The Kimotong Distribution

Our trip to Isoke and Kimotong was both incredible and a disaster. We left early on Wednesday morning (7:30) but were held up by two hours of car repairs in town (our radiator pipe wasn’t working and we had screwed up the welding on the hood for the hundredth time. George and I bought breakfast: 5 goat samosas, 5 fried breads and 10 huge chapattis from a guy in the market. It was 20 SPs which was expensive but turned out to be totally worth it considering that it was our breakfast, lunch and dinner for two days. We also brought a case of Rwenzori since we were pretty sure there wouldn’t be clean water for us to drink in Kimotong.
The back of the car was filled with five huge cartons of nets, wrapped up in braided sacking. They were immense and heavy (110-150 pounds each), and this in addition to our luggage and the spare tire, which we ultimately lashed to the roof, made our car very very low to the ground-a bad way to start out on roads this bad. As it turned out, the spare tire was the best thing we packed, because about 20 ft from the Keyala army checkpoint, our back left tire exploded. Considering that it was just a flat tire, it took a hell of a long time to fix-about an hour, even with the help of one of the soldiers who came over to see if we were ok. We put big stones in front of the tires and underneath the axel but even then the car kept rolling off the jack and onto Jerome, at one point completely landing on his shoulder. It was a tense hour to say the least, but I was amazed at how helpful people here are. I guess its more important, since there is no Triple A or roadside assistance or police cars routinely patrolling, but this soldier helped with absolutely everything, for the paltry price of a bottle of water. We tried to pawn some of the samosas on him but he wouldn’t take them (goat samosas, in case you were wondering, are bizarre). It was during this ill fated stop that we noticed another worrisome development-our gas tank, so recently welded in Nimule, was literally pouring fuel all over the ground. We drank massive amounts of water in an attempt to get the water bottles to put under the leaks, but there were so many that we couldn’t actually do it. By the time we actually got the tire changed and the burst one loaded back up onto the roof, Jerome was exhausted and we were demoralized. I made some Gatorade and gave Jerome some, as well as a samosa, which perked him up a bit.
At an ominously named village called Camp 15 we picked up a gun toting purple shirted fellow who didn’t speak English and was extremely friendly with the soldiers we passed. And we passed a lot. On the turn off up to Kimotong, literally an entire army of SPLA were lining the road-some of the smiling and waving, some staring stonily at us. I was still hearing little children screaming in the bushes. It was all a bit unsettling, though I think that was due primarily to the fact that we were predisposed to be afraid.
When we got there we had a quick meeting with Peter Lamong, the guy running the distribution. He can’t use his legs and so has these crutches which grip his arms, but he is immensely strong and engaged (!). He conscripted some really strong guys to help us unload the nets into the storage room-though perhaps conscripted is the wrong word. Everyone was completely and utterly willing to help with the distribution and no one was asking to be paid.
After unloading the nets, we waited around for another fast meeting with Peter. As it turns out, the crazy drunk guy is legitimately mentally handicapped and much better when sober, so he was significantly less scary this time. This was a definite plus. We agreed to meet in Kimotong the next day at 9:30 am to have a meeting with the chiefs of the eight different bomas receiving nets, and to go over education material and demonstration procedures, etc. Then, with significant relief, we got back into the car and headed off towards Isoke. The car was still leaking an ocean of diesel which we were attempting to catch in some water bottles and basins (we even invented this fantastic funnel to stick it back into the car). We gave two women with children a ride, as well as our friend from Camp 15 with the AK-47, so the car was pretty crowded-Neesha, the ladies and the AK-47 guys were crammed in the backseat, I was in the trunk with the baggage, George and Jerome were up front, and for about ten minutes, a guy was riding on our roof (until he got hit by a tree-unfortunate but we told him not to do it in the first place so my sympathy is limited). After we dropped them all off at the junction, the ride got a lot less interesting. It became really beautiful and started to cloud over as we approached the mountain basin where the village was located. Half the sky was a dark, dusky grey with the rain visibly seeping down towards the hills, and the other half was the brilliant white of the sun behind clouds. Of course the second we reached Isoke, the sky opened up so by the time we got to the Sister’s place, torrents of water were cascading onto the ground. Already being considerably wet and muddy from the drive, when I saw Sister Pasquena come out onto the porch with a smile on her face and her arms open, I thought very little of leaping out of the car to run and hug her. Unfortunately for me (and to the great amusement of Neesha, George and Jerome), I underestimated the power of mud over flip flops, and the second my foot touched the ground, my arms started windmilling like crazy and I face planted right into the mud. George told me later it looked like I just threw myself out of the car and onto the ground. I lay there in shock for a good two minutes staring at Sister Pasquena who looked horror struck. When I finally stood up, I was laughing hysterically and completely brown from head to toe. Sister Pasquena told me I was a real African now, with real African color, and then she handed me a towel and sent me off to the showers (the second I tried to rinse off in the rain, the rain stopped. Of course.) By the time I got back from the shower, dripping wet in my towel and with no change of clothing, Jerome, Neesha and George were standing on the porch, about to go have some tea. I grabbed some clothes from my backpack and went to go change in a spare room (only to find that the only bra I packed was covered in mud and therefore unwearable-consequently I spent the rest of the trip in the same huge button down buzz off shirt.)
Over tea, the sisters told us that they actually didn’t have room for us (Emmanual, who had been suppose to tell them we were coming, had not-surprise, surprise) so we would be staying next door at the brother’s. This wasn’t so bad because we were invited to all meals at the sisters, which is easily the best part. Plus at the brothers, we each got our own room. We drove over there and saw the rooms and hung out for about two hours waiting for dinner time. George attempted to take a shower and discovered the fatal flaw of the brothers compound-the one working shower was about four feet off the ground and didn’t shower, so much as drip with ferocity. And even that was if you were lucky-when I went to my shower, all the drips had been used up and I stood hunched under the nozzle for a good three minutes and got about an inch of my skin wet.
We went over for dinner at the sisters and I finally got to see Sister Helen which made me so happy. We had potatoes and pasta and bread and cassava (which is one of my new favorite foods by the way-the perfect starch. I think it periodically might be called a sweet potatoe here but I’m not 100% sure about that one). After dinner, I helped wash up with one of the sisters whose name I forget (though, I feel excused from this, as she spent the whole trip calling me Becky. So I’m going to call her sister Ann). I was washing these dishes by hand and marveling at how skilled the women in Sudan were to be able to get pots and pans clean with only their fingers and soap, when Sister Ann came over and exclaimed in horror “Where is the sponge!?” thus disabusing me of that notion. Neesha wanted to walk back to the brothers while I was still scrubbing away and Sister Ann refused to let her until I was done because she was afraid I would fall again (she saw the nose dive too) which I found hilarious and Neesha found kind of annoying. Emmanual was there though, so she chatted with him. He was in this ridiculously large coat which he says he got when he served in the Swiss Army (yeah, right) and which makes him look even more absurd than he normally does. Like a q-tip wrapped up in a down coat.
Anyway back at the brothers, I went on a trek to find the latrine, which was an utter failure. First, I got about knee deep into this wooded brush and started thinking about how big the snakes that lived there must have been, when my headlamp died. Then a dog started circling me, and I, remembering the lesson I finally learned about rabies, tried to run away, taking very large steps to present less of a target to both the dog’s teeth, and the snakes. Finally I found what might have been a latrine (or may have been someone’s house), said screw it, peed on it, and did the bizarre high step run back to the brothers compound. Clearly I left my dignity at the sisters compound, but thank god it was dark (no headlamp) so hopefully no one saw. (Though I have discovered the questionable asset of having my skin glow at night, so you can see me from miles away-good when you are standing in the middle of a road, bad when you are trying to pee and your ass lights up the sky like the moon).
I didn’t get much sleep because I got my malaria pill stuck in my throat and spent the whole night half hiccupping, half choking. Next morning, the alarm that George had ever so helpfully provided me went off at six thirty-cosmic, if you were wondering-and I turned it off. It went off every eight minutes until six forty five, when it switched to the other alarm George had set-blaring, high pitched ringing-and I got up. I was the only one. I hammered on everyone else’s door and they all got up. It takes about two hours to get from Isoke to Kimotong on a good day, and today wasn’t going to be a good day considering that we had had the equivilant of a flash flood for hours the night before. We knew the roads were going to be close to impassable. Unfortunately, we had to spend a lot of time getting a new spare tire and finding a way of getting gas, since the full tank that should have done it for the whole trip was sprinkled in a line from Torit to Kimotong to Isoke. All of this negotiating and obtaining took roughly until ten thirty, when we finally got on the road, with the understanding that Emmanual would buy us a jerry can of fuel and leave it for us with the priest at Camp 15. We got maybe half a mile down the road and had to stop again, because the brakes were cutting into the back left wheel. It took another two hours to fix this, during which people crowded around and Emmanual’s brother helped us fix the tire. Neesha and I weren’t particularly helpful, just because George was so eager and Jerome was so stressed, but the bottle caps I’ve been collecting did come in handy as make-shift washers so I felt somewhat useful. I tried to chat with some of the kids but they were very shy and would smile at me until I smiled back, and then run away. The only upside of this whole thing is that by the time we get back, I’ll understand a lot more about engines, how to fix a car and how to change a tire.
We finally got on the road at noon, and of course the roads were flooded and potted out. Despite that we made pretty good time. We passed boys bathing in the river (I didn’t avert my eyes in time and saw….rather more than I ever wanted to see of the boys of Isoke) and women who receeded into the grass as our car barreled forward, standing there like sentries. We got to Kimotong at close to two. There were tons of women there who were all grouped under trees and overhangs, brightly colored cloth draped over their shoulders, covering tufted skirts that were short and swishy-like cheerleader skirts. They were adorned in a lot of jewelry-sticks through ears and noses, bracelets on their biceps and wrists, white and black beads around their necks and white earings and pins stuck in their hair and on their lips and noses. They were beautiful, but defiantly exotic. Driving into the midst of them, I felt like I was entering a National Geographic article. You think that things like this are so removed, so diluted by modernity, and then you walk into a rural Sudanese village, and there you are, smack dab in the middle of a discovery channel documentary about African subsistence farmers. Its ridiculous. Those bare breasts and bellies that educated so many young men about female anatomy (and lust) back in the 50s and 60s are still on display, and, for all their exposure, still exotic. Every single woman had a baby strapped onto her back, or a belly swollen with pregnancy, every single one was colorful and smiling and curious, and every single one stood up as we drove into Kimotong and started to laugh and wave and yell. We apologized to Peter Lamong for being so late and explained that our Pajero is reaching the end of its rope, and he said it was ok, but that a lot of women had left for the gardens because they lived so far away and needed to tend to them. Even reduced however, the grouping was well over 250 women, and considering we were distributing 500 nets, that was a pretty good turn out. Per usual, as soon as we pulled into Kimotong, the skies opened up and it started to pour rain, so all the women retreated to the shade of the buildings, and the chiefs, who had been meeting in the hollow of a dry river bed, moved their chairs to the covered area of the main square. It was just a large, open, cement building, with an aluminum roof covering the large gathering place in the middle. Jerome dispeared, under the pretense of finding a chicken to cook, and George, Neesha and I were ushered to three plastic chairs at the front of the meeting hall (displacing three chiefs, which made us very uncomfortable and the chiefs delightedly happy). I was, incidentally, sitting next to the man who had asked if I could marry his son the last time we were there, but he didn’t bring it up this time and instead chatted to us about how happy he was that we were there to help with distribution. The women filed in and sat crowded and cross legged on the floor behind the circle of chiefs. Each chief had a different staff, carved, or short, or embossed in metal, or hooked like a cane or pronged like a pitchfork. It was really interesting seeing the variety of everything-the staffs, the chiefs themselves, the women, the children, the outfits. Peter Lamong stood up, his arms gripped tight around his crutches, and began to talk. A tall man in a Katanga shirt stood up and translated into a couple of different languages for the benfit of everyone there. After giving a quick speech, he introduced us and made us each get up to say something to the assemebled people. The audience that had previously been restless and rippling with whispers, broke into loud talking the second George stood up, and it was a moment or two before it calmed down. He introduced himself and talked a little bit about the nets and how they were here to help the women not get malaria. I was next. Peter Lamong asked me to mention that I went to school, so that it would be a lesson about how school was important for girls, so I got up and talked a little about how going to school had made it possible for me to help them by getting the nets. Neesha talked a little as well, and then we went to a lecture on education. Considering how thrown together this entire effort was, the education lecture went ok, but it was clear that our approach was not the best way to reach the women. To begin with, all 250 of them were crammed in one room, so the “ask and answer” approach recommended by Malaria Consortium was not really practical, and since it was pouring rain, breaking into groups wasn’t about to happen either. George read the bullet points from the Malaria Consortium flipchart, and the women didn’t really pay attention, because the information was considerable and a bit heavy. I stood up after him and just gave them the three main points that we wanted them to remember-which since they were stressed and short, I think probably got through a lot better. (Always sleep under your net, dry it in the shade after washing it, and sew up holes) Then we got straight to distribution, because I really didn’t want to waste these women’s time anymore than we already had.
The town had set up four large poles to help with the practical demonstration of how to hang up the nets, and George and the crazy drunk guy (sober this time, and named Carpir) carried over a bale of nets and opened it up to get us a demonstration net. Unfortunately, some fool decided that the best way to tie up the nets securely was to secure them with flat metal wire. This made opening them really hard. We finally got one open, and four guys stepped forward to hold the corners since the poles were much to far apart and the translator told them to make sure it was tucked in under the mat you were sleeping on. Then, four of us (George, Neesha, the translator and myself) crawled in under the net and lay down on the dirt to demonstrate that the whole family needed to sleep under it. This was probably more hilarious than informative, and the women seemed to find it hysterical but at least it kept them engaged. Plus Jerome, who had reappeared, having actually procured a chicken to cook for us, had a field day taking pictures of us looking like fools on the ground. (soon to come).
After that, the women assembled in a line in front of us and we started to distribute the nets. The women looked like a multicolored beaded necklace, or a patchwork quilt, or a tye-dyed tee shirt. The colors of their outfits were so varied and incredible, and being surrounded by them was probably one of the most incredibly visually stunning experiences of this entire trip. Just the mere lack of Western style clothing or Katanga cloth was worth noting-this was a real rural area (“the bush” according to everyone in Torit) and the women we were seeing were a side of Sudan that is rarely ever seen.
The distribution itself turned out to be pretty tame. The chiefs were there en masse, so they put out any disagreements, and even though a fair amount of drunk men came up and asked us for “just one” net for their pregnant/sick/sick and pregnant wife, we were able to distribute the nets to the people on the list without much trouble. One drunk young soldier didn’t let go of my hand until Joseph (Peter Lamong’s brother who is based in Kapoeta) came and yelled at him, and Carpir carried each of the batches of nets single handedly on his back (I was convinced he was going to be crushed or strain something) and had a ball handing the nets to the women so we let him have at it. A tall (and incredibly handsome) man was in charge of reading out the names. It turns out that he was also named Peter Lamong, but he was the brother of Lopepi Lamong-the Olympic track runner for the US. We got to meet his other brothers and his father, which was pretty incredible, considering that in about a week and a half, his son, who grew up in this rural and removed village, is going to be on international television, running for one of the most powerful nations in the entire world and representing this tiny slice of African life. Neesha and I nicknamed Peter “Mr. Sexy” so we wouldn’t get him confused with the other Peter Lamong and hung around him like moonstruck teenagers. Pathetic.
Jerome meanwhile, had cooked us two chickens for lunch. I thought he was kidding when he talked about it, but he wasn’t and it was delicious. He made it in a stew so that we could sop up the broth with our (now quite stale) chapatti. It was a bit too salty for me (Neesha was in heaven) but so good and with plenty of white meat. Plus the chickens only cost six pounds (for two!) which is such a departure from the 25 pounds each we paid in Torit.
Throughout this entire process our car was leaking diesel like a sieve but we had graduated from water bottles to huge basins, so we were catching it all. More parts of our hood broke (the welding that helps keep it closed when you are driving) so we tied it closed with a rope. We also ran out of brake fluid entirely and our brake pads were shot to hell.
Half the nets were distributed-the other half were kept in the storeroom that was so secure that no one even had the key, and in order to get in you had to pick the lock-the other half to be distributed the next day, and we had some brief meetings with Peter Lamong, the dad of Lopepi (Lopez to you track fans in the US) and Joseph Lamong. Finally we got on the road. They had wanted us to transport a lady who was literally 12 months pregnant to Torit for a doctors appointment and we had said no, because there was no way in hell we were letting a pregnant woman into a car with no brakes (especially since with our luck, she would have given birth during a particularly brutal pothole). We shouldn’t have even been in it (particularly since most of the seatbelts have stopped working-I was not kidding when I said this car was a death trap). It was about 5:30 when we left, and we were dreaming about the possibility of making it back to Torit in time for dinner. As we had no brakes, we had to improvise in terms of driving-relying more on steering to avoid bumps and people than on braking. Unfortunately for us, the day that our car couldn’t stop was the day every single herd of animals in the Kimotong area decided to walk en masse on the street. Thank god our horn worked, or we would still be paying the damage fees. As we drove back towards Camp 15, we saw women with the nets balanced on their heads, which was so gratifying. After all the bureaucracy involved in the organization, procurement and transport of these nets, it was so easy to hand them out, and such a relief to see them in the hands of people who could finally use them. It unfortunately drove home the idea that bureaucracy is evil and kills people and that help shouldn’t be so tangled in red tape, but that’s another story.
We spent most of the drive to Camp 15 swerving and still hitting potholes. Jerome was driving really slow (building up momentum was the last thing we wanted to do) and he was doing a really good job, but because of it we were losing diesel like crazy. We finally reached Camp 15 (which had a beautiful market, if an awful name) and drove up the main road trying to find someone who spoke enough English, Swahili or Arabic for us to communicate. We were directed up the street to the Father’s compound, and drove through a bunch of completely empty land before finally turning into the bush and forging our own path. We had to park on a hill in order to stop the car, and we put the basins under the car to catch the falling diesel and then we walked off to find the Father. In the compound, we met a tall, skinny Australian guy who was camping there and Neesha and George dashed off to the latrine while someone found the Father who showed up, looking totally confused as to who we were. His name was Father Alfred. Emmanual, as it turned out, had not showed up with fuel for us. This was a BIG problem, because we were running on empty. Father Alfred took us to a mechanic that he knew. Apparently there is a diesel shortage right now and everyone is waiting for the next shipment. But this incredible man in an olive green tee shirt sold us his reserve stash of diesel for 80 SP (an deal, especially considering he gave us more than 20 liters) and also told us how to make a substitute brake fluid out of detergent and water. We opened the radiator cap and poured more water in, thanked both Father Alfred and the mechanic very profusely, and were back on the road. Our brakes were still not working (I think only one wheel could actually stop) but we were at least making good time. About 20 km away from Camp 15 we passed Emmanual, Moses and two other guys going in the other direction. Apparently Emmanual doesn’t know how to brake any better than we do, because he leapt from the car so quickly that he forgot to put it in park and it rolled back into our bumper with a really loud crash. He had our diesel (of course) so we loaded up two more jerry cans worth (in addition to the one we bought in Camp 15) and got back on the road. We were feeling pretty good because we had tons of diesel and it seemed like we would get home before 8. Oh how wrong we were. Because here is the kicker. We have fixed this car at least 20 plus times since we got it a bit more than a month ago. We have fixed: the windows, the doors, the backlights, the brakes, the gas tank, the hood, the oil filter, the fuel filter, the radiator pipe, the radiator itself, the tires, the battery, the seatbelts and the suspension belt all at least once and some more than once. When we left Camp 15, we had prepared for the eventuality of running out of gas, brake fluid and water for the radiator. We had everything we would need to deal with each of these three problems enough to get back to Torit. And yet.
15 km from Torit, just past the soldier’s barracks, and in sight of the two radio towers that hedge the town in on the north and south ends, we hit a bump, no harder than any of the bumps we had hit before, and the car just stopped. No shuddering to a halt, no gentle stall. One second we were moving, and the next second we weren’t. Jerome managed to steer us off to the side of the road and we all unpiled from the car. It was pitch dark, so George strapped on the headlamp and Jerome flashed his lighter and they untied the hood and opened it. Smoke and steam billowed out of it. Not a good sign. The engine had overheated. Ok fine. So we dug around in the trunk and got out some water and poured it into the radiator which was completely empty. Then we sat in the car for ten minutes, in the dark, waiting for the engine to cool down. Of course now, the one time we needed it to rain, rain was no where in sight-in fact the clouds cleared and we had a beautiful view of the stars and the heat lightening that jumped from cloud to cloud. George and Jerome scared Neesha out of her wits by talking about how we were where leopards like to hang out, so she stayed in the car mostly. After ten minutes, the car was still smoking, but we tried to turn it on. No go. The battery spit at us but refused to turn on. We checked the radiator again. It was still low. Just then, we saw a car approaching. This was encouraging, so we got ready to wave them down.
As it turns out, the stretch of road between Torit and Keyala is where cars go to die. This car was very slow approaching and making a horrible rasping noise. 100 ft from us, it sputtered and died. That’s Africa for you. Jerome and George walked over to them to see if they had water. Jerome explained to George that he was lighting up a cigarette so that the people in the car would know he wasn’t a robber, because robbers don’t smoke before they attack you. They in turn lit cigarettes up themselves, to show that they weren’t robbers. George (and later, when he told me about it, me) were skeptical of this theory, probably because it seemed ridiculous, but they didn’t get attacked so you know, if it works. They got a jerry can full of water, and in turn gave the guy a screw driver (it was a cattle truck, with cattle in it, which pretty much sucks). We poured the water in, thanked the guy, got in the car and drove off. We got maybe another 9 km, so close we could hear the music pounding from the bar, when the car stopped again. And there was no saving it this time. We peeked under the car and saw that not only was diesel pouring out of the back, but water was pouring out of the front. The entire jerry can of water we had poured in had gone straight to the ground. It seemed our radiator was broken as well. Our cell phones were barely in range and the people we called were either asleep or had their phones off (there is no voicemail in Sudan) so we did the only thing we could do. Since Neesha was afraid to walk in the dark, and Jerome didn’t want to leave the car alone, Neesha and I settled down in the car to wait and Jerome and George set off to town. By this time it was eleven thirty. Neesha and I chatted for a while and some trucks went by (so we put on the emergency hazard lights to tell them to pass by, that we were ok, because Jerome didn’t want us to talk to anyone. One guy did stop-the guy from the cattle truck, but we told him we were fine and he drove off-we found out later that he gave Jerome and George a ride to town on the cattle truck which George was delighted about). Neesha and I ultimately fell asleep, and didn’t wake up again until one in the morning, when headlights blared in my face and I woke up to find Jerome tinkering with the engine and a white land cruiser parked next to our car.
It turned out that poor George and Jerome had walked over six miles to town in the dark, being hungry and exhausted, only to find that every place in town was closed. So from there they walked to the compound, another solid mile, and banged on doors until they found Father Vuni’s, got the keys to his car, and his driver Eager (who is both mechanic/driver and tailor-he was the one making clothing in Isoke and he is a darling) and drove back to where the car was. They poured more water into it but it still wouldn’t start, so we used the rope that was holding the hood shut, tied it to the bumper of Fr. Vuni’s car, and were towed, at about 1 km per hour, back to the compound. It took an hour. Jerome was so exhausted that he kept falling asleep behind the steering wheel, which wasn’t particularly dangerous as we were strapped to another car, but resulted in us almost driving off the road. We were finally in sight on the compound and thinking longingly of our beds when the last big fiasco of the night happened. As we pulled up to the gate, literally as our car was about to cross over the threshold, the rope snapped.
Neesha hopped in the drivers seat to steer, I got out of the car barefoot since I couldn’t find my shoes and Jerome, George and I pushed the car 200 ft into the compound. We were having a hell of a time with it and couldn’t figure out why until finally we realized: Neesha had her foot on the brake. Had our brakes been working, pushing it would have been next to impossible, but because they were so broken, it was still possible, just fucking hard. Especially barefoot (go me! Strengthening up my feet! I’ll be real African soon.) Finally, we stopped the car and said “To hell with it” and stopped the car where it was (smack dab in the middle of the compound) and went to bed. Well, most of us went to bed. George’s net had fallen down so I helped him put it back together, and then we filled up our water bottles, and then we went to bed. But not to sleep (I’ve turned into an insomniac).
To make the entire thing even worse, the next morning, when we told Father Vuni the story, he was horrified. As it turns out, that is one of the most dangerous stretches of road, particularly by soldier barracks because they are mean drunks. He was completely aghast that Jerome and George had a. walked through it by themselves and b. (more importantly) left Neesha and I in a dead car by the side of the road there. He told us we were really lucky, and we felt pretty uneasy. We also found out that the road to Juba that we have been driving for this whole trip is actually not de-mined at all. So we’ve cheated death, according to George, at least three times on trips to Juba. We discovered this because they were de-mining it as George, Jerome and Eager drove to pick up Ed.

Disclaimer

I've been writing these piece by piece as we went along so they arent particularly coherent. Also there is a lot more to come, but I figured five entries was a good starting out point.
As for a recent update: Teddy and Ed are here, our car is completely broken, as is our internet and i'm on a desperate hunt for a tailor. And there is a baby I want to adopt named Innocent, except he already has a great mom named Beatrice. More later.

The No Day Break

The next day, we got up early to try and work on the car. Jerome was desperate that we leave for Kimotong that day at eleven (so wasn’t happening) and then at one (also not happening) but the brakes failed on us and the radiator needed to be welded or something and this other thing had gone wrong and we needed to fix our patched tire so George and Jerome went off to get the car fixed while Neesha and I stayed and caught up on email and laundry and reading and things. When five rolled around and they weren’t back from the market, I decided I was getting tired of waiting. Also, Lucy had informed me that since we weren’t expected for dinner, she hadn’t planned on cooking, and that the only thing in the kitchen was beans. I convinced her that this was a bad plan, since there were several of us who needed a real meal (which we hadn’t had since we left Nimule) so she and I walked down to town to buy rice and soap. (the soap obviously wasn’t for dinner, but for laundry) I was bored and wanted to double check that George and Jerome were ok, so I bet her she couldn’t find them. And she did. I owe her one pound. They were at the Lobalua Hills bar, of course. The car was being inspected by about five huge guys, all of whom looked faintly Arab and one of whom was wearing a shirt that said “Sometimes I get cranky and like to bitch” which both George and I found hilarious. We hung out at the bar for four or five hours, drinking beers (none of which we paid for, because people kept buying us free drinks-I’m a big fan of that) and singing soulfully to “Everything I do, I do it for you” (George has trouble with the high notes) I wandered off to go to the bathroom by myself and quasi almost got kidnapped by a guy named Kitmudo who tried to lead me off to the courthouse, but I escaped and peed behind the public latrine (which was closed) and when I got back, George was looking sheepish and Jerome was in a temper because I shouldn’t have been allowed off on my own, and George was an idiot, and I could have gotten hurt and I needed to be more careful and both George and I were stupid, etc etc. It was the first time I ever saw him get protective (where was this protective instinct in Kimotong may I ask?). Then he went to finish up some things on the car and George and I got wrangled into sitting with a table of guys outside the bar who told me I needed to bring them an American wife as pretty as myself (such a line-I told them no self respecting American girl would consent to being a second wife). Everything was going well until we were ready to leave, whereupon all the guys who had been drunkenly lurking in the background surged forward to shake my hand-and wouldn’t let go. George, damn him, ran off into the car, and so did Desire and Jerome so I was just trying to pull my hand away and they were closing in around me going “let us buy you a drink, are you married?’ and Jerome drove up and I yanked open the first door I saw (the back door) and pretty much sat on George’s lap (because, of course, the spare tire was wedged in the back seat and when I got in, George was wedged on it. He was telling me to get off and I was saying, in essence, get me the hell away from these guys and we can stop and I’ll move. We drove about…..100 ft away and I switched to the front seat. Then we had to stop so George could pee (having been there longer, he was on 9 beers, while I was on 5-his bladder cap we have decided is about four beers, so we let him pee on the side of the road and laughed at him). Then we got back to the compound where Jimmy and Omar had showed up and were eating the rice and beans, and then we pretty much took showers and went to bed. And the next day, we left for Kimotong.

Boating on the Nile

The next morning we got up early and drove to Mzee’s house. He was getting ready so he invited us into the compound. In the compound was a bush that had peppers growing on it. They were so tiny that I was deceived into thinking they weren’t that spicy. (Particularly since Jerome told me that it was sour). So I popped it into my mouth. And instantly knew it was a bad idea. It was the spiciest pepper in the world. My mouth was on fire. I made the mistake of swallowing it because George told me it would be rude to spit it out, and the fire spread from my tongue to the back of my throat and all the way down to the deepest recesses of my stomach. My eyes started pouring tears (George, Jerome and Neesha’s did too, but for laughter rather than pain) and it was a good two hours before I could swallow without wanting to die. Not the best way to start off the day. Mzee got in the car with us, smart in his Army uniform, and we drove off to the park for the last (and 5th) time. Charles rode up on his motorcycle just as we got there, but apparently, though we were ready to go at seven thirty, they were not. All the soldiers based there (several who were women and had children strapped to their backs-yay feminism!) lined up, while the commander strode up and down the ranks, talking and talking and talking. The Sudanese penchant for longwindedness is legendary and did not fail us today. We just sat in some plastic chairs under a mango tree and enjoyed the spectacular view of the valley below us spreading out from the banks of the Nile and waited. An hour later a commander finally came up to us and took us to the same tent we went to last time where we chatted with about eight SPLA officers, paid them, and headed out. As we were leaving, three guides volunteered to go with us (in addition to mzee), and convinced us to take them by spotting an elephant eight billion miles again and trying to point it out to us. (Failure. Complete failure. We lack African eyes) So we all crowded into the car. Mzee and Jerome were in front, Neesha, George and I in back, and three extra soldiers delightedly crowded into the trunk, singing, joking, hitting on me and Neesha and having the time of their life. We went to the Nile landing base first and waited for a boat to take us out on the Nile, because there had been reports that the elephants were along the banks. Being incredibly stupid, we hadn’t brought extra money besides the 200 pounds we paid to get into the park, so between the four of us we had about 15 pounds and 200 Uganda shillings. The rate for a boat ride, per person, is typically 50 pounds. We were unsure if we would actually be able to get on the boat at all, but we waited anyway, for another hour. I chatted with Charles, which was fun. He had the best binoculars ever, and he let me scan the Nile banks looking for elephants (didn’t see any) and hippos (didn’t see any). Finally the owner of the boat came and we negotiated with him. He saw that we were white and couldn’t comprehend that we didn’t have money; it wasn’t until we each emptied our pockets directly into his hand that he looked at us, startled, and said “You’re poor!” and we were like “Yes. We Know” Mzee and Charles ultimately both chipped in so that we could actually go on the boat which was incredibly nice of them. Then, with our four guides and two boat men, we all piled into the boat. I felt bad, because there were a bunch of people waiting for a boat to Uganda and they may have had to wait for us to get back, but Jerome kept telling me to “value myself more” and stop worrying. (I personally think that’s kind of bullshit-their need for the boat was greater than ours, but I was overruled on that one).
The boat was a faded blue, and really long. It looked like a canoe, with slats across the length of the boat and a curved front and back, but it had a motor attached to it to “scare hippos” and I’m assuming travel faster, so we puttered away from the bank. And went boating on the Nile! I cant get over that one. It was so cool. The water was the perfect temperature for swimming but common sense held us back, and islands of plants floated downstream, brushing against the side of our boats. After about ten minutes of beautiful scenery and some narration in broken English from George, our boatman, (not to be confused with George, my cousin, who I don’t think knows what to do with a boat, but could probably figure it out), we turned off down a side path. We got 5 minutes down that, and three hippos popped out of the water fifty ft away from us. We scrambled to get pictures, while the hippos eyed us disdainfully (they are very pink, with very big nostrils, and look exactly like all the cute cartoon hippos except that as we all know, they are killing machines filled with rage). They didn’t appear too happy that we were near them, but George reassured us that the motor scares them away and that we were fine. Two seconds later, the motor died. The hippos eyed us even more disdainfully, and submerged under the water. There was a mad dash to grab the two oars, and after a couple minutes of frantic rowing, we got far enough away from the hippos to feel somewhat safer (although we were also, coincidentally, stuck in a huge pile of plant, so we were, in essence, sitting ducks for a hippo attack) We landed very near by and scrambled out of the boat (dignified I am not, and I fell into the mud, but Jerome quasi-caught me). Then we hiked up into the brush to find the elephants. I probably shouldn’t have been wearing flip flops for this, however I hadn’t entirely realized that hiking was part of the package and I wasn’t about to miss seeing elephants because of ridiculous footwear. The brush was spiky and muddy, and there was absolutely nothing that could be described as a path but we just barreled on through. Luckily we didn’t encounter any snakes, though things kept rustling in the bushes nearby which was unsettling to say the least. After ten minutes of walking, the guides silenced us and pointed. On the ridge just over from where we were, three elephants were grazing. They were incredible, huge, brownish and camoflagued in the trees. Their tusks were huge, and glinted in the sun. We snapped a bunch of pictures, and they pointed out some more on the next ridge over. We were ecstatically taking photos when the guides started hustling us away. It turns out the elephants knew we were there and had surrounded us. SO. On one side of us was a circle of potentially upset elephants, and on the other side was hippo infested water. We made a quick choice and hustled ourselves back to the boat. We saw five more elephants on the way, and I stepped in about every thorn bush in Africa and lost my shoe momentarily in a muck puddle and finally scrambled back into the boat before other people got there to laugh at me. Then I pulled the thorns out of my shoes and watched the hippos which were still in the same spot and still making it clear they would prefer if we left. We obliged. As we motored back to the landing, we were going on and on about how cool the elephants were, when all of a sudden I saw something brown flap in the reeds. Rounding a corner, we found ourselves face to face with an elephant, maybe 50 ft away, washing itself in the water. Next to it was something that looked like a discarded tusk floating in the water-which, if that’s what it was, was thousands of dollars just floating on the Nile. The elephant snorted at us and turned and gave us its backside which it wiggled at us insultingly, but we didn’t care. We just took pictures like fiends and couldn’t believe our luck.
When we got back to the landing, we got back in the car and headed back to the park. We were all pretty tired and thirsty at this point, but we hadn’t seen Fula Falls yet. We stopped in and showed our pictures to Charles (he insisted) and then I convinced him that we really had to get going, and we headed off, still with three extra guards, to Fula Falls. We drove most of the way there. There was an SPLA training camp around that area and we saw tons of guys walking towards the river as we drove past. Most of them had the characteristic facial scarring endemic in the area, which I think is gorgeous. I wish white skin didn’t scar so purple, because the designs make the skin look like a subtle canvas, and its beautiful.
We got to a huge hill that there was no way in hell we were taking the Pajero down, and got out to walk. I led the way (why, I have no idea, since it was clear I didn’t know where I was going) but there was a path this way so I just followed it. We finally got to a couple of tiny huts with fishing nets hanging from the branches of trees, and Fula Falls in the background. It was breathtaking.
It is less of a falls than just a huge sequence of rapids which would be amazing to raft down. We hiked down and around and up to this small jetty of land sticking out over the falls and took pictures (I had put on real shoes for this one, and it was amazing how much easier to walk it was-go figure). It made me even more thirsty to be standing there and all I wanted was to dive in but I restrained myself. The pictures are spectacular though. Then we hiked back up. At this point we were all seriously dehydrated. George and Neesha started back to the car so they could walk more slowly, and I waited a bit with Jerome who was trying to get dried fish, I think. But then I walked off too and he finally abandoned the pursuit of dried fish and followed. The guides came after. We got in the car and sat there, panting and coated in sweat and so thirsty we felt like raisins. Mzee, because he is a saint, gave us his bottle of Rwenzori water, and we split it between the three of us which at least buoyed us up for the ride back. We had to drive back to the park AGAIN to report to Charles on the trip AGAIN but I made it really quick while Neesha sat in the car, and then we dropped off Mzee and one of the extra guides in the market and drove back to Nimule. By this time it was about one. So much for leaving for Torit early. We had some lunch and then packed up the car and drove back to Mzee. We gave him money to replace what he had lent us, and a little extra as a thank you, and I bought some chapatti and Rolexs which are chapatti and egg wrapped together and is the poor man’s protein breakfast. It is delicious though. Then we were off. We got to Pageri ok, and stopped for a break, only to discover that our tire was punctured by a rusty nail. An hour later, after having a couple of beers, patching the tire and filling it up with air (five pounds per tire for air! Air!) we headed towards Torit again. We had aquired a passenger (a police officer, the only police officer in Sudan who didn’t carry his gun on him-I mean really) and we took the Magwi road this time and prayed it wouldn’t wreck our car. We had luck and weather on our side (no rain for two days) so the road itself wasn’t so bad, but had it just rained I could easily see how it would break a car in two. It was bumpy. It was almost worse than the road to Lafon. To make matters worse, we were setting out so late that the Tsetse flies were out with a vengeance and swarmed our car. They are huge, and their bite feels worse than a horsefly bite (so I’m told) so we periodically had to roll up the windows and go on a killing spree. The police man was really good at it-he caught a tsetse fly in his bare hands, karate kid style, but George and I weren’t so good and Neesha was too busy laughing at the spectacle of us all thwacking things with rolled up newspaper to really be helpful. George was entrusted with “protecting Jerome” so that Jerome wouldn’t get sleeping sickness, and he did a pretty good job. The car would get hotter than an oven with the windows open so we then had to roll them down and start the whole process over again. We stopped in Magwi which was more rural than I thought it would be considering that its suppose to be one of the big towns in Eastern Equatoria. It was a really pretty drive, and much more isolated than the Juba road, so we were seeing real villages with people wandering around cooking dinner, finishing up washing, and chatting with their neighbors. It was domestic and comforting.
To drag us away from thoughts of things domestic and comforting, Jerome told us all about “night dancers”, people who were bewitched after dark and go and dig up corpses and eat them, which got us started on a whole discussion of sorcery and witchcraft again. The policeman, who didn’t speak much English, emphatically agreed with Jerome that they existed and we talked about it for a while, thoroughly freaking Neesha out, until we reached the check point. It was really late at this point and the soldiers didn’t speak English well, if at all. I got by in some very bad Arabic, but we left the talking up to the police officer, who was fluent. And then, just to illustrate the extent of corruption in this country, we were blatantly asked for a bribe, in front of the police officer. With the police officer translating actually. It wasn’t a high bribe (a couple of beers for the soldiers-like they need more alcohol) but it was the principal of the thing. Its like they aren’t even trying to pretend that they aren’t corrupt. The police officer was not shocked and didn’t reprimand them but he doesn’t even carry his gun so I wasn’t really surprised. We dropped him off at the police barracks and went back to the compound. It was nine so there wasn’t any dinner. I wasn’t particularly hungry and neither was Neesha but Jerome and George were starving, so while George and Neesha caught up on a weeks worth of emails, Jerome and I headed downtown to get some food.
I’ll admit. We dawdled a bit. But I really miss running errands so I convinced him to just drive around a bit. We stopped at the Kenyatti Club (where we might have a big dinner with Rex this week-I hope I hope I hope) and asked if they had chips but they didn’t. So we headed over to the Lobalua Hills bar (our favorite) and ordered chips from one of the street vendors outside. Jerome reported that she had liver, which he was excited about, and I was not, and both of us forgot Neesha was practically vegetarian. So while we waited for the chips to be ready, we had a beer at the bar. Shiva, my waitress friend, waited on us, so I got to visit with her which was really nice. Jerome treated me to skewered goat meat (delicious-Apollo is a genius) and we hung out and watched music videos until the chips were ready. Then we bought some chapatti, got in the car, and went back to the compound, where of course, no one really ate the food except Jerome. The chips turned out to be a bit of a surprise: not only did they have liver in them, but also spaghetti, tomatoes, onions, and top up (sweet and sour ketchup). The combination of all of the ingredients tasted like meatloaf to me (even the liver, which I ate. Ha!)

Nimule Part Three

Next morning, George slept very late but woke up hangover-free. Neesha and I walked to the orphanage with Maria. It was just a little past the hospital, down by where Mary lived. We walked in and were instantly mobbed by children. About five of the khawajas there were leaving that day and we had hoped they had already left so we could miss the pandemonium, but as characteristic of Sudan, they weren’t on time. It was really nice to meet them though, and see them interact with the children. Nimule has more white twenty-somethings than anywhere else we have been in Sudan. One, named Seth, was throwing little boys up in the air, who would squeal with delight. The kids all knew Maria and were crowded around her. We were introduced to the man who runs the orphanage, a white man who use to be part of the Brethren Church but left it. He has maintained ties with the church and was the founder of New Community Project and he has been working at the orphanage for a long time. We also met a girl named Sophie, who is our age. She has lived at the orphanage since January and is leaving in December. She originally went to the Eastern Menninite University with the other girls but left to stay in Sudan. The kids called her Momma Sophie.
The orphanage was very clean, and the children all dressed, clothed and shoed. Apparently originally the orphanage was supplied by World Food Program but then they pulled out so now they get by with just pocho (oogali), greens and beans every day. No meat. No rice. The kids can go to the school next door, or do some preschool things at the orphanage itself. They live in small tukuls dormitories, and there is even a pet monkey named Johnny Cash. It was really nice to see that the orphanage wasn’t as grim a place as you could imagine but it was hard for me to look at the children and know that most of them didn’t have parents (some did, but were unable to care for them-those kids would go visit their parents periodically). It is hard enough to live here, but to be completely alone in the world as well is just devastating. The kids ranged from ages 4 to 20, and unlike in American orphanages, they wouldn’t kick you out once you were a certain age-they helped you through your education. It was nice because the kids were just like all the other children we have seen, except for the fact that they had no place else to go.
After the orphanage we walked back towards the compound. We stopped briefly at the market and bought some cloth (so exciting!) and then headed back to the compound. When we got there, we were instantly grabbed into the car to head to Fula Falls with our guide, a man who is the brother of the Bishop, very old and called simply mzee. We drove up past the Nile school and walked into a tent with two SPLA officers in it. They sat us down and asked us how much money we were going to pay them to go to the falls. First, they helpfully suggested 200 USD a person, which we declined. We managed to talk them down to 200 SPs for the four of us, only to realize that we didnt actually have that much money-and that if we spent it we wouldn’t be able to get gas or oil for the car. Combine that with the fact that the guides said there were no elephants that day, and we passed. We promised to come later, and left. We dropped off mzee with our apologies at wasting his time and came back here. Unbreakable was on TV, so we watched the end of it (making me want to see the beginning). Then George and I watched this incredibly bizarre movie called The Crush, wherin Alicia Silverstone is a crazed and psychotic 14 year old trying to stalk the guy from Princess Bride. It had enough suspense music to keep us occupied for a good two hours.
After lunch we hung around for a bit and I took a nap with the cat and George and Neesha played cards. At five we walked down to the soccer pitch to watch the soccer game being played between two different schools.
The soccer games here are fantastic. Hundreds of people show up to them to watch 10 year olds play soccer. They lined the field like ropes, crowds of people lining the sides and going all the way up the hill to the road. To the side, a game of volleyball was being played. We were watching the game for a bit when Neesha started to get uncomfortable because we were being stared at. Ed had just called, so they went off to walk around the field and I stayed and chatted with Ed. The stares are defiantly disconcerting, but I’ve gotten use to them. Neesha I think has a harder time because she is shorter and therefore has a harder time of just looking resolutely over their heads. My strategy is to either talk to them, or stare back, both of which end up with giggling children which makes me happy. Further down the field, they had a run in with a man with no leg, and were stared at even more. I went over and watched the volleyball game, waiting for them to show up. I was leaned up against a tree, with a small child sitting in it. His name was Mandela and he was very shy. In his tree, and the tree next to us, children draped themselves over every branch, climbing up like monkeys, dangling from the branches, so that you couldn’t tell what were arms and what was tree. I made friends with them and learned their names, so we had a great time. I watched a girl play volleyball (yay feminism!) and then George, Neesha and Jerome showed up and we walked back. Some ladies were in the compound, and one of them had a baby. She let me hold her. The baby’s name is Tracy and she was covered by sticky lollipop candy. Turkeys (yes, there are turkey’s here) were wandering around our feet. They are creepy. I was holding the baby while her younger sisters (who looked to be about five to seven) milled around. The mother was so thin and tiny that I cant imagine a child came out of her but she is incredibly sweet. I was pleased that Tracy at least seemed to be a fat, healthy six month old. Until I found out she was a year and a half. She wasn’t healthy at all. She also wasn’t responsive. Normal babies are curious, alert, playful. She just sat on my hip, staring blankly into space. It completely depressed me.
This morning we went to the health center. I was having trouble sleeping so I woke up at six and just sat in the dining room, playing solitaire and writing. At noon, we walked next door to the clinic. Dr. Dominic was there, and he took us around the place. There was an ANC clinic and a lab, but no in-patient facilities. The midwife was Ugandan (we have yet to meet one of the ten elusive Sudanese midwives) and she talked to us about the normal procedure for pregnant mother’s visits. Most of the mothers don’t actually give birth at the center, because the Nimule hospital is right nearby. It seems that they have a very good working relationship with each other, and I was glad that even if the health care wasn’t perfect in Nimule, at least people had options as to where to go.
It was really interesting to see the main road of Nimule, because it is the chain of wealth from Uganda into Sudan. You can literally watch as the wealth and profit from Uganda bleeds into Sudan, first in Nimule, then up the main road to Juba, and then from Juba beyond to the rest of Southern Sudan. Trucks layered with African Long Horn Cattle on the bottom, then goats, then chickens, then people, file up and down the Juba road in Nimule, stopping periodically to unload passengers and commodities. The things they have in Nimule could only be a product of Uganda-turkeys, pigs, katenge cloth, music, timberland shoes and Sean Combs jeans and endless amounts of spare parts for the caravans that come through. The sheer variety is astonishing after being in Torit for so long, Torit which is relatively prosperous and developed. To be able to actually observe not only the flow of goods, but their impact at each place they stop, is awe inspiring. Just driving back to Torit, we saw the wealth leech away, eventually disappearing altogether. as we drove through towns further and further from the border, the chickens and goats faded from view, the clothing decreased in vibrancy and cleanliness, and more and more UNHCR white plastic tarps appeared on the roofs of tukuls made of crumbling mud, rather than brick and bamboo.
After seeing the center, we drove over to the hospital. Even though it was a weekday, because it was after two, the hospital was virtually abandoned. There were some patients milling about, but no administrators. I took some covert pictures, we saw the different buildings, and then we left. On the way back through town, Jerome and George stopped to get the car welded, and Neesha and I went off and bought more katenge cloth. When it became apparent that our car was going to need considerably more welding than we had originally thought (seriously, is anyone keeping count of how many times we have repaired this damn car?), Neesha and I decided to get some skirts made. We found a wonderful woman named Rebecca who told us she could make a skirt in thirty minutes, so I got three made and Neesha got two. She even tailored them for us (although one of them needs a bit more work, and one of them I think I’m going to give to Smisch because she would look bea-u-ti-ful in it). The extra cloth we had could be made into pillow cases and head scarves. It was so much fun being in the shop, because all of the walls were covered with bolts of cloth, sample clothing, and posters of different styles, and women would wander in and out to pick up their orders and stay and watch as we tried on our skirts, and make comments. Some of them even hung around just to watch us change into and out of the skirts, and they giggled about my white legs which would have been disheartening if it hadn’t been so funny. My butt eventually garnered more attention than the cloth itself, as people peeked inside to try and get a glimpse of it.
While we were waiting, we went next door to the place where the car was getting welded and sat on the crumbling plaster porch of the café nearby. George and Jerome wandered over eventually, and we tasted some frozen ice (bubble gum flavor-ew) that had come off the back of, I kid you not, an ice cream truck bicycle. It even played awful, repetitive music (It’s a small world after all) and there was a cooler strapped to the back that the vendor would scrape ice from and put on these cones in little plastic bags. It was less than satisfying, but I was so excited to be having anything even closely resembling ice cream that I didn’t mind.
A drunk man came out on the porch along with one of his friends and started chatting with me (and, inasmuch as she would speak, Neesha). It was a long, rambling conversation about how he, as a representative of the Sudanese people, wanted to unite with America, but the outcome was that he gave the three of us (George, Neesha and I) credit for the entire CPA agreement and, because he somehow got the idea that because I was named Emma, I was the sister of Emma Machar, the woman who married Riek Machar in the eighties and then died in a car accident, (and therefore, that I must have connections to Dr. Machar himself), he bought me a beer (an Eagle, which is less beer and more malt liquor (6.9% alcohol) while his friend took covert photos of me with his cellphone. That was a horrendous run on sentence and I apologize.
Eventually both the car and our skirts were ready and we headed out. We stopped by Jerome’s friend Hakim’s store (I love Hakim, seriously, he’s the best) and bought a compliation of Mel Gibson and Colin Ferrel movies (on one dvd, twenty movies, though half were missing) and spent the night watching Apocolypto which was kind of ridiculous and Hart’s War which I eventually got bored of.
We were supposed to leave the next day but didn’t because we still hadn’t seen the elephants. It was Sunday, and I woke up to hear wonderful singing from the church. We tinkered with the car for a while, and spent most of the day doing relatively nothing. The park was closed on the weekend, so we watched movies and worked on the computer and kept up on Al Jazeera. We played some cards that night, and watched The Recruit, and finally went to bed.

Nimule Part Two

From Loa we arrived in Nimule. Unlike Torit, Nimule is set down a single main street-the Juba road, which goes from Juba (and beyond) to Uganda, and is the sole source of life and wealth going through the towns it touches. We got to the Diocese and pulled in, and our convoy was instantly greeted by a grinning American girl. She looked completely taken aback to see us, and when we pulled in and parked, four more came out of the woodwork. It turns out that they are five American Menninite/Brethren college students working in the schools (and in agro-forestry) through a (somewhat radical) non-profit called New Community Project. They’ve been here for the summer and they leave in two weeks. They are very nice and have taken us around and told us a lot about their experiences in Nimule. They got to live here and really get to know people so they have had a great chance to get to know the town and settle into life here.
For dinner the first night we had chicken which was so delicious. Its easy to get chicken in Nimule, and pork too which I was really impressed by. I haven’t seen pork at all in Torit, and here you see huge pigs wandering around across the road. I took a shower (the dirt from the road had dyed me about two shades darker than my normal color) and helped shape bread with this woman named Margaret (who is in secondary school and helps with the cooking and greeted me with a HUGE hug).
The next morning we got up and had breakfast (pumpkin!) and tried to figure out what to do with ourselves for the day. Jerome wanted to wash the car, so we went to the Nile. This was actually a result of mixed messages between us and Jerome-as both of us thought it would be easier to wash it at the compound, and that the other one wanted to wash it at the Nile. The Nile bank was incredibly muddy and bordered by slippery rocks. Several women were washing clothing by the bank and laying the clothing out on the rocks that scattered the ground, and a couple of young men were sitting on a log partly in the water, washing their clothing and bathing themselves. A man with a big pointed bamboo stick stood by, scanning the water, and two trucks with Chinese characters on the side and long hoses stretching to the water, pumped the Nile into a truck to take to town. Jerome almost fell in the mud and then almost got the car stuck in the mud trying to back it up closer to the bank, and while he worked on that, we watched the guys swimming. One of them leapt into the water and instantly had his shorts shucked off by the current. His friends laughed hysterically at him while he scrambled around trying to find them, until finally a woman on the bank threw him a pink dress which he wrapped around himself, looking bashful. His friend jumped into the Nile from further down the bank, buck naked and swam over to him, holding his shorts.
Ultimately we drove back to the compound, realizing that washing the car with Nile water would be an incredibly lengthy process. Once back at the compound, Jerome washed the car and I took a shower. After lunch (fish fish fish and more fish-that’s what you get for being by the Nile), I did some laundry. Then we walked down to the soccer pitch to watch the soccer game. There was a game of monkey in the middle going on (curtsey of Maria and Larissa, two of the Americans) and George joined in-getting stuck in the middle and causing all the children to shriek with laughter. I stayed off to the side and was soon swarmed by children, all staring at me and pushing each other back and forth towards me. I tried to talk to them, using first Mahdi (which was a pathetic attempt, completely mispronounced), then Arabic, then English. It was fun, even if it wasn’t particularly successful. After that we went up to visit one of the nieces of the Bishop who was named Mary. She was there, along with three other ladies, and they were sitting on a mat outside of the house, listening to the radio and embroidering. The hill they lived on reminded me a lot of Ireland. I sat on the mat next to one girl, whose name I don’t think I ever learned and who I am going to call Alice. She was embroidering a blue sheet, and a pink sheet lay at my feet. The designs were really incredible, so intricate and elaborate. Mary showed me how to do the stitches and set me to work. Alice tried to grab a duckling so that I could hold it, but then the mother duck attacked her and the duckling got so scared that it pooped all over her. I felt bad. Jerome made us leave after a while, so I didn’t get to embroider that long, but when we got back to the compound I borrowed Sarah’s (one of the Americans) sewing kit and mended my skirt which had torn in a couple of different places. I felt quite self sufficient, even if I did botch the first mending section. Mark Amoko showed up and Jerome disappeared with him. George and Neesha and Father Mawa walked over to CRS to see if we could get internet and contact Father Vuni (I left my passport in Torit and we wanted to go to Kampala) but they told us to come back later. Internet is a big problem in the Nimule Diocese, and is very difficult to come by. When they got back, we wandered over to the bar in the compound (can you believe there is a bar in the compound?) and had some beers (Neesha had milk). The fathers were having some beers too and discussing business. Neesha and George walked back to go to sleep and Mark told me that Father Mawa was willing to treat us to one more round, so I stayed with him and Jerome and we had another beer and walked back, and went to sleep.
The next morning I took a shower (fantastic water pressure here, and almost warm water!) and had breakfast. We were going to attempt to go to Fula Falls to see the elephants, but instead ended up fixing the car. Mark had bought us a new oil filter, so while him and Neesha worked on his car, changing the tire, George, Jerome and I worked on the oil filter. It was so much fun! George and I spent about an hour attempting to get the original filter to come off (so unsuccessful, I cant even tell you) while Jerome drained the oil from the tank. It was only after an hour of tugging and twisting and pulling and pushing that Mark came over and showed us how to rig a rope around the filter and pull on a tire iron to get it to come off. After that, we screwed on the new one and put in new oil and pulled off the fuel filter and replaced that as well. When the oil change was done, we poured the diesel from the fuel tank onto our hands to wash them. We also helped Mark try and get a plastic top off of a filter, and in the process I got goudged with a screw driver a couple times in my thumb (we used diesel again, to disinfect the wounds, which were bleeding kind of profusely), but it was the most satisfying work ever. I took another shower (needless to say, I was covered in oil and diesel) and then after lunch I washed a huge amount of clothes for Neesha, George, Jerome and I. Neesha helped, but of course the second we were ready to hang the clothing out to dry, a thunderstorm came through, so the clothes ended up sitting in a bucket for most of the day before I hung them out at night (where it rained.)
Neesha went off to rest and George and Jerome and I ran up the street (or so I thought) on a quick trip to get some oil for the car, but it ended up being a two hour escapade, wherein Neesha thought we had abandoned her to go to the hospital and we spent an hour welding the hood of the car, again. George and I managed to get internet at this “internet café” (really, a glorified lean-to hut, with a computer on a wooden chair and a cell phone plug hooked in the side. Somehow, they were able to tap into the cell tower network and translate it into internet, and it actually worked! I was so impressed, I cant even tell you. It was a completely surreal experience to be sitting in a shed made entirely of papayrus, watching the rain pound down outside, being surrounded by nothing but more sheds and warehouses, and be able to access Gmail.
While the car was being welded, I chatted with these young boys, and an older boy came up to me (told me he was 21, looked 14) and told me I should marry his brother who was at school in Kampala. I told him I’d make an awful wife since I cant cook, but he told me I would learn. I saw him in the market two days later, and he came over and said hi. He was really nice, if a bit sketchy, but it was nice to have a friend in the market that recognized me.
When we got back, we picked up Neesha and headed off to a bar with a guy named Patrick. It was called the Nile View and it was right by Mary’s house. We sat there and had beer and soda, and about twenty minutes in, Mark showed up with a small bird tied to a string which was flapping around his head. He gave it to me to hold, and it sat in my hand and I stroked it’s head and it fell asleep. At least I thought it was falling asleep-as it turns out I think that stroking a bird’s head crushes its brain, and it died later that night, but Mary had given it to Mark to give to me as a present, and I named it Toto (Kiswahili for Baby) and it hung out in my hand or on my shouler for most of the night.
Ed called partway through our drinking fiesta and pretty much told us we weren’t allowed to go to Kampala, and argued with George. I talked him down a bit and Neesha completely changed the topic when she talked to him and I thought we had decided it was ok for us to go to Kampala and he hung up thinking we had decided it was not ok for us to go to Kampala, so there was a bit of the mixed messaging about that. I’ll talk more about the almost trip to Kampala later. Anyway after talking to Ed, Patrick ordered us some spiced beef, cassava, cabbage and tomatoes which we all munched on (the cassava was the best) while watching an Indian Bollywood film from the eighties which was awful. You cannot imagine how bad this movie was. At about nine, we went back to the compound, and the girls asked us how we had found something to do until nine at night. We ate dinner, and sat around outside visiting. My bird died, which freaked me out completely because it was dead in my hands for a good five minutes before someone pointed that out. We couldn’t figure out why it died, so we went with old age.
Then we all went over to the bar in the compound and bought a big bottle of Uganda Warage, the Spirit of Uganda, a white rum. We also picked up some cokes and fantas and brought them back to the compound where we sat outside and made mixed drinks. They were bad. They were really bad. George had the idea that if you mixed Warage with Krest Bitter Lemon soda, it would taste just like a gin and tonic (it probably wouldn’t have since Warage isn’t gin, and also they were out of Krest-so no go). Jerome drank them straight, George with Coke, me with Fanta. Neesha and Mark had soda. Jerome is use to this so he was fine. George was apparently secretly trying to outdrink Jerome and ended up being hammered and unhappy by the end of the night. I managed to swallow down one drink but that was it. Mark told us a long and incredibly romantic story about how he met his wife Edith. It was ridiculously romantic. It was a love at first sight extravaganza, spanning two years, starting on a bus station platform and ending in marriage. He has actually found true love. George was tearing up. That’s how intense this story was. It was kind of utterly depressing too, because I feel like that kind of love is so rare. That’s why they make movies about it. We kept trying to stress to him how incredible that story was and he just kept brushing it off but it was probably the most romantic and awe-inspiring story I have ever heard of “how we met”. It culminated in an argument with Jerome about second wives, particularly when you have the kind of true love Mark does. Everyone went to bed except George and I. I had a kitten asleep on my shoulder and George was wasted. We had a really great conversation, with him being drunk and me being amused, and I helped him get to bed and put a basin by his bed in case he threw up and went to sleep with the kitten on my bed. She is about two or three months old and missing her mother, but she falls asleep when she is on my lap which is adorable. She started to cry halfway through the night and I kicked her out but she crawled in under the door and attacked Neesha’s bed, so she ended up back with me.

Nimule Part One

On Monday we left for Nimule, a border town by Uganda in the southernmost area of Eastern Equatoria. It was suppose to be a four hour drive, but ended up taking us eight-partly because of an hour long stop over in Pageri and partly because of a truly awful road due to the pounding rainstorm the night before. The drive itself was really beautiful-the first half was just retracing the road to Juba, which I love because of the walls of rock on either side with villages nestled in the basin, but the second half turned off towards Magwi in the south. What I found interesting is that though Nimule, and even Magwi are relatively close to Uganda, the drive down to the towns was an object lesson in poverty. We passed several IDP camps-real IDP camps not merely relocated people in established towns. They barely looked like camps at all. Burned land and charred tree stumps sticking up in the air like black needles were situated next to devastated huts with plastic sheeting over the roofs. The huts themselves were patchy, tilted, and no real protection from the elements at all, and women and children moved slowly from hut to hut, putting clothing to dry on the scrub bushes left to them. The men just sat there, some in army fatigues, some in torn undershirts, staring blankly at our car.
Other villages were vibrant and alive and women in bright clothing walked alongside our car, carrying various things in buckets on their heads. But the most beautiful part of the drive happened when we hit just past Pageri, going down Gordon’s Hill, where the road turned to reveal the entirety of southern Eastern Equatoria, and a fair part of both the Nile and Uganda, stretched out before us. You could see almost the start of the Nile at Lake Victoria, the shiny cluster of buildings signifying the entry point for IDPs returning from Uganda, and the entire village of Nimule scattered and spread out ahead. The sun was setting and the Nile was shimmering and curving like a snake and mountains framed the entire view like a picture frame. On the other side of the road was a lush valley of thick vegetation-the national park and game reserve-periodically interrupted by green mountains.
Our first stop, in Pageri, was very nice; we sat in a lean-to thatched with papyrus reeds and plastic woven bags and drank Bell (a Ugandan beer) and chatted with the priests we were traveling with and their families. I was seated next to Father Mawa on my right (who is so wonderful-one of the most steadying and elegant Father’s that I have met) and two women on my right. The closest one looked like she was roughly my age, and the one next to her looked about 20 years older, the look of a woman starting to age, and wrinkle. But these appearances were deceiving. Regina, the lady next to me, was actually 40, and the woman next to her was about 50. Regina was the mother of Taban, (who looked more like her brother) and eventually Regina’s mother came in (Elizabeth) who was sixty but looked forty and sang church songs to me. I already knew that people here don’t age visibly but I had forgotten how disconcerting and amazing it was. After three beers each (they automatically refill them), George and I attempted to use a latrine, which we quasi-broke the door off of, and I may have peed on my foot, and then we got in the car, having shaken everyone’s hand, and with the strong smell of dried fish on our hands.
We stopped once more, in Loa. Loa was about 25 minutes away from Pageri, if that and all the buildings we saw were made of brick. You round a bend and the first thing you see is a huge brick church-in the mold of the one in Isoke, although this one is older; a church which wouldn’t look out of place in an Italian pastoral scene. Next to the church was a long brick building with an arched porch, and while the fathers stood and chatted there, I went off to investigate the church. It was locked, but they opened it for us (while I talked to some old ladies, none of whom spoke English, but rather Mahdi, of which I know very little-but we got by).
The church was incredible and huge. It was easy to see vestiges of it’s former opulence through the dust coating the floors, but the actual sight was heartbreaking, if breathtaking. A long aisle stretched back-completely empty except for the remnants of shattered stained glass windows. All the benches had been removed. In the left hand niche, a statue of the Virgin Mary (white, Italian looking) was cuddling the headless body of the Baby Jesus, the decorated plaster chipping and flaking off onto the floor. On the right side, a tiny, albeit newer Virgin Mary sat on a small shelf, dwarfed by the huge alcove behind her. The floor leading up to the later was laid with felled tree branches-the makeshift seats for the congregation, providing enough space for maybe 50 people. The alter was decorated, but dusty, and the Jesus figure on the cross behind it looked down on the shattered glass that had been the window he was set beside. In the ceiling, bullet holes riddled the metal roof like so many stars, sending sharp blades of light down into the church itself, illustrating the bullet’s trajectory. Even in its decay it was a beautiful church, but the Father accompanying us told us that it had been attacked by armed Arabs who had taken all the benches, cut up the statues, stolen the books and burned them, and shot through the ceiling. Some services are still held there, but it was clear that the goal of the attack had mostly been successful.

Sorry!!!

We went to Nimule, kind of spur of the moment. It is on the border of Uganda, is incredibly beautiful and cool, and has absolutely no internet whatsoever. So. A week later, when we finally got home at ten at night, I got to check my email and find 90 NEW MESSAGES half of which were from smisch being like "are you dead? please clarify."
Unfortunately, I cant actually update now because we are leaving again in a couple of hours to go back to Isoke and Kimotong (the creepy place where I am apparently engaged) which may or may not have internet (i hope i hope i hope). I'm keeping up with writing about things but i'm not very good at posting about it right now.
BUT I'm fine. I'll update soon. I miss everyone. I'm having a hell of a time.
And Aliza I'll email you soon. Promise.
xoxoxooxyz

Cranky, Cranky, Cranky

I have been in a horrific mood this past week. From what I've heard it wasn't a good week for anyone, and i know it wasn't a good week for Neesha who was ill with what George claimed as his disease (diarrhea-ha!) and was feeling generally miserable. I was feeling miserable too but for for reasons that aren't as compelling.

Anyway my horrendous crankiness played a major role in my communication embargo-no posts, no emails, no checking the news, etc. This was perhaps not the most opportune time to enact that rule for myself, seeing as how the ICC is about to indite President Omar al-Bashir on charges of war crimes and genocide, and i have been getting daily panicked emails from the Embassy pretty much along the lines of "WE TOLD YOU SO. WE TOLD YOU NOT TO COME. BUT YOU CAME ANYWAY. and now there is a problem! and we have to deal with you! and you could get attacked ANYWHERE AT ANY TIME. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"
Disconcerting to say the least.

I have been thinking a lot lately, about things I will post about later. Suffice it to say, I think this week was the point during my "journey of self discovery" if you want to use words that sugary, that i hit the phase of angry, frustrated, hostile bitterness, which blended into contemplative silence and not entirely rational ideas. (touring the world visiting temples, not going back to Smith, moving to Sudan after college, etc)

In terms of day to day events-there have been rather few. Neesha was ill and spent most of the week lying in bed trying to sleep. George and I were extremely bored and spent our time doing the following:

• Playing "Virtual Maze" on the portable GPS system-in which the GPS system creates a maze and you walk around in real life trying to get the flags. Problems: the flags always seemed to be unhelpfully in the exact same spot as large, 40 ft metal containers or on ant hills. Also it was sunny and we looked like idiots, walking in circles around the compound staring at this device in our hands and periodically randomly pivoting around and starting off in the other direction.
• Playing with bottle caps. We played shuffleboard (caps, brooms, and sometimes toilet paper rolls), "home run derby" otherwise known as tennis with flyswatters and bottle caps and no net, and "Janga!" which was George, shooting a rubber band at the various toiletry items he had piled up one on top of the other on my desk. The problem with all of these games is that i always ended up being hit in the face.
• Going on a walk-almost got bit by a snake and a ruby beetle (not what they are called, just what color they are).
• Playing Pool

This last one was most fun. The first time we went down to the pool hall, George played and so did Jerome and i chatted up a guy named Bull who looked like he had been pulled right out of a 1950's-esq street gang movie, in a Texas tuxedo with a toothpick hanging out of his mouth and one foot propped behind him on the aluminum wall. The second time, I made friends with the waitress, had lots of beers, and got my ass handed to me by a guy who didn't talk, just danced like he was humping the table. I felt less bad about this when George had HIS ass handed to him by a guy who had been trying to give me tips, and Jerome had his ass narrowly handed to him by a man in a bright yellow shirt. Then we sat around watching music videos of beautiful Ugandan women dancing, and someone tried to get me to join their table (a group of men in suits) and when we left, we had skewered roasted goat meat that Jerome's friend Apollo made which is quite possibly the most delicious goat I've ever had, and could probably rival some of the meat in the states. Its my new favorite meal.

The pool hall and the drives we have gone on have all been beautiful and I'll write about them later probably, but I just wanted to post this so that Smisch knows I'm still alive. Hey Smisch. I'm still alive.

Thing Two

Here's something I didn't consider. In Maplewood, and in Northampton, I expect the best. When I'm lying in bed at night with my head by the window, and from far away in the dark I hear a scream, I assume its some jackass kid running amok. I hear a bang and thing "car backfiring". I hear lots of raised voices and think "someone's having a late night tonight".

Not here. Yesterday I was lying in bed and I heard a blast and the sound of shattering glass. I'm 99% sure it was a gun going off. I assumed from the start it was a gun going off. I sat up and listened hard while the rest of the night echoed in the silence left by the shot and my ears started playing tricks on me. Or maybe they didn't. But its enough to make you go crazy. I hear screams and I hear shouts and I hear what sounds like women crying and the school children here never stop yelling and every noise that lights up the night with sound is a gun firing.

But it is. We are right next to two different army barracks. We are surrounded by abandoned buildings and the hollow shells of bricks and mortar that use to be houses and churches and schools. There isn't shattered glass in the windows because glass was never there to start out with. There isn't spray paint scarring the sides of the buildings-just charcoal graffiti on the insides, pictures of Jesus, pictures of Allah. There isn't abandoned things-because anything usable has long since been stripped from its place. Most buildings don't have a roof, the ones that do have drooping tin, poised like a knife pointing down at the ground, ready to fall. Women and children live around the broken walls and families live right up to the edges of the barracks and children play in the empty church. 4 out of 10 men walk around with guns slung over their shoulders-sometimes more depending on where you are.

This isn't a sterile place. Its endlessly touchable. Bare feet touch every surface-from the cement floor of the patio to the coarse rocks and rubble of the road. There are no screens to keep out bugs. No glass to keep out people. Nothing cutting you off or restricting you from going anywhere and doing anything. Even the roadblocks are just long sticks propped up against two trees. Roadblocks you could snap with the touch of your bumper. The only thing stopping you is violence. Guns and mines and dangerous men. If it weren't for those things, I think you could do almost anything here.
And so people do. When you see a fire, its a big fire, quenched and coaxed by diesel. When you hear a sharp crack tear through the air, its a gunshot. And you never know why people are screaming. For all I know it could be of laughter, and I try to teach my ears to tell the difference between mirth and pain. But from far away, its hard, and it makes an overactive American mind go wild.

So I am lying in bed and I hear the gun and the glass shatter and then the vacuum of silence. And then, to my straining ears, comes the sound of crying and shouting. The crickets chirp too loudly to tell. I hear a baby cry and a woman yell, and then a blur of angry voices, but soon enough it blends seamlessly into the rise and fall of my breath, going in and out of me and I don't know what I've heard because everything here ends without definition. It fades.

Thing One

I would like to preface this one by saying that in fact, I am not a horrible person. But i am getting really fed up with neediness. I completely understand that I am in a place where people need things-basic things-that they cant get. And I am not frustrated by that. Poverty is awful and pervasive and I wish there was more I could do for pretty much every person that I see. But some days it seems like every person I meet is saying to me "Get me this. Buy me this. Give me this. Fix this for me. Solve this problem for me. Do this for me." and its relentless and it wears me down.
I like giving things to people. I like buying things for people. I like giving presents and helping with chores and treating to food or drinks, and doing nice things for people, and taking care of people when they need it. It makes me really happy. And I knew that by coming to Sudan I would be coming to a place where I wouldn't be able to do enough for enough people, and it would be hard, and it would be painful and there would be an endless supply of people who needed help that I was incapable of giving. And, to further rationalize this, I also realize that if I were in a Sudanese person's position, I would probably try and get what I could from the khawaja too.
BUT. Some of these people are my friends. Some of them are people that I see day in and day out, and to whom I've made it very clear that I am willing to be generous, because that's what friends do. But they still ask. They still demand. Its like requiring me to give them gifts and buy them things, and to me, it cheapens our relationship. I want to be equal. I want to be seen as equal. I feel really uncomfortable being somewhat relegated to a higher position because of skin color or affiliation to a rich country. I'm looking at people as if they are my friends, or, in a lot of cases, as if they are deserving of more respect because of their experiences and their age and their position and their courage. I'll do what I can for anyone here. I don't think the inequalities that exist here are morally right, and I don't think someone should be doomed to early death and incredible poverty just because of the circumstances they were born into, or the nation they are part of. And maybe the price of "doing all i can" is to try and meet every request given to me. But friendship, to me, isn't based on what I can do for you and you can do for me, and it's hard for me to accept that in a lot of ways, in some places you can't separate who someone is from where they came from.

The Lost Day

I didn't accomplish anything today-so no list. I woke up at eight (so no exercising), couldn't wake up George, ate breakfast (literally, peanuts and coffee), and went back to sleep. People kept waking me up-which in my cranky state, made me crankier-until finally George "hoo-hahed" me (we've made this a verb) and I got up. But we didn't work. Neesha was feeling a little off, so we all watched the first X-men movie until lunch. The dvd we are watching we got from Jerome which he got from 'that guy', and is, by the way, entitled "The Best of Americans Acting Movies Volume 2" and which includes (among others) (i kid you not): XXX 1&2, Bad Boys 1&2, Big Mommas House, Doom, Mortal Combat, Transporter 1&2, Breakdown, Cyberwatch and X-men 1,2&3. Unfortunately, it is pretty scratched up and has this incredibly irritating tendency to cut out in the middle of the climatic movie scene (its done this to us three times-in the middle of XXX 2 (yes we watched it. yes I'm embarrassed), Breakdown (Kurt Russel versus Midwestern Hillbillies) and, of course, X-men.
The premise for XXX2 by the way (it sounds like porn, i promise it isn't) is that Samuel L. Jackson (you should know better!) breaks Ice Cube out of prison via a helicopter? to be come a supersecret deep undercover spy (official title) even though the only qualifications he needs is to ski and surf-which you can find about nine thousand hippies capable of, but whatever, to stop the secretary of the army from killing all the high ups and taking over the world. Ice Cube is an ex Navy Seal who made the highest dive in history (google Ice Cube. This man does not look like a diver) who is like, the least subtle spy ever, and just kind of blows everything he touches into pieces, and somehow manages to divert an entire SWAT team going after him using nothing but a bunch of microwaved ham. I dont know what the actual plot was because from about the minute they start preparing for the climax to this random scene on the President's supersecret escape train is obscured by skipping. However, needless to say, it is a stupid movie.
ANYWAY.

After lunch we just kind of sat around. And then we tried to watch the rest of X-men (failed), George went to the bishop's house to fix his Internet, I swept our entire room and the whole patio with a broom (which is actually the bottom half of a broom, without any kind of handle, and was very backbreaking but satisfying), and chatted with Neesha about guys, and ate dinner, and showered. I don't know how i managed to waste a day this way.

But as a side story: George attempted a magic trick wherein he sucks a hard boiled egg into a bottle. Its not actually magic, its just science, but whatever. The point is, they grow eggs bigger hear. And bottles a LOT smaller. This was already a doomed attempt from the start.

To begin with, we couldn't get anything to light on fire in the bottle. We tried paper. We tried the termite ON the paper. We tried gauze. We tried 99% DEET. We tried paper sprayed with aerosol sunspray. We only succeeded in lighting the outside of the bottle on fire. After half an hour we decided to give up and see if we could light the egg on fire. No go. But eggs smell bad when burned.

So George is just burning the egg, and i go to spray the egg with aerosol sunspray and accidentally hit the lighter instead of the egg, and light George on fire. George pretended to be offended, but lets be honest. He was delighted. So now I can never complain about how he punched me in the face, because he gets to retort with "Yeah!? Well! YOU LIT ME ON FIRE" to which I have no option but to hang my head and admit-yes. yes i did.

For not having anything real to say...

I'm posting a lot.
Mostly this is just a list to make me feel better about the fact that the past 3 days has seen us very hermity.

Accomplished!:

1. Diocese Presence spreadsheet-complete with schools, staff, parishes, priests, health centers, staff (including breakdown by rank and occupation and salary! Horray me!), vehicles, buildings, estimated populations and language breakdowns.
2. Emailing Rex-a stretch but i'm including it because it was an email and a stalker like visit to his office. I've got most of the information on the different counties, payams and bomas along with some rough population estimates. Plus i want him to teach me to shoot a gun. (actually, on that note, I really just want to go to Rex Olum Summer Camp because he is probably the biggest badass I know and I want him to just take me all over Sudan and teach me all his special ops/body guard/ amature boxer/ ping pong champion/ management of development agency skills. He could kill someone with a glance. He is THAT COOL)
3. Completed the other SDAs for the first objective-which doesn't sound like a lot but includes every single action entailed in community outreach and mass media.
4. Started work on Objective two: the clean up. It needed a lot of work after the restrictive curveball the people from PSI threw at us (no IPTs provided for in the proposal means no treatment for pregnant women for malaria. dumb.)
5. Washed my sheets and Ed's old sheets (for George) BY HAND and carried the water all by myself and got in a very wet, messy fight with the soap bin that culminated in me being soaking wet and even hung them on the line, which interestingly enough, was the hardest part. AND i swept out the tents for Lucy and helped her set up the beds for the guests and found her two extra pillows-because I am amazing-because she wasn't feeling well. Bringing me to my next point-
6. Made Lucy Feel Better-gave her tylenol and gatorade and nursed her back to health.
7. Watched a Kurt Russel movie (Breakdown!) which was suitably thrilling.
8. Got a list of all CDoT's health units from Emmanual and Bishop Akio.
9. Sweated profusely
10. Emailed Ed probably about three times in one day-a record for me, far below normal for him (he sends about 8 per day)
11. Did about four situps before deciding the floor was too hard on my tailbone (George quit after three-ha!)

Plans!:

1. Exercise tomorrow morning. Legs! Wake up at 6:45 and go do lunges and jumping jacks and wall sitting things and a slew of other stuff that George and I came up with.
2. Track down Rex unless he emails me-entails another awkward visit to his office where I lurk around banging on people's doors until someone tells me he is out.
3. Write up all of the Objective 3 section of the proposal (home based fever management)
4. Learn to cook from Abby
5. Go to the market and buy a dress or some cloth or a skirt that moves when I walk
6. Movie night!
7. Force Jerome to teach me to drive on the roads
8. Make up George's new bed

thats all for now.

As a side story though: I scared the bejeezus out of Desire when I was filling up my water bucket to do laundry, and he emerged from his tent in THE world's tiniest towel to go shower. He saw me, yelped (in french!) and grabbed his crotch region and ran BACK to his tent. So i hid in the shower with my bucket of water until he cautiously emerged and ran to the other shower.

Oops.