the view from the hill with the dry riverbed behind
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Sudanese Showers
The rains came last night. Big rain. (ma-ta-ra kateer).
The rainy season follows the hot season, and it definitely qualifies as hot here. This week I saw the little electronic weather station in our compound hit 140.6 degrees. I’m not sure if it can actually be that hot, but if not, it was certainly hot enough to throw the thermometer completely out of whack. What I do know however, is that while the mercury doesn’t seem to be climbing any higher than its normal craziness, the humidity level is rising rapidly which makes 110+ temperatures feel like someone has mistakenly thrown you into the pit of Hades in the middle of the night when there is no electricity to power the motionless fan to stir the hot air.
It was one of these hot and sweaty nights when I first met the Sudanese rain. I had just fallen asleep when the wind arrived, slamming open and shut the metal shutters and doors to my impenetrable concrete block dwelling, waking me to the sort of racket that a child might create while improvising a drum set with pots and pans.
The wind brought with it a dust storm messy enough to leave sand in my sheets and make my pajamas look like I’d been out playing in the dirt. I tried to be still, ignore the dust and noise and enjoy the breeze, only to wake up again when I realized that it was raining in my room. I had a sudden Anastasis flash back moment as I jumped out of bed, climbed up on the headboard to shut my windows which are about 10 feet off the ground and covered everything that I didn’t want to be wet and dirty.
The fast, hard and cold rain cooled the night and washed the intensely dusty sky. I woke up in the morning to the aftermath of the rain. Our compound was all messy and wet with things blown over and broken. Even my floor was wet from the rain that had run through the metal shutters and gathered in puddles under the bed. I didn’t want to get up after another half sleepless night of chaos, but I crawled out of bed and climbed back up to open my windows to let in the cool fresh air.
Balanced on my tip toes, the action on the other side of the screen captured my attention and I lingered a moment peering through the window into my neighbors compound. They were scurrying about picking up the pieces of part of their 'home' that had been completely blown away in the night. I was overwhelmed with feeling and I suddenly realized that in a strange way the rains had also washed away the self-centered haze that’s been clouding my vision since arriving in Darfur.
The dust was gone and I could finally see how much I have here and how thousands of people surrounding me have nothing. I’ve been so focused on all that I’ve given up to be here, that I’ve lost sight of the true abundance of blessings that I possess.
I walked through town today and up to the top of the small hill that overlooks Geneina where hundreds of little straw shelters have been built by people who have been forced out of their own villages. I wondered how they fared the rains? I try to imagine what these people do when rain beats down on their heads in the night? Do they crouch in the corner and hover over their children to try to keep them dry? Do they shiver? Can they even count the hours to sunrise like I do on my sweaty sleepless nights when they have no watch or timex indiglo alarm clock? How will they cope when the rains come to stay for the next few months?
Perhaps tonight as I lie awake again in my hot and sweaty room, instead of counting sleepless minutes, I’ll count the things I’m thankful for… the walls around me… the ceiling over my head… and the amazing opportunity that I have to be living among the people of Sudan.
The rainy season follows the hot season, and it definitely qualifies as hot here. This week I saw the little electronic weather station in our compound hit 140.6 degrees. I’m not sure if it can actually be that hot, but if not, it was certainly hot enough to throw the thermometer completely out of whack. What I do know however, is that while the mercury doesn’t seem to be climbing any higher than its normal craziness, the humidity level is rising rapidly which makes 110+ temperatures feel like someone has mistakenly thrown you into the pit of Hades in the middle of the night when there is no electricity to power the motionless fan to stir the hot air.
It was one of these hot and sweaty nights when I first met the Sudanese rain. I had just fallen asleep when the wind arrived, slamming open and shut the metal shutters and doors to my impenetrable concrete block dwelling, waking me to the sort of racket that a child might create while improvising a drum set with pots and pans.
The wind brought with it a dust storm messy enough to leave sand in my sheets and make my pajamas look like I’d been out playing in the dirt. I tried to be still, ignore the dust and noise and enjoy the breeze, only to wake up again when I realized that it was raining in my room. I had a sudden Anastasis flash back moment as I jumped out of bed, climbed up on the headboard to shut my windows which are about 10 feet off the ground and covered everything that I didn’t want to be wet and dirty.
The fast, hard and cold rain cooled the night and washed the intensely dusty sky. I woke up in the morning to the aftermath of the rain. Our compound was all messy and wet with things blown over and broken. Even my floor was wet from the rain that had run through the metal shutters and gathered in puddles under the bed. I didn’t want to get up after another half sleepless night of chaos, but I crawled out of bed and climbed back up to open my windows to let in the cool fresh air.
Balanced on my tip toes, the action on the other side of the screen captured my attention and I lingered a moment peering through the window into my neighbors compound. They were scurrying about picking up the pieces of part of their 'home' that had been completely blown away in the night. I was overwhelmed with feeling and I suddenly realized that in a strange way the rains had also washed away the self-centered haze that’s been clouding my vision since arriving in Darfur.
The dust was gone and I could finally see how much I have here and how thousands of people surrounding me have nothing. I’ve been so focused on all that I’ve given up to be here, that I’ve lost sight of the true abundance of blessings that I possess.
I walked through town today and up to the top of the small hill that overlooks Geneina where hundreds of little straw shelters have been built by people who have been forced out of their own villages. I wondered how they fared the rains? I try to imagine what these people do when rain beats down on their heads in the night? Do they crouch in the corner and hover over their children to try to keep them dry? Do they shiver? Can they even count the hours to sunrise like I do on my sweaty sleepless nights when they have no watch or timex indiglo alarm clock? How will they cope when the rains come to stay for the next few months?
Perhaps tonight as I lie awake again in my hot and sweaty room, instead of counting sleepless minutes, I’ll count the things I’m thankful for… the walls around me… the ceiling over my head… and the amazing opportunity that I have to be living among the people of Sudan.
The best thing one can do when it's raining is to let it rain.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Beginning
So far my posts about Sudan seem to be all about me- but I guess that is the way it is when you are settling in. I've been thinking about beginnings this week as I process all the 'new' things around me. However, I think I may have overloaded my sense of discovery and as a result I have the song from the Sound of Music stuck in my short-circuited brain. "Let’s start at the very beginning, it’s a very good place to start...to sing you begin with Doe..Re..Me…”
Anyway, beginning is all about learning. It is about finding the way, acclimating, redefining your reality and staking the boundaries of your new comfort zone. Beginnings have the benefit of the being a “new leaf,” “clean slate”, “empty book” and all the exhilarating and optimistic metaphors of “newness.” Yet, beginnings can also have the frustrating flip side staring at the hundreds of empty pages and realizing that your daunting task ahead is to fill it.
I looked to the wise philosophers of old for advice and Plato said, “The beginning is the most important part of the work.” I wonder if he learned that from Julie Andrews and the singing children?
So here I am at the beginning, attempting to stake my ground. Even though I feel like I've been here for a long time already some days, I am also constantly reminded by my newcomer naivety that I have just arrived.
I so much want to understand this world around me. I want to be able to reply to the mango ladies in the market and ask how much the oranges cost. I want to respond to the children who wave at me and shout Kahwajha (white person) with something more than a smile. I want to be able to communicate with the people, but even the smallest transaction and interaction begin at the beginning. I have to start small with hellos and thank you and counting to 10 and learning all of these throaty sounds that make German seem normal. Yes, it is coming, but there is still so much more to go.
My job is a little bit in the beginning too. I’m navigating through the start of it and beginning to understand nomadic and agriculture patterns, which crops get planted in the rainy season, and the number of people that an open well can provide clean drinking water for. I'm beginning to decipher all kinds of relief lingo, recognize the names of places like Azirni, Habila, and Um Tagouk, and grasp some of the reasons why West Darfur is a mess.
It is all that initial climbing up the learning curve that I feel like I’m still in. Sort of like the ladder up to the high dive. You have to take the steps in order to jump off into the pool where everyone else seems to be already swimming.
For those of you who’ve been tracking with me since my ship departure months ago, you may remember a song called Painting Pictures of Egypt by Sarah Groves that I shared during my betwixt time of not wanting to leave and not wanting to stay. This song was playing the other day and the last words of it caught my attention in a whole new way as I slowly progress through this new Sudanese season of beginning again.
“If it comes to quick, I may not appreciate it, is that the reason behind all this time and sand.”
Anyway, beginning is all about learning. It is about finding the way, acclimating, redefining your reality and staking the boundaries of your new comfort zone. Beginnings have the benefit of the being a “new leaf,” “clean slate”, “empty book” and all the exhilarating and optimistic metaphors of “newness.” Yet, beginnings can also have the frustrating flip side staring at the hundreds of empty pages and realizing that your daunting task ahead is to fill it.
I looked to the wise philosophers of old for advice and Plato said, “The beginning is the most important part of the work.” I wonder if he learned that from Julie Andrews and the singing children?
So here I am at the beginning, attempting to stake my ground. Even though I feel like I've been here for a long time already some days, I am also constantly reminded by my newcomer naivety that I have just arrived.
I so much want to understand this world around me. I want to be able to reply to the mango ladies in the market and ask how much the oranges cost. I want to respond to the children who wave at me and shout Kahwajha (white person) with something more than a smile. I want to be able to communicate with the people, but even the smallest transaction and interaction begin at the beginning. I have to start small with hellos and thank you and counting to 10 and learning all of these throaty sounds that make German seem normal. Yes, it is coming, but there is still so much more to go.
My job is a little bit in the beginning too. I’m navigating through the start of it and beginning to understand nomadic and agriculture patterns, which crops get planted in the rainy season, and the number of people that an open well can provide clean drinking water for. I'm beginning to decipher all kinds of relief lingo, recognize the names of places like Azirni, Habila, and Um Tagouk, and grasp some of the reasons why West Darfur is a mess.
It is all that initial climbing up the learning curve that I feel like I’m still in. Sort of like the ladder up to the high dive. You have to take the steps in order to jump off into the pool where everyone else seems to be already swimming.
For those of you who’ve been tracking with me since my ship departure months ago, you may remember a song called Painting Pictures of Egypt by Sarah Groves that I shared during my betwixt time of not wanting to leave and not wanting to stay. This song was playing the other day and the last words of it caught my attention in a whole new way as I slowly progress through this new Sudanese season of beginning again.
“If it comes to quick, I may not appreciate it, is that the reason behind all this time and sand.”
'Begin at the beginning,' the King said, very gravely, 'and go on till you come to the end: then stop.'
Alice in Wonderland Chapter 12
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Destinations
“Destinations are the places where we begin again,” I was so wisely reminded this week by one of my guardian angels.
It has been 10 days now since I arrived at this new destination. Ten days since I unpacked my bag in my new little place . Ten days into my new beginning.
I’ve always thought that 10 years made a decade, but in Sudan time, I think 10 days may qualify.
I don’t mean that 10 days here is an eternity and each one is exceptionally long and difficult. In contrast however, my decade feeling is only a positive one. The sand is soft in Genenia, and I feel like I’m gently sinking in. The place has easily become home in the days I’ve been here so far, and that makes it seem like I’ve been here longer than the number of days marked off on the calendar.
I bought a yellow curtain for my window and found an orange cloth to cover my desk. I’ve discovered the perfect place to hang my hammock, and today I finally hung up some photographs- staking my territory in sort of rite-of-passage way to call this new place home.
Two local women, Fatiah and Fatma are the cooks in the compound and double as my new friends and Arabic teachers. In the midst of my home-making today I showed them a picture of the beach in Florida which I was sticking to the wall. They pondered over it momentarily, I assumed they were admiring the beautiful blue sea, and then they pointed at the sand, and asked “Is this the road?”
Beautiful people in a very hot and dusty, but beautiful destination. Welcome Home.
It has been 10 days now since I arrived at this new destination. Ten days since I unpacked my bag in my new little place . Ten days into my new beginning.
I’ve always thought that 10 years made a decade, but in Sudan time, I think 10 days may qualify.
I don’t mean that 10 days here is an eternity and each one is exceptionally long and difficult. In contrast however, my decade feeling is only a positive one. The sand is soft in Genenia, and I feel like I’m gently sinking in. The place has easily become home in the days I’ve been here so far, and that makes it seem like I’ve been here longer than the number of days marked off on the calendar.
I bought a yellow curtain for my window and found an orange cloth to cover my desk. I’ve discovered the perfect place to hang my hammock, and today I finally hung up some photographs- staking my territory in sort of rite-of-passage way to call this new place home.
Two local women, Fatiah and Fatma are the cooks in the compound and double as my new friends and Arabic teachers. In the midst of my home-making today I showed them a picture of the beach in Florida which I was sticking to the wall. They pondered over it momentarily, I assumed they were admiring the beautiful blue sea, and then they pointed at the sand, and asked “Is this the road?”
Beautiful people in a very hot and dusty, but beautiful destination. Welcome Home.
"Faith is a process of leaping into the abyss not on the basis of any certainty about ‘where’ we shall land, but rather on the belief that we ‘shall’ land."
- Carter Heyward
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Safe Landing
This entry comes a little late, but I have an excuse, I’m back on African time.
I’m happy to report that I’ve survived the final steps of the transit and I’ve made it here to Genenia, my final stopping place on this journey.
My little stop-over in Khartoum was nice, but it couldn’t last forever and I was eager to actually be in this place that I’d been anticipating for the past weeks- ready to get a glimpse of what my next 6 months were really going to be like.
In the early hours of Monday morning I lugged myself and my stuff into yet another airport to board my final flight. Despite delays, a luggage crisis, being on the standby list, and the usual challenges of living in a logic-free zone, I eventually was on a plane. I had imagined myself watching out my window, as the scenes of this new county unfolded 18,000 feet under me, however the exhaustion of waking up at 4:30 am to figh a crowded African airport won, and I slept most of the way.
As far as scenery on the journey goes, I’m told that I didn’t miss much. To get to El Genenia, you fly west from Khartoum for about 3 hours over nothing but sand. In between naps I noticed the patterns of the dry riverbeds in the sand, and in some places the migratory paths carved into the desert floor (so I was told). The plane stops in 2 other small towns en route let people off and refuel, but these towns are bigger than Genenia and even have some roads. “You will know that you are in the right place when you land on a dirt runway and see nothing but sand and donkeys and 2 crashed Aeroflot planes in the desert,” I was told. And so it was.
It took 7 days and 9 airports, but I’m glad to report that I have safely landed. A new adventure has begun.
I’m happy to report that I’ve survived the final steps of the transit and I’ve made it here to Genenia, my final stopping place on this journey.
My little stop-over in Khartoum was nice, but it couldn’t last forever and I was eager to actually be in this place that I’d been anticipating for the past weeks- ready to get a glimpse of what my next 6 months were really going to be like.
In the early hours of Monday morning I lugged myself and my stuff into yet another airport to board my final flight. Despite delays, a luggage crisis, being on the standby list, and the usual challenges of living in a logic-free zone, I eventually was on a plane. I had imagined myself watching out my window, as the scenes of this new county unfolded 18,000 feet under me, however the exhaustion of waking up at 4:30 am to figh a crowded African airport won, and I slept most of the way.
As far as scenery on the journey goes, I’m told that I didn’t miss much. To get to El Genenia, you fly west from Khartoum for about 3 hours over nothing but sand. In between naps I noticed the patterns of the dry riverbeds in the sand, and in some places the migratory paths carved into the desert floor (so I was told). The plane stops in 2 other small towns en route let people off and refuel, but these towns are bigger than Genenia and even have some roads. “You will know that you are in the right place when you land on a dirt runway and see nothing but sand and donkeys and 2 crashed Aeroflot planes in the desert,” I was told. And so it was.
It took 7 days and 9 airports, but I’m glad to report that I have safely landed. A new adventure has begun.
God promises a safe landing, but not a calm passage.
-Bulgarian Proverb
Sunday, May 01, 2005
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