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"Pray that they go temporarily blind"

Today we're going to talk about the importance of picking the right color of pen.

This is almost like product placement

Unless you're a teacher or college professor who likes to make poorly written papers bleed, normal people don't put much thought into the color of pen with which you use to write or sign a document.  For me, it's usually whatever pen is still remaining somewhere on my desk since people periodically snatch them or walk away with them.

In South Sudan, however, the color of pen that you use to sign is apparently very important.

Allow me first to provide a context.

Working in administration and being around in South Sudan, I've learned that people are very keen on things being very official and having certain formalities.  Not only is it not enough that a simple letter about next to nothing is signed and on letterhead, but it must also have an organizational stamp near the signature.  Before addressing a crowd, a speaker cannot simply thank the audience for giving him or her the opportunity to speak.  The speaker must first greet and thank each of the "big men" in the room individually and in order of importance.  This can take some time if you have a high level meeting, especially when one must always pronounce his/her full name and their titles such as Honorable, Excellency, Right Reverend, and so on.  While watching the South Sudanese news channel, you would think that the newscasters would start saying just "President Kiir went to China today," because we know who they're talking about.  However, they insist on pronouncing in full, "His Excellency President Salva Kiir Mayardit," each time he is mentioned.

L: man who fought in the bush (rigid), R: man named Bush (casual) 

Even at the most formal events, I don't believe Americans would walk around and treat each other with that much reverence.  Perhaps it's our sarcasm and overconfidence that makes us so over-casual with each other.  Notice the body posture of Kirr versus the posture of George Bush in this picture where they're shaking hands; doesn't that give something away about their respective cultures?

However, not knowing and consequently not following some of these formalities in South Sudan can get one into a socially or professionally awkward position.  Along with many other examples that I'm sure I haven't encountered yet, another example comes with something much more ridiculous.

The organization I work with was recently registering something with the government.  Getting the relevant papers in place and signed by the relevant individuals was a hassle and even took several months.  Once everything was finally in order and in the hands of a lawyer and the government officials, our director came back with some bad news; we had some of the signatures in the documents in black pen.  Apparently, only legislators may sign in green colored pen and judges only may sign in red.  To use those colors would be considered an offense or a subversion of their authority (or something).

Of course, the color black is reserved for the president.  

So our director, who is a pastor, submitted a prayer request that morning when he made the announcement: "Let's pray that they temporarily go blind."

Lesson learned.  Only sign in blue pen. 

They call me "Baby White Person"

Jeynah is the word for "baby" or "infant," in Juba Arabic, and my new nickname around the workplace is now jeynah kawajah.

Even though I'm considered a young adult in my culture, in South Sudan I have no husband and no children; Therefore, I'm a child and warrant the nickname.

I may be 23, but both of us are still babies

Strangers often ask me where my husband is, to which I answer that I have no husband and no, I don't want one.  I attempt to spurn attempts to be set up or any encouragement that I find a South Sudanese husband by saying that I'm still young and I don't want to get married.  And saying that I have a boyfriend in the US doesn't deter anyone.  I'm not married and not currently pregnant, so that means I'm highly available.

The undeterred include a South Sudanese man that sat next to me on the plane and told me he would be my boyfriend in Africa. He also offered to be my bodyguard at the airport which was helpful with the overwhelming chaos that was the cramped Juba airport while I was running on zero energy after traveling for over two days.  He directed me around and carried my bag over the crowd and even helped argue with the customs official that wanted to squeeze some money out of me for "customs charges."  Although I was very grateful for his kindness, I was also happy to get away before he expected some sort of reciprocation...

Another desiring candidate includes a man working locally that continuously calls me (although I'll say his call also rarely gets through).

One of my South Sudanese friends in Yei says she gets annoyed at all the boys who see her moving around town with me and later ask her to make some sort of connection for them.  Apparently, the idea of marry a kawajah woman is somewhat exotic and means a free ticket into paradise in America.

I wore a nice dress into town to visit a friend last weekend and I was harassed like I've never been before.  I heard several cat calls, those hissing noises that people make to get your attention, and some bold enough to come up to me and say, "Madam, those men over there would like to speak with you."

My least favorite is when I walk past the groups of men who sit on motorcycles near busy roads.  These "boda" drivers are like the South Sudanese equivalent of taxi drivers except much more dangerous and often drunk.  I always have to ignore their comments, including a humorous and bold one from the other day. He asked to kiss me, thinking I couldn't understand him as I walked away.   Literally translated in simple Arabic, his comment was, "I want to grab your mouth and pull!"

All the cows to be used for my estimated bride price

I try to do everything right: I leave the door open if a man comes into my house, I don't lead anyone on and I get away quickly if someone appears to have certain intentions. I always wear long pants and skirts well below my knees and I cover up the girls whenever I leave my home.  Still, until I get a tattoo on my forward that says "I'm not interested" (which still many people may not be able to read due to the illiteracy rate), I don't think I can expect much to change.  After all, I'm still jeynah kawajah.


One of my co-workers told me the other day that I would get a high price for a dowry, maybe 100 cows, so that's flattering at least.

50 Shades of Culture Shock

My apologies for the long hiatus.  I took a long leave at home in the ol' US of A to attend some courses, a conference and my brother's wedding (along with two others while I was there; May-July is wedding season!).  Of course, after spending several months in Africa, I got bombarded by many of the same interested, but uninteresting questions.

There are those questions that seem to perpetuate stereotypes of Africa as a safari, such as, "Have you seen any animals?"  It's turning out to be a theme, having to convince people that my life isn't a daily reenactment of Lion King.

Picture I took while on safari in Uganda, however...

...not what I see out my window in daily life.

I had to redirect questions that assume I'm living in a hut or working at an orphanage.  One of my least favorites had to be the entirely too open-ended, "So what's it like??"  To which I would answer equally as specifically, "Oh well, you know..."

The most commonly asked question was, "Is it weird being back?"

Living in South Sudan for only six months, where I'm not living in a tukul (hut) in a tiny village and I still have regular access to internet and pirated movies and sitcoms, I wouldn't exactly say that I'm cut off.  I'm certainly not like the Peace Corps volunteer that comes home after a long, difficult sojourn and erupts into tears upon first seeing the cereal aisle in Wal-Mart in all its variation and consumerist glory.

The biggest, most profound change that I noticed upon arriving back in the States was that everyone had a much bigger phone. The pop music on the radio was new to me, but still crappy, although it's unusual that an indie artist like Gotye had such a big song.  I've missed and will miss lots of great movies and I'm upset that I only got through half of the Hunger Games on one of my three flights back to South Sudan.  Mitt Romney might be the president when I return again, but hopefully I can get in my absentee ballot in time to at least minimize that possibility.

No thank you

I guess what I'm trying to say is that it's not weird for me to be in America.  I've been there before.  I grew up there.  I know what to expect.

I did think I would have a bit of a struggle going in and out and then back into South Sudan again after spending a long two months in the US.  However, after almost a month being back in Yei, I think I'm readjusting well.  My Juba Arabic is coming back, someone has already confronted me about homosexuality in the West (it seems to be the normal introductory conversation when I first meet someone) and I take it as a good sign that I managed to get a 6-month visa from the Immigration Office in Yei (which doesn't technically issue them any more...) with only a few jokes and lots of smiling.  Just don't tell the government.

Probably the biggest thing that will affect me when I return again to the US after a longer stay in South Sudan will be that my brain and emotions will be as polarized internally as our current political atmosphere.  I'll simultaneously love and hate my culture in the US.  I already started to feel resentful about how impersonal, unfriendly and un-hospitable people are compared to the South Sudanese.  However, I love that Western tendency towards direct communication, and I'm definitely proud of the American drive for innovation and self-improvement.  That and India Pale Ales ... You may think it's random, but I really love America for its selection and availability of craft brews.

Makes me proud to be an American

Be Thankful for Pavement

Ok, there are many things I can say about my return from South Sudan and my temporary reentry back into the US for a short visit.  I could talk about how I've missed cheese, pop culture and I totally don't see the point of putting a bagged lunch in the fridge (I'm still alive after eating 2-day-old rice that stayed in my house in the African heat; I think your yogurt will survive 4 hours in an air-conditioned building). Although I'm excited about direct communication, I miss the hospitality and friendliness of Africans.  I could also talk about how I watched entirely too many pirated episodes of Sopranos on my laptop, making me totally obsessed with salami, something I can't buy in Yei.  However, let's talk about infrastructure, more specifically, roads.  The smooth ride was the first thing I noticed and appreciated from when I first landed at Dulles and left the airport by car. 

I was traveling up to Pennsylvania this past weekend and we had the gall to complain about the state of the state's roads.  Compared to Virginia, they're sub-par; compared to South Sudan (and really much of the rest of the East Africa region, especially in rural areas) they're heavenly.

Not great, but hey

South Sudan: from bumpy... to bad... to worse.

This is why the only vehicle that can survive the roads are the Land Cruisers, and even they reach their limit when they get to about 5 years of age. Forget some of these small cars we use in Europe and the US.  If your vehicle can't drive successfully through a pond, it probably won't make it in South Sudan.

POND

And I only left at the beginning of the rainy season...

The Circle of Life

Would this blog about my life in Africa be complete without a reference to The Lion King??  By the way, the first few times I heard people speaking Swahili I got really excited; A few of the words, mostly simple greetings, are heard in the Disney movie.

This past Sunday was a long one.  I attended a church service in Bari at the local cathedral.  I've gone there before for the English service, but this was my first time attending in the local language.  At every church, they always ask the visitors to stand and introduce themselves.  Even though we had already attended, we were still new to the congregation so we were forced to the center of attention by the Bishop of the Dioceses, who is on the Board of Directors for RECONCILE.  We dazzled the people with our Arabic knowledge, all of which I practically learned in my first week here. ("My name is Jillian.  I work at RECONCILE")

One of our coworkers invited us (Nancy, Shelvis and myself) to this service because his first child was getting baptized.  We didn't realize what we were getting into...

This baby was asleep

"What's your child's name?"

One of the visitors to our compound attended a mass on Saturday, where they also had baptisms.  Between the thirty he saw in that service and the SEVENTY that we saw in this service, he witnessed one hundred children get baptized in one weekend.  

Not happy. She was screaming the entire time

  

I suppose you could say it was beautiful to see all these people bringing their children to the church to be baptized, but it was mostly hilarious as none of the sleeping babies or young children were happy to be woken up and splashed with water in the name of the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit.

NOT happy!

Another one of our coworkers was acting as a godfather

With all the passing of babies, Nancy and I were also "fearing" that they might drop one...

After a lovely meal at our colleagues' home in Yei, the day ended on a low note with my first funeral that I've attended since being in South Sudan.  The fact that I've been in the country for several months and still haven't attended a funeral service is actually a testament to how much I really avoid them.  With the number of times that staff leave to attend funerals and the nights that people stay up late playing drums, singing and mourning, I know that death happens often. For the fist time, I was hearing up close some of the haunting singing that I had previously heard from across the town in the middle of the night.  

The Bush

I've been exercising as intermittently in Africa as I do in the US.  The only thing is that in Africa, I have to try a bit harder to get in a good workout.  As unusual as we look just walking to town as kawajaat, Nancy and I amp up our weirdness by embarking on the occasional morning run.  Some men run for fitness for soccer, but for women it's almost unheard of.  The women here are busy enough already cleaning their compounds, retrieving water, washing clothes, and cooking.  After lifting 40 to 50 pound jerry cans to their heads on a daily basis, the arms of some women are comparable to those of Serena Williams. Why would they want or need to exercise more when they aren't exactly living a sedentary lifestyle?

line of jerry cans waiting to be filled during the dry season

Who do you think carries these back?  I've even seen a toddler girl carrying small ones!

More recently, my body seems to reject physical fitness.  A few weeks ago, I threw my back out from doing laundry (at 23?! what is this?) and I lent out my good running shoes, leaving me with my soccer cleats.  I would ask for tennis shoes back, but I'm not exactly how to ask a girl, who doesn't otherwise have shoes to play soccer in, to return my shoes so I can be more comfortable when I exercise.  Many are playing barefoot or in sandals.  So, my lack of assertiveness (I like to think that I'm not callous), means that I'm using my cleats.  The mushkila (problem) is that these ancient shoes seem to have a vendetta against my feet and are attempting to wear holes in my ankles.  The other day, on a run, I got a beautiful, bubbly blister and couldn't run in those shoes the next day.

In the course of conversation, I brought up exercise with one of my colleagues at RECONCILE. When I told him about my mushkila with my cleats and he told me about how he can't work out either:  His leg muscles are too damaged to allow him to run without pain.

He is a South Sudanese who, like most of the men you'll meet, was conscripted, if you can call it that, into the SPLA (Sudanese Peoples Liberation Army) as a young teenager.  After a short time, he escaped and started walking.  From his stories, it sounds like traversed the continent, walking through the Congo, Uganda, Kenya and back again. He eventually made his way to Zambia and studied there.  Still, after all this time walking and living in the bush, it took a heavy toll on his legs.  He would get bumps and bruises, scrapes and cuts and never get the chance to apply any sort of medical treatment.  The result is that his skin, muscles, and ligaments never healed properly.  Forget my blister.

The difficulties of living in the bush comprise a common theme here.  Although the physical and mental trauma is doubtlessly still affecting him today, my colleagues' story is something that he survived, something in the past. Elsewhere, the traumatic events are still unfolding.  Parts of South Sudan, as I'm sure many have read in the news, aren't as peaceful as Yei and Central Equatoria, where I live.  Thousands still have to flee into the bush to escape inter-ethnic fighting in areas like Jonglei State, or more specifically, Pibor.  These things are much closer to home when you know someone who is in the area.  RECONCILE trains volunteers who act as community mobilizers and points of contacts in different areas of the country.  One of our volunteers recently had to ask for RECONCILE to replace his reference books on conflict, trauma and other materials that were used for training and teaching him.  They were all burned along with his house.   This incident occurred only a few weeks after I arrived in the country.  Just a warning, this report, which is posted on the PCUSA website, contains graphic images at the very end.

I'll think of something completely different now when I see someone whose legs are scarred.

"The education of a girl is the education of this new nation."

Last Thursday was International Women’s Day and in Yei, there were several activities planned for the day and even rumors that it was a national holiday (and therefore a day off from work).  While we didn’t get the entire day off, RECONCILE employees were at least given the morning to attend the morning program at Freedom Square, as advertised by the local CBO, Yei County Women’s Association (YCWA). 

Every minute is accounted for... and no: they don't keep their speeches to 5 minutes

Although the program was advertised to start at 8:00, I took my sweet time to wake up and eat breakfast and get out the door to meet one of my friends on the way to the activities in town.  To my surprise, some of the ladies that do casual work in the office were waiting for me, because I had joked with them in Arabic the day before whether or not they were participating in Women’s Day, including making their men do the cooking and cleaning for them.

By the time we actually arrived at the square it was already about 10:30.  However, I found it as a sign of my adjustment to “local time” that we arrived a few minutes before the singing of the national anthem.  The program was surprisingly easy to watch and entertaining, despite the often longwinded speeches given by South Sudanese and my lack of understanding of the language that often causes me to daze off.  It even included performances by local school children in the form of poems and dancing to songs valuing education and girls.  Some women in the audience found the dancing of some children so favorable that they starting ululating and slipping small bills into the hands and pockets of the smallest children, which is apparently a normal practice.

I left the morning program while it was still running around 2:00, even though it was supposed to end at 11:25, and returned later to play in the planned girls' soccer game at 5:00.  Because the organizers of the program couldn’t find other opponents for our team, they decided to pit us against the Abubas, or grandmothers.  One of the sponsoring organizations, South Sudan Organization for Development (SSDO) decided to outfit these older women in t-shirts championing their development cause.  SSDO had spent the day campaigning, hanging banners and passing out fliers to attendees which preached the gospel of the three R’s: Reduce, Reuse and Recycle.  Anyone who has taken a stroll around Yei will notice the ubiquity of trash in the streets, tangled in the trees or burning on the side of the roads. This means that waste management is a real need in the town, although it's perhaps a misplaced cause for which to advocate on a day dedicated specifically to women...

We started the soccer game against these older women, ranging in age probably from 30 to 50, with a large crowd surrounding the field and an announcer who insisted on repeatedly expressing his amazement that a kawajah had joined the game (aka, me). 

Unsurprisingly, the Abubas only played for about 10 minutes total, using their hands and whatever football rules suited their handicap.  They were replaced by “their children,” who were actually young boys from the Yei Central team.  Unfortunately, our team had to experience loss again with the final score at 3-1.  When one of the young boys scored, many from the crowd happily ran onto the field to slip money into his pockets.

The attendees, children especially, were constantly crowding the sidelines in earnest to the point that coaches had to swat peoples legs with sticks to make them move away.  A dog even ventured onto the field and it couldn’t escape because stones would come at it every time it came to the edge of the field to try to get away, wasting at least 10 minutes in the middle of the game.

Still, with the attention of so many people, the organizers of this event essentially wasted the forum.  SSDO instead followed its own agenda and insisted that people take responsibility of their actions and reduce trash in order to keep from “filling up our landfills.”  This is truly an irony in a town that doesn’t even seem to have public trash receptacles, much less a landfill.  What’s more is that this organization probably contributed to the complimentary waters and sodas for the meeting; the remains of which covered the field and the surrounding area of Freedom Square, along with their helpful pamphlets about the three R’s. 

The organizers got to display superficial support for the girls’ team and women’s causes without having to really take us seriously.  Although many of the activities earlier in the day were inspiring and positive, the sponsoring NGOs wasted how much money on these pamphlets, sodas, and giving sporadic gifts to the audience?  As a nice gesture, they offered the girls’ team 100 SSP (about 30 dollars), which is enough to buy two pairs of cleats and some bottles of water, but hardly enough to make a real difference for the team and entice girls to play.

Some of these girls are also harassed when they go home, shouted at by men on bodas saying, “Ita ma weledoo,” or “You won’t give birth.”  With so many people in the crowd paying attention, the organizers could have taken a moment to explain the false perception that if girls play sports, they won’t be able to bear children. Instead, the announcer made belittling comments like, “their heads aren’t just for carrying jerry cans,” when a smartly girl headed the ball.

Unsurprisingly, one of the local leaders in sport promised to talk to the girls team at the end of the game, but failed to show even though we waited past dark.  It seemed that International Women’s Day came to an end and things went back to normal when the sun went down.

A Few Pictures

I have a talent for segues?

Callie, leader of my BVS orientation group and veteran of a 3 year BVS project in Nigeria, happily provided me the link to a website called “Stuff Expat Workers Like.”  Thanks Callie!  I immediately clicked on the entry titled, “blogging for the folks back home.”  I’m not too proud to make fun of myself and I most certainly don’t consider myself to be too original:

http://stuffexpataidworkerslike.com/2011/04/11/44-blogging-for-the-folks-back-home/

The article is too true in some areas.  The motorcycles here are mostly called boda bodas, and I already shared the local word for foreigner.  Soon I should put up some pictures of me with the “locals” and someone actually took a photo of me on my first boda ride.

I’m proud to say that I defy the stereotype in at least a few minor areas.  I’m honestly not trying too hard to blend considering it's a little bit difficult for me to even get a decent tan without first shriveling or dying of cancer. I also don’t have Chacos (my Rainbows work just fine, thank you).  I do write this with the knowledge that my co-workers may be reading and I hope this blog doesn’t destroy any of my future “field cred.”

I also enjoy the terms “moast” (apparently a child of moan and boast) and “anthropological richness” and I’ll try my best to insert it periodically into my daily observations for self-entertainment. 

I can reassure “worried parents” and others at home that I’m out of range of Somali pirates.  Still, Kenya is not too far away and it has definitely experienced the negative effects of the instability of its neighbor, especially since the more recent military ventures into Somalia by Kenyan troops.  I was subtly reminded of this the other day while learning a new but also familiar word in an Arabic lesson.  The word for “youth” in Arabic is shabab, as in Al Shabab, the terrorist organization in Somalia that has links to Al Qaeda.  Even during the time of writing, articles are coming out stating that Al Shabab militias just recently seized Kenyan officials in Wajir, a town in Kenya near the Somali border.

While these conflicts are still somewhat far from Yei, the ongoing internal conflict in South Sudan is much closer to home.    I’m sure many of you have seen South Sudan appear in the news in the last few days and weeks for all the wrong reasons.  Just this past week, there was a feature article in the New York Times.  I can reassure you that where I’m living is still far from the conflict in Jonglei state, but that hardly comforts and alleviates the displacement and suffering experienced by thousands in Pibor and surrounding areas.

For those who might be interested, I’m reluctant to do a more in depth writing on politics and current events here.  This is mostly because I’m still sorting out all the different counties, payams, groups, underlying issues, history, conflicts and the political institutions and authorities. I don’t think I’ll ever be a true authority on anything to do with South Sudan, especially not while still in the midst of a steep learning curving.  I haven’t yet learned how to cook the food here; much less can I properly explain why the Lou Nuer and Murle won’t stop murdering each other.  Don’t get me wrong though, I’m constantly reading and asking questions. 

In fact, every book that I’ve read thus far on the Sudan has started by explaining how complex its history and politics are and lamenting about the simplified solutions that are often advertised.  This has made me suspicious of different Western advocacy groups for Sudan (remember when Darfur was such a “sexy” cause and humanitarian crisis?) and reluctant to fall into a category of people who seek black and white explanations to problems.  Honestly, the more I read, the more I realize how much I don’t know and how much more grey area exists.

I once read an article that said that if anyone claims to understand the war(s) in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, he or she is “just bragging.”  I think that sentiment might apply somewhat to the Sudan as well.

Does this mean I'm a celebrity now?

“There’s a khawaja here that wants to play football.”

Khawaja is the word for “white person” in these parts and this is apparently what Dele, the base manager, told the captain of a local girls team in Yei.  I was surprised to find that there’s even a girls' league.  I was less surprised to find that the league consists of two and a half teams, and the girls don’t always show up to practice. 

Dele invited Harriet to RECONCILE to meet me.  Yei is a city, so I think it’s automatically not as conservative as more rural areas, where it’s probably unheard of for a girl to play soccer.  Still, I’ve got to admit, I automatically thought that this girl’s got something like gumption (to use a term from another decade). She boldly has her sights set on being a serious female athlete in a country where the priorities are such that somewhere around 90 percent of women are illiterate.  So of course I got her phone number and learned that the first practice I would be able to attend was at six on Saturday.  That’s six AM.

A few mornings later, I awoke to someone knocking on my door, confusedly seeing one of the compound guards outside my window and hearing, “It’s me, Harriet!”  I opened the door and saw her in full soccer garb (A Chelsea kit she was given, but unfortunately she’s a Man-U fan).  I hurriedly changed in the dark, since it was early enough that the electricity hadn’t cut on yet. 

Once we got to the RECONCILE gate entrance, we started to jog, since it was a kilometer and a half to the center of town and we were a bit late.  The entire time I was wondering how strange we must have looked. One hardly sees a girl in pants in town or a khawaja walking along the side of the road since most work for NGOs and use vehicles.  Indeed, every time I walk anywhere I get “Khawaja, Khawaja!” and a varied host of stares, random questions and greetings from the people near the road. Hopefully this illustrates how unusual it must have been to see the pair of us jogging on down the road in sports clothing.  Luckily, there were few vehicles or observers on the road to question our spectacle since it was barely dawn.

We ran all the way to the center of town, or Freedom Square, which is a giant, dusty square of dirt.  There were already several groups there playing soccer in this huge area and there were only two other girls ready to play.  After I introduced myself and Harriet and I warmed up, we discovered the main reason why so few girls appeared: It was Friday. I always thought that being on South Sudanese time meant being a few to several minutes late, but apparently it means not sticking strictly to the day of the week either.  Still, Harriet led us to join in a game of keep-away with some men nearby.  They were very inclusive, and I saw people join and leave the game intermittently, never interrupting the flow or causing anyone to raise objection.  Of course, the entire time, we were the only four girls playing in the entire area. 

As time went on, the town gradually woke up with us and the roads got busier.  This meant that the area where we were playing, which was near the road, got more bicycle, boda and landcruiser traffic.  At least fifteen times, we continued playing while these vehicles and pedestrians intersected our game. 

The next day (on the actual day we were supposed to practice), Nancy, one half of the American couple that just recently arrived to work at RECONCILE, opted to come to practice, since she played ball in college.  Although more girls showed up this time, we still had to invite some boys to flesh out our somewhat chaotic game of keep-away. 

Harriet and her friend Sarah were sweet enough to offer to provide an “escort” home both mornings, amidst calls from men on the side of the street asking them, “Where did you find those white ladies?!” 

Several hours later, while I was away at the market, Harriet stopped by the compound and left the message that the friendly match they said would be on Tuesday was moved to Sunday, the next day.  The coach had organized for us to play with a U-14 boys team, since there was little female competition to be had.

I showed up at the scheduled playing time for the game, 4:00 pm, to discover that no recognizable players were there.  Once again, I’m still getting used to South Sudanese time.

Some time later, once we were outfitted and organized, Harriet led the warm-up of girls, starting with jogging in two lines.  While I began to think it was an exercise to which I was accustomed, I was soon mistaken as the warm-up progressively and beautifully turned out to have a flow and movement to it that seemed more like a dance.  Even the static stretching had a rhythm to it somehow, as the leader clapped in transition.  While the team continued warming up, we were surrounded by a sizable and growing crowd of interested onlookers.  They were mostly young boys, a few of whom my less serious teammates took the initiative to flirt with.  As if to foreshadow the attention that I would receive later, I was already starting to hear some of them talk about me from this crowd.

Once the referees decided to finally quit stalling, the players walked toward the field and one of my teammates told me, “don’t have fear.”  I kind of laughed in confusion, thinking of how many soccer games I had played in with higher stakes than a friendly match. 

Then I got past the crowd surrounding our warm up and looked at the field. 

I s*** you not, there had to have been at least three hundred people prepared to watch the game.  That may have been the first time since coming to South Sudan that I wondered, “How did I get here? Is this real life?”

Only two-thirds of the girls had shoes and all of the boys were barefoot.  Despite this, the boys wore relatively nice uniforms and the game had a great deal of formality.  There were even decent sideline refs who actually made offside’s calls, which is a luxury I think a girl hardly has the pleasure to experience in the US. There was someone to rush the field when players went down injured and the assistant coach was quick to rub wounds with disinfectant (Using the same rag for everyone…) where needed and lavished attention on the players at half time.

The crowd was animated the entire game, making noise anytime someone came near a goal or made a decent pass or steal. I attempted to ignore how many counts of “khawaja” I could hear from the sideline and some of the strange comments I received.  I wasn’t nearly as impressive athletically as I had hoped to be, since I was playing on unfamiliar terrain, in an unfamiliar position (position 9.  They use numbers to describe positions on the field), and the girls were employing the infuriating tactic of kick and run.  Despite the fact that some of these boys were about three feet tall, they pummeled us, making the final score six to zero and possessing the ball probably 75 percent of the game.

The end of the game only yielded frustration for Harriet and myself, while the others maintained smiles and commenced chewing on sugar cane (…which I initially confused for bamboo, but don’t tell anyone).  Harriet lamented later about how uncommitted and flippant the girls are about playing, my respect for her continuing to grow while she exhibited dedication to play amidst others’ apathy and disinterest.

I’m not so sure that I’ve quite accurately described my entire experience for the reader, but if there were ever a moment where I felt like life was surreal, that game had to have been it. Onlookers asked some of my teammates where I came from, and I’m not sure how I would have even answered that question.  Fortunately, these girls just answered simply, "She is my sister," or "my friend."

Dust, dust, dust

After two long flights on Turkish Airlines and sitting in the Entebbe airport for several hours, I was starting to think that Eagle Air either didn’t really want our money or didn’t exist.  It took Jay finding the pilot to finally figure out how to get on this small flight to Yei!  Then again, we were there from 2 to 6am; maybe not the busiest times of the day.  After drinking a Nile Special, some Ugandan tea, and reading the New Vision (ah, nostalgia from Mayterm in Uganda!), we boarded our tiny plane, which the gentleman sitting next to me called a “boda boda” of the sky.  This was in reference to Kampala’s reckless, dangerous and small motorcycle taxis that weave through traffic… and NOT comforting.

Our plane stopped first in Arua, the largest town in northern Uganda, to drop off a few people.  It also conveniently served as a bathroom break for me.  I didn’t realize a flight could be simultaneously domestic and international, but I suppose anything is possible in Africa.  Once we landed in Yei, South Sudan (on a dirt runway, a first for me), we greeted Milcah from RECONCILE and then filed into the Immigration Office… which was really a small shed-like building that had a piece of paper taped to it that read “Immigration Office.”  The Immigration Officer was most certainly not concerned with speed, seeming to move hilariously in slow motion.

We then drove in the RECONCILE Land Cruiser over the gloriously potholed and bumpy roads to the compound I will be living on for the next two years.  All of the senior staff live on the compound, so it’s easy to walk across and knock on someone’s door if I need help.   

My apartment has a main room with a small kitchen, a bedroom and a bathroom with a shower and toilet.  I took some pictures with my computer, so I apologize for the poor quality and lack of artistry.  I forgot my hookup for my camera. They're also mirrored images.

My kitchen, including gas stove and a very nice pineapple

My bed and mosquito net

Shower head which has an electric heater

My "front yard," complete with a well

Not only did I just miss mango season (and I'll have to wait until April), but I also came to South Sudan right at the beginning of the dry season.  Almost everyone I've talked to laments about the dust and has asked me how I’m coping with the heat since I came at such an annoying part of the year.  It’s actually not too bad: just imagine how ones house in the US gets so dusty week to week, and then imagine that on overdrive x20 with red dirt.  Many things you touch smell like they’ve been sitting there for months.  The brush on the side of the road looks like it is the dust itself.  Still, the weather’s not too bad.  It’s cooler in Yei than in Juba, and I actually got chilly during the first night I slept in my new bed.

Some little things I’ve learned and experienced in my few days here:

         Tangerines here are green and look deceivingly like limes.

         I don’t know how to cook. Not really.

         Papayas, ugali, and warm, instant milk

         Many things here are built from mahogany… poorly.

         Quickly escape conversations about homosexual or gay marriage. 

         Get off the road when cars are coming or else you’ll choke on dust.

         When you ask someone how many languages an African speaks, first he/she pauses, and then slowly counts.  “Around four, I think,” has been a typical response.

        Christmas is not a peaceful time around here. All the wives want their husbands to purchase them new clothes, and it "causes quarrels," and later, more burglaries...

        “Ata kweis?”  “Ana kweis!”

Up to now, I’ve been slowly settling in and adjusting my sleep schedule. I attended church yesterday and mostly had no idea what was going on, but I met some Americans there, so at least that's a connection I'll have in the first few weeks, even though practically everyone's leaving for Christmas.

Ma salaam! 

Before and... hopefully there's an After

If you're reading this, you probably already know that I'm a pasty, white girl from a small town in Virginia who's heading to, or (depending on when you read this) already placed in, Yei, South Sudan as a BVS Volunteer with RECONCILE International.  Because I'm pale, prone to skin cancer, squint even when it's overcast, warm-natured and sweaty, I can honestly tell you that I haven't chosen to travel to Africa because of the weather.  I'm also not doing it to satisfy my parents' expectations. My mother will probably develop an ulcer, heightened blood pressure, gray hairs and maybe mild schizophrenia over her worry and stress about my choice.

So why am I going to South Sudan?  Well, I'm interested in the politics of Sub-Saharan Africa, and I'm also considering working in international development as a career.  I can't really see myself having a real day job, cultivating the American Dream with a white picket fence and 2.5 children.  Isn't it unfair that my life thus far has been so easy?  If anyone watches Modern Family and is up to date on recent episodes, know that I relate somewhat to the character Haley Dunphy when she complains that her parents "coddled" her and made her life too empty of failure and hardship.  Although this lament is obviously meant to be ironic and humorous, it also means that she has no material to go on in her college essays when they provide a prompt such as, "Write about an obstacle you've had to overcome."  Not that I'm complaining about my easy, middle-class upbringing, but my parents will probably affirm that they constantly hear the phrase, "I'm bored" coming out of my mouth whenever I'm at home.  Working in development would be my way of having an adventure, improving the system sustainably (hopefully, in theory) and also taking advantage of what I've been blessed to have.  I love traveling and getting away from home, but also, put simply and in cliché manner, I want to help people.  However, I need to qualify the connotation of the latter. 

I recently had someone shake my hand and congratulate me for wanting to go to Africa and "help them" and "teach them."  This comment, and many like it, sort of rubbed me the wrong way.  Of course, I want to help RECONCILE in its work in South Sudan, but it will be in my capacity as an "Administrative Associate" and whatever other minor skills I may have to contribute to the man-power and organization of the office.  I'm not saving the world, but I really hope to learn and collaborate with the professionals in the office and people in the community and assist them in reaching their goals.  But teach them?  What did this person mean with this comment, especially since I was not going to literally be working as a school teacher?  I'm literate and I can use a computer, but I'm not well-fed because I skillfully cultivated the food.  I can drive and get to work, but not because I engineered the vehicle or planned for the construction of the road.  Yes, I vote and participate in civil society to a degree, but I wasn't there in any of the really important milestones in the creation of our political system to be able to attribute any of its functioning to my credit.  So what exactly am I, a 22 year-old American girl whose parents still do her taxes, going to "teach them?" I wasn't sure what to think about this comment until I came across a TED talk done by Chimamanda Adichie, a Nigerian author. 

In her talk, "the danger of a single story," Adichie illustrates several different examples of a "single story," but especially that of Africans in the perception of many Americans.  The impression of Africans is often that of an "incomprehensible people, fighting... dying of poverty and AIDS, unable to speak for themselves and waiting to be saved by a kind, white foreigner." Perhaps Adichie would describe this unnerving attitude that I often encounter as "patronizing, well-meaning pity," which comes from the portrayal of a people as one thing, a single story.

The problem with the "single story" is that it creates stereotypes.  "And the problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete," she says.  Yes, Africa is a continent replete with many catastrophes, but Adichie also notes, "there are other stories that aren't about catastrophe."  To not tell a balance of both kinds of stories is to "rob people of dignity."  To take this perception allows there to be "no possibility of Africans being similar to [us] in any way, no possibility of feelings more complex than pity... of a human connection."  In other words, this perception "emphasizes how we are different, not alike." 

Here's the link to the TED talk

Also, the link to RECONCILE's website.

I'm not really sure where else to go with this post, except to caution that I've never maintained a blog before.  All I plan to achieve with it is to help communicate my thoughts and actions during the time I spend in South Sudan.  I've titled it "finding other stories" because I'm attempting to find a way to communicate more than a simplified message or explanation of this region of the world, and I hope to learn and discover many of the complexities that make up the economy, developing political system and culture.  This is my "Before" post.  We'll see what happens once I finally get to where I'm going.