IDPs and Rock Climbing and Consequences

This week I learned that it is possible to make unwise decisions even if one is almost 30 years old.  (Who knew, right?) What started as an innocent trip to an IDP camp to see if we would dig some wells there, ended with me hobbling around for a day—only a day though. I was back out running the day after that. Blistered feet can’t slow me down. Well maybe a little. Temporarily.

Bushrat for dinner anyone? We met this intrepid hunter in the camp.

So we were supposed to go to this IDP camp outside of Juba, where apparently 2000+ internally displaced people (IDPs—for my slower readers) were supposed to be living. We were supposed to go there with the commissioner for Mundri East County and his armed guard (probably the only reason the Boss agreed to go that close to Juba anyway), but at the last minute the Commissioner bailed, meaning his armed guard did too. We were on the road already, though, so we went on to the next town where we were supposed to meet one of the Commish’s deputies who also bailed. Then we went on to yet another town, meeting with the local administrator of that area who had not been informed of our coming and also could not accompany us, but he sent a pastor with us, so it was OK. God was on our side that way, I guess. He also (the administrator, not God) updated us on the situation in the camp, which is currently housing approximately 500 people since the other 1500 had gone on to stay with friends, relatives, or returned to Juba.

I drank this water, and I'm still OK.

We began to seriously re-think our plans to work in the area, but we did hang out with some Dinka SPLA guys and let them show us the river where the current IDPs and soldiers are getting their water. They bathe and wash clothes directly in the river, but they dig small holes beside the water and drink from those holes. I’m not sure of their reasoning on that one, but I took a swig, and I didn’t die or get sick, so I think they’re fine. But they are worried that the river will dry up soon (it’s dry season now and very possible), so we are still looking into helping out.  The thing about South Sudan is that often you can put a pump in what seems to be the middle of no-where, but when you go back a while later, a small town has grown up around the well. That’s the power of water.

The Gunfire Bridge

Anyway, we made it back to Mundri with only one scare, which was when a truck went over a nearby metal bridge and the Boss thought it was gunfire, but other that that, no issues.  Still, since we were traveling with a camera man, it took a while, as he kept wanting to stop and get this or that shot. He was talking about wanting a landscape shot, and I knew just the rock I had been wanting to climb up for a while. Since it’s dry season, most of the elephant grass has burned off and you can see up to the base of the rock and not worry about accidentally stepping on a black mamba and dying a horrible painful death. I find snakes and all reptiles fascinating, but there are other ways I’d prefer to go. But now would be the perfect time to climb up, so I suggested we go. And we did—well, the camera man and I did.  He followed me to the rock (he is definitely more afraid of black mambas than me, and probably willing to sacrifice my life, hoping to get my death scene on film for his Pulitzer. I know it’s not personal—he’s a camera man…) and started up behind me, but since he was wearing shoes and I was wearing some chunky flipflops, he went faster. I decided to ditch the shoes and go up barefoot. I got up really quickly, and didn’t notice any problems until all of a sudden I felt the skin separate from my feet—not because I cut it, but because large blisters had bubbled up under the front of my feet where I’d been climbing. Then I realized that getting down was going to be very painful.  It was.

I backwards-spider-man crawled down the mountain, using my heels and the palms of my hands—there’s really not a modest way to do that in a skirt. The Boss was concerned, and he even came out of the car to ask if I was OK. I think he thought I didn’t know how to get down the mountain. I did, but I was already testing the limits of my pain tolerance, and speeding down wasn’t an option for me. Anyway, I made it down and to the car, and spent the rest of the day and the next hobbling around. Before I doctored it up, I took photos. I’m warning you now because I’m nice, and I know some of you (my sisters) are a bit squeamish. But if your curiosity is stronger than your stomach, scroll down and down for the gruesome photos.  I’ll also include the photos of my doctor skills because the medical profession is seriously missing my bandaging creativity.  Scroll down if you dare.

Keep going.

A bit more.

You know you’re curious.

It’s not too late to go back up now.

Last chance.

NOW it’s too late to back.

Congratulations, Brave Reader. You have arrived.

 

This was the first attempt. I had to stick a bandage on because I was planning to go make some brownies in our oven which already had coals ready, and so I was in a hurry. Later I cut off all the extra skin and put on medicines and stuff. And now it's totally fine because I am a genius doctor.

Lesson learned:

Barefoot rock climbing after a day of 100+ degree weather is not a good idea. Even if the rock feels ok to your feet, there are certain temperatures that the sole of the foot is not designed to withstand. Yes, I could have let Camera Man go it alone, but he did seem to need my expert advice on where to go because he decided to climb up a big jutting rock with trees around it and couldn’t get a shot. I showed him a better place and he handed his camera down to me while he jumped down to get the view he needed. Also -- like I was going to let Camera Man get up the rock without me… It was MY rock in the first place! Anyway, I climbed my rock even if I paid for it all by myself with a little bit of pain and backwards-spider-man crawling humiliation, and next time I go up, I’ll bring my camera (phone not fancy video one) and I’ll wear flip-flops with better grip. Climbing in shoes is for sissy foreigners.

One more bonus photo from near where I work where someone just put up mine warning signs while I was gone. Who knew?  Good thing I didn't see a monkey or a shiny rock or something else irresistible over there before those signs went up.