Restless

About four each morning mid-way through my three weeks in Duk Payuel, South Sudan, I woke, restless, thinking about all I still hoped to do with the ASAH girls and staff before I left. It doesn't seem to matter how many days or weeks I've been there, I feel that there was more I could have done, investigated, learned, experienced. No matter the monotony of the diet, the insufferable heat, the mosquitos, porcupines, or bats, the time flies.

Perhaps because I'm a Libra, I'm torn between introversion and extroversion. Wishing for more time to sit or play with or teach our girls, to interact with staff, to chat with friends at the clinic or wander through the village, yet longing for the solitude to reflect, to write, to process photos, to plan, to figure expenses, prepare job descriptions, and work on policies and procedures, manage logistics, and to regroup.

Evenings, after the girls are ready for bed, I sometimes approach their tukuls - named Fargo and New York, and ask, "Girls, may I come in?" When they want to visit me, they say, "Mommy, may I come in?" When we first began, they simply barged in. Now they have learned manners. I would bring my laptop and play slideshows of the photos I'd taken over previous few days. Pictures of them leaping for the ball or falling while playing volleyball or netball elicited chortles, even when they'd watched it through several times.

The day before I left I initiated an informal game of catch, sashaying toward one girl or turning toward another, leaping to catch them as they dashed away--or made a show of dashing away. Most of them like the contact

Now I've been home for ten days, and I won't visit again until January 2013. This will be my longest absence since 2010--I've been visiting every three or four months since then--but this is a critical juncture in our development. More on that tomorrow!

Word by Word

Why do the ASAH girls need our help? Because even though they range in age from 10 to 17, most of them can barely read. The national language in South Sudan is English (with a British accent and usage) and school is taught in the immersion method with all instruction in English.

For the younger kids and those who have not attended school regularly, I imagine it as Leek Sam, Manyok, and Dau have described their experience in refugee camp schools - learning outside, under the trees. The first couple years they hear so many unfamiliar sounds, it's gibberish, but eventually, they begin to understand. So it is here.

The ASAH girls can understand some English, but they have virtually no conversational skills. Comprehending comes first. Speaking is tough because they have little opportunity to practice - no memorized conversations such as I remember from French classes in junior high school and high school. No time in the "lab" to listen to native French speakers repeating conversations and reinforcement with the written word in a book.

The fact that our girls and many girls in the village have not attended school regularly, day after day, year after year has delayed their acquisition of skills. The school day is also much shorter than ours in the US, ending at noon or one so the children can return home for perhaps the only meal of the day. And once they return to their homes. there are no books, no workbooks, no educational programs on television, and no one speaking English in the home, and even if there were, many kids, especially girls, are busy cooking, cleaning, carrying water or firewood, or taking care of younger children.

Students from Woodland Middle School in Duluth, Minnesota learned about our program and decided they wanted to write letters to our ASAH girls, with the hope that the girls would write back. I arrived here with a packet of close to 30 letters, some addressed to individual ASAH girls by name, and some written to the group. 

We broke the girls into three groups, and read a few of the letters to the girls. They were excited to receive them, the first letters of their lives. (Although some of our sponsors have also written to the girls). Though the girls have learned the rudiments of letter writing in school, their writing skills are hindered by their limited English vocabulary, and their inability to spell.

Since we have only twelve girls, we had them each write to a group of students. The process began with the teachers writing the names of all the children in the group for our girls to copy. The real labor began as three of our ASAH teachers and myself hovered over the groups to assist them with vocabulary and spelling. Word by word, letter by letter. When they finished, each girl recopied her letter so that I would have a nice, neat copy to bring back to their pen pals in Duluth.

What did they write about? They wrote about the games they like to play here at ASAH - netball and volleyball. They wrote about the local foods they like to eat. They wrote their names, their ages and their classes. Each letter was individually composed. It took about three hours for each of them to complete a few paragraphs.

That's how it begins. Word by word.

Will the Dog have Kittens for Lunch?

Did that get your attention? A recent blog on nonprofits related that animal shelters and the like have tremendous social networking success and a resulting increase in donations. There is something about the big eyes of a cute baby animal. . . .

In the evening, I often visit New York or Fargo (our two dorm tukuls) and share slideshows of the photos I've taken here with the girls. When I ran out of photos, I searched my hard drive and found a few saved videos and photo PowerPoints.

The first was of a pregnant shelter dog whose pups were adopted out. she was left bereft about the same time a litter of motherless kittens arrived.The news piece was captioned: Will this Dog have Kittens for Lunch? You get the idea. Just as it would delight you to see this lab pull a kitten out of the water dish it had fallen into, carry it to the dog bed and lick it, then curl up to feed the purring group, the ASAH girls were also delighted with the video.

I'd like you to shift your thoughts from the helpless kittens and their adoptive doggy mom to our girls here, who are also orphans, and the new girls from Patuenoi, a neighboring village, who will join them in July.

They all have stories that would bring tears to your eyes. They have all experienced serious malnutrition. One girl survived when her family was murdered by another tribe. Some lost a parent to war, disease, snakebite, or childbirth. Most orphan girls no say over when or who they marry. A girl might be sold off as a second or third or fourth wife of a man decades her senior in exchange for cattle dowry. The ASAH girls are looking forward to a future of education and marriage of their choice. They will be in a position to change things for their children.

Last week one of our girls, Daruka Ayen, lost her uncle - her guardian, the only fully adult family member. She has a younger brother, and she has an older brother and older sister. Daruka Ayen will be the hope for her family in the future.

Please consider helping these lovely girls with their big eyes, minus the whiskers and floppy ears. ASAH provides all their food, clothing, supplies, educational materials, bed, and bedding, and dedicated teachers, and a matron to look out for them on our secure site.

We need sponsors for the new girls You can find out more on our website, or email us for for information. Or call me when I return to the US after July 4.

The Local Fare

It wasn't enough to bring me my own carafe for hot milk tea. Afraid I won't like the local fare, the staff asked the cooks to offer me other choices at dinner until I insisted I would eat what everyone else is eating. I've sampled all food I've been offered, and the only thing I draw the line at is the slimy rotten mudfish, which I experienced at the clinic. I've eaten fresh roasted mudfish which is crispy and palatable, but the stench of that stew-like dish would make the eyes of a lutefisk-lover water.

Two new dishes for me this go-round. Rushuck, a pale green soupy food made with crushed ground nuts (we call them peanuts) and okra from our garden. It's quite tasty. The cooks serve it with ugali, a pasty dish made from maize flour, a little like polenta, but white in color and pastier in texture. I can do without ugali, though I'll eat it if it's the only starch. 

Madita, a sweetened porridge made with ground maize and milk, is a delicious treat. Here, they serve it in a cup and we drink the thick breakfast-type treat. We've only had it once. I would definitely have it again.

Several times, we've had kudra, a dark leafy plant we grow on our site. It's cooked with oil, dark green in color and slimy in texture--cooked until it's almost a liquid. Because they thought I might not like it, they made me chicken and rice, but I was happy for the green vegetation in spite of the texture. At home I love kale, chard, spinach, and we have seeds for these plants here, so one day, when our garden is producing year-round, we will have these important nutritional foods here regularly.

Chickens here are the epitome of free range and very flavorful, though I've eaten an old rooster whose meat was as tough as he was in life, ruling his roost. 

Though much of our staple food supply comes from Juba or Bor in South Sudan, or Kenya when the roads are flooded, we reserve part of the food budget to buy local meat a couple times a week: antelope or goat. In spite of all the cattle in the village, beef is rare because it's available only when slaughtered for a special occasion. And though villagers who own cattle drink and cook with the fresh milk, at ASAH we serve full fat powdered milk to our girls, served hot with tea and sugar.

Generally meat here is served in a stew. If we had Ugandans or Kenyans cooking, we'd have it roasted, which makes even goat a treat for me.

There's fun food, even here in South Sudan. Ayot, paper bread, is a favorite of our ASAH girls. It's nearly paper-thin, with a spongy texture. Folded many times over into a pocket shape, Ayot is used like similar foods in other African countries to dip into soupy food, sauces, or even to pick up bits of meat. 

We have silverware here at ASAH, but Sudanese are accustomed to eating with their fingers, so ayot makes for an enjoyable way to feed themselves. Still, our girls and staff are generally using spoons and forks.

I enjoy nyiny, a dish made with whole beans and whole maize, something like githeri (spelling?) served in Kenya, though the dish here in the village is somewhat plainer. Still, it's a break from plain old beans. 

I've ordered fruits and vegetables, biscuits and powdered juices that will arrive on our AIM Air cargo flight the 28th. I won't get a taste as I fly out on that plane to return to Kenya, but I'll be back in a city where these types of I-take-it-for-granted foods will once again be available, and a few days later, I'll be home in the US.

Thunder and Lightning - Oh My!

June 24, 2012

It's the rainy season here in Duk Payuel, so it isn't surprising that it's rained during the night a couple times since my arrival June 11. I left the rug on my doorstep the first time, and it was soaked. We had rain once when I was at the JDF Lost Boys Clinic using Internet to communicate with all of you, delaying my return to the ASAH School until it let let up. One other time, I walked back and enjoyed the sprinkle of cool drops.

Just after we finished our lunch, cracks of thunder chased us all into our respective tukuls, except for Toy, who is gathering up the deserted plastic chairs in the yard. Toy works with Zablon, our skilled and personable Kenyan builder/mason/maintenance man. They put up our beautiful and straight fence, built our toilets and showers and our new office/housing building,  

The thunder has been roiling and breaking without a drop, then suddenly, as if it had cracked the cloud, the downpour began. I'm assuming there's lighting, but I can't see the sky from inside my tukul, and it would likely not be visible even through our canopied trees during the day. Perhaps at night it lights the sky.

My first week here was beastly hot - not Saudi Arabia hot, but it can reach 100 and was sometimes 90 or more as I willed myself to sleep (my will is not very effective in this respect). This past week has been delightfully cool in the mornings and evenings. The midwesterners reading this will find it funny that Manyok wears a winter coat when I'm comfortable in a t-shirt.

It looks as though I'll be holed up in my Tukul here for awhile.

Day of Rest

Sunday mornings are busy at ASAH. The girls are up early, fussing, and giggling, and singing and getting ready to go to prayers at the Episcopalian Church, the only church in the village. The church is an enormous tukul. Several hundred people can easily fit inside. Massive metal columns hold the tremendous thatched roof that reaches 20' (or more?) at the center.

Congregants bring their own chairs. The girls carried a few with them. Two or more will crowd into one plastic chair, their tiny thin bottoms don't take up much space. Prayers begin at eight and go until 10. I attend sometimes, but usually not for the full service. It's all in Dinka, and even the hymns are unfamiliar in both word and tune. But it's wonderful to experience the fellowship. I'm warmly welcomed, and often led to the front to sit on the platform with the pastors and elders and lay leaders, usually next to Gideon, the oldest member of the village - more than ninety years old now. He's walks with but is healthy. Had more than 40 children with four or five wives. More than 20 survived the war, but a good number did not.

But this was no day of rest for me. Manyok and I had work to do: updating job descriptions, policies and procedures for staff. Though I will be here more than two weeks, the time flies.

When the girls returned it was time for compound cleanup, which Daruka organized at my request. Skinny little Debra Akon, age 12, manned a wheelbarrow and the gaggle of ASAH girls with Daruka leading combed the compound for discarded soap boxes, toilet paper wrappers, old cement bags, random pieces of wire, palm fronds, broken branches, bits of plastic detritus. Four wheelbarrow loads full. The old garbage pit was flooded, so we started a new one, and set the trash ablaze. The air was calm. The flames crackled and the smoke licked the air above.

Much of Africa has been civilized quickly to a modern throw-away culture without the infrastructure and education to deal with the garbage culture now produces. And even when things are used many times in many ways, beyond the life we might give it in the US, it may one day just be left to die on the ground somewhere the little bit of life it has left may take centuries to expire.

I've walked on paths in Kiberra slum in Kenya that are built of trash. People set up shop on ground that has give to it when you walk. Layers upon layers of plastic bags and discarded clothing, paper, food and packaging.

How do we keep that from happening here? We train our girls and staff not to drop things on the ground and to pick up trash they see instead of leaving it for someone else. We help our girls and staff care about the place they live and work and go to school, to have pride in it, to want to show it off to visitors. And they will teach someone else one day.

Mosquito Net 101

I'm self-taught. I've used them in hotels and a guest house in Kenya, in Nairobi, Nakuru and Eldoret, and in hotels in Juba and Bor, South Sudan. and managed the claustrophic nets somehow. 

On my first five visits to Duk Payuel - in 2007, 2010, and three visits in 2011, I lived in a tent of one sort or another, which are giant mosquito nets, if they remain zipped. In March, I stayed in my first tukul, adobe thatched roof hut, but it was the dry season, so there was few mosquitos to fear.

Now, this bed is a full-sized four poster--the long posts are almost suitable for a canopy. It was placed with the net hung from the ceiling near what Daruka used as the head of the bed, but I like facing the door, not the rear of the hut, so I switched the pillows.

The first night I thought surely the net must go over the posts, but alas, the net was not nearly long enough for that. I fit it over the first two posts, and then stretched it toward the foot of the bed to tuck it in under the mattress. It wasn't long enough, and the swollen red bumps on my ankles testify to the lack of efficacy of that method. Over the last few days, I've tried various tucking methods, some more effective than others. At the head and the foot the mattress is tight to the frame. Not so for the sides. And then there's the illusion of being trapped. I'm restless at night.

Worse, I'm a nighttime reader, and the only way to escape the mosquitos in the night is to be under the net, but the angle of the net forced me to the bed's center where the lack of support for my back and the inflexibility of my knees and hips made reading in any position but fully supine with bent neck extremely uncomfortable. Not that fully supine with bent neck is my idea of comfort.

I showed Dau this morning and asked if perhaps the net was too small for this bed, and he told me this type of bed needed a boxed net. I've seen them in hotel rooms. They dangle from the ceiling like a loose fixture and the four-cornered shape allows for draping over a large bed with posts. We don't have any nets like that here at ASAH.

I sat on my plastic armchair and pondered the layout. Elected to switch my position so my back now faces the door, the way Daruka had it. But I moved the bed toward the back of the room a foot, enabling the net to hang almost directly over my head. In the process I discovered that termites had been dragging soil in and mounding it around the bottom of one of the poles. I whisked them and their soil into a cloth and shook them outside my door. And then I followed the example of Abul, our ten-year-old. I had observed her methodical tucking method as she prepared her bed the previous night. First I tried to drape it over the posts at the head. No go -  but by pulling it tight and tucking it in at the head, I was able to leave enough space so that I can sit up in bed, the netting angled like a ski hill down toward my feet, and I tucked it all around.

Now nestled in naked (it's sizzling here) but for the green filmy draping, the sheet balled at my feet, I turn on my IPad which attracts the bugs tiny enough to slip through the net, and squish them onto the screen, one by one. Content.

Did I Mention the Butterflies?

June 16, 2012

It's easy to concentrate on the nasty biters and disregard the butterflies. But they share the airspace here. Those I've seen are small and yellow or white. I'll pay attention and see what else I can see. They're dwarfed the moths, of course, Oh, there I go again. Some of the moths are exquisite.

There's been no rain since my arrival and the paths are beginning to dry. That's not to say they're dry. It is still necessary to roll your pant legs or life your skirts, to pull on the awkward gum boots, which aren't always as tall as the water is deep, or to remove your shoes or sandals and walk barefoot through murky water that conceals the bottom which may be sandy and firm, or marshy swampy gooey silty mud. Sometimes the grasses under the water give firmer footing. Sometimes the ruts dug by desperately stuck vehicles can twist an ankle. A road grater and fill would be a blessing.

I prefer walking Sudanese style barefoot through the water with a long slow gait. In reality, my gait is slowed in the heat in South Sudan,  but my steps through the water are methodical, careful, anything but the easy stride of the people around me.

The water ranges from warm to very warm, depending on its depth. As a child, I rarely wore shoes at the lakes, no matter the path, though my routes were never flooded. My grandmother was horrified that my feet and those of my sisters would S-P-R-E-A-D without the confines of a sole and uppers. I never saw her bare feet, but my toes are as wide and spread apart as she had feared. 

I like the contact with the earth. The mud squeezing between my toes, my step cautious, feeling for the occasional large snail resting at the bottom of the flooded paths. The first few days when the water was deeper and clearer, I waded through schools of tadpoles. If they didn't swim far enough, they may already have dried up and died in these receding streams. In a day or two, the puddles may have evaporated. If it doesn't rain tomorrow, I will wear the dreaded gumboots as the receding water is not very fresh anymore. We share the paths with cattle and goats.

In November of 2010, I arrived in Duk at the end of a bad rainy season to find the paths and many huts flooded. Just like Fargo, some had been diked. Some dikes failed, or the water came too fast. There are no sandbags here. But this year's flooding is months earlier than usual. It's too early to say how the season will go, but some have already lost crops planted a month ago.

Our own garden plot fed okra and kale and spinach and other good things to our girls for two months until it flooded. And now we have a new, higher garden where the maize is nearly two feet tall, groundnuts have sprouted, and the seeds I brought last week are being planted. The old garden will be planted again in the dry season. It's close to our water source, so we can pamper it, a luxury most in this village do not have.

A note for those who know about our badly leaking water tank. Repairs have been completed. Now the leak is a small trickle instead of a gusher. We'll keep repairing it until we receive the anticipated "loaner" tank. After the rainy season, we'll have to get a new one, if anyone is interested in helping us acquire one. The tanks are expensive and so is the transport.

Welcome to Fargo and New York, South Sudan-Style

June 15, 2012
An awesome day. The girls are becoming bolder. More talkative with me. Starting conversations of a sort. In March, I taught them to say "May I come in?" before entering my tukul because they used to just barge in. Now, with due respect, I hear their little voices - some of them have big voices, I must admit. Some are 6' 2," angular and thin like super-models. But mostly quiet, they say, "Mommy, may I come in?" It seems they are all calling me "Mommy" now.

In March I brought many skeins of yarn and crochet hooks. Daruka, our matron, has taught them to crochet. In the afternoons, they pull chairs in a circle and crochet as a group, each with her own choice of yarn and design. I asked, "What color is this?" They didn't know. But soon we learned red, and green, and yellow and blue. And the chair is blue, the ASAH shirts are pink, but they think them red, so I showed them a pink stool, the pink geodesic dome, and then the red yarn, the red beads on the necklace. I'm not sure if they've gotten it yet.

My nature is to set things down and walk away, mindlessly. I've trained myself to pay attention to where I set something--the mental note--it's on the counter. It's in the bathroom. I'm overstimulated here with so many sights, sounds, people. It's constant greetings and my fumbling of the language--kudwal, chirwon, achine kerach--the greeting words, never sure exactly which one is correct. I lose things in my tukul and often spend minutes searching for something that was just in my hand. I set my water bottle down and when I'm thirsty I have nothing to drink.

I told Daruka, if you see my water bottle. . . . It isn't necessary to look because I have another, but if you see it. . . . Soon I hear, "Mommy, may I come in?" It's Achol Majok, our oldest girl. She has my water bottle. Fourteen-year-old Martha Achol brings me highly-sweetened milk tea in the early afternoon, or a Coke, or a sugary powdered drink. I don't even want them, but I drink them obediently. I'm a water girl. At home, it's black coffee in the morning, and after that it's mostly water, or the raw milk Ron Saeger brings to me every two weeks. I love the milk tea here, since it's all there is. When I stayed at the clinic we had biscuits, but our supply is finished here. And I have no chocolate. Usually I bring some treats for myself and to share, but this time I brought only one large bag of peanut M&Ms. The M&Ms withstand the heat, but they are with the cargo still in Nairobi that won't arrive until after I leave. So I appreciate the morning sugar tea.

The girls were pulling down their mosquito nets for the night just after dinner. I fetched the videocamera. "Girls, may I come in?" "Yes, Mommy." They mugged for the camera and posed in their beds, on their beds, in groups, and singly. They began to say, "I am sleeping in my bed." Though some said, "I my sleeping in my bed." Or they hopped into each other's beds, and began to shout to outdo each other, "Two girls my sleeping in my bed." I corrected them and made them repeat and asked them to talk more quietly, but they couldn't help themselves.

Then we went through a series of "Mommy, welcome to Fargo." They initiated this on their own, then pulled me to the next dorm tukul for "Mommy, welcome to New York." They have named their tukuls, and proudly claim the cities. In their experience of life in the village, the refugee camp, or even Bor or Juba, Fargo or New York would be unimagineable.

I started out of my tukul to take a shower about eight, but a gaggle of girls laughed and giggled in and around the shower block. So I retreated. In a while I heard, "Mommy, may I come in?" It was Achol Majok again. "You may come for bathing now." I hadn't known that they saw me.

Tonight I purposely left my soap in the shower. Daruka gave me my own bar when I arrived. I brought a small bottle of body wash. but each evening there has been soap in our lovely shower. Lovely, aside from the bullfrogs and the various insects. No bats in our shower, though. There was only a tiny sliver of soap, so I opened my box and left the soap on the shelf. Akuol was waiting outside wrapped in a towel. Fifteen minutes later, she said, "Mommy, may I come in?" And she handed me my soap, for which I said, 'Thank you very much. I let her stay a bit and watch me flat iron my curly-in-the-humidity hair and touch it to see how hot it was. And then we practiced some colors. And days of the week, which I wrote for her and gave her to share with her dorm-mates.

Elections of Chiefs

Wednesday, June 13
As part of the effort to reduce conflict between tribes, the Jonglei state government has called for election of the chiefs. Following results of a census, they determined how many people were in each chief's area. From that information, they consolidated some areas and reduced the number of chiefs and the number of sub chiefs. In the past, chiefs have been born to the spot. The elections are to determine who remains in their post and gave the opportunity for others to run for the position. As far as I'm aware, no women ran.

I probably could have watched the process, but I didn't know about it until it was underway. Each voter stands behind the chief of their choice and they are counted by head. Most elections were decided the first day, but one was carried over for a couple days to allow the constituents time to travel for the vote. Most are satisfied with the result, though there is some grumbling among the losers.

As part of the voting process, a group of women went dancing and singing through the community. As they approached our compound, I was told they would pass us by, but they came toward the fence, and we opened the gate. I stood in the middle with my camera and the women rushed past me on both sides. Leek Sam, one of our teachers, had the video camera, so we captured this.

They formed a circle, running, jumping, carrying long sticks or umbrellas and thrusting them up and down. They chanted and some ululated. Someone encouraged me to join them, so I did. Daruka, our matron, was very impressed, that I, a kawaja, would join in, and the women were thrilled. Then the speeches. The head woman spoke and welcomed me and talked of their happiness about the ASAH School. I thanked them and talked about the importance of educating women and protecting girls from forced marriage which elicited cheers.
Later, I learned from Manyok that this visit was a type of entertainment and the women's group would like a contribution. So ASAH and each primary staff person will contribute. The women will typically use the money for something to benefit a large group of women, or to buy goats or a bull and then share a meal with all who contributed. JDF, the election group, and others also add to the kitty.

Thursday, June 15 Solar panels and batteries. Fred, the clinic electrician and technical guy, showed me around their new solar power system. Four panels, four batteries, and all the breakers and systems required to manage the power. The panels are installed on the roof of their new nutrition center, and they have a small mechanical room for the other components. A full system such as theirs runs about $6800 in Nairobi.

When we build our kitchen and dining/classroom compound, we will be getting a solar power system along this line. Our program director, Manyok, would like to have it now to reduce our reliance on the generator and diesel fuel, and allow us to run the lights later into the evening so the girls can study or read. It isn't in the cards today, but I hope we can afford it too.

Eventually we will need our own generator as well. We are relying on the generator at the abandoned compound near us. The NGO that was there until April lost their grant and their is no one to take over management of the site, so the government has taken charge of the assets. The assets are supposed to go to JDF clinic, as the NGO's charge was to provide support to them, but they are currently in dispute. A few of those assets have been given to us, but we are unsure whether we will be allowed to keep them or not: a refrigerator and a television.

As I write this, Chill, our gazelle, is nibbling at the gum boots outside my door. When I called his name he looked up and stared me down. When I looked away he resumed, so I called his name again more sharply. He looked up, then urinated right outside my doorway. Returned to the boots. I called his name, he released his little pellets. I found this disrespectful, so when he bent down again to nibble the boots I got up and walked toward the door. He doesn't let me pet him, so he sidled away. He allows only Daruka, our matron, and Abul, our youngest girl to stroke him. With Daruka he acts like she is an antelope and jumps up slamming his chest against her thigh. It's very funny. He's so tiny he couldn't hurt her. She responds by gently boxing the top of his head and he braces to lock antlers.

Arrival in Duk - Monday June 11

Up at 4:30 am for 5:30 loading of the van with ten pieces of luggage from the Mayfield container. At AIM Air I learned they already had 900 kg from Jeti's purchases on our behalf - food and some building supplies, beds and mattresses - and I had 276 kg with me. The Caravan can carry 1000 kg, and we also had passengers in addition to me: two clinic staff: Lillian, a midwife, and David, a lab technician. Prioritizing: I decided to leave behind the beds and mattresses.They're heavy and bulky. After referring to my content list. I list the contents for each bag or tote as I pack and indicate priority items. From here it's the pilot's decision. We had to leave a container of oil, a bag of potatoes, and a bag of beans to accommodate the luggage for Lillian and David.

Nate is our pilot, a young guy I've flown with before. It took a long time for customs to clear all our bags. We finally got off the ground about 8. Now at 9:20, we are arriving in Eldoret, Kenya to refuel. Then on to Juba, the capitol, where we must go through immigration for our Visas.

We were not able to pull up as close to the airport in Juba as in the past, but we arrived when no other larger planes were on the ground, so there was no wait at immigration. We caught a ride to the terminal and back with one of the airport crew, then $100 a pop for a single entry Visa to Republic of South Sudan. No multi-entry visas available.

The Lost Boys Clinic staff had reported to me that the airstrip was flooded on Friday, but they were working to drain it. Part of a dike had given way. Though it is the rainy season, this is about two months early for the type of flooding they are experiencing.
The strip was nice and clear for our landing, and there was a huge crowd to greet us. Our girls in their red uniforms stood together waving. Many people assisted in unloading our heavy cargo. Most of my bags were 50 + pounds, and we also had 50 kg bags of beans, potatoes and other foodstuffs. The bigger problem was how to get it all to our site. Even if there was a working vehicle in the village, which there is not, the roads are flooded ankle to knee deep - impassable by car.

If you saw our girls heft these huge bags on their heads, some of them walking without even a hand held to steady the bag, you wouldn't believe it. I've seen it many times, but it always amazes me. And they can carry these heavy loads a great distance. The walk to our site from the airstrip takes about 20 minutes through the water. I didn't even have to carry my backpack as it was spirited off my back and onto Akuol's, one of our ASAH girls.

Not All Palm Trees Produce Coconuts

March 4

Our site is difficult to see from the air because of the many trees, which provide shade and beautify our compound. I don't know the names of most of them in English, but some are banyon-type trees. Banyons spread by producing long tendrils from branches that root into the ground creating a network of many trees that are all connected. We have tiny-leafed shade trees that produce a mess of leaves swept daily by the cleaners at the compound, we have broad-leafed trees, and we have a number of palm trees. When we acquired the site in November 2012, I was pleased to see coconuts nested in the palm leaves and had looked forward to being here when the coconuts were ready to eat. When the ASAH girls produced one, I was game to try it, but I've seen coconuts with the husk on—the thick covering before the dark brown "wood" we're accustomed to seeing in the grocery store—and this looked nothing like what I expected.

Up close and peeled, this huge fruit was yellow-brown. No white coconut meat inside. I had a taste and was put off by the stringy texture and the taste. I can't now remember to report on it, only that it wasn't pleasant enough to request a second bite. Josh from the clinic told me these are palm nuts and they produce oil, but I haven't been able to find anything on the Internet that matches what I saw.

MAF and UNMIS airlift the wounded men.

Friday, July 1

The first plane to land today was a MAF (Mission Aviation Fellowship) flight dropping off one of the nutrition team members and picking up another. They had been informed about the wounded men, and had prepared the plane by removing all unnecessary seats. Nine of the most seriously injured men were carried by stretchers to the plane and lifted by blankets with great care to avoid jarring the broken limbs.

In the early afternoon, the UNMIS helicopter that surveyed the situation on Thursday returned, and picked up the remaining group of around 20 wounded men. Two elected to stay behind and return to their villages. One very young man who was shot through the side with the bullet exiting the other side, missing all vital organs, felt he was well enough to avoid the hospital. The other had a head wound on the back of his head. Medical personnel here felt he should go to the hospital for tests as the bullet grazed his brain and they feared problems. But they couldn't force him. And I've heard that Bor hospital is not a place to trust that the care will be adequate.

UNMIS lands

Thursday, June 30

The UNMIS helicopter that had hovered, touched down, and took off again Tuesday came back and landed today with a cadre of armed soldiers of all nationalities. The guy in charge, Saju, was from India. I'm not a proper journalist, so I don't remember the rank he mentioned when he introduced himself to me, the white woman in the crowd with the camera. He began asking me for the details of the situation. And though I know many of the details, I told him I wasn't the one in charge and directed him to Juma, the head medical officer from the clinic.

I tagged along to the meeting where Juma, the head medical staff from the clinic, and Malou, our construction supervisor, briefed the men on the situation for the injured, who've been suffering for days with only the nursing care the clinic is able to provide. Many need surgery on fractured limbs, have wounds open to the bone, and internal or head injuries. These men were shot when they followed after the Murle to recover their stolen cattle.

In addition, Juma requested security for this area. There is worry as the referendum approaches that there will be more violence in Duk County. The villages where these attacks took place are several hours by car—eight or nine hours "footing," as they say here. The village of Duk has only one police officer.

From there we trekked to the school, where the two classrooms housing the patients are cordoned off with yellow caution tape. The UNMIS soldiers took photos, and then we all walked back to the airstrip and they flew off, promising to talk to their boss, who will talk to the next boss, and so on. We never got an answer as to why they stopped and flew off again on Tuesday, but it must have been a different group, because Saju said this was the first they'd heard about the incidents.