Near Khartoum?

Sorry for the delay on blogging- no excuses, I've just been lame...

I'm in the village of Bunj, about halfway between the towns of Renk and Malakal, an today, I go out with the health promotion team to observe a 'mass education' event.

It turns out to be big success. More than 100 people gather as Asunta, a tall grandmotherly woman addresses the crowd, along with El Faki, another health promotion agent. They take turns with a megaphone, speaking to the crowd in Arabic, pausing every few sentences for one of the men in the crowd to translate into Mabaan, the local language.

"Mosquitoes live in standing water, so you should try to drain anything near your house," Asunta says, as she holds a drawing of a smiling mosquito looking hungrily at a lake. The crowd nod their heads.

And so it proceeds- El Faki exhorts them to use mosquito nets for pregnant women and for children. He walks through the audience, holding a picture of a family sitting under a net- again, they nod.

The training also is focusing on preventing diarrhea, and Asunta tries to teach the children a song.

"I wash my hands like this/ like this/ with soap and water/ with clean sand," she sings in Arabic. The kids repeat after her, clapping along and miming hand washing, following her lead. By the end, the kids are clapping constantly, and with a huge shukran! (thank you), Asunta ends the song.

It was very interesting to watch all of this, and really get a sense of development in action, I suppose. More interesting though, is an interaction that I have after the education campaign, as we wait for the Land Cruiser to arrive.

I'm sitting with Asunta and El Faki, another man, and a girl who looks to be perhaps 15-years-old. She wears a purple shirt with white embroidered flowers and an orange sash/headscarf wrap. As you would expect, she doesn't speak a word of English, and my Arabic ends somewhere around "thank you," and "give me one Coca-Cola." Fortunately Asunta is there, and she translates.

She's incredulous at the fact that I can't speak Arabic, and I smile sheepishly.

"Where are you from?" she asks.

"America," I answer, "very far away."

"Far away," she says. "Is America near Khartoum?"

Wow. How do I answer that one? This is a girl who likely hasn't traveled more than 50 kilometers from her village in her life; Khartoum is maybe 500km away, an enormous distance for her. How do I explain that my home is about 25 times farther away, more than 10,000 km?

I laugh. "No, it's much farther away than Khartoum," I say. I wouldn't want to sound patronizing here, but the honest truth is that I don't think this girl would begin to understand if I told her that I lived across an ocean, and flew 1,000 kilometers per hour 10 kilometers in the air to come here. I suppose the simple explanation is probably the easiest in this case, even if it's only the partial truth.

Our conversation only lasts a few moments, but it serves as yet another reality check into just how vast the difference is between the developed and the developing world. Because of who I am and where I was born, I've been the beneficiary a good education, a decent health care system, roads that work, and so much more. The girl I'm speaking with has seen none of those things, and likely never will. I don't mean to sound overly fatalistic here, but it's simply the reality of life in this corner of southern Sudan- life goes on more or less as it always has, with the addition of a hand pump here, or a plastic sheet there.

I wonder sometimes if this whole 'development' enterprise is really as patronizing as it can feel. NGOs are digging boreholes for pumps, building clinics, and helping people set up small businesses, all of which are good things. The part that hits a bit of a sour note for me is the fact that the things that are built are still incredibly basic- a person from the developed world would never drink out of a pump like the ones organizations install, and would wait for a medevac helicopter to take them to to Kenya before visiting a clinic like the ones most NGOs build. I know there's an argument to be made for 'appropriate technology,' for building at a level that makes sense for the community in question. Still, it seems a bit hollow to me. I'm not sure if there's any good answer to this, but I have to wonder..

In any case, end of musing/rant. Heading back to Renk tomorrow, a town which feels more like the north than anything else I've seen in southern Sudan. Everything is in Arabic, and they have things like raisins and shwarma. Not a bad spot, actually, to spend the remaining couple weeks in Sudan. I'm looking forward to getting out of here soon though, and for the next chapter to begin...

Message From An Old Friend

I've been trying for the past couple months, but I was finally able to get through to Marc, my friend and 'host father' while I was with the Peace Corps in Chad. He was my next door neighbor and close friend for the almost 21 months I lived in Gounou-Gaya, a small town in the southwestern portion of the country, not far from the Cameroonian border.

I've wanted to speak with him for awhile now, to tell him about my new job in Cameroon, and how I'm hoping to come back to Chad at some point to visit him, if I can. We haven't spoken since last summer, something I feel really guilty about- I keep meaning to, but something gets in the way, or I'm suddenly off in a place with no phone reception for a month at a time. In any case, the Zain Prepaid gods are cooperating in both Yei and Gounou-Gaya this morning, and my call miraculously goes through.

It's great to catch up with Marc, and we exchange the usual greetings, the endless ritual of "ça-va" ing ('How's it going?' in French), cut short for the phone. He says it's great to hear from me. I tell him about the new job in Yaoundé, and he sounds genuinely excited to hear about it. I hear him explaining it to his wife, Valaddi, in Musey, their native language. I've forgotten the little bit I knew, but I manage to hear 'ça-va-Oui, au Soudan," and "Yaoundé.'

"I wanted to call you earlier to tell you," Marc says in French, "but I didn't have your number."

"Yes, I've been moving a lot," I answer.

"J'ai perdu ma fille en Janvier," he says. 'I lost my daughter in January.'

I freeze. I remember each of Marc's daughters well. Tang-Ira, (aka Tanga), the oldest, who was about eight years old when I lived in Gounou-Gaya. I remember helping her get enrolled in the private Catholic primary school in the village, run by a group of nuns. Ka-Idi, two years younger, started school at the same time, with the cutest wide smile, and always wearing a brightly covered headscarf, to look more like her mother.

Hophyra, the mischievous four-year-old (at the time) who used to run up to me and clutch my leg- I remember her telling her father one night that she wanted to go to school for the bouille, the milky-peanut porridge that all the little kids got for lunch, and watching Marc laugh uproariously. And Dakassia, just around two-and-a-half when I left; I remember how she would poke her head inside the covered patio of my house, looking for me, saying 'Nyah-ne-nehl,' and waving. I had an American flag pattern hacky-sack I got from the US embassy in N'Djamena that she and I used to play catch with; I'd toss it, and she'd fling it back at me, as hard as a two-year-old could.

"Ç'était qui?" I ask, wishing I didn't have to find out. Who was it?

"Ma fille, Dakassia," he answers.

"Oh Marc, I'm so sorry," I say. "Do you know what happened?"

"We think it was malaria."

"My condolences, Marc. Thank you for telling me."

We talk a few minutes more, but I feel like I don't really have much else to say. The thought of his daughter dying hangs over me, and doesn't really make me want to continue chatting.

Less than a month ago, in this same space, I wrote about what it'll be like when I go back to Chad to visit, and how much I was looking forward to seeing Marc and all of his children again. Of all his children, I feel like I was the closest with Dakassia, and found myself smiling to imagine the cute little girl she'd be by now, possibly just starting CP1, the first year of school. Instead, she's dead, of a disease that can be prevented so easily. One more casualty that didn't need to happen.

In Chad, one in five children is expected to die by the age of five; it's the brutal reality of life in that corner of the developing world. The World Health Organization says that almost 2,400 people die of Malaria in Africa every day, the majority of them children under the age of five. I've known about these statistics for years, internalized them, and always thought about how tragic they are. Until today though, they'd just been numbers, and I never had a face to put with them. Now, picturing Marc sitting with all the other men at the place mortiere, the traditional gathering in southern Chad after a death, where everyone arrives and sits quietly with the mourners. Nothing needs to be said- the sense of grief is palpable, and shared.

Objectively, it makes sense- Marc had five children, so statistically, it was probably going to happen. That doesn't make it fair, or right though. I wish I'd known sooner, and I wish there was a way I could have done something to help. Crass at it may sound to say this, it's too late for his daughter, but there are still ways to get involved and work to stop the spread of Malaria. I've included a few links to major NGOs and campaigns working to do things like distribute treated bed-nets, and promote education campaigns, key steps in the fight against the disease.

http://psi.org/
http://www.nothingbutnets.net/
http://malariaconsortium.org/
http://www.rollbackmalaria.org/

I may be in Sudan, but today, my thoughts are in a small Chadian village. It was great to speak with Marc this morning, but I still wish I hadn't heard such terrible news. I hope I'll have the chance to see him before long, and the rest of his kids- when I do though, someone, a little girl, will be missing.

I'll remember though...

How's the Malaria?

It's a wonderfully cool (relatively) day here in Yei- rained most of yesterday, and the remaining clouds have blocked out most of the heat, making it surprisingly pleasant. I even wore my long-sleeved Peace Corps Chad shirt most of the day, the first time that's happened since I arrived.

I've been fighting a cold since Friday, which feels like a huge injustice in a place where it's so. damn. hot. (except for today) I understand that it has very little to do with the weather, but it still feels frustrating. It's like something has turned down the volume in my head by about 30 percent on everything, although it's still way too easy to hear the roosters, who begin their roosterly duty at what can't be any later than four in the morning. Whatever, I'll live.

I'm having breakfast this morning, which feels like an extra-special treat now that we have both peanut butter and honey in the pantry, and in walks Joy, our head cook/housekeeper.

"How is your malaria?" she asks.

I pause for a second, setting the spoon down I've been using to drizzle the honey onto the bread.

"Malaria?"

"You don't have malaria?" She asks, looking a bit confused.

"No, just a cold... But I'm feeling much better now," I respond.

"That's good," she says. "Thank you."

I go back to my roll, and smile a bit to myself. I remember this in Chad, how almost everyone in Gounou-Gaya assumed that whenever someone got sick, it had to, had to, be malaria. There simply wasn't any other disease. Perhaps a broken arm, but that was about the extent of it. Seems as though this is the case here in Sudan too.

It makes sense, I guess. In a place like this, where health education certainly wasn't a priority through almost 25 years of war, it's not a surprise that people's knowledge is limited. And it's true that malaria usually manifests itself as something like a bad cold, at least for most people here: chills, headaches, fatigue, etc.

Most of the people here who survive childhood (and there are plenty who don't) have been exposed to malaria multiple times, and while they certainly haven't developed an immunity, they tend to build up enough of a resistance that it's manageable. A day or two in bed, and they're back on their feet. Not so with me though- coming from North America, if I get it (haven't yet, knock on wood), it'll be bad, and make a cold seem like nothing. I continue to take anti-malarials every morning though, so hopefully things will continue to go well on that front.

On a totally different, but also slightly disturbing note, I'm at the office this morning and hear a sudden, deep rumble. Although it's cloudy, this definitely isn't thunder.

"Did you hear that?" I ask my supervisor.

"Yeah. Sounded like a land-mine," he says, casually. "It was probably a cow."

Holy crap. A land mine? In spite of myself, and feeling bad for doing it, I can't help but smile when I think of an exploding cow. I know how bad that sounds, sorry.

Again, another one of these things that sounds crazy, until you think about the context. The north/south civil war only ended in 2005, and there are still mines all over the place. Nobody seems to know exactly where they are, and there are plenty of no-go zones. As our security manual says:

"Landmines
Stay on the paths.

Types:
Anti-personnel.
Anti-tank. There are always anti-personnel mines around an anti-tank mine.

Marking:
Red-painted sticks or signs: Danger.
White-painted sticks or signs: The area has been cleared.

Other indicators in unmarked areas:
Dead animals.
Uncultivated ground in cultivated areas.
Deserted building in populated areas.
Area marked locally, with piles of rocks, crossed sticks, rocks across a path, empty mine
packaging, injured people.

Marking is the exception, not the rule. In Sudan, there are no maps of where mines were planted. "

Wow. Definitely not in Kansas any more. Unless it's post-apocalyptic Kansas. Several NGOs work around Yei, trying to get rid of the mines, but it's definitely an imperfect science. Given this, I understand why we're encouraged to stay on the paths at all times.

Ah Sudan... the happiest place on Earth.

Right?