Something is Better Than Nothing

Flying the Friendly, and Not So Friendly, Skies

I read in a Yahoo News headline that Obama wants to impose new airline guidelines.  Maybe he could speak to the powers that be in Sudan about airline guidelines. Sudan is one of only four countries, in good company with Iran, Cuba and North Korea,  that do not comply with international safety protocols.  The 1950s fleet does not have, nor is it required to have, navigation and lighting instruments. In addition, crucial parts of the landing gear are considered optional.  The government claims they do not recognize these laws as such because they are a part of an “American and Zionist evidence of conspiracy to destroy Islam”.

Imagine.

If that isn’t enough to make you stay away from flying the friendly skies with planes from these countries, consider this. The criteria to become a pilot is a primary school diploma and a passing mark on the pilot’s test.  I would love to see this test.  As we go into ever higher levels of security checks and guidelines regarding air travel, consider the opposite extreme.  While we all would hope to find a balance with security and safety procedures, we cannot deny the fact that today’s world is simply not balanced.

Crime of Fashion

A group of women in Northern Sudan were detained recently.  There crime was “tight pants”.  These women, professionally educated as lawyers and teachers, were fully clothed and covered as the Sharia Law requires. They all donned head scarfs, long sleeved shirts, a long coat and their legs were covered. Unfortunately, though, according to the local authorities, their pants were too tight.  They were arrested and jailed. The women decided to remain in prison and take their case to the courts. Any standard infraction warrant an automatic forty lashes. For women, the lashes are delivered in private by another women.  Talk about civility.  As the case was quite public, the lashings were suspended until the case could be decided.  After almost four weeks, the case was heard by the ruling judge, who, in fact, found them guilty of wearing tight pants.  He offered to show his kindness by sparing the lashings for the time served. In a culture claiming protection of a women’s modesty, I have to wonder if the person(s) who looked at these women, noticing their tight pants, had also broken a law of any kind.

If I Could Talk to the Animals

I read a short article in the paper last week entitled, “ Man Marries Goat”.  There was a description of an unusual incident.  It was reported that a certain man, in a certain village, names withheld to protect the innocent, I imagine, heard a loud and strange noise one night.  He went out to investigate only to find “his neighbor using his goat as his wife”.  Yes, in quotes.  He took the man to court.  The judge ruled that the man must pay the owner of the goat a dowry, in the sum of three cows, and take the goat as his wife.  The man, did in fact, pay the fine of three cows, and kept the goat. By the way, an average dowry in the village for a real wife is usually five cows, but depending on how tall she is, and if she is a hard worker, the family of the bride can bargain for a few more cows. I have never considered it before but wonder how many cows I  might be worth?

More on Cows

Because cows are of such import to village life, they take the main stage in songs, stories and most anything else of cultural significance.  Children are named after the characteristics of certain favored beasts; noting the coloring, bone structure or temperament of these bovines.  There are songs proclaiming the size and beauty of the cow’s testicles and this is an on-going comparison between the men. That is, comparing the cow’s testicles.  The Dinka people, known for beautifying their bodies with carvings into the skin, use the forehead to carve symbols of cow horns.  The cows also enjoy a nice shaded overhang, made from reeds and sticks by the men in the village, while the people scurry to share any small bits of shade available. The cows are not normally raised for eating, except in the case of major celebrations. They do use the blood to mix into milk, like their relations the Masaai. Otherwise, the cows are walked about and guided towards grazing, the boys and men responsible for their care. Much of the local and tribal warfare is in response to the cattle raids, a very serious crime in Sudan. This of course incites a return attack and the cycle of feuding and violence continues and escalates. Meanwhile, the cows move from village to village, not seeming to care too much about the politics or ownership. Either way, they are well treated. Oh, it’s a cow’s life in Sudan, to be sure.

Dorothy, This Ain’t Kansas

I saw a woman walking down the street yesterday, dressed in a nice two piece business suit, carrying a purse. If I ignored what was around and particularly behind her, I could imagine her leaving her office to walk to the corner to buy lunch from a food cart in Any City, USA. But, what was around her, the dust and dirt roads, the damaged cars twisted into heaps of metal piled high, the stray dogs and goats wandering the streets, did not allow my imagination to escape to another place. And what was behind her absolutely riveted my mind to this place and her life.  Walking behind her was a man, possibly her husband or brother, shabbily dressed. In his hands was a long switch, the kind used to herd and prod cattle. A constant barrage of rough and loud words tumbled forth from his mouth as he repeatedly flicked this instrument upon her. She continued to walk on, looking straight ahead.  The streets were busy, as it was lunchtime, but no one seemed to take any notice.

Who knows what infraction she might have committed or was thought to have committed?  It did appear, though, that this was not the first time she was subjected to this level of humiliation or pain.  And, from the lack of response of the others in the street, I think this isn’t an uncommon occurrence.  The strange thing about it, though, was that she was the one who possessed a sense of dignity and decorum. The man “in control” was slovenly and disheveled, and although he was unaware, his abusive actions showed just how out of control he was. I felt such sadness and helplessness for this women.  Just to consider a life so repressed, one shrouded in violence, like countless millions of others in this world, is so very painful for the heart and soul. How is it that  civility and humanity can be so absent?

Christmas Tidings

One of the great things about this past week is that there were kids everywhere, playing in the streets. I don’t know if they came from far to visit families, or have always been here,  their responsibilities not permitting time for play.  But, for the first time I could hear their shrieks and laughter throughout the day. It was the first time, in almost three months, that I have heard sounds of joy.  They are playing a game that looks much like Dodge Ball in front of my office gate.  They are all shoeless and wearing torn and dirty clothes.

I watched them one lunch time, hoping they would invite me to join in. They didn’t which was probably lucky for me.  They played this game with a fierceness I could never have matched. I am not sure what the ball was made out of, but they had great aim, each time the ball meeting its target of a skinny leg, arm or backside.  They kept score with a stack of old bricks. When the stack was complete, the opposing team took aim.  There were both boys and girls playing, with the little ones sitting on sacks of gravel. 

I didn’t mind that they didn’t ask me to play. For me, their laughs and yells and chatter kept me company throughout the afternoon. In a place where there aren’t many visible signs of the enjoyment of life, these kids really lifted my spirits. I am not sure how much opportunity they get to play. I also wonder if they ever play with less ferocity. Maybe this level of intensity is how they need to dispel the realities of their days.  While I hope for so many things for these children; more than adequate food and clothing, a loving family, opportunity, I also hope they will have at least a few more years of simple uninhibited play.

The red dirt roads stretch ahead and behind us for miles, clouds of dust in our wake. We pass small settlements along the sides of the road, mud houses with grass roofs resting in the barren dirt. People raise their heads from their activities to watch the infrequent cars rolling slowly into the checkpoints. The cars and their inhabitants serve as entertainment and activity. Local police or military sit under a shaded canopy, slowly making their way to the cars, casting their control, whatever that might be, for the time that they can. They are usually dressed in blue uniforms, often with guns and hidden behind shaded sunglasses. They peer into the car, often make a statement to the driver, unintelligible to us, and wave us through. A shaky stick structure serves as the gateway, the sticks lifted by the local children on cue from the policeman, allowing us to proceed. The departure of the cars returns the residents back to their activities of idleness, until the next car comes along.

These small settlements along the side of the road are hoping to capitalize on the movement of the limited passersby. There are bags of charcoal for sale, stacked on top of one another. The fallen trees and branches are constantly burned and covered in a pit to make this source of fuel that everyone uses. Those making and selling the charcoal are covered in the black dust and soot. The ever present colorful and small shops, built from metal and wooden scraps, with a locked wire mesh in front, offer matches, soap, stale cookies, cooking oil and various canned goods and sometimes bread. Most of these items come in small quantities and rewrapped packets, making it affordable to locals. The men sit in the plastic chairs, passing the day watching and commenting on the activities. Small fires burn about the compound, women cooking in blackened and charred pots. Children move about, some completely naked, covered from head to toe in dust and dirt. Almost all the children wear a necklace of some sort, most with a seashell attached. The girls have very small sticks in their noses and ears, obviously new piercings awaiting the time when actual jewelry can be afforded.

Numerous well worn paths stretch from these roadside settlements into the tall grasses and trees. Often, one can see a woman on the path, carrying back purchased goods or buckets of water on their head, slowly making their way. Large woven mats, used for fencing, move parallel along the tops of the tall grasses, the female conveyor hidden from sight. The swaying sight of these articles is hypnotic and soothing to the eye, disguising the contrast of the human toll and labor.

My teammates told me they take photos of volunteers when they first arrive and another when their mission is completed. They claim that in six or nine months time the photos capture the wear and tear on a person. I believe it.

The scorching sun and searing heat dry up the moisture from my body. The first noticeable sign is the skin, now leathery, cracked and lined after only two short months. I slather on body lotion and coconut oil. My skin drinks it up, never satiated. The lining of my nose is cracked, my eyes constricted and tight. The dirt and dust is constant, able to invade and settle in my body, out of reach to my continued attempts at removal. My hair has become heavily streaked with gray, no longer just along the facial hairline; this sign of aging is gaining more territory on a daily basis. And, the hair sits full and heavy on my head, dead and dry, coated in dust regardless of the shampooing and conditioning applied. I have started to oil my hair, a response as necessary as offering water to a parched throat. Various bug bites leave their markings on my skin in the form of red welts, bruises and scabs. The interruption of my exercise routine is apparent in muscles that are losing their texture and weight gain.

And, these are only the physical aspects I can witness. I wonder about all that the body endures that cannot be seen or outwardly known. The constant smoke in the air from the burning of trash and plastics silently erodes my lungs. The food and water, on some degree contaminated and harboring parasites, take refuge and possibly long term residence in my innards. Even the medicine I take to protect myself from the ills of malaria will slowly cause damage to my vital organs when ingested for any length of time. And what to say of my mind, my spirit, my heart? What is the extent of the weariness I can endure, trying to interpret situations so completely removed from any familiarity, necessitating constant consideration. And at what point do I need to move from the place of observer into appropriate and impactful action? Can my position of voyeur be my work; lending my interpretations and stories to others?

With all of this, or maybe because of all this, I desperately want to drink in my experience of Africa. I want to keep alive my times here, all of the sensations and stimulations that cause my heart and mind to burst into intense emotion; the pain, the frustration, the simple joys. Piece by piece, experience by experience, I try to paint what I see with words and phrase. In a country of such poverty, where the language is free, I try to use this medium to connect this place, through my interpretations, to others.

It’s funny the things that pop in and out of the mind, uninvited. And, funnier the thoughts that come back , covered in cobwebs and dust, making themselves again present, screaming in your brain with flashing neon lights, saved from near oblivion. I was reminded of an experience, a very vague and hazy memory, of walking upon a remote village somewhere in India, more than thirty years ago. There was a handwritten sign, “Leper Village, No Trespassing”, hanging off of the stick fence that surrounded a few mud and reed houses. Having never passed a Leper Village before, and seemingly with no explanation forthcoming from our guide, I had to take a look. Curiosity trumping etiquette, and who knew the protocol for this type of thing anyway, our leader surely wasn’t telling, I peeked at one of the mud houses. There in the window, waving to me madly, was a Mr. Potato Head in full dress. For years I thought there was some great meaning in this experience. Not having the fortitude for the rigorous reflection of life, I was unable to derive the meaning, though I did give it a paltry attempt, usually at a late night party with college friends on the same quest. None of us were even able t to navigate the conversation, let alone the connection regarding the meaning of life, lepers and the nefarious Mr. Potato Man.

Many years later, I find myself waking the past few mornings to the canned and repetitive music of an ice cream truck. It plays over and over, the tinny music annoying me out of my sleep. Or, at least I think that is what I am hearing. It’s probably not likely as I am awaking each morning in Juba, South Sudan. But one never knows. If Mr. Potato Head could make his way all the way to a remote Indian Village, why not an ice cream truck zigzagging through the rutted streets of downtown Juba? Doubtful, but not impossible, I muse. And, more importantly, why is the Potato Head memory rearing its plastic head again, waving out to me, like he did so many years ago? Now, older and wiser, and actually interested in the greater meaning of life, I am once again pondering the meaning of Mr. Potato Head and ice cream trucks in the midst of my experiences in desperate poverty stricken lands. It’s true what they say, life only gets more complicated as you get older.

There are stray dogs all over Africa. In the early morning they roam the streets, spritely moving their gaunt bodies from place to place, busy with unknown tasks. By mid-day they take refugee from the sun under the cars to digest the meal they foraged from the heaps of garbage, resting in preparation for the work of the night. As the skies darken and the night hours move towards midnight, without missing an evening, and always at the same time, the dogs start to howl, banding together as sentries on watch. The first time I heard this was while living in Kenya.

As if on cue, the barking started from somewhere behind the house. It began with short quips, one dog calling out to rouse the others. Slowly, gaining volume and momentum, the other neighborhood dogs were enlisted. The sounds travelled around the block and over to the next, dogs leaving their comfortable resting spots to join in and howl. There had to be a conductor, as the various neighborhood sections played their parts on cue, one section giving way to the next, and in the same order each evening. This symphony, complete with syncopated rhythms, building and rising crescendos, receded into familiar refrains night after night. To my new and untrained ear it was a cacophony, lasting for hours and stirring my already vivid imagination, wondering what sinister horrors lurked about in the night, necessary for this level of canine patrol.

But over time, I came to look forward to this nightly recurring concert. Nestled safely in my home, I knew that these dogs would not allow any harm. I lie in bed, full of awe and wonder at the level of animal communication. I also appreciated their instinct, their need and ability to claim and protect their territory. But mostly, I marveled at their cooperation with one another. When one pack of dogs had done its part, howling until hoarse, the adjoining neighborhood bunch took over, as in a relay, carrying out the message into the night. And, when all was in order, the barking stopped, suddenly, surprisingly, the chorus obviously on a command unheard by the human ear, leaving us to the now safe and peaceful remaining hours of the night.

In Sudan, the barking is different. It is erratic. The dogs bark separately, independent from one another, as if they are not befriended or welcomed in packs. They howl, baleful and wretched cries of pain and sorrow. And it is not only the dogs growling at night. The cats add their lament, snarling and shrieking, either being attacked or attacking another. The birds and chickens, speaking out at an uncommon hour, squawk and flutter and flap about in earnest desperation and confusion. Even the donkeys and horses bray mournfully.

It is as if the animals have harvested all of the human miseries from the day, collecting the anguish and despair that is palpable, that by day lines the faces of the people, and at night spews from their hearts and souls, spilling from their nightmares, dripping off their sleeping mats and emptying into the streets, adding to the raw sewage. The animals gather this all together, bundling the grief and woes, ingesting it in hopes of returning the souls, noticeably cleaned and free of pain for the new morning to come. Unbearable, they vomit it back out, into the endless and dark skies, its infinity mocking, and a perpetual invitation of space to receive and store the injustices of the world, which will surely continue with each new day, as it is rained back down upon the earth.

Photos from the Aweil South Sudan project.

This is the link to the album- it is a public Picasa web album. The previous Africa photos from Kenya are on this account as well.

Aweil S Sudan

So, it hit me today that I haven’t been writing about my experience in South Sudan as I am finding the whole experience a bit overwhelming. And, it occurred to me, like anything, when I break it down, piece by piece, focusing on one aspect at a time, it becomes a bit more manageable. At least manageable to explain. So, I’ll start with one small piece. Let me start by telling you about one person. This is someone I haven’t met exactly and am not sure if I ever will. Yet, it is sometimes the stranger who calls our attention, who in some undefined way can reach into our mind and heart, leaving us changed. He has impacted me and I am trying to do something, ever so slightly, to impact him. I am trying to prove to myself, and anyone else that cares to indulge me, that contrary to what we try to make ourselves believe, we are in fact connected to one another on this planet, however much we try to convince ourselves otherwise.

There is a disheveled man that sits all day in a torn lawn chair by the side of the road right outside my office compound. He moves about the side of the road in response to the sun, seeking to avoid it as best he can, grabbing the bit of shade offered. I see him at least three times a day, maybe more. Although I don’t think I have once seen him standing, I know that he is a tall man. His long legs extend out in front of him, his feet in flimsy plastic sandals, fighting to serve as an anchor in the dirt. While he mostly slouches in this chair, or leans forward with his head in his hands, I can tell that his torso claims almost as much length as his legs. While not an old man, he is further distinguished by his hair, completely white, something not often seen here. I imagine that when not folded into this chair, hoping to disappear with the blowing dust, he was once an elegant and proud man. But that was in a different world than the one he inhabits now. That was before he became completely haunted by grief and despair. Now he is just one more victim, one of the countless millions, of this country’s war.

He sits, day after day, speaking to no one, simply moving his chair down one side of the block, crossing the dirt road along about midday and makes his way up the other side, in his dance to avoid the sun. I have only seen him in one outfit for the past two months, though he is never dirty, just completely covered in dust, much like the other fixed objects along the side of the road. You would be fooled to think that his almost stationary repose is a statement of idleness. Because, when you look at him, one cannot ignore his eyes. It is as if an electrical current of emotion is coursing through his mind, seeking release, and mangled into the uncontrollable anguished looks of his face. The assaulting images and memories, like a never ending movie reel, forever more bind his past to his future.

When I first saw him, I was afraid. Quickly learning his routine, I made sure mine was the reverse, walking on the opposite side of his location. I thought of the many homeless and street people that I have encountered, thinking that this place was no different. Mental illness was present here, as well as all over the world, and many of these people lived on the streets. My simple definition helped me organize, categorize, summarize and neatly place this experience away in a box. And, having dealt with it, I could now put the box aside, the experience tucked inside and away from view. Almost.

But of course I continued to pass this man each day and could not simply pretend he wasn’t there. Or that it didn’t matter. I started to look up at him as I passed. Each time I increased the amount of time I looked at him, trying to see more of his face. At first, he turned aside or put his head in his lap. Slowly, over the course of a few weeks, while he did not hold my gaze, he did not turn away either. I saw his eyes, widened, seemingly perpetually in fear. Without knowing the details, I was well aware of the horror he had lived though, it having taken complete and sole residence in this man. I began to walk on the same side of the road, extending a greeting, sometimes joined by a smile. A few times he nodded his head in response. At some point, he began to wave back, a quick, jerky extension of one of his long arms, quickly pulled back into his body.

When riding in the MSF cars I waved while asking the driver for some information on this man. The response was always brief and simply stated that he was just another one from the war. Flat response. Simple. Just another victim of the war. The response could be a case of survivor’s guilt, though no one here survived without loss. There is loss of so much, to so many. Millions of people lost their homes and homeland, still unable to return. For those that have, they find their houses gone, all infrastructure completely devastated, and troops still there, pushing them back north. The northern contingent finds it easier to keep their enemies in their backyards rather than worry about them banding together from their homes in the south. And because the area has nothing to offer, back north they go, displaced and unsettled.

Almost everyone has lost family members. Most everyone tells a story of family members killed in the war. Or tortured, then killed. And others have lost children, fathers, mothers and others in the process of flight, with no idea where their kin might be and no system to find them. They start over again, wherever they land, with little more than what they have carried. Entire bands of children run about the streets of the places I have visited. There is no one to care for them as too few people have the means or capacity of heart. Children as young as two or three years old live on the streets, often the older kids trying to provide some form of care. The little ones turn to the garbage piles, seeking out something of interest, as there are no social service agencies to take them in. And this has gone on for decades as the young women working in my office tell me similar stories of being left behind, lost or turned away as parents and relatives were forced to make difficult choices. This is a common story of ones upbringing. Or lack of it.

Another familiar story that I hear is from those that lived in a refugee camp. They considered themselves the lucky ones. They were able to receive food. And shelter. And, as importantly, some schooling. They tell me how the soldiers would come to the classrooms and take them away, for weeks at a time. They were forced to work for the soldiers, collecting firewood, cooking, learning how to shoot guns, learning how to shoot people. Their clothes would be taken from them so they would not run away. They were

beaten regularly. After some time, the leaders of the school would appear and convince the soldiers to return the kids to the school. I have heard this story over and over, told plain and simple. An ordinary occurrence.

And these are the experiences familiar to an entire society, binding characteristics of a generation or two. It is no wonder that they choose to ignore the man on the side of the street. He is an obvious reminder of it all. He is the living ghost of their nightmares, refusing to fade away. He is an all too close reminder of the violence that was…. And that continues to hover over this place.

What can I possibly do for this man? Not much. But I wave each and every time I pass. More for my need than his, I want him to know he is not forgotten. I wave when I am with others, forcing them out of politeness to also wave back. I want desperately to believe that my small action can bring this man back into a circle of caring. I want to be the butterfly in the Chaos Theory, flapping its wings, causing a series of events, mounting as it goes. I want to start a revolution of kindness and compassion stemming from one small act, to one sad and broken man. That this neighborhood, with all these people that know his story more than I ever could, can acknowledge this man, can accept him with all of his horror and grief, can accept and forgive him for all that he has seen, and maybe done, can forgive him for not being able to carry on, as they have decided or been forced to do, wondering each day if they are only steps away from a life like his. This place is joyless and the people so brittle, separating themselves, ignoring him, in an effort to keep their precarious place on the precipice.

For this holiday season I hope we can all step off of our precipice and extend ourselves, in any small way, to those that have fallen down along the sides.

I spend a lot of my time here trying to figure things out. A good part of my day is comprised of trying to make sense not only of this place, but how I could have ever made the decision to come to South Sudan. Honestly, there wasn’t a lot of thought or consideration. I can’t pretend that I assessed the situation or weighed out my options. The problem was, there weren’t a lot of options at the time. Okay, to be specific, there weren’t any other options at that time. Or for the seven prior months.

In all honestly, I had been trying to quell an uneasy feeling that was mounting by the day. I had no job and no prospect of one. My unemployment benefits were coming to an end. Quiet desperation had taken hold. So, in this mode, the words tumbled out, quickly banding into a military coup that took over and unfurled the edict, my mouth serving as an unquestioning solider to my brain. When asked the question, “Would you be interested to go to South Sudan for six months?”, my answer, “Why not?” wasn’t out of imagination or sensibility. Desperation doesn’t allow for imagination or sensibility.

Six weeks later I can now give you a hundred and one reasons “Why not”. Probably I could do better than one hundred and one reasons. Let me tell you first, what wouldn’t be on my list. It wouldn’t be those things that are defined as physical hardships. For instance, I no longer cringe at the water coming out of the shower head, faintly brown and smelling badly. And the geckos that share my room, darting about when I turn on the lights no longer rouse a scream from me. And, I’ve long stopped noticing or caring about the crunch under my feet as I walk on discarded plastic water bottles and other refuse. Even the smell of raw sewerage, pungent after a dousing rain is no longer cause for dismay. And the emaciated and ratty dogs that stare me down on my walk to and from walk no longer seem formidable. These things you can get used to. These things can somehow, as distasteful as they are, be defined, be understood. They are unavoidable so there is nothing to do but accept them.

There are some other things, though, that defy understanding. And, these “other things”, daily interactions that fall under the vague realm of “cultural differences” can be absolutely maddening. What was first novel eventually fades into various shades of dissatisfaction and frustration as you realize your experience is one dimensional, that you cannot understand fully or be understood. Imagine living your life on the outside of a glass wall, peering at everyone within. While you can see them move about, you can’t hear them and can never really understand, with any depth, what is occurring. All that is below the surface, those delicate and essential elements of human relations, are hidden to your view. Pound as you might on this glass wall, no one hears you. And for the few that look up and notice you, in their mind you remain a curiosity, forever an outsider. Yet, if you are a true pioneer, wanting to explore these new worlds of cultural difference, you continue on. Or try to.

I remember my excitement in an undergraduate anthropology class when first presented this idea of studying other cultures. We were reading about Richard Leaky and his work in Africa. At that moment, Mr. Leaky and my professor became one in my mind. As the college text had no pictures, which I thought unfortunate and probably a result of academic snobbery, I assigned Leaky the physical characteristics of my professor, an older man with a long white beard. From that point on I could only see my professor donned in a safari suit. The classroom was transformed into an African village, the desks becoming mud huts with thatched roofs, my professor the white man in their midst. I have no idea if he actually went anywhere other than southern New Hampshire, but, for me, he had breathed life into this idea of studying other cultures. I knew then that somehow this class would influence my future.

Now, here I am, smack in the middle of a foreign culture, without a safari suit, I might add. And while most of the experience has lived up to the excitement of that first anthropology class, interesting and entertaining, some of it is down right maddening. Take the situation of laundry and underwear. Our cleaning lady has the responsibility to launder our clothes. There is a schedule clearly posting Mondays and Fridays as washing days. As I have brought limited clothing, it is important to plan with this schedule in mind. My dirty clothes do seem to disappear from the laundry basket, but almost never on the assigned days. And, when they disappear on other days it is with no sense of regularity.

The laundry is washed by hand and hung out on the lines. Even though clothes are missing from my laundry bin, they often don’t appear on the line either. It can be a day or a week before the clothes are returned. It is the common belief that those clothes thought to be more interesting make their way home with the staff for a private showing. Then, they simply reappear, washed and ironed and laid out on the foot of the bed looking innocent enough, but most likely smirking to themselves, like a teenager who has stayed out all night but appears, smugly, at the breakfast table, secrets held within. If only I could have the experiences that my clothes do! Our cleaning woman, named Pony, is just about my size, so I suspect that she has pranced about her home in my American threads.

A very small woman, she sits quietly in the shade during lunch hour, working on an embroidered bedspread that she tells me is for Christmas. At times, she will do things in the house that I interpret as special touches meant just for me. I’ve come home to find my top sheet turned into a product of what looks like Extreme Origami, folded into designs I had never before imagined possible…. Or ever even imagined, for that matter. I’ve convinced myself that this is Pony’s special and secret conversation with me. It is just that I am clueless as to what this conversation is about. Yet, Pony has a temper. Yes, this quiet origami- sheet folding- bedspread embroidering woman gets set off by the smallest thing. Actually, I haven’t quite figured out just what it is that sets her off. But, I have a hunch it has to do with laundry and underwear.

I wasn’t aware, when I first arrived, that one’s underwear were NOT to be put in the laundry bin. Pony told me, early on, and in no uncertain terms, even though oddly enough she doesn’t seem to understand English when asked to do particular chores, that she did NOT wash underwear. This she explained, was due to her being a staunch, self-respecting Christian. My words, not hers, admittedly. But, though the words aren’t authentic to Pony, her message is. Now excuse me, did I somehow miss this Christian tenant in all the years of my Catholic schooling? Was this something discussed at the Last Supper, subtly, no doubt? I think it is even captured in the famous painting, one of the apostles leaning over quietly, whispering in the ear of his colleague, reminding him not to leave this teaching out of the next epistle. Could this have been one of the new fangled ideas that came out of Vatican II? Maybe it is more of a Protestant belief? For the life of me I don’t understand the connection of washing underwear to Christian beliefs. But, this is South Sudan. Everything is different here. Nothing has to make sense in my western construct.

But I did find out something that I think relates. In Khartoum, a predominantly Muslim area, the cleaning woman there will not wash Christian men’s underwear. As far as I know, they are free to wash, unhindered, the undergarments of Muslim, Jewish and Bahai believers. The project there had to import cleaning women from Kenya, as there was a great need for the men’s underwear to be washed. I imagine that this became one of those things that the women in the south caught wind of and they were not going to be outdone by the women in the north. So, while the northern women wouldn’t wash underwear of Christian men, the southern women will not wash underwear because they are Christian. Uh huh. Raising the stakes, I reckon. I think this might be a simple case of keeping up with the Joneses, Sudanese style. Either way, there isn’t a lot of underwear washing going on by the cleaning women. Fine. I am more than happy to wash out my own underwear. I prefer it, actually.

South Sudan is nothing like Kenya at all. Even though Kenya had such a high level of illness and death, the people there had hope and faith and things were improving, if ever so slightly.  Here the people have lived with war and violence for almost thirty years. There is literally no infrastructure and I am in the capital city of the southern area.  Living amidst violence and upset for so long has taken a toll on this place in ways that are obvious as one looks around.  There are only six miles of tarmac road in the capital city, the remainder washed out dirt roads, there is no garbage system and the place is literally a living landfill, there is no continuous power, with the entire city running mostly on generators when there is sufficient fuel, the buildings that remain are literally crumbling apart as there has been little to no maintenance for thirty years. Mud huts, called tukuls, housing common in villages, are also used here as there is no money or materials for those other then the very few with resources, mostly foreigners or international companies.  People literally make their way from what the earth can provide, using mud for their walls and grass and reeds for their roofs.

I could continue on the lack of the physical and infra-structure here but am taken more with the toll on the people.  The damage here is a first hidden, the impact on the spirit and the soul of the people.  Yet with each and every basic interaction, it becomes apparent that the lack of stability in every aspect of their lives, (something I can only write and not fathom the reality or depth), has caused even the most direct or simple exchange to be circumspect as it emanates from a place completely devoid of any foundation or semblance of stability. This manifests in such ways as there being little to no regularity with the manner in which the struggling government operates,  the hours of operation of electricity, role of the police, shop hours or the availability of resources such as food and house wares, pricing, and it goes on and on from here.

It is exhausting and maddening as each day there seems to be a need to reset the ground work and restate and confirm agreements on what otherwise might be considered major tenants. This must be the result of living with almost thirty years of war and strife.  It is a complete wonder to me how anyone survives. And, more so, how a nation is to be rebuilt from a people who seem so worn and shattered.

Fortunately, there are those that can see beyond this and have the capability to hold out for hope and begin to put some measures in place.  At this point, I simply pray for that hope and knowledge to continue and spread. Beyond that, I surely have no other ideas or solutions.

Keep this hope and these forsaken places in your thoughts and heart,

Robin

My desire to travel to different countries is the allure of the exotic or unknown. How utterly engrossing it is to set oneself in a situation where most every aspect is unfamiliar. The puzzling out of it all is the challenge, the game, unfurling the mystique. I delight in the bits and pieces I can decipher, never wanting to uncover completely, but to leave the wonder piqued. Sometimes it is best to not explore too deeply, or to use our perspective to make order and sense. It was that mystery, after all, that element of difference, that was the initial draw.

Guilty Until Proven Innocent……

I read in the newspaper of an accident between a truck and motorcycle. The motorcyclist was treated at the local clinic for a fractured foot. Later that night, at 2 AM, the motorcyclist died. The truck drivers and soldiers who had been in the truck at the time of the accident were then arrested. The United Nations had to negotiate for their release. And, as happens here, when asked to see the body, it is nowhere to be found. Often the person has not in fact died, but this is a scam to arrest “those responsible” in an attempt to get bribe money for their release from jail.

In a similar story, a woman in a restaurant noticed her purse was missing with what she claimed was a large amount of money. Everyone in the restaurant at the time, including the waiters and cooks of the restaurant, were arrested. It happened that there were UN employees present. UN Security intervened to gain the release of the patrons. It must have felt like a live version of Clue.

When someone is robbed here, it is referred to as a “divestment”. So and so, walking from the market yesterday, was divested of their cell phone and purse. It sounds quite harmless, really, almost agreeable or noble.

Whose in Charge?

This past week the President announced a seven day public holiday. The announcement was officially confirmed by the local labor office ten minutes before the close of the day, effective as of the next morning. Voter registration is underway for the next month and the idea behind the holidays was for voter awareness and registration to happen in the outlying villages. As well, people were encouraged to travel to their homelands to register. Most people have no idea what it means to vote or register, those that do fear it is connected to taxation so avoid it all costs, and the bigger issue is that most folks cannot return to their homesteads. Most of them are displaced for good reason; their homes have been burned and looted. Returning is not an option. One day into the week long shut down, another government official announced on the radio that the public holidays had been cancelled. But, as there was no official document supporting this, the public holidays continued. Confusion abounded. One wonders about the possibility of the upcoming election, where so much hangs in the balance.

The Serious Outcome of the Starbellied Sneetches : The Real Story

The security situation to date is, in some areas, impacted by the tension of the upcoming elections. There are obviously competing factions, of which I won’t pretend to understand or attempt to explain here, years worth of complicated issues over land, resources and religion. There are, of course, also, incidences incited by the North, in the South, so as to appear that the South is the culprit, and vice versa. Then there are the tribal clashes and even inter tribal clashes. Most of these involve cattle rustling or retaliations for a previous attack. To try to unravel all of this, to attempt to understand the utter absence of humanity and civility is beyond comprehension.

JubaDonalds

I’ve been waiting patiently, fortifying my stomach, little by little, before attempting to taste any of the local fare. This morning, I decided the time was now. Mostly, because of the most recent public holidays our cook has been out. This means there has been no one to do the shopping or food preparation. While I have never had a cook at home and certainly didn’t go hungry then, there is a whole different level to food shopping and preparation in a place like this. What that means is that for the past week I have survived on yogurt, cornflakes(with no milk) and Nescafe. Fortified stomach or not, I was ready to give the street vendors a try. I’ve seen one guy out there every morning drawing a crowd. He makes what they call Rolexs, named because the quality of his goods, like the watch, is top rate. He is called, of course, the Rolex Man.

It was great fun to watch him. He has a homemade stove of sorts, charcoal underneath for fire with something like a flat skillet on top. He mixes an egg in a small plastic cup and throws it on, thinning it out to the thinness of a crepe. He then takes a big machete and chops into an onion, deftly using the same large knife to pick off little bits, adding them to the egg. He turns to his wooden table, (I don’t want to think about the germs there), and chops up a tomato. He is sparing, but puts in enough pieces for a slight taste. He uses this same large knife to dip into a plastic container of salt, gathering just a few granules on the tip, to add over the now sizzling crepe-like egg. He has oil in a plastic water bottle, with a small pin hole in the cover. He then squirts this onto the hot skillet, around the frying egg mixture to ensure it will come off the skillet. On top he places a pre-made chapati and voila…. it is the JubaMcDonald version of an Egg McMuffin. It was really tasty, though it did take time to cool off and the grease left on my fingers and in my gut can’t be good. But, man, what a show and a great mid-morning treat. Somehow I felt much better about bringing Rolexes to the office instead of doughnuts!