles. “It’s like going back to the beginning of time,” he says.
******
Now that I'm in the big city, I have regular access to the Internet and therefore can manage my own blog. My sweet brother-in-law Rick was acting as blog master previously. However, being as challenged as I am, I cannot determine how to manage the layout of the photos or how to add captions. So, I'll tell you about them here. The first photo shows the juxtoposition of the jets on the runway next to the mud hut tukuls. The second is the exterior of our new home in Juba. The third is the street outside our home.
March 19
Richard and his wife are happy that their baby has been home from the hospital for more than a week now. She's still small, but getting healthier. They will likely name her this coming weekend.
Saturday, March 3
At 10:30 p.m. it’s pitch dark in the hospital void of electrical power. We’re careful not to step on the many people – patients’ family members – lying on mats and bed rolls throughout the hospital grounds. Our Dr. Alfred has come to check on Richard’s daughter, who has been in the hospital for several days.
Arriving prematurely, the little being has had problems from the start. No one knows exactly how old she was at birth, but seven months is the agreed upon number. Premature babies are on their own here. There are no incubators, no special accommodations for their fragile immune systems, no specially trained medical staff regularly checking her vital signs. But preemies will live here if they survive their first week, says Martha.
The baby’s first week came and went before trouble arrived. Richard was reporting what sounded like diaper rash. “This baby is as hard as stone,” said Martha, returning from a subsequent house call. Dehydration. Some sort of blisters in the baby’s armpits. The baby, not yet named, is not being bathed or regularly breastfed, she reports, hinting at parental neglect. I filter this news through the knowledge that Martha, hardened by war and personal loss, views many of her fellow Sudanese as lazy and inept, not to mention that she has had many clashes in the past year with Richard. This is the first birth for Richard’s wife, all of 18, which might explain why she seems unsure of how to care for the baby. Both Martha and I wonder aloud why her mother, her aunts and neighbors are not providing advice. Perhaps they are and the mother, who Martha implies is spoiled, is not heeding it. Perhaps also there is some sort of taboo cautioning against the naming and bathing of preemies. This is not my culture, I remind myself in an effort to abate my unspoken comparisons between medical care in developed and undeveloped countries.
A few days later Richard is asking Alfred to break away from a four-day orientation training session he is conducting for our health facility staff. The baby is having difficulty breathing. Later that day she is hospitalized for severe dehydration.
Tonight the darkened hospital room is void of medical staff. Unused mosquito nets, bunched like heavy clouds, hang above the dozen or so sleeping patients. “No, no, no, don’t,” cries Richard’s wife, holding out her arm in defense, taking a few moments to realize her surroundings. Alfred has awakened her from a fitful slumber. I hold the room’s sole lantern aloft above the bed so that the Doc can see the small bundle nestled next to her. He peels back the heavy blanket. Like a blind person seeking an unmarked escape route, my mind stumbles and feels around for an explanation. I have never seen a baby so small or fragile. A small bird with a head of black hair. Pale, flaky skin. Her jutting ribs moving up and down with each breath and gasp. She does not open her eyes when Alfred’s immense hand touches her petite forehead.
Alfred is frustrated. The staff of the hospital, which is not operated by IMC, has removed the baby’s IV, brought from our stock room and painstakingly inserted by Martha into the baby’s microscopic veins after many failed attempts. The Doc fears that it has become contaminated and chooses not to reinsert it. A new IV bag must be brought in the morning. “Every 30 minutes through the night and then every two hours tomorrow.” Alfred is advising the mother to breastfeed. It is the only salvation in a country without bottles and formula – and most importantly, clean water.
As we leave the room and begin picking our way through the darkened corridor, I grab Alfred’s hand. “Doc, is this an emergency? Do we need to get the drugstore key from Martha and go to our compound to get a new IV bag and come back here?” No, the baby, is much improved,” he answers. “She will survive the night. But, if a new IV bag is not brought tomorrow this child will certainly die.” The night breeze glides over our unspoken thoughts as we ride, the windows down, in the ambulance to our waiting beds.
In the morning, Martha takes a new IV to the baby. She instructs the mother to pump her breast milk into a cup and to feed it to the baby. They’ve come to realize the tiny girl is simply too small to breastfeed. Two days later, the situation worsening, a feeding tube is inserted into the baby’s nose for administration of breast milk. While it seems a setback, it may be the best solution
“After three days there will be changes because that baby I don’t think is dying,” says Martha. “It refuse to die.”
Martha
Arriving prematurely, the little being has had problems from the start. No one knows exactly how old she was at birth, but seven months is the agreed upon number. Premature babies are on their own here. There are no incubators, no special accommodations for their fragile immune systems, no specially trained medical staff regularly checking her vital signs. But preemies will live here if they survive their first week, says Martha.
The baby’s first week came and went before trouble arrived. Richard was reporting what sounded like diaper rash. “This baby is as hard as stone,” said Martha, returning from a subsequent house call. Dehydration. Some sort of blisters in the baby’s armpits. The baby, not yet named, is not being bathed or regularly breastfed, she reports, hinting at parental neglect. I filter this news through the knowledge that Martha, hardened by war and personal loss, views many of her fellow Sudanese as lazy and inept, not to mention that she has had many clashes in the past year with Richard. This is the first birth for Richard’s wife, all of 18, which might explain why she seems unsure of how to care for the baby. Both Martha and I wonder aloud why her mother, her aunts and neighbors are not providing advice. Perhaps they are and the mother, who Martha implies is spoiled, is not heeding it. Perhaps also there is some sort of taboo cautioning against the naming and bathing of preemies. This is not my culture, I remind myself in an effort to abate my unspoken comparisons between medical care in developed and undeveloped countries.
A few days later Richard is asking Alfred to break away from a four-day orientation training session he is conducting for our health facility staff. The baby is having difficulty breathing. Later that day she is hospitalized for severe dehydration.
Tonight the darkened hospital room is void of medical staff. Unused mosquito nets, bunched like heavy clouds, hang above the dozen or so sleeping patients. “No, no, no, don’t,” cries Richard’s wife, holding out her arm in defense, taking a few moments to realize her surroundings. Alfred has awakened her from a fitful slumber. I hold the room’s sole lantern aloft above the bed so that the Doc can see the small bundle nestled next to her. He peels back the heavy blanket. Like a blind person seeking an unmarked escape route, my mind stumbles and feels around for an explanation. I have never seen a baby so small or fragile. A small bird with a head of black hair. Pale, flaky skin. Her jutting ribs moving up and down with each breath and gasp. She does not open her eyes when Alfred’s immense hand touches her petite forehead.
Alfred is frustrated. The staff of the hospital, which is not operated by IMC, has removed the baby’s IV, brought from our stock room and painstakingly inserted by Martha into the baby’s microscopic veins after many failed attempts. The Doc fears that it has become contaminated and chooses not to reinsert it. A new IV bag must be brought in the morning. “Every 30 minutes through the night and then every two hours tomorrow.” Alfred is advising the mother to breastfeed. It is the only salvation in a country without bottles and formula – and most importantly, clean water.
As we leave the room and begin picking our way through the darkened corridor, I grab Alfred’s hand. “Doc, is this an emergency? Do we need to get the drugstore key from Martha and go to our compound to get a new IV bag and come back here?” No, the baby, is much improved,” he answers. “She will survive the night. But, if a new IV bag is not brought tomorrow this child will certainly die.” The night breeze glides over our unspoken thoughts as we ride, the windows down, in the ambulance to our waiting beds.
In the morning, Martha takes a new IV to the baby. She instructs the mother to pump her breast milk into a cup and to feed it to the baby. They’ve come to realize the tiny girl is simply too small to breastfeed. Two days later, the situation worsening, a feeding tube is inserted into the baby’s nose for administration of breast milk. While it seems a setback, it may be the best solution“After three days there will be changes because that baby I don’t think is dying,” says Martha. “It refuse to die.”
Martha
Wednesday, February 21
“These people have really made this man’s life difficult,” says Moses, as we lurch over one of the town’s two new homemade speed bumps. Through the Land Cruiser’s window I see what he’s talking about. Otherwise dignified in his yellow polyester suit coat, the man is huddled on the side of the road, his emaciated legs jutting out from underneath him at awkward angles. His three-wheeled, hand-powered bicycle is straddling the speed bump, unable to clear it. There’s no need to stop; someone is already at his side.
It’s a bit past 8 o’clock in the morning. We’ve just participated in our morning calisthenics: push-starting the Land Cruiser. Dirty diesel has worked its way through the systems of both our vehicles. It would be more amusing if we also didn’t have to change a flat tire this morning, and further hilarious if the lack of functioning vehicles wasn’t compromising our ability to visit to our 20 healthcare facilities scattered throughout the county. With no Toyota dealer in the area, let alone parts or a mechanic capable of installing them, the broken pieces will be removed – one vehicle at a time -- and sent to Kampala, Uganda. If all goes well, the parts will return in two weeks; if not, two months. That is, of course, if our drivers manage to meet the Friday plane for the air delivery. They missed today’s flight, setting the process back by three days.
At the office, we greet the staff with the traditional Sudanese handshakes. Samuel’s is strong and lingering. James’s is unnecessarily shy and unsure. Richard’s is a three-step process with street style: out, up, two-finger snap.
Richard is looking tired. Today, however, it’s not due to the crying of his 10-day-old baby girl. His evenings of late have been spent putting to rest the son of his elder mother – a cousin to you and me. The 17-year-old boy died Sunday afternoon. We don’t ask why. Unless attributable to injury, death’s reason is usually unknown due to limited medical technology and diagnostics. Each night, Richard and his relatives are gathering, paying their respects by refusing sleep until the burial. Someone beats the traditional drum. Another passes the coffee pot. Several reach for the jug of hoppy home-brew.
Richard’s explanation of the funeral tradition brings to mind a night of restless sleep last week. From somewhere in the near dark echoed the voice of a laughing man, broadcast throughout the town by a battery-controlled microphone. His four-hour diatribe had been accompanied by wild riffs on a screaming electric guitar. The next morning the puffy eyed masses in the compound’s mess hall learned that the event was the 10-year anniversary of a man’s death. The deceased’s family, forced from the area by the protracted war, only just returned, thereby making it possible to properly cap the grave with a cement tombstone.
***
The death of Richard’s cousin caused Richard to be late to work this morning. Now, covering his mouth with his hand (he didn’t even allow himself time to return home to brush his teeth before reporting from the funeral to work), he is asking to leave early. Ryan, who is pounding out a funding proposal on his laptop, is torn. Death requires the adherence to certain family traditions, but, in a country where families are as extended as the mango trees are plenty, no one would work much if every death necessitated time off. Paid time is granted for the death of a first-line descendant or ascendant, but not a cousin. Ryan offers Richard time off without pay. Richard offers nothing but silence.
Samuel, however, jumps in and argues for Richard. Normally Samuel and Richard are ready to throttle one another, and if not each other then Martha. There may be peace in Sudan, but these three young Sudanese need their own Comprehensive Peace Agreement. The discussion and disagreement ends when Samuel and Richard straddle the company motorbikes and head out – Samuel to measure the interior of a health unit in order to purchase furniture, and Richard to obtain prices for a proposal budget I’m preparing.
They pass through the gate as the UNHCR ambulance pulls in, depositing a hungry and tired Martha. She’s just returned from one of two ambulance runs that day to neighboring Nzara County. The UNHCR-sponsored refugee repatriation project has drawn to a close in Tambura and has now opened here in Yambio. While the facility at which the returnees are received and registered is in Yambio, the flights are landing in Nzara. Apparently no one realized until last week that the Yambio runway is too short to handle the 50-passenger planes. The returnees are therefore flown to Nzara, trucked one hour over unforgiving roads to Yambio, registered, fed and made to spend the night before being trucked one hour back to Nzara the following day for reunion with friends and family. Martha accompanies the ambulance on these runs in the event someone becomes ill or injured. Now she grabs some lunch from the waiting pots lined up on the kitchen table and hunkers over tomato salad and a bread roll. She pays no mind to the black, pungent smoke billowing from the refrigerator. Moses is doing his best to get the kerosene refrigerator functioning again so that it can safeguard vaccines at one of our facilities. Martha vacillates between ripping her bread roll to pieces and flinging her arm into the air in an epileptic wave necessary to dispatch the clinging black flies. The aggressive of the flies has increased in direct proportion to the rising mercury. The land has morphed into a dry, dusty dessert. We are sweating and the flies are seeking moisture in our perspiration. “They are just going to my eyes seriously, like they have an invitation card,” says Martha in the unknowingly humorous and haltingly formal speech of a person whose native language is not English.
***
Outside, a pile of bicycles marks the knot of random people underneath the mango trees of the IMC compound. They are the guards, the guards’ friends, the drivers, the drivers’ friends, the cooks, the cooks’ friends. We don’t bother asking anymore why the friends are all here. One of the drivers is cutting the hair of one of the guard’s. Their eyes follow me as I pass by, heading for the road. One guard leaps to action, opening the gate for me.
On foot to a meeting, I’m feeling slightly sorry for myself for having to walk so far in the dust and heat. But I shouldn’t feel this way. After all, I’m in a place I have wanted to live in for so long. Africa is all around me.
Two shoeless boys are gleefully chasing bicycle tires down the street, using sticks to keep them upright. The goats are basking in the sun on the soccer field and the chickens are lined up on the fence. A police officer glides by in his blue camouflage uniform (what exactly do shades of blue camouflage you from?). The tough persona created by the gun slung over his shoulder and the cigarette dangling from his lips is defied by the cheerful plastic flowers decorating his bicycle. Two women sit under a tree, one weaving fake strands of hair into her friend’s tight curls.
The growing mangoes are drooping from the branches. I wonder how these trees, as massive as they are, will bear the weight of all these maturing mangoes. Indeed, some of the hard green lobes have already starting hurtling themselves onto the corrugated tin roof of our bedroom. The sound jars me every time. “It is the second LRA,” says Martha, comparing the noise to that of gunshots from our favorite menacing group, the Lord’s Resistance Army.
The bleating of a bicycle bell pushes me to the side of the road. In this town of untamed dirt roads, rights of way are determined by horsepower. The four-wheel driver vehicles horn away the motorcycles which push aside the bicycles which demand the road from pedestrians. A toothless older woman with a walking stick stops in her path to waive and smile. She’s herding a troupe of girls with yellow plastic 20-liter jerricans filled with water on their heads. They’ve come from the borehole near the church. I pick up one of the jerricans and carry it for one of the girls the short distance to their trio of tukuls; she cannot carry her jerrican atop her head due to pile of beautiful, spiraled braids she wears.
The only escape from the heat comes in the last hour of light when we wind our way through the nearby verdant jungle of teak, mahogany, coffee plants, papaya and orange trees, or walk around the small lake where people are collecting water and bathing themselves, their bicycles, their motorcycles and their clothes. A small bush fire crackles to life, spitting sparks toward the heavens. It’s a routine, albeit unsafe, method of cleaning up the leaves from the forest floor.
So, the mangoes are growing, the bush is burning and we are sweating. Another day draws to a close in Yambio Town.
It’s a bit past 8 o’clock in the morning. We’ve just participated in our morning calisthenics: push-starting the Land Cruiser. Dirty diesel has worked its way through the systems of both our vehicles. It would be more amusing if we also didn’t have to change a flat tire this morning, and further hilarious if the lack of functioning vehicles wasn’t compromising our ability to visit to our 20 healthcare facilities scattered throughout the county. With no Toyota dealer in the area, let alone parts or a mechanic capable of installing them, the broken pieces will be removed – one vehicle at a time -- and sent to Kampala, Uganda. If all goes well, the parts will return in two weeks; if not, two months. That is, of course, if our drivers manage to meet the Friday plane for the air delivery. They missed today’s flight, setting the process back by three days.
At the office, we greet the staff with the traditional Sudanese handshakes. Samuel’s is strong and lingering. James’s is unnecessarily shy and unsure. Richard’s is a three-step process with street style: out, up, two-finger snap.
Richard is looking tired. Today, however, it’s not due to the crying of his 10-day-old baby girl. His evenings of late have been spent putting to rest the son of his elder mother – a cousin to you and me. The 17-year-old boy died Sunday afternoon. We don’t ask why. Unless attributable to injury, death’s reason is usually unknown due to limited medical technology and diagnostics. Each night, Richard and his relatives are gathering, paying their respects by refusing sleep until the burial. Someone beats the traditional drum. Another passes the coffee pot. Several reach for the jug of hoppy home-brew.
Richard’s explanation of the funeral tradition brings to mind a night of restless sleep last week. From somewhere in the near dark echoed the voice of a laughing man, broadcast throughout the town by a battery-controlled microphone. His four-hour diatribe had been accompanied by wild riffs on a screaming electric guitar. The next morning the puffy eyed masses in the compound’s mess hall learned that the event was the 10-year anniversary of a man’s death. The deceased’s family, forced from the area by the protracted war, only just returned, thereby making it possible to properly cap the grave with a cement tombstone.
***
The death of Richard’s cousin caused Richard to be late to work this morning. Now, covering his mouth with his hand (he didn’t even allow himself time to return home to brush his teeth before reporting from the funeral to work), he is asking to leave early. Ryan, who is pounding out a funding proposal on his laptop, is torn. Death requires the adherence to certain family traditions, but, in a country where families are as extended as the mango trees are plenty, no one would work much if every death necessitated time off. Paid time is granted for the death of a first-line descendant or ascendant, but not a cousin. Ryan offers Richard time off without pay. Richard offers nothing but silence.
Samuel, however, jumps in and argues for Richard. Normally Samuel and Richard are ready to throttle one another, and if not each other then Martha. There may be peace in Sudan, but these three young Sudanese need their own Comprehensive Peace Agreement. The discussion and disagreement ends when Samuel and Richard straddle the company motorbikes and head out – Samuel to measure the interior of a health unit in order to purchase furniture, and Richard to obtain prices for a proposal budget I’m preparing.
They pass through the gate as the UNHCR ambulance pulls in, depositing a hungry and tired Martha. She’s just returned from one of two ambulance runs that day to neighboring Nzara County. The UNHCR-sponsored refugee repatriation project has drawn to a close in Tambura and has now opened here in Yambio. While the facility at which the returnees are received and registered is in Yambio, the flights are landing in Nzara. Apparently no one realized until last week that the Yambio runway is too short to handle the 50-passenger planes. The returnees are therefore flown to Nzara, trucked one hour over unforgiving roads to Yambio, registered, fed and made to spend the night before being trucked one hour back to Nzara the following day for reunion with friends and family. Martha accompanies the ambulance on these runs in the event someone becomes ill or injured. Now she grabs some lunch from the waiting pots lined up on the kitchen table and hunkers over tomato salad and a bread roll. She pays no mind to the black, pungent smoke billowing from the refrigerator. Moses is doing his best to get the kerosene refrigerator functioning again so that it can safeguard vaccines at one of our facilities. Martha vacillates between ripping her bread roll to pieces and flinging her arm into the air in an epileptic wave necessary to dispatch the clinging black flies. The aggressive of the flies has increased in direct proportion to the rising mercury. The land has morphed into a dry, dusty dessert. We are sweating and the flies are seeking moisture in our perspiration. “They are just going to my eyes seriously, like they have an invitation card,” says Martha in the unknowingly humorous and haltingly formal speech of a person whose native language is not English.
***
Outside, a pile of bicycles marks the knot of random people underneath the mango trees of the IMC compound. They are the guards, the guards’ friends, the drivers, the drivers’ friends, the cooks, the cooks’ friends. We don’t bother asking anymore why the friends are all here. One of the drivers is cutting the hair of one of the guard’s. Their eyes follow me as I pass by, heading for the road. One guard leaps to action, opening the gate for me.
On foot to a meeting, I’m feeling slightly sorry for myself for having to walk so far in the dust and heat. But I shouldn’t feel this way. After all, I’m in a place I have wanted to live in for so long. Africa is all around me.
Two shoeless boys are gleefully chasing bicycle tires down the street, using sticks to keep them upright. The goats are basking in the sun on the soccer field and the chickens are lined up on the fence. A police officer glides by in his blue camouflage uniform (what exactly do shades of blue camouflage you from?). The tough persona created by the gun slung over his shoulder and the cigarette dangling from his lips is defied by the cheerful plastic flowers decorating his bicycle. Two women sit under a tree, one weaving fake strands of hair into her friend’s tight curls.
The growing mangoes are drooping from the branches. I wonder how these trees, as massive as they are, will bear the weight of all these maturing mangoes. Indeed, some of the hard green lobes have already starting hurtling themselves onto the corrugated tin roof of our bedroom. The sound jars me every time. “It is the second LRA,” says Martha, comparing the noise to that of gunshots from our favorite menacing group, the Lord’s Resistance Army.
The bleating of a bicycle bell pushes me to the side of the road. In this town of untamed dirt roads, rights of way are determined by horsepower. The four-wheel driver vehicles horn away the motorcycles which push aside the bicycles which demand the road from pedestrians. A toothless older woman with a walking stick stops in her path to waive and smile. She’s herding a troupe of girls with yellow plastic 20-liter jerricans filled with water on their heads. They’ve come from the borehole near the church. I pick up one of the jerricans and carry it for one of the girls the short distance to their trio of tukuls; she cannot carry her jerrican atop her head due to pile of beautiful, spiraled braids she wears.
The only escape from the heat comes in the last hour of light when we wind our way through the nearby verdant jungle of teak, mahogany, coffee plants, papaya and orange trees, or walk around the small lake where people are collecting water and bathing themselves, their bicycles, their motorcycles and their clothes. A small bush fire crackles to life, spitting sparks toward the heavens. It’s a routine, albeit unsafe, method of cleaning up the leaves from the forest floor.
So, the mangoes are growing, the bush is burning and we are sweating. Another day draws to a close in Yambio Town.
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!”
“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!”
Tuesday, January 30
Every American living abroad wrestles with some aspect of overseas life, regardless of the number of years on foreign soil. For one of my friends it’s the lack of privacy; for another, not having someone that can relate to her personal issues. Mine is the attention I attract as a foreigner and a white person.
I have never enjoyed being stared at. I can’t imagine many people do, but some are not as bothered by it. In Kazakhstan, depending on how I dressed, I could pass for a Russian – that is until I began to speak and people recognized my clumsy elementary language skills and bad accent. People stared, but not as much as the people do here. In South Sudan, I have no chance of assimilating or blending into the community. At every instance in which I leave the confines of our compound where we work or the UNICEF compound at which we live, heads start turning and people begin unapologetically and unabashedly staring, their gaze as intense as the noonday summer sun. It always surprises me -- it’s not as if this town is virgin territory for foreigners. The various United Nations agencies and the non-governmental organizations working here are many. And while most of these organizations’ employees are African, Yambio is the working home to a few white folks from Canada, Australia, Germany, England, as well as the United States.
So, every day when we take our pre-dinner stroll, I mentally prepare to become the evening spectacle. The reactions vary. The men stare; the women and elderly (few and far between in this country) offer polite, dignified greetings -- if I initiate the exchange; and the boys who are beyond the age of 8 simply give me a look that seems to say “Who you talking to?” They are too cool to bother.
It’s the response from the children that I enjoy. Before I even see the kids that are tucked behind tukuls and trees, I hear the cry of “Kajawa!” (white person) as it’s repeated down the line in Paul Revere style. When I’m feeling sassy, I reply “Sudanese!” knowing they won’t understand my language or my supposed humor. They giggle with delight and gather for a look. Some come forward to offer shy grins and tentative handshakes, their bellies bulging beneath their shirts and dirt staining their beautiful faces. Those who know a few words of English ask “How are you?” “Fine. How are you?” I answer. “How are you,” comes the circular reply. All are surprised when I say the one word I know in Zande – “Guinea Pie (hello),” to which they are to reply “Pie-tay (fine).” But what they really want to hear me say is “bye, bye.” Somewhere along the line the kids began to believe this is how we say hello in English. In another comedy of translation and identity, the “foreigner is coming” call is sometimes issued as “Bangaladee!” The United Nations Mission in Sudan – the police charged with monitoring the Comprehensive Peace Agreement – is largely comprised of soldiers from Bangladesh. Somehow their presence has the kids believing that either “Bangaladee” is another word for foreigner, or that all foreigners are from Bangladesh. Every time I hear it, I can’t help but laugh, never before having been mistaken as an Asian.
By any name, I will happily continue receiving the greetings from these little ambassadors of New Sudan.
p.s. Those of you wondering about the condition of my colleague Val: she was diagnosed with pneumonia and environmentally induced asthma, the former brought on by the amount of dust hanging in the air during the dry season. She has recovered and is happily working again in Tambura to defeat gender based violence.
I have never enjoyed being stared at. I can’t imagine many people do, but some are not as bothered by it. In Kazakhstan, depending on how I dressed, I could pass for a Russian – that is until I began to speak and people recognized my clumsy elementary language skills and bad accent. People stared, but not as much as the people do here. In South Sudan, I have no chance of assimilating or blending into the community. At every instance in which I leave the confines of our compound where we work or the UNICEF compound at which we live, heads start turning and people begin unapologetically and unabashedly staring, their gaze as intense as the noonday summer sun. It always surprises me -- it’s not as if this town is virgin territory for foreigners. The various United Nations agencies and the non-governmental organizations working here are many. And while most of these organizations’ employees are African, Yambio is the working home to a few white folks from Canada, Australia, Germany, England, as well as the United States.
So, every day when we take our pre-dinner stroll, I mentally prepare to become the evening spectacle. The reactions vary. The men stare; the women and elderly (few and far between in this country) offer polite, dignified greetings -- if I initiate the exchange; and the boys who are beyond the age of 8 simply give me a look that seems to say “Who you talking to?” They are too cool to bother.
It’s the response from the children that I enjoy. Before I even see the kids that are tucked behind tukuls and trees, I hear the cry of “Kajawa!” (white person) as it’s repeated down the line in Paul Revere style. When I’m feeling sassy, I reply “Sudanese!” knowing they won’t understand my language or my supposed humor. They giggle with delight and gather for a look. Some come forward to offer shy grins and tentative handshakes, their bellies bulging beneath their shirts and dirt staining their beautiful faces. Those who know a few words of English ask “How are you?” “Fine. How are you?” I answer. “How are you,” comes the circular reply. All are surprised when I say the one word I know in Zande – “Guinea Pie (hello),” to which they are to reply “Pie-tay (fine).” But what they really want to hear me say is “bye, bye.” Somewhere along the line the kids began to believe this is how we say hello in English. In another comedy of translation and identity, the “foreigner is coming” call is sometimes issued as “Bangaladee!” The United Nations Mission in Sudan – the police charged with monitoring the Comprehensive Peace Agreement – is largely comprised of soldiers from Bangladesh. Somehow their presence has the kids believing that either “Bangaladee” is another word for foreigner, or that all foreigners are from Bangladesh. Every time I hear it, I can’t help but laugh, never before having been mistaken as an Asian.
By any name, I will happily continue receiving the greetings from these little ambassadors of New Sudan.
p.s. Those of you wondering about the condition of my colleague Val: she was diagnosed with pneumonia and environmentally induced asthma, the former brought on by the amount of dust hanging in the air during the dry season. She has recovered and is happily working again in Tambura to defeat gender based violence.
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