Pick-up Lines and Proposals in South Sudan--Marriage Never Looked So Possible!

The face of an old lady and Ley

When I first started my solo international travels, I attracted a normal amount of attention from men of a certain age.  I would like to think it is my exotic beauty that draws them, but I know that is more likely the words “Visa to America” tattooed in invisible ink across my forehead. When refusing marriage proposals or answering shocked questions about my lack of a man, I always answered, “I’m too young.” Of course, that didn’t really work for them since many of my friends were married at 16 and many of my suitors had a wife or two who were 17 or 18 when they married. Here in South Sudan I have fewer elderly taxi drivers asking for my hand, and more ambitious young whippersnappers.  Now that I’m 30, I can just say that I’m too old for them—and that can sometimes work. I’ve yet to have anyone here remark on my "good body maintenance," as an immigration officer in India once did, surprised by the combination of my old age and youthful appearance.

Recently, I’ve started to take note of some of the clever pick-up lines being used on me these days to compare with those from other places I've lived. Mostly they haven’t been so original. Once we gave a ride to some soldiers into town, and as we were all standing in the back of the pick-up truck together, we struck up a conversation. Impressed by my Arabic ability and American-visa-like features, he said, “Ana der ita.” Which just means, “I want you.” But I was able to crush him with a “Young man, I am WAY too old for you.”

One morning while off for a lovely jungle bike ride, I nodded at a passerby in casual non-verbal greeting, and he replied verbally, “Hello, my wife!” I thought this was an interesting tactic—try to convince me that we are already together, I just somehow forgot about our wedding.

Actually, Mimi is so cute she can
make this messed up photo look good.

Another time at a Mundri Express bus stop, a man came up to me to have a friendly chat. In spite of the fact that I answered several times in excellent Arabic, he insisted on proving to me that he can speak English: ”I…you…husband or wife…” I answered, “No, thank you.” And he left. Politeness is a virtue. Though, he did give me a choice, and actually, being a South Sudanese husband isn’t a bad gig—you get your meals cooked, your food washed, your gardens tended, your children raised, and even sometimes your house built for you. But I don’t know that I could be the wife that does all that stuff, as we’ve already established my skills in the domestic arts are rather limited, and, last year at least, a casual observer of my garden would perhaps think that he had stumbled upon a patch of jungle in the otherwise well-tended backyard lawn.

I used the wifely deficiency tactic in another recent proposal attempt. One of the guys working on my house very subtly inquired as to my marital status thus:

“So, when we are done with your house, when will your man move in with you? He’ll come here then, right?”

Me: “Um, no. I don’t have a man.”

“Why not?”

You really want to married to this?

Pause for me to think of a good reason, because if this conversation was going the way I thought it was (it was), he really isn’t too young for me, I think we’re about the same age, and I didn’t want to open that door for him. So I went for, “Well, nobody wanted me.” (Let’s make him consider why it is that I’m not married and hopefully realize that he might not want to find that out.)

This has worked for me in the recent past because it takes the conversation to an awkward place that ends it faster. I mean, you can’t just ask someone “Why does nobody want you?” That implies there is something wrong with that person (which, in my case, could possibly be true, but polite people don’t want to imply that). But here in Mundri, I’m going to have to find another way or try to get out of this conversation because in this case, as in another recent case when I was offered 4 potential suitors in the space of five minutes after using that line, my house-builder Lothario said:

“Well, I want you. Marry me.”

There was a tiny brief pause, but you can’t keep me speechless for long—I decided that this conversation was just a hilarious joke between two friends, and I laughed and said, “Oh no, you really don’t want me. I can’t cook. I mean, people don’t like my food. I use too much sheta (hot peppers).”

Cassanova was undeterred by my statement, “No problem, I like sheta. I’ll try your food.”

My garden is going to be way better this year.
Probably. Maybe.

At this point, I realized that this conversation was getting way out of hand.  Fortunately, some other people came over and joined us and we managed to change the subject and put awkwardness behind us. But since then, this guy has been trying to prove to me how much he loves sheta. He came over one day while I was weeding my garden (I’m turning over a new leaf this year, no pun intended, and trying to do gardening things like “weeding” and “watering.” At least this year, I’m pretty sure I know what is grass that can be pulled up and what are the things that I don’t want to pull up). He sauntered over and told me he wanted to try the American sheta I’m growing in my garden. Since I’d only planted it the previous week, I told him he would have to wait, and that, really, there is no guarantee that they will grow here anyway. He swaggered away, glad to see that his potential wife has garden-working tendencies.

But really this is an example of how easy it would be for me to just get married already here. It reminds me of a conversation I had in India about this very subject (“So, what’s wrong with you that you aren’t married already?”).  Rakesh and I had a discussion about what people in our respective cultures think about the ‘unmarried.’ I told him that in my culture, people think you are sad and pathetic because you couldn’t find anyone to love you, and so they feel sorry for you. He said, “Oh. In India people just think you are lazy and don’t want to grow up and start your life as a mature adult.” It seems the latter is more my problem since I technically do have people willing to spend their lives working by my side at a cushy job I'll get them in America.

In a recent conversation with Baby, he said, “You could get a man to marry you easily around here. There are many people available.”

Baby eating honey and
telling me about his girl

I switched the conversation to him and found out he has a potential bride that he is considering right now. He hasn’t spoken to her about marriage or anything yet, but he likes that she is nice, respectful, helpful—a good girl. “Also,” he said, “She has a body. Not like me. I don’t have a body. But if I get married then maybe I can get fatter.” Since he is a scrawny guy in spite of eating everything indiscriminately (a running joke between myself, who won’t eat bananas, Repent, who won’t eat a food we have here called ambata, and Lexon, who won’t eat rice—but Baby will eat anything, even the instant oatmeal the Boss brought me that we all find disgusting), this was a funny thought. He shrugged off my laughter and said, “And whenever YOU find a man, you will get big and fat like the women here.” He puffed out his cheeks, held out his skinny arms indicating the future size of my hips, and gave a shuffling, butt-swinging walk, to show me what I’ll be like once I find my Man.

Well, anyway, I guess I better go out and try to find that guy who passed me on the street the other day and said, “Wo-man, how is it?” Because, his pick-up line showed that he probably has the right amount of creativity and aplomb to build a future with me. And of course, then our children will have great skin.

About 20 minutes after this photo with my
hippo guide in Burundi, he proposed marriage.
But that is a story for next time...