Airplanes and Marriage and Cows

The MLTR days

I’m back at the Amsterdam Hotel in Juba, a fine international establishment run by Eritreans whose boss lives in the Netherlands, with a bar tender/DJ who I suspect somehow got ahold of all the mixed tapes my best friend who lived in Singapore used to make from her radio and send to me in Indonesia when we were in middle school (yes, cassette tapes, I’m old). A bit of Michael Learns to Rock, a smattering of Savage Garden, that one song about “as I lay me down to sleep, this I pray—that you will hold me near, though you’re far away,” plus an annoying boy band or two that I had to fast forward through (Chesi and I don’t always share the same musical taste). If Lea Salonga comes on next, though, I’m going over there to demand they give me back those tapes they stole because I will be for sure that they’re mine. Even if I have nothing on which to play cassette tapes, sentimental nostalgia is a thing. But the good news is: as long as they’re playing Danish, Australian, and Filipino classics like those, they’re staying away from the inexplicably popular Canadians like Celine, Justin Bieber, and Bryan Adams.  I would say that I’m looking forward to different music blaring from the Mundri market tomorrow, but dang it if those guys didn’t snag a copy of a Middle School Chesi mixed tape too. At least at night it’s all African stylz jams from South Sudan, Somalia, DRC, and Bob Marley (anyone in the world is allowed to claim Bob—Jamaica is too small to hold him).

Flying out of Juba sucks,
flying into Entebbe is nice.

 Tomorrow I will suffer for an hour in the hellhole that is the Juba Airport, but one hour in the Juba Airport equals about 4 hours of misery in a car on the Juba-Mundri road, and a typical trip on that road would take a total of 9 hours, giving me a 5 hour of misery deficit thanks to MAF South Sudan.  And if they can hook me up with more flights like this in the future, I might just marry Charles from the front desk. I mean, he did ask me.  He is convinced that I could easily learn how to make aseeda (aka the Blob) and he really doesn’t mind spicy food. He is concerned about how to make the necessary payment of cows and goats to my father in Indonesia, though.

The truth is, I have way more options for marriage here, and people tell me all the time that I need to get married, and probably to someone from here. Here are some of the reasons that I have been told for why I should stop this single life and settle down with a man (preferably one from here):

I did get a beautiful leaf ring
on Orthodox Palm Sunday
from my Ethiopian shopkeeper.

           

1.     You’re not getting any younger.

2.     Everyone needs to get married.

3.     You need to have children.

4.     I have a house for you.

5.     You live here, so you should marry a Moru/South Sudanese person.

6.     You should marry a Moru/South Sudanese so you can have dark skinned babies.

7.     You should marry a South Sudanese so you don’t forget how to speak Juba Arabic when you’re not South Sudan.

8.     Because I will treat you so well—just ask my wife.

I was invited to marry this guy and live in this
house when he's finished building.

Many of those comments I’ve heard more than once in multiple locations, often at unexpected times. That is the beauty of South Sudan. You never know when you will get an offer of marriage. You could be in the market just trying to buy bread or picking up your bike from the shop or trying to plant a garden with a friend.

A week ago I was flying back into Juba on AIM air (a MAF alternative that rarely cancels flights on you at the last minute and often offers you a ride if you are willing to pay for it) with a group of khawajas who had been hanging with me in Mundri for a week. We landed in Yei to do exit immigration from South Sudan. I was pretty excited about this because it meant that we didn’t have to go through Juba. And still, while it was better than going through Juba, South Sudan doesn’t want you to think that immigration—exit or entry—is just some easy breezy walk in the park. No.

We walked into the little house where the police sit to gaze at passports and stamp away, and there was no one there. Did they know we were coming? Why yes. Did they know when we were coming? Absolutely. Did they know that they were the sole reason for us even stopping over there? Possibly they had some vague idea. But they didn’t think it was worth it to be there when we arrived. No worries. We settled down to wait, as a helpful airport worker called them to ask them to come back from lunch. Thirty minutes later they sauntered in.

“Great!” we said. “Let’s do this stamp thing.”

“Oh the exit stamp?” they said.

“Right. The reason we are here.”

“Um… yeah, about that…”

It turns out the lady responsible for bringing that stamp, that beautiful reason for our presence in that blessed airstrip, had forgotten it back in town. (Insert your: YOU HAD ONE JOB jokes here…or, I guess, that was it…)

This is all we needed.

She huffed in annoyance at us, the people she came to stamp through immigration, such an inconvenience to her, and she slowly climbed into her car and drove back to town (about 30 minutes away) to get the stamps.

Meanwhile, we waited. And we waited. And while we were waiting, a nice airstrip worker/police guy meandered over to where I was sitting on the steps outside of the building. After some mundane conversation about why I was sitting on the steps instead of a nearby plastic chair, he got right to the point:

“You should marry me. I want you. Let’s get married.”

“Umm…well…interesting…do you have the exit stamp so that we can finish immigration and carry on with our journey?”

“No.”

“Well, I guess I can’t marry you then. If you’d had it, I probably would have said yes. But since you don’t, I won’t marry you.”

“But I want to marry you. You know I don’t have the stamp. You should marry me, Really. I am a great husband.”

“Oh yeah? How do you know that? How many wives do you already have?”

“I have some. It’s no big deal. I also want to marry you. You can have kids. Every woman should have children. You’re getting old. You really should marry me while you can.”

Eyebrows raised by me. “I’m old, huh? How old are you? And how many kids do you already have?” (He must have know about the cassette tapes.)

“Yes. You are old. But I will marry you. I only have 10 kids.”

“Only 10? You can take care of that many children?”

“Sure. They are all going to school. It’s no problem.”

“Yeah? And how old are you?”

“22.”

“You’re a liar. You really want me to marry you if you are lying to me?”

“I am 22. And I’m Ugandan.” (I think he was Dinka, though, because they have a specific accent when they speak Arabic, which I know from one of my friends who thinks it is hilarious to mimic that accent. Note: it kind of is…)

“How many cows does your father want for you? Or would he prefer goats?”

“Well, he lives in Indonesia. Can you get there to deliver them?”

“No problem. How many does he want?”

“At least 300 cows and 1 elephant and 5 monkeys.”

“WHAT?! That is crazy. I can give 3 cows and some goats.”

“He wants 300 cows. And no goats. One elephant. Five monkeys. I’m a foreigner. I’m imported. You know imported things are always more expensive.”

So basically this conversation went on way too long, but eventually, by the time it was becoming less funny to me because I was really hungry and tired and worried about all the plans I had for our short time in Uganda not being able to happen, the lady got back with the stamp. Immigration was completed in 10 minutes and we were on our way, and I’m still single and in danger of being a childless old maid. But, you know, I have options-for now. I am getting old…But then the DJ plays a classic Danish pop song, and I’m 11 again…like a “sleeping child…the world so wild…but I’ll build my own paradise…”

They built their own paradise.

Happy birthday, Iren and panjang umurnya! Thank you for reading my blog.
I love you and your family and I know you listened to Michael Learns to Rock as a child too
because it always played in BIP.
Hope I get to see you soon!

Completely Preventable Adventures

 

This post is once again about the road over-traveled and under-maintained. Juba to Mundri is never a fun trip unless you can go by private car. I could have. But I decided not to call my drilling friends because I thought, “Really, what are the odds that they would be driving through Mundri on the same day as I will be?” It turns out that the odds were really high for that, and I could have traveled in luxury, and remembering this fact—that a simple phone call could have saved me a lot of pain and discomfort.—was not an encouragement to my soul. Truthfully, I will do almost anything to get out of having to make a phone call to someone, and I always procrastinate calling people, which often has a detrimental effect on my work. Sorry, People I Work For.  Currently, there are at least 2 important phone calls I was supposed to make last week that I have found brilliant reasons to put off until this week. Now that it’s this week, it has suddenly come to my attention that next week might actually be a more appropriate time for these calls. I keep trying to remind myself of the lesson I should have learned from my Juba-Mundri trip, but I’ve had so much practice ignoring my inner Responsible voice. Anyway, as always, the trip had some very entertaining moments, which I will share with you. However, if you really want to be able to truly understand what I went through on this trip, you need to go roll around in the dirt until you have grit in the creases of your ears, and then, still fully-clothed in dirt, go sit in a sauna for 12+ hours. If you can somehow arrange for that sauna to be situated next to a construction site that is busy using dynamite for whatever construction sites use dynamite for, so that you are consistently being bounced around, that would help with the accuracy of the simulation. And make sure you are squeezed between the door and a large man. If the Pringles you spent way too much money on in the store happen to spill out all over the muddy floor—DO NOT PANIC. Eat them anyway because, for real, Pringles.  You probably might not get some horrible floor to foot to Pringle to mouth disease and die.

Note: I have no photos of this trip, but please enjoy some photos from my recent time in Khartoum, sprinkled throughout.

Can you tell me what the English on this says? I can't read it, but I remember it being really funny to me somehow. The Arabic part isn't funny, so it must have been the English.

So I was already trying to get on the Land Cruiser I had arranged the day before when I found out that the drilling team was going to Mundri and I could have hitched a ride, if they had known and weren’t already half-way there when I called. This put me in a supremely bad mood.  That mood was not helped when the Land Cruiser I’d arranged to travel with decided to foist me off on a different Land Cruiser because the President was coming to town and the shop it needed to buy stuff from was closed for security reasons. I agreed reluctantly to change to the other Land Cruiser. The driver proceeded to have a very loud argument with the lady sitting in the front seat with her child to kick her into the back because of me. This made me mad because the lady was there first, and also I became the opposite of Rosa Parks, which is not ever what I ever wanted to be, but the guy insisted that I had arranged the ticket first (probably true since I called the afternoon before), and Rules Must Be Observed. Then he showed me my ticket, which had been purchased previously. In the spot for the traveler’s name, he’d just written, “Khawaja.” My mood lifted slightly because—that IS funny. It dropped again later when I had to go re-register with the police because they wanted to check my passport and visas and yell at the driver for his unprofessionalism—“You MUST write the passenger’s name. What is this ‘khawaja’? This is not a good way to do Business.” Though, to be fair, there were no other khawajas anywhere on the premises of the Bus Station.

Finally we were on the road. But we were stopped at the last check point out of Juba by a couple of power-hungry soldiers. “You must all get out and take all of the luggage off the top of your car.” This is not a welcome statement. It takes a long time to get everything tied up nicely on the car. It was already getting late. Untying the luggage, taking it down, inspecting it, packing it up again, heaving it up to the roof, re-tying it—this is a process that takes time. Our driver patiently climbed to the roof anyway. I huffed and rolled my eyes at the soldiers, who took that as an invitation to conversation.

This Sudanese cereal tasted horrible but--GMO free! (Is there a connection?) And yes, I ate it anyway. Anything tastes better with added sugar (also GMO free).

Soldier: “So. Where are you from?”

Me: “America.” (I am pretty good at shutting down unwanted conversations with one-word answers, but this guy was persistent.)

Soldier: “Right. So where in America?”

Me: “Yeah. America.” (Because even when having pointless conversations with soldiers, I really don’t know how to answer that question, and it’s easier to play dumb.)

Soldier: “Yeah, I know, but like where in America? Which state? Canada?”

(In South Sudan, people will make Canada jokes FOR you. Saves so much time.)

Me: “No. Just America.”

The soldier decided to try a new tactic.

“So. Why are you traveling alone? You work with an NGO? You should have a bodyguard.”

Me: “What? Why would I need a bodyguard? I’m totally fine. I always travel this road.”

Soldier, “You might need one. For your children.”

Me: “I don’t have any children.”

Soldier: “Why not? Where is your husband? Are you married?”

Me: “No.”

Soldier: “Why not?!”

And then, inspired by those Oscar-red-carpet female movie stars who are fighting for feminists everywhere by pointing out that there are better questions to ask women than “What are you wearing” and “who did you hair” and “why aren’t you married,” I decided to turn the question back on him.

Me: “Why aren’t YOU married?”

Soldier: “I am. I have 4 wives.”

Me: “Oh.”

(It turns out feminism is only for movie stars.)

Soldier: “You should really get married.”

Me: “Oh yeah? Why?”

Soldier: “Because you’re running out of time.”

(And feminism is dead.)

By this time we were halfway done unloading. The soldier, having made all his important points about the need to travel with a body guard (for the children) and the need to get married (you’re not getting any younger), glanced up at the driver and said, “Ahh. Don’t worry about the rest of the stuff. It’s getting hot now, and you have a Khawaja with you.”

We packed up everything so fast before he could change his mind. Meanwhile the other car with no khawaja and 3x as much stuff secured to its roof, including a wheel barrow, several shovels, 45 jerrycans, tents, pillows, mattresses, and more, was still unloading everything. 

I love it when I can use my Khawaja privilege for the benefit of others. The guy sitting next to me grinned and secretly high-fived me for my white burning skin.

The bottom of this tissue box kept me entertained during a long meeting. Please enjoy! Note: even if you think you've noticed all the funny things about it, read it again, and you will notice even more. But only when you have unlimited time to observe it, like I did, will you really be able to appreciate it.

The first half of our journey was uneventful. We made it to the lunch-time-break town where cars and busses and trucks MUST always stop (I always hold on to a vague hope that just once we can make it through without having to have a 30-45 minute break, but it’s never happened). While there, another soldier decided to ask me where I was headed. “Mundri,” I said laconically. “Ah,” he said, “You’re almost there. You’ll be there in another hour.”

It’s about 40 or so miles to Mundri from Janbo, but this is South Sudan roads, and 40 miles on South Sudan roads is like 200 miles on paved roads elsewhere.  So I said, “It will take AT LEAST another two hours.” Little did either of us know that it would actually take another 7 and a half hours.

Shooting guns in celebration at crowded weddings is not a bad idea because gravity only applies to apples.

A little ways down from Janbo, there was a horrible crunching noise and we fishtailed through the sand to an abrupt stop in the middle of the road. The men piled out with all the tools and got busy. We were back on the road for a little while before there was a repeat of the situation. This time I got out to see what was happening (Note: I now had nothing else to do since I had finished my book that the Frizzes kindly gave to me for my birthday—Ungifted, by Gordon Korman, Canadian genius, so I had nothing else to do.) I helped the guys unscrew the bolts on the tire (they were really impressed) and then watched as they chopped off a bit of rope and used it to tie the tire tightly to the bar connecting it with the other tire, which also secured a spinning thing in the middle that must have some important role in making a car move forward.

The guy turned to me and said, “See? This will totally work. The car won’t break down again.”

I said, “Uh-huh. You really expect me to believe that you actually fixed this car with a bit of rope?” Truthfully, there was much hope in my heart because I love a good “fixed the car with rope” story, but there is something in me that has to be cynical, and I gave him the “raised eyebrow look of skepticism.”

He said, “No really. Believe me. This is Africa. We Africans know these things. These are things that Khawajas don’t know, but we know them.”

And of course, when the car broke down again 15 minutes later, I couldn’t resist. “Tell me again about what Africans know about fixing cars with rope?” I said, because I am a horrible person of minimal self-control. In the Book of Three, Eilonwy tells Taran that “Saying ‘I told you so’ is like putting worms on someone’s head,” and she was my childhood hero, but I couldn’t resist.  Fortunately, my traveling companion had a good sense of humor and we laughed together before we both got out again to re-tie the car. I mean, it DID work for 30 minutes, and there was nothing else for it.

Look at the shoes my friend made me wear with her thobe to  the wedding!

Meanwhile, we stopped passing trucks and cars asking for tools, water, various items we needed. It was a party. Guess who else stopped to check on us? The wheelbarrow car that had been detained unnecessarily in Juba, not having a sun-sensitive khawaja to illicit sympathy in the hearts of inspecting soldiers. The driver said, “Hey—I remember you! We’ve totally traveled to and from Juba together before in the past.” Me: “Yeah, I remember. Want to squeeze all of us into your car and take us on to Mundri?” Sorry, Khawaja (Remind me someday to tell you the story of “Sorry, Khawaja.” The drilling team told me the story originally, and it made me laugh for 20 minutes. And then for the rest of the day, if I happened to think about it, I would start laughing again, which meant that throughout the long trip we were making, periodically I would burst into laughter for seemingly no reason at all. But there was a reason—Sorry Khawaja.)

Finally, it was dark. Our driver had given up hope and was just sitting by the side of the road. I was trying to call Repent to tell him to hire a car to come pick us all up, and I would pay, but the phone network was really bad. I would get a tiny bit of signal, call, hear his voice, and then lose the connection. And then, along comes a rickety old short-tired van.

“Hello, friends!” said the driver. “Are you going to Mundri? I’ve just been in Janbo picking up some bamboo. Hop in, and I’ll take you with me.”

We hopped. We piled everything in the van, waved goodbye to our exhausted driver and the man who offered to stay back with him, and left.

“Make yourself comfortable, my guests! I’ll have you home soon,” said the driver, our new best friend. And he would have, but he also stopped another time to check on another stranded car and offer his mechanical assistance. We finally made it home by 10:30pm. Repent greeted me, smiling, “I cleaned your whole house for you. Here’s some food and water too.”

South Sudanese people really are the best.

Roger slept in my pillow while I was gone. He missed me. He also resented it when I kicked him out, but I don't think either of us would be very comfortable with this continued arrangement.

Post script to the story:

I went for a run the next morning, on the Mundri-Maridi road. Several of the trucks that I passed by waved and smiled at me, “Ah—you made it to Mundri!” They recognized me from passing me the day before on the Juba-Mundri road. Most truck drivers will spend the night in Mundri, stock up on food and then head on to Maridi or Yambio or wherever. It was so fun for them to see a friend from the day before, and let’s just be honest—you don’t see many white women squatted down by a car, screwing in bolts and yelling at passing trucks to stop and let us borrow a wrench. They knew it was me.

This truck is from a while back on a field visit with Repent. It was broken down by the side of the road, but I read the mudflap, so as we passed by I yelled helpfully to the guys working on it, "Just be determined! That's all it's about!" They were a bit confused, but it worked because I saw them on our way back, putting along, and I stopped to get this photo. That is the wisdom of Mudflaps.

Planning Ahead Life

For me, planning a day in advance is planning ahead—and technically, you see, I’m right about that. But when I wake up one morning and say, I am going to do x and y tomorrow, and then on Tomorrow I only do x or even 0.5x, I can say to myself, “Well, Self, you should have been a better planner and it is your fault that you didn’t accomplish everything, so think about that and do better next time.” And then after my inner Responsible Self nicely chastises my inner Regular Self, I feel better about it, and I can move on with my life. But there are some days when Responsible Self takes over my whole body for a brief moment and plans everything so fast. My Responsible Self is not so chill and laid back as Regular Self. Responsible Self gets really annoyed when her plans don’t work out. This is because she tried so hard and planned so well and still hit zero for three tasks on Monday and only one for three tasks on Wednesday. She feels like the world is falling into pieces around her. If she didn’t have Regular Self’s resilient sense of humor, she would never survive here in South Sudan. Life can be really stressful for her.

This week’s plan was brought to you by Responsible Self, but Regular Self is the one who is making it to the end. Responsible Self started to feel doubts on Monday morning when her scheduled morning run was interrupted by a phone call informing her that they needed to leave at 8 instead of 9 to complete the day’s tasks. Since it was already 7:30 and she was still a mile away from home, she agreed, but knew that the other colleagues would undoubtedly still arrive at 9:00am, as she had asked them specifically to arrive at 8:00am (isn’t she such a good planner? Ready for any and all contingencies!). Still, diligently, she kicked it that last mile and was home in record time and showered and ready by a little after 8.  But no one was there—not even those requesting an ETD of 8am. It was a bad omen.

I don’t have to continue down the path of that story. Basically, Responsible Self was let down hard. Regular Self mostly survived, though Responsible Self tried to take her down too.  So the moral of the story is, as usual, never ever plan ahead.

And here are a few other South Sudan moments, so that you can see that it’s basically worth it to live here even if planning doesn’t work in this climate:

Clockwise from top left: origami,shredded sugarcane,
happy mother with clean water from a new well,
fishing the soccer ball out of the trash pit, my once-blue sandals.

Since I’ve been back, my local urchin posse has been most excited to see me. I see their little heads pop up over my windowsill, expectant eyes wide and ready for adventure. Almost inevitably this happens just when I have finally sat down to eat something.  Sometimes I kick them out but usually I go out and play for a bit because they are the urchiest urchins and it is really hard to resist them—this pack of kids that lives with a handful of their mothers, a tough matriarch of a grandma and an adorable tiny old great grandma. Their grandfather sits under the tree all day long listening to BBC news on the radio and perfecting his refined English. The various and sundry mostly nonexistent fathers are almost never around to take any notice of anyone or provide any sort of noteworthy contribution towards their lives. There are plenty of fathers like that around here, but I’m choosing to put in a photo of Repent cuddling his boys, whom he has missed while they have been staying at their grandma’s house since Christmas because—she makes the best food. Of course.

Because they are the best, even if this photo is not.
And Repent loves his babies.

The urchins and I do lots of origami and make paper airplanes and also play a lot of soccer. Once we kicked the ball into the trash pit/bathroom hole and we dug it out with a long bamboo pole to which I duct-taped an old plastic bag. It took us 30 minutes of fishing, but we got it back. And we don't think about the festering germs it was soaking up down there because that's not fun. Our other activities include me fixing sandals with safety pins and me trading candy canes for sweet potatoes. I was also recently commissioned to make “Thank You” signs for our donors. I decided to delegate this task to my posse because they love coloring and also, if I made the signs by myself it would look like kids made them and so if I let them help me make them then kids actually DID make them, and it is more honest that way. But I did learn never EVER to leave them alone with the signs and the markers. I was baking a sweet potato cake and I popped out for 2 minutes. When I came back the sign looked like this:

Imagine it turned horizontally and held up by some cute kids.
Charming, right? Does spelling really matter? Letters are so pretty.

Of course, I didn’t notice anything until I handed the sign to the village to hold up for the donors and tried to read what I wrote. “That’s weird, “ I thought. “I don’t remember writing all the way to the edge of the paper. Also, why is there an ‘s’ at the end of ‘foundation’?” Then I figured it out and used the other sign which I didn’t like as much because Wani was a little too obsessed with the brown crayon but Oguna had used multiple colors on the other sign. Also—I had helped him color that sign, and I’m pretty sure I colored in the extra “H” that he added in there and had no idea because I am not the most observant of people.

But this week wasn’t a total bust. I got in some good hours on the back of the motorcycle which has given me the glow of someone who consistently goes to fry herself at the tanning salon without actually having to fry myself at the tanning salon. I even double suncreened and reapplied and everything (I put some on Ruben, Repent's youngest son, and he thought it was the most hilarious thing in the world). You know how all those magazines say that if you spend so much time in the sun, you will wrinkle up and look like you’re 50 by the time you’re 30? Well, I’m almost 31 and I currently have the complexion of a pubescent boy who hasn’t yet started shaving but will soon—that’s thanks to my pores constantly being clogged by sand, but anyway, maybe by the time I’m 50, I’ll actually look like I’m 50. I think that would be pretty cool. Looking one’s age is a very underrated quality, I think. Just look your age already, People—why not? It saves others lots of confusion. I would be glad to write a magazine article about that concept for anyone who is interested.

Many babies here scream in terror at my face (I get it, but it can be hurtful).
Baby Jenfer is one of the memorable ones who held our her arms and gave
the scary khawaja a big hug.  I will love her forever.

And that goes for the man who proposed marriage to me in the following conversation:

Potential Hubs: “Hey—where is your husband? Why don’t you marry me?”

Me: “I think you are too young for me. I’m old.”

P.H.: “No way—how old are you?”

Me: “31”

P.H.: “Well I’m 37!”

Me: “Or you’re a liar…”

P.H.’s friend: “Of course he is old enough—look at his beard!”

(Note: the little bit on fuzz on his chin might qualify him for Mundri’s premiere hipster club, but I don’t think it proves his manhood or advanced age.)

Me: “So how many wives do you already have?”

P.H.: “Just one. Come see how she lives. You will beg to marry me then.”

Me: “Um…no. I will be the only wife. I’m an American girl. It’s a thing with most of us [it was just not the time to talk about Mormons]. And also, it was the way God planned with Adam and Eve. There was none of this Adam and Eve and Ruta and Lusi and Mary. And also, you would not like the food that I cook.”

Note: that morning I had eaten nasi goreng for breakfast, which I made all by myself and ate straight out of the pan because if it’s OK for bachelors, it is also OK for bachelorettes, and I have no running water in my house right now so I’m cutting down on unnecessary luxury tasks like washing dishes and cleaning the bathroom floor. My nasi goreng involves lots of sheta/cabe/hot pepper and people here just can't take it usually.

Then I proceeded to successfully extricate myself from the conversation, telling them that if they wanted my phone number, they would have to ask Repent for it. And while he is a really nice guy who would probably just give it to them because why not? But he is also kind of a big dude, and he was farther away so they couldn’t see that he is always smiling. They didn’t follow me.

And so it goes. Another partially successful week concluded. And when one of the drillers tried to comfort me with a “This is Africa—nothing happens like you plan!” I got huffy and defensive for Asia and said, “It’s not ONLY Africa that messes up your plans, you know. Asia can do that too. It’s not always all about Africa. Africa ALWAYS tries to steal Asia’s thunder. And anyway Indonesians even have a saying for events not starting on time. It’s called jam karet, or rubber time. There aren’t any sayings like that here.” And he thought that was the greatest thing he ever heard and carefully wrote down “jam karet” into his little notebook so that he can remember it forever and have something important to talk about with all the Indonesian people he meets out here.  

And Responsible Self found herself cheered up by being able to teach some bahasa to a true lover of Asian culture and language.  And she has not developed an actual plan for next week beyond her usual stand-by—“Let’s wing it.”

And by the time I actually get internet good enough to post this on the blog, I will have been winging it for several weeks probably. Yeah…this is the life. Own it, Irresponsible Me.

One more because seriously--that face is too cute.(Ruben's face, not the dirt-covered white photo-bomber in the side). 

Beauty in the Eye of the Beholder (and also some stuff about Dinkas, Mundaris, and Zandes)

Charity, learning how to take a selfie,
or as Marian and I call it 'a long-arm shot.'
Also pictured, most of beautiful Faith's head and
Jona photo-bombing us in his Neverthirst hat.

I went to hang out with a lovely gorgeous friend of mine the other day. She really is beautiful, and I think that deep down in her heart she knows it. Certainly all the boys around here know it, and I’ve been with her when she laughingly refused a proposal of marriage from one of them. She told him she would only marry an educated man, and if he went back to school and got his degree (high school diploma), then she would consider him. She’s got a pretty intense list of qualifications for her future husband besides education and the fact that he must be taller than her (she’s quite tall). First, he should be an Equatorian (she's Moru, a Western Equatorian tribe)--no Dinkas need apply for her hand. She also refuses Mundari, another nomadic tribe that lives in Western Equatoria (Side note: I think they're awesome. They're so tall and strong, and they have cool looking cows and they wear native clothing with pride--short dresses for the men, which they totally pull off, and colorful cloths draped across the shoulder for the women. Also, they're badass. You don't mess with them. Our governor is Mundari and even the President is scared of him). Charity refuses them because Morus aren't fans of the nomadic pastoralist tribes, especially the Dinka, but also Zandes (Another side note - here is a Moru racist joke Repent told me that I laughed at because I have been here too long: when do you see a Dinka cow that is fat? If it has been eating Moru gardens). Zandes are Equatorians too, but they’ve had a little historical feud going on for centuries, since the Zandes were warriors and cannibals and they once came to try to eat some Morus.  The Morus, as the story goes, were ready for them. Though they are mostly peaceful people, they can defend their own when the time comes (they will shoot any Dinka cow in their gardens with their bow and arrows, and that is no joke). They all climbed up on top of a nearby rock mountain, taking food and water as needed and proceeded to set the jungle below on fire. The Zandes ran away in terror as the Morus threw rocks at them off the mountain. Of course, I’ve never heard the story from the Zande point of view, and maybe they were just trying to pass through innocently when they were attacked by fire and rocks, but it is an exciting story that rather catches the imagination.

The "Eat Fire Rocks, Zandes!" Moutain

Also, we are currently (when I’m writing this, not when I’m posting this) under threat of Dinka attack, as a nomadic Dinka tribe has moved into our area with all their presumably stolen cattle. The governor said they had to go as they are refusing to build fences for their cattle, and the Moru farmers are not cool with Dinka cows eating their crops. The UN has been called in to mediate, but people are ready to defend themselves and their tribe as need be if the Dinkas violently insist on staying. Esther said, “I’ll whack them with my garden hoe if they come attack me.” Repent prefers his machete. I’m thinking that it is not likely that anything will happen, as our local government is pretty tough. But you can see why Charity, my beautiful friend, has some tribal prejudices.  It’s kind of amusing, as whenever she is in Juba or elsewhere, she is often mistaken for a Dinka woman, with Dinka men paying her fare on the bus because she is “one of their women.” They don’t always believe her when she tries to set them straight.  To her great regret, she is tall, slim and dark--basic characteristics of Dinka women. If she were ever in the US or Europe, it would take two minutes for her to be spotted and made into a supermodel. She wants to be a lawyer, though, and I think as a career, that’s a bit more useful. Modeling is a career that, the longer you do it, the worse you are at it, whereas other professions tend to offer better opportunities and greater knowledge the longer you work at them.

Jona, Charity, and Faith-serious siblings

 Charity and I talked of many things: why I’m not married, what kind of guy I would be willing to marry, why I haven’t accepted the proposals of several local boys, whether or not I have someone in America or Uganda or Europe or wherever who I want to marry. She is very focused on my marriage. She keeps having dreams that I’m married or having a baby, and she predicted my wedding will happen before the end of the year. I appreciate the thought, but I’m pretty sure there isn’t enough time left in the year for that. But I had just told her that I was 30, and I think she is worried about my old age.  She said, “You have a baby face and you look really young. I thought you were only 25.” I lost 5 years in that guess, but a few days before Baby had said that he’d thought I was 35, so it all evens out in the end. I wasn’t offended by Baby’s guess either because I recently found out that he is 28, and I would have sworn to you that he wasn’t more than 15.

Repent's mother, grandmother and
youngest child-3 generations of beautiful

 Charity’s other comment on my personal appearance was to tell me that I have gotten a lot skinnier. As one who grew up in skinny cultures where slimness was a sign of beauty (yes, even in Indonesia, they really don’t mean it as a compliment when they tell you that you are fat—not anymore anyway), I was slightly gratified by this because I had recently decided that I was eating way too much of Esther’s lovely white bread and that it was showing in my middle-aged tummy roll. But she was actually worried about my declining beauty. She mentioned the wife of her cousin, describing her as ‘a fat lady who is very beautiful.’ (Not, as we would say in the US-- "She is fat BUT beautiful [as much as it is possible to be beautiful and fat]," which is the opposite of "she is slim and pretty [nothing else needs to be implied in un-said brackets].") And she is not convinced that her slim willowy body would land her a modeling contract in our skinny-obsessed culture.

My BFF Yunis who thinks she is
smiling too big in this photo-
I think she's gorgeous

The day after my girl-talk-time with Charity, Repent and I were hanging out, waiting for the rain to stop so that we could go out and work. He was foraging in my kitchen for something to eat (it is rare that one finds success in such a venture, sadly). He was going to eat some left-over rolls that Esther made, but he decided that they had gone bad. Things seem to go bad more quickly during the rainy season.

Future beautiful woman Sugeeri,
showing me how to play
jacks with rocks--she's awesome,
I'm…not.

“Why didn’t you eat them already?” he asked.

“I thought Baby would eat them. “ I said. “I guess he doesn’t like the bread anymore.”

“You should tell Esther to make less so that they don’t go bad.”

“She DID make less. I just didn’t eat them all this time.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I eat them all I will become so fat,” I told him.

“Good," he said. “You need to become fatter. That will make you more beautiful.”

Esther came in about this time and agreed with him (“You really are too small, Amanda”) while I laughed at them both.

Friends in the market saw me heading out and asked where I was going.
"To get mandaazi (donuts) from my friend."
"Good. Eat them all so you can become fat and beautiful and get a man."
This conversation really happened. But it was in Arabic.

Esther is not only gorgeous, she is kind,
generous, talented, resourceful,
and I'm sure if she ever tried she could
bench-press more than you and kick your ass
with her garden hoe. Here she is cooking
cassava over our 4th of July slash-and-burn bonfire

The fact is that neither excessively skinny people nor excessively fat people are healthy images of beauty, though the larger women here, who would be considered fatties in the US, are most likely 10x as strong and fit as any yoga-pants-wearing gym-going twig who spends her life working out and eating gluten-free, non-GMO, Paleo, low-carb, fat free, organic free range food. I am definitely not healthier for eating lots of white bread, which I cover in sugar, jelly or honey because I love sugar in all of its forms (only gluten-free sugar, though). I also would not be healthier if I somehow found the willpower to starve myself. Well, anyway, I’m sure I will live my life being average stumpy-plump in the US and average under-fed in South Sudan, but if I were to choose a side, I think it would be more fun to be a beautiful fat lady in South Sudan, because, like I said, I really really love sugar.  And who would not love a beauty regimen that includes eating copious amounts of soft, chewy on the inside, slightly crusted on the outside, bread rolls, hot out of a coal oven?

Coal oven. Whenever I get it to work successfully, I feel so proud.
It doesn't happen often.

See how adorable they are?

You already know that I think that Joy, Repent's wife, is
one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen in my life.
Even when she's miserable-sick lying on a mat under the mango tree,
still loving on her mini-Repent daughter.

Ati is the one in the flowery shirt, and I'm the one in red-
in case you couldn't tell the difference,
because we are sisters.

I am not often serious, but here is a serious moment. Ati is my ideal of feminine beauty.

Once, as a child, I heard her referred to as 'homely', and I remember being shocked by that description. I'd never once thought about what she looked like, but I'd loved her and thought she was beautiful. By objective human standards, you might not think that. But if you know her, all you will see is Beautiful because that's what she is--loving, kind, caring, generous, so fun to be with always. In spite of hardships and betrayals from people who should have had her back, she still trusts the Lord with her future and loves everyone around her unselfishly. By age 19-20, when I first met her, she had already achieved the height of beauty, which she has kept with her 20+ years later. If I ever have a daughter, I will name her after Ati, and tell her to aspire to that kind of beauty, which doesn't need to diet or put on weight or use extra-whitening toothpaste or deodorant (I'm talking to you, China!) or clarifying shampoo or "hair treatment" or have plastic surgery. It transcends fashion, age, and even culture. I doubt I'll ever be as beautiful as her in my lifetime, but it's good to have something to aspire to.

Last side note: my tall small sister wrote a lot of serious stuff about Beauty here (or somewhere there). She's a Writer so she can be serious without being annoying. Also, she puts on photos of her cute kids. Seriousness is worth it with a picture of those cute faces.