Are The Cattle Safe?

About 7pm, the sun starts to sit so low in the sky that you know it is time to start walking home to avoid being lost in the bush in the dark. I am often in the market and easily find a companion to walk with. But, tonight, as I returned to the compound, urgent messages were being exchanged about the Nuer raiding into Tonj East. It has more water than here, so the boys and girls take the cows to water there for the dry months of December - April. It is many days walk away - the boys and girls walk there, bare-foot, with their herds - so there is no fear of raiding in this village. But people are scared about their precious property - the cows.

Yesterday
We hired two trucks to deliver four loads of 5,000 bricks from Wau to Marol so that I can build the home at Marol Academy for any passing teachers (and I'll be the first). The trucks must have been over fifty years old and not all parts seemed so attached to each other. The seat followed the engine in a delayed, exaggerated response and, for a moment, I was not even sure it would make it across the bridge that left Wau. Evenutally we reached Marol, and I was no longer holding on for dear life.

But, on the way, the second truck broke down. So we waited. And waited. And waited. It was through the heat of the day and the sun scourched. We had stopped in the middle of the bush, and the flies were almost consuming. They swarmed at the sight of life. My patience wasn't impressive. But I was humbled. As we waited we met many people who were walking the journey. They stopped to pause under our tree for a moment's breath and shade. From young boys, to an old, fragile man, they were walking the two days from Wau back to Luonyaker or some other village beyond. They would stop and be amused by my poor Dinka and tell a snippet of their story.

The fragile, old man had spent two weeks in Wau waiting for his son. His son was in the SPLA and he had hoped to spend Christmas with him. But his son's posting to Juba meant he had not been looked after nor really received food for most of this time. He was tired and hungry and thin. My white face managed to attrack the attention of a passing car, so they gave him a lift home. The unfair thing is that I think, left on his own, he would have had to walk the rest of the two days to his house and family.


Today
There was a little confusion over building work, and I am still missing my bricks, but I think we will get things sorted. It just took a couple of motorbike rides and a little pursuading.

After church under the tree, I spent the rest of my Sunday at one of the teacher's home. He built his hut himself, from mud and water. His mother thacthed it, and he nailed on the plastic sheet. He has a solar panel and a stereo, two neat beds, a table and a small pile of books (including the 'Merchant of Venice' and a book for mums). He even has a collection of photos for us to search through. His hut is very luxurious and the others on the compound have no such luxuries. He spent some years in a Kenyan refugee camps, so he has the trophies of the 'developed' world of Kenya.

Then we sat outside with his mum. He lives with his older brother, his wife, another wife (maybe of his father's) and lots of little children. There are four huts that make up their home. They circle a few wooden posts that are the place for sacrifice to 'Nhial' - the traditional god. His mum was weaving a basket for flour, and the other women pounded the grain and cooked. I am too child-like still to be much help. It was beautiful just to sit and watch and be there.

From My Tent in Wau

At the moment I am hidden in a tent in the middle of one of the largest towns in South Sudan. Despite being a tent near a big road, it is one of the best places to stay, with electricity and internet and, even, running water! My hair and feet and skin are dust and sun drenched after a day on the red dust roads of Wau. UN 4-by-4s jostle past horse drawn carts, loaded lorries, wobbling bikes and women carrying loads on their heads. The wall lined roads of Wau show no pretence of being even or easy to navigate.

There has been some deadly inter-clan raiding just east of my village, in Tonj East County. South Sudan is divided into ten states, and these into smaller counties. Tonj East is the grazing land to the east of Gorgrial East (my home county while in South Sudan). A couple of years ago there were violenet clashes in Gorgrial East in Leitnam. I visited Lietnam for a youth conference a couple of days ago. There were talks and celebrations for peace, but, on the compound where we parked our car, there were still burnt out cars and buildings. Tonj East feels far away now but this violent reality is so hard for the people whose lives it crosses. There were be people fleeing homes and losing loved ones and not knowing what will happen tomorrow.

But I feel so safe. The Sudanese villages hardly let me go to the water pump without taking care of me.

Thong Monjang

I set aside this morning for Dinka language (thong monjang) learning. There are no textbooks or language labs, so I just sat by the village’s water-well and learnt from the children. Little boys, not yet up to my waist, will herd a dozen cows at a time to the well. They will jump up and down to pump the water, and then sit under the tree while the cows drink. They are more than happy to try to tell me numbers and the names of everything around us. I have heard the word for goat, cow and tree many a times.

More broadly, the village is awash with talk of the election. For most of those living April will be their first time to the ballot box. People are being registered and educated and there is hope in the air. However, I think it will look very different from our elections of party political broadcasts and youtube adverts.

And then there was planning. I spent the afternoon, beneath another tree, dreaming about what books we might need to train enough teachers and to 'bring-up' this land that has been left at the bottom of the pile. £15 would get a textbook bought and brought from Juba to here. It would make a workd of difference.

Almost 'home'

All my reservations about the Feeder flight (South Sudan's own commercial airline) seemed ficticious as we wobbled safely into land at Wau's airstrip. It was only after we had landed that I heard the angry shouts and saw the armed men running around us. We had nearly landed on top of a WFP plane that had not had time to clear the airstrip. People on the ground were not happy but, in the end, all was well.

But my friends from the village were waiting on the airstrip for me. For the first time I knew I was returning, and not just arriving, and it was so sweet to be back. I almost, accidently, called it 'home'.

But it is not home. I am still a baby when I am in South Sudan. I can sneak through the fence of the compound to get water from the well, but I still have to ask someone to help to pump it. I can walk past the long horns of the cows without flinching, but when the cows escaped into the compound this morning I did not know how to herd them away (children of less than my waist height commonly herd a dozen cows at a time). And I how to buy food in the market, but I still accidently eat food that leaves me feeling very sick.

But it feels more normal than ever to be here. I fear that I will forget how unnormal it is. A year ago Kampala felt intimidating, now Wau (the nearest town to my village in South Sudan and endlessly less developed than Kampala) seems sophisticated.


To mark the New Year there was a big local football match on a clearing in the bush. Often mosquito nets are used as the ball, but last night there was actually a football and a large crowd. I had spent the afternoon with Dotjang and the church leader, before hitching a lift to the market for a drink. So, when football started, they came to find me to walk me to the crowd.



The ground is so dry now that the rain has stopped. The world looks like scrub-land, and by late afternoon you feel as if the sun is baking you along with the earth. But if you can hide under a tree or an umbrella or enjoy the breeze on the back of a motorbike, there is no need to be confined to the compound. So I made it to the match.



But football, even in my beloved South Sudan, was not enough to hold me for long. The former Chief Justice of South Sudan is a local man. So, he invited me for tea and to see his new house and to share his new vision for the area. And, as we approached his house, we were joined by another host of people. I was later to find that they were the chiefs of the local piams (regions). Chiefs act as majors and judges and father-figures all in one. Famous chiefs have lasted over five decades and define the history of their region and even their country.



It was exciting to discuss with them, if only for a moment, some of the vision of what education might become in this region and in South Sudan. Once, schools in this area were considered as something only worthy for the rebellious youth - the alternative to prison. Now the elders will confess its value, even if only because educated girls fetch more cows at marriage.