Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Definitely not PC
On April 21, 2006, I remember standing in the courtyard at the Peace Corps office in Yaoundé. I'd just been evacuated from Chad, along with 28 others, and after a few days of attempted transition between the life I'd known in Gounou-Gaya and what I was about to find in California, I was on my way to the Douala airport, and back home, via Paris.
When I got home, I remember thinking, "I've had enough of this, enough of the developing world. What's the point? Things are just going to fall apart in the end."
Funny how things can change, and how 1,212 days, three additional developing countries, one Master's degree, tens of thousands of dollars and frequent flyer miles, and one fellowship later, I find myself standing in the same courtyard.
This time I'm a visitor, and it feels like a world away. Aside from the obvious differences in lifestyle I talked about last time, there's something else, a new feeling of being a professional. I don't want to get too high up on a pedestal here, but I'm definitely no longer a Peace Corps volunteer- in many, many, ways, I've moved up in the world.
I'm visiting Peace Corps at the invitation of the Country Director, who called to see if I'd be interested in attending a ceremony for volunteers finishing their service. The 'Gonging-Out,' as they call it, is a chance for the staff to gather and say goodbye to the volunteers who are leaving (five, in this case), before they head to the airport, and their new lives.
This is something I've never seen before, and a nice touch on the part of PC Cameroon. Even though this was never something we had when we left Chad, given the circumstances, I can imagine how much this must mean to the outgoing volunteers. Volunteer life certainly isn't the most rewarding financially, but something else comes from most people's service, a sense of having done some real good, and relationships that last- I know that's been the case for me, at least. The staff go down the line, telling the group about each volunteer's accomplishments- the Country Director says a few words, and gives each of them a pin with a linked Cameroonian and American flag. After each, one of the staff hits a cowbell, a way to 'gong-out' the volunteers, and say goodbye.
Throughout the ceremony though, I find myself thinking of how strange it feels to be on the other side, the professional side. This office was the scene of one of the biggest transitions of my life, just a few years ago. I can feel the experiences of today and the memories of the past mixing though. Sitting on the same couch in the adjoining 'transit house,' while volunteers browse on the same computers that I remember using to watch the first season of LOST; speaking with one of the program directors, who remembers giving me a language evaluation in the midst of our 'Transition Conference'; most importantly seeing Chad, our Medical Officer (yes, in Chad), now doing the same job for the volunteers in Yaoundé.
I realize how far I've come when I meet the Country Director in his office. In 2006 I remember sitting in front of his desk, having a cursory chat as I tried to figure out the next step after what had been an extremely challenging time. This time, he invites me to come in, a chat among colleagues. Sitting on the couch, I notice a chess set made from miniature baseball helmets, Red Sox versus the Yankees- I decide not to ask where his loyalties lie, as I need all the friends I can get in Yaoundé. We start to talk though, and I'm explaining a bit about CRS, telling him about the Peacebuilding and HIV/AIDS work the organization is doing. I mention that our Country Representative is currently on leave.
"So, are you running the program while he's out?" he asks.
That's when I know just how different things are.
I laugh, and quickly explain that I'm hardly in a position to be running a country program- I'm very much in the learning process. Give me five or so years, and then I think I'd be ready, but not now.
We chat a bit longer, but the CD has to get back to to the flood of email though, so we wrap things up before long. Back in the courtyard, I find a few of the now-ex volunteers, new members of the RPCV community, and they invite me to join them for a beer. We walk to a place called Chez Francesco, a familiar-looking multicolored bar/restaurant less than 100 meters from the front gate.
This is much more the Africa I remember, rather than the expat palaces, the supermarkets, and the fitness center at the Hilton- it's not that those things aren't nice, but I don't know if you could call it the 'real' Africa. Obviously there are plenty of rich people on this continent, but the fact is that there are plenty more poor people, and the life I'm living now is a pretty rarefied one, compared to what I knew as a volunteer. At the restaurant with the volunteers, I look around and see tables full of 'normal' people, regular Cameroonians having a beer after work, watching a football match on TV, and bantering with the waitress, who comes over in a moment.
I order a large Castel, one of Cameroon's famous brews, and glance at the menu- halfway down, I see the 'Peacecorp Burger.'
"It's something like three beef patties and cheese," one of the new RPCVs says, answering my question- "I guess they figure we can use it when we come in from our sites." Weird for me to think about, especially now that the expat district of Yaoundé is the closest thing I have to a 'site,' and I can get whatever I want easily.
The evening passes quickly- they talk about their experiences as volunteers, and ask me about mine. I find myself lost in thought, thinking about all the things that have brought me here, back to the same restaurant where I sat in 2006 trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do next, maybe even at the same table, probably with the same beer.
The bill comes, another difference. Peace Corps volunteers are notoriously cheap (hardly a surprise)- as a volunteer I remember calculating everyone's share, making sure each Franc ended up where it was supposed to be. My share was maybe 1000 Francs- I have a 5000-franc note though, and I toss it in.
"Yours was 1000, how much change do we owe you?" one of the RPCVs asks.
"Nothing," I answer.
"But you paid way too much."
"You're volunteers, and I'm not. This is what expats used to do for us," I say. It's true- I'm on the other side, the place where I've wanted to be for years.
As I head back to my house I look out the windshield and see a maroon Peace Corps Land Cruiser, on the way to Douala, and the airport. Watching the Land Cruiser in front of me feels like looking back in time- I remember the same trip- the anxiety, the excitement, the sadness, the relief. That car ride was the end of one chapter, and the beginning of another for me- I think of the now-ex volunteers inside. Will any of them find their way back here? What would they feel if they do? I don't think I could offer much advice, but if they need a place to stop and reflect, I can recommend a very nice courtyard in which to do it.
Monday, August 10, 2009
New Place, New Life
I've been in Yaoundé for a week now- I was here briefly in 2005 and 2006, but this feels completely different. For better or worse, I think I'm an expat now...
It's been a major transition already, and this may be a bit stream-of-consciousness, but I'm going to recount the highlights of the past week as best I can.
I arrive on Monday night courtesy of Air France, after two long flights- Washington to Paris, and Paris to Yaoundé, Cameroon's capital. Having flown into several African capitals over the past couple years, I could tell right away that this is very different. As opposed to airports in Niamey, Juba, and N'djamena, Nsimalen airport in Yaoundé doesn't feel like it's falling apart- it's small, but clean, and didn't feel much different than the airport in small town anywhere, USA. Getting through passport control is efficient, my WHO Yellow Fever vaccination is checked quickly, and our bags come off the carousel within a few minutes of getting in.
Once I collect my bags, I get my first sense of how this is going to be different than anything I've done before. I see a sign with my name on it, and go over to the two people waiting. Hotance, the Administrative Assistant for CRS, greets me in English, asks me about my trip, and helps me with my bags. Here's the strange part- we've barely left the airport when she hands me a sleek black mobile phone (+237 75059009, if you feel like calling), and an envelope with 41,000 FCFA (about $88).
"The phone is prepaid, so you don't need to worry about buying credit- we unblocked the international calls, so you can call home as you'd like," she says. "The money is per diem for two days." When I was a Peace Corps volunteer, that money would have lasted a month in my village.
Arriving at the CRS office, I see my new place for the first time. It's enormous. The office itself is a converted four-unit apartment building in Bastos, the nicest district of Yaoundé. They've left one of the apartments as-is for me, and honestly, I'm not sure what I'm going to do with the space. I have three bedrooms (one of which is converted to a living room), three bathrooms, a kitchen, pantry, air-conditioning, and fast internet access. This is definitely not Peace Corps, Mercy Corps, or anything else.
The next morning, I wake up to the sound of singing. Seriously.
It's not exactly on key, and I can't make out what's being said, but I'm interested. I unlock the door to the apartment and find myself face-to-face with a smallish older woman wearing a black dress and a yellow headscarf, carrying a mop.
"Good morning, sir!" she exclaims.
"Good morning, how are you?" I ask. "I'm Nathaniel."
"With Jesus, sir!" she says. I nod, not entirely sure how to respond.
"My name is Mommy Grace," she continues. "For 30 years, I've worked here. I've been here longer than anyone."
Wow. 30 years- I haven't been alive 30 years.
Later in the morning, after I have a chance to meet the rest of the staff, Margaret, a Cameroonian and the acting Country Representative, takes me aside.
"We've set up interviews with a few possible housekeepers," she says. "One of them is here now."
I try to think about what I'm going to say, and go to meet Odelia, one of the women interested in a job I didn't know I'd advertised. I immediately get a good feeling from her- she's warm, friendly, and brings a stack of recommendation letters. I let her know that I'll get back in touch with her within a couple days, but I've already decided that she's the one.
It feels weird though. A housekeeper? OK, I'm definitely no longer a Peace Corps volunteer. I'm not quite sure how I feel about this, but after a bit of reflection, I realize it's probably for the best. The truth is that I could spend my entire weekend badly doing laundry and mopping floors, or I could pay Odelia to do it very well, and then she can use the money to send her kids to school. It seems awfully selfish of me to take away the opportunity to help someone improve their life because it feels imperialist and uncomfortable to have a woman mop the floor for me. In my mind, if you're living in the developing world, and have the good fortune to have money (as most non-Peace Corps foreigners do), you have a certain responsibility to do what you can to help people and the economy, and if that means feeling a bit uncomfortable at the idea of having someone do laundry and sweep, so be it.
This feeling of being uncomfortable though, I hope it's something I never lose... I realize that when I go to a going- away party hosted by staff of the US embassy the other night. I don't want to be undiplomatic here, but talking with a few of the US Marine guards at the party (all American embassies have a Marine detachment), I realize how easy it can be take the assistance of others for granted, and to be in a place without actually being there, if that makes sense.
This whole experience feels like a major shift though, one that comes with the territory. As an 'expat,' one of those people I used to feel so disdainful of as a volunteer, I have the freedom to do much more than I ever could before. I can ride a motorcycle whenever I feel like it, stay in the capital as long as I feel like (it is home, after all), and go the grocery store with the realization that I can afford to buy whatever I want, whenever I want. It's something that comes with becoming a professional, and moving into a new phase of my career, I suppose.
I've been here a week, so my observations should be taken with several handfuls of salt, but from what I can tell, Cameroon feels like much more like a country that's actually developing, as opposed to other places in the 'developing world' that don't seem to be moving forward. As such, there's a strange mix of modern industrialized life coupled with a more traditional view of Africa. There are wealthy here, of course, and there are many, many poor people, but there's a legitimate middle class from what I can see. These are people who have university degrees, work in professional jobs, and have the money to shop at Casino, the big French supermarket downtown. At the same time, some of these people will also go to Mokolo, the enormous open-air market about a 15-minute walk from my house, and bargain for 100 FCFA (22¢) worth of carrots. It's a place where you can reserve your seat on a luxury bus to Douala online, but where the shop you go to get a document laminated is a table under a palm tree, with a fraying cord plugged into a worn out extension cable.
But that's the nature of life in this part of the world, I suppose. No country is going to develop at the same rate throughout, and I'm sure I'll continue to see these weird contrasts of modernity and poverty while I'm here. I also know that once I get outside of the capital and the other large cities of the south, Cameroon is likely to feel as poor and as undeveloped as most of the other places I've worked in so far. I'm sure it'll feel bizarre to see the same scenes I remember as a volunteer, but with so much more opportunity, and the possibility of making a more significant impact. I don't know yet where that impact will be, but it'll be interesting to see how this job, and this new chapter of my life develops...
Friday, July 24, 2009
On the way home- Nairobi, London, and Miami
Again, no story here, just photos from the trip home, including stops in Nairobi, London, and Miami...
Juba on the Nile, and Yei
No story here, just a few photos from the banks of the Nile at Juba, and a quick trip to Yei before leaving Sudan for the last time...
Health Education, Water Testing, and Renk
Here's another album- most of this one is from a visit to a health education session, where facilitators were working with the community to talk about how to prevent things like malaria and diarrhea, etc. I also have photos in this one from a visit to a few water sources, and a testing program put in place after the use of filters. Finally, there are a few random ones from Renk. There's a story about the water testing below the photos...
A fresh, and safe, cup of the Nile
Magara, Upper Nile state (Sudan) – Miriam Adam’s two- year-old daughter takes hold of a plastic cup with both hands and tips her head back, taking enormous gulps of water. She quickly drains the cup, putting it down with a satisfied look. Not long ago, her cup of water, drawn from the banks of the Nile less than 200 meters away, could have contained any number of viruses and parasites- now, Adam has no need to worry about what her daughter drinks.
“The kids were sick, but they aren’t now,” she says, speaking in Arabic.
Six months ago, Mercy Corps and a consortium of three other non-governmental organizations came to Magara village to provide water filters for the community, who until now had been drinking contaminated surface water from open pools and the Nile River without any form of treatment. The filters given to the people of Magara, which look like small concrete pillars with a spout protruding from the side, are locally made and easy to produce. When used properly, they provide an easy and cheap way for people to access safe drinking water, an important step on the path to better and healthier lives.
“When contaminated water is poured in, it trickles through and the bacteria, viruses and suspended solids get trapped in between grains of sand. As a result, clean water comes out,” explains Francis Okello, the Water and Sanitation Sector Head for the Northern Upper Nile Recovery and Rehabilitation Programme (NUNRRP). “The filtered water is absolutely safe,” he adds. “It’s obviously better to drink water from the filter than directly from the river.”
This technology, known as the bio-sand filter, was first developed at the University of Calgary (Canada) in the mid- 20th century, and uses the principle of slow-sand filtration to make contaminated water drinkable. The filter contains a bottom layer of gravel, with another layer of finer sand on top. When river or well water is poured through the filter, the grains of sand trap bacteria and viruses, and eliminate turbidity (cloudiness).
While the bio-sand filters are a new addition for families in southern Sudan, the concept of slow-sand filtration is a very old one. “Since time immemorial we’ve been using slow- sand filtration on a large scale for big cities but never at a household level,” says Okello. “We’re simply scaling it down from commercial to household level, but the principle remains the same.”
The filters require virtually no maintenance, only an occasional cleaning, as there are no moving or electronic parts. Simple designs such as these ensure durability in the harsh environment of southern Sudan. The filters come in three varieties, each constructed from different materials, but designed with the same basic structure of an upper chamber filled with sand and gravel, and a faucet or spout. The cheapest filters are made from zinc, and cost approximately 28 Sudanese pounds (11 U.S. dollars) to produce. Filters can also be built from plastic barrels or cast from concrete, but each of these is more expensive, 80 and 42 pounds (32 and 17 U.S. dollars), respectively.
“When the gravel and the sand become dirty I clean it out and wash it,” says Mohammed Ahmed, a resident of Magara, just off the single strip of dusty tarmac stretching more than 500 kilometers from Renk to Khartoum. Ahmed and his wife have four children- before receiving the filter six months ago, water-borne diseases were a constant issue for the family.
“We used to get sick with diarrhea and worms,” he says. “Now that we have the filter there are no diseases to worry about.”
Underground water is located far too deep in the area around Renk to drill boreholes for hand pumps, meaning that people have traditionally relied on water gathered from the river or other standing sources, leading to high levels of disease. Since 2007, Mercy Corps and its consortium
partners– the Fellowship for African Relief (FAR), Strømme Foundation, and Tearfund– have provided more than 2,200 filters to households throughout Upper Nile State. If each filter theoretically serves a family with multiple children, more than 10,000 people are likely to benefit from pure drinking water.
“People are much healthier now,” Okello says. “For years they’ve been unable to access safe drinking water, and just getting it from the Nile. Since the introduction of the bio-sand filters we’ve seen reduced rates of diarrhea and other diseases.”
The filters work extremely well, but the organization regularly tests the water to ensure their continued effectiveness. On a recent Friday morning Peter Agok, a Sanitation Supervisor for Mercy Corps, and Charles Primo, a Water and Sanitation Officer for the organization, visit several water sources and families around the town of Renk. Their plan is to sample water from the filters, and see how it differs from original sources such as wells and the Nile.
Agok and Primo’s first stop is at the village of Kolang, where they want to see the hafir (reservoir), located about 20 kilometers from Renk, along a bumpy dirt track. The hafir is
a large pit, dug in 2008 by Mercy Corps. It is roughly 20 meters by 40, and three meters deep, according to Primo, and built on a downward slope. As rain falls, it collects into a carved channel, gradually flowing down into the hafir. Primo walks to the edge of the water and dips in a plastic bottle, filling it just over halfway with brownish rainwater.
“The hafirs are a problem,” Agok says. “The water has a color and a bad smell- this is why we suggest they use filters.”
Following this, Primo and Agok collect three other samples, one from a well where a nomadic family is gathering water one jerry can at a time, and two from filters in Magara. Returning to Renk with the samples collected, they continue to a surprisingly well-organized laboratory at the water- treatment facility at the edge of town, near the riverbank.
Over the next 45 minutes Agok and Primo carry out a variety of tests on the water samples from the hafir, the well, Mariam Adam’s, and Mohammed Ahmed’s house. Primo carefully spreads growth solution onto a Petri dish, placing a few drops of water inside. Agok, on the other side of the room, pours a sample of hafir water into a clear plastic tube, squinting at the top to measure the turbidity. A moment later he takes a small sample of water and pours it into a color-coded meter to measure the pH- walking to the door, he holds the device in the sunlight, looking carefully at the small numbers on the side measuring the water’s natural acidity. Finished with their tests, they note the results in Arabic on a worksheet, close the lab, and lock the door, knowing their work is a small, but meaningful, step in improving the lives of vulnerable people in their community."
A fresh, and safe, cup of the Nile
Magara, Upper Nile state (Sudan) – Miriam Adam’s two- year-old daughter takes hold of a plastic cup with both hands and tips her head back, taking enormous gulps of water. She quickly drains the cup, putting it down with a satisfied look. Not long ago, her cup of water, drawn from the banks of the Nile less than 200 meters away, could have contained any number of viruses and parasites- now, Adam has no need to worry about what her daughter drinks.
“The kids were sick, but they aren’t now,” she says, speaking in Arabic.
Six months ago, Mercy Corps and a consortium of three other non-governmental organizations came to Magara village to provide water filters for the community, who until now had been drinking contaminated surface water from open pools and the Nile River without any form of treatment. The filters given to the people of Magara, which look like small concrete pillars with a spout protruding from the side, are locally made and easy to produce. When used properly, they provide an easy and cheap way for people to access safe drinking water, an important step on the path to better and healthier lives.
“When contaminated water is poured in, it trickles through and the bacteria, viruses and suspended solids get trapped in between grains of sand. As a result, clean water comes out,” explains Francis Okello, the Water and Sanitation Sector Head for the Northern Upper Nile Recovery and Rehabilitation Programme (NUNRRP). “The filtered water is absolutely safe,” he adds. “It’s obviously better to drink water from the filter than directly from the river.”
This technology, known as the bio-sand filter, was first developed at the University of Calgary (Canada) in the mid- 20th century, and uses the principle of slow-sand filtration to make contaminated water drinkable. The filter contains a bottom layer of gravel, with another layer of finer sand on top. When river or well water is poured through the filter, the grains of sand trap bacteria and viruses, and eliminate turbidity (cloudiness).
While the bio-sand filters are a new addition for families in southern Sudan, the concept of slow-sand filtration is a very old one. “Since time immemorial we’ve been using slow- sand filtration on a large scale for big cities but never at a household level,” says Okello. “We’re simply scaling it down from commercial to household level, but the principle remains the same.”
The filters require virtually no maintenance, only an occasional cleaning, as there are no moving or electronic parts. Simple designs such as these ensure durability in the harsh environment of southern Sudan. The filters come in three varieties, each constructed from different materials, but designed with the same basic structure of an upper chamber filled with sand and gravel, and a faucet or spout. The cheapest filters are made from zinc, and cost approximately 28 Sudanese pounds (11 U.S. dollars) to produce. Filters can also be built from plastic barrels or cast from concrete, but each of these is more expensive, 80 and 42 pounds (32 and 17 U.S. dollars), respectively.
“When the gravel and the sand become dirty I clean it out and wash it,” says Mohammed Ahmed, a resident of Magara, just off the single strip of dusty tarmac stretching more than 500 kilometers from Renk to Khartoum. Ahmed and his wife have four children- before receiving the filter six months ago, water-borne diseases were a constant issue for the family.
“We used to get sick with diarrhea and worms,” he says. “Now that we have the filter there are no diseases to worry about.”
Underground water is located far too deep in the area around Renk to drill boreholes for hand pumps, meaning that people have traditionally relied on water gathered from the river or other standing sources, leading to high levels of disease. Since 2007, Mercy Corps and its consortium
partners– the Fellowship for African Relief (FAR), Strømme Foundation, and Tearfund– have provided more than 2,200 filters to households throughout Upper Nile State. If each filter theoretically serves a family with multiple children, more than 10,000 people are likely to benefit from pure drinking water.
“People are much healthier now,” Okello says. “For years they’ve been unable to access safe drinking water, and just getting it from the Nile. Since the introduction of the bio-sand filters we’ve seen reduced rates of diarrhea and other diseases.”
The filters work extremely well, but the organization regularly tests the water to ensure their continued effectiveness. On a recent Friday morning Peter Agok, a Sanitation Supervisor for Mercy Corps, and Charles Primo, a Water and Sanitation Officer for the organization, visit several water sources and families around the town of Renk. Their plan is to sample water from the filters, and see how it differs from original sources such as wells and the Nile.
Agok and Primo’s first stop is at the village of Kolang, where they want to see the hafir (reservoir), located about 20 kilometers from Renk, along a bumpy dirt track. The hafir is
a large pit, dug in 2008 by Mercy Corps. It is roughly 20 meters by 40, and three meters deep, according to Primo, and built on a downward slope. As rain falls, it collects into a carved channel, gradually flowing down into the hafir. Primo walks to the edge of the water and dips in a plastic bottle, filling it just over halfway with brownish rainwater.
“The hafirs are a problem,” Agok says. “The water has a color and a bad smell- this is why we suggest they use filters.”
Following this, Primo and Agok collect three other samples, one from a well where a nomadic family is gathering water one jerry can at a time, and two from filters in Magara. Returning to Renk with the samples collected, they continue to a surprisingly well-organized laboratory at the water- treatment facility at the edge of town, near the riverbank.
Over the next 45 minutes Agok and Primo carry out a variety of tests on the water samples from the hafir, the well, Mariam Adam’s, and Mohammed Ahmed’s house. Primo carefully spreads growth solution onto a Petri dish, placing a few drops of water inside. Agok, on the other side of the room, pours a sample of hafir water into a clear plastic tube, squinting at the top to measure the turbidity. A moment later he takes a small sample of water and pours it into a color-coded meter to measure the pH- walking to the door, he holds the device in the sunlight, looking carefully at the small numbers on the side measuring the water’s natural acidity. Finished with their tests, they note the results in Arabic on a worksheet, close the lab, and lock the door, knowing their work is a small, but meaningful, step in improving the lives of vulnerable people in their community."
Seed Distributions, the Nile, and Renk
Here's another album, most of which is from a visit to a seed distribution going on in the tiny village of Banashewa, near the Ethiopian border. I also have photos in the album from Upper Nile State, including a visit to the Nile, and a few from Renk, one of the larger cities in the region. As before, the story (one of my favorites) is below the album...
Sowing seeds, improving lives
Banashewa, Upper Nile state (Sudan) – Simon Jino, 22, pours two large handfuls of sorghum seeds into a waiting orange-and-white bucket. Hundreds of seeds spill from his hands in a cascading blur of reddish-white dots, hitting the bottom of the bucket with a pinging sound like raindrops falling on a roof. Three handfuls later and his work is complete, leaving a white dusty residue from his fingertips to his wrists.
“I plan to farm with these,” he says in clear English. “I can grow a big crop.” He’s come to a distribution in Banashewa, a small community located more than 45 kilometers off the large marram (a red clay/gravel mixture) road that connects villages and towns throughout this region of Upper Nile state.
In Banashewa and several other villages throughout this region of southern Sudan, Mercy Corps is working to distribute seeds and tools to rural communities, providing the means for people to begin to cultivate again, before the rains come, and Banashewa, on the opposite side of the river
from the nearest road, is cut off. In March and April of 2008 massive floods swept through the area, inundating recently planted crops, and destroying most of the seeds that were to become food for communities such as this.
“When there’s no rain, or when there’s too much rain, it’s a problem,” explains John Wenesa, the Mercy Corps Base Manager at the nearby office in the village of Bunj.
With the support of the United States Agency for International Development (USAID), the organization has purchased some of the remaining seeds from nearby communities and is distributing them, along with tools. Mercy Corps hopes that people receiving the seeds will use
them not only to grow crops for their current needs, but also build a reserve they can use in later years, and possibly sell to other villages in the region. Each beneficiary receives a nearly identical amount of sorghum and maize seed, as well as a set of tools.
“We don’t expect to come back next year and distribute [seeds] again. We expect to come back and for them to give us seeds of the same quality to share with other communities,” says Anthony Mayodi, Mercy Corps’ Business Development Advisor for Upper Nile state, who is managing the distribution project. “We are helping them to increase food security in their community, as well as to have extra so they can sell them and be self-reliant.”
As is the case with most Mercy Corps projects, the organization relied on the guidance of local authorities in selecting the sites for the seed distributions. Representatives from the payam (an administrative division) directed the organization to Banashewa and Bunj, two of the communities worst affected by the floods, where the seeds will benefit between 3,500 and 5,000 families. When finished, the project will cost approximately US $90,000– some of the money will be used for labor and transport, but the vast majority of the funding will be used to pay for the seeds themselves, most of which have been bought in the area.
We bought the seeds locally to inject cash into the community,” Mayodi notes.
As the distribution in Banashewa begins, the omda (chief) is summoned to receive the first buckets of maize and sorghum seeds, as a symbolic gesture. The chief, called Yousef, would likely have been present already but was only able to make a brief appearance, as he was presiding over the village court– at issue was the question of two men who had allegedly claimed the same woman as their wife.
Before taking the buckets of seeds, Yousef, a small older man wearing matching white pants and a shirt addresses the gathered crowd, speaking in the local Mabaan language.
“We will plant these seeds, and if there is rain, I know we will be able to succeed,” he says authoritatively, his voice quieting more than 150 people waiting. “God is the one who will make it possible.”
Finished speaking to the crowd, Yousef moves to the front of the line, collecting a bright green plastic bucket. Dried yellow and red maize kernels are spread out on a plastic sheet; he plunges the bucket into the pile, filling it. Setting the bucket back down on the pile, he brushes his hand
across the top, leveling the kernels at the top of the rim with a smile.
The sacks of maize empty quickly- fortunately, dozens of bags of sorghum seed remain. As people collect the seeds in their buckets, hollowed-out gara (calabash) bowls, and tied-together headscarves and mosquito nets, the piles quickly disappear. Two young men struggle to haul
additional sacks out of the grass-and-mud storehouse, staggering under the 100-kilogram (220 lb.) load before dropping it onto the plastic sheet.
Elizabeth Yelo, 24, is the first woman to come to the head of the line. She has waited for almost an hour. Her orange and pink sash is tied across a red t-shirt- a patterned headband keeps the sweat out of her eyes. She is collecting seeds to plant for herself and her two-year-old son, named Sankwat; as a single mother, she has few means by which to support herself, making the sorghum she receives today all the more vital.
“I’m alone and want to farm so I can help my child,” she says, speaking in Mabaan through a translator. “If I don’t have these seeds, I can’t plant anything.” Placing a plastic bucket on the ground, Mayodi pours in sorghum seeds; as she moves out of line, Simon, a volunteer community mobilizer with Mercy Corps, hands her the metal heads for a pick and a hoe, tools she can use to break up the hard earth and plant. Placing the tools into the bucket along with the seeds, she balances it atop her head and walks off.
Farther down the line, Deng Chuba waits. A blue-and-black knit cap is pulled down across his forehead, and he carries a large bucket. He has only recently arrived in Banashewa, and the seeds will be a critical first step for him, his wife, and their four children.
“It’s very helpful to us, since we just arrived here,” he says in a gravelly voice, speaking Arabic. “I can grow a crop that will multiply and get bigger.”
As the supply of seeds begins to dwindle, Gaga Goofoe comes to the head of the line. A wizened-looking old woman, she has a few wisps of thin white hair, a pair of metal hoop earrings, and sunken brown eyes clouded by time and cataracts. A middle-aged man, possibly her son, waits with her; Goofoe holds his shoulder to keep herself steady in the blazing sun.
“My son will cultivate for me,” she says in a voice barely above a whisper, when asked what she plans to do with the seeds. “I can grow a big crop with this.”
When the seeds are exhausted, the distribution comes to an end. As Mayodi, Wenesa, and the others fold the tarps and sort registration forms, a small boy who looks to be about three- years-old walks up, carrying an empty plastic water bottle. He grabs one of the few remaining handfuls of sorghum seeds in his small fist, and drops them into the mouth of the bottle. Filling it just under halfway, he gives a small smile and trudges off determinedly away from the rest of the crowd, heading away from the houses, and towards the waiting fields.
Sowing seeds, improving lives
Banashewa, Upper Nile state (Sudan) – Simon Jino, 22, pours two large handfuls of sorghum seeds into a waiting orange-and-white bucket. Hundreds of seeds spill from his hands in a cascading blur of reddish-white dots, hitting the bottom of the bucket with a pinging sound like raindrops falling on a roof. Three handfuls later and his work is complete, leaving a white dusty residue from his fingertips to his wrists.
“I plan to farm with these,” he says in clear English. “I can grow a big crop.” He’s come to a distribution in Banashewa, a small community located more than 45 kilometers off the large marram (a red clay/gravel mixture) road that connects villages and towns throughout this region of Upper Nile state.
In Banashewa and several other villages throughout this region of southern Sudan, Mercy Corps is working to distribute seeds and tools to rural communities, providing the means for people to begin to cultivate again, before the rains come, and Banashewa, on the opposite side of the river
from the nearest road, is cut off. In March and April of 2008 massive floods swept through the area, inundating recently planted crops, and destroying most of the seeds that were to become food for communities such as this.
“When there’s no rain, or when there’s too much rain, it’s a problem,” explains John Wenesa, the Mercy Corps Base Manager at the nearby office in the village of Bunj.
With the support of the United States Agency for International Development (USAID), the organization has purchased some of the remaining seeds from nearby communities and is distributing them, along with tools. Mercy Corps hopes that people receiving the seeds will use
them not only to grow crops for their current needs, but also build a reserve they can use in later years, and possibly sell to other villages in the region. Each beneficiary receives a nearly identical amount of sorghum and maize seed, as well as a set of tools.
“We don’t expect to come back next year and distribute [seeds] again. We expect to come back and for them to give us seeds of the same quality to share with other communities,” says Anthony Mayodi, Mercy Corps’ Business Development Advisor for Upper Nile state, who is managing the distribution project. “We are helping them to increase food security in their community, as well as to have extra so they can sell them and be self-reliant.”
As is the case with most Mercy Corps projects, the organization relied on the guidance of local authorities in selecting the sites for the seed distributions. Representatives from the payam (an administrative division) directed the organization to Banashewa and Bunj, two of the communities worst affected by the floods, where the seeds will benefit between 3,500 and 5,000 families. When finished, the project will cost approximately US $90,000– some of the money will be used for labor and transport, but the vast majority of the funding will be used to pay for the seeds themselves, most of which have been bought in the area.
We bought the seeds locally to inject cash into the community,” Mayodi notes.
As the distribution in Banashewa begins, the omda (chief) is summoned to receive the first buckets of maize and sorghum seeds, as a symbolic gesture. The chief, called Yousef, would likely have been present already but was only able to make a brief appearance, as he was presiding over the village court– at issue was the question of two men who had allegedly claimed the same woman as their wife.
Before taking the buckets of seeds, Yousef, a small older man wearing matching white pants and a shirt addresses the gathered crowd, speaking in the local Mabaan language.
“We will plant these seeds, and if there is rain, I know we will be able to succeed,” he says authoritatively, his voice quieting more than 150 people waiting. “God is the one who will make it possible.”
Finished speaking to the crowd, Yousef moves to the front of the line, collecting a bright green plastic bucket. Dried yellow and red maize kernels are spread out on a plastic sheet; he plunges the bucket into the pile, filling it. Setting the bucket back down on the pile, he brushes his hand
across the top, leveling the kernels at the top of the rim with a smile.
The sacks of maize empty quickly- fortunately, dozens of bags of sorghum seed remain. As people collect the seeds in their buckets, hollowed-out gara (calabash) bowls, and tied-together headscarves and mosquito nets, the piles quickly disappear. Two young men struggle to haul
additional sacks out of the grass-and-mud storehouse, staggering under the 100-kilogram (220 lb.) load before dropping it onto the plastic sheet.
Elizabeth Yelo, 24, is the first woman to come to the head of the line. She has waited for almost an hour. Her orange and pink sash is tied across a red t-shirt- a patterned headband keeps the sweat out of her eyes. She is collecting seeds to plant for herself and her two-year-old son, named Sankwat; as a single mother, she has few means by which to support herself, making the sorghum she receives today all the more vital.
“I’m alone and want to farm so I can help my child,” she says, speaking in Mabaan through a translator. “If I don’t have these seeds, I can’t plant anything.” Placing a plastic bucket on the ground, Mayodi pours in sorghum seeds; as she moves out of line, Simon, a volunteer community mobilizer with Mercy Corps, hands her the metal heads for a pick and a hoe, tools she can use to break up the hard earth and plant. Placing the tools into the bucket along with the seeds, she balances it atop her head and walks off.
Farther down the line, Deng Chuba waits. A blue-and-black knit cap is pulled down across his forehead, and he carries a large bucket. He has only recently arrived in Banashewa, and the seeds will be a critical first step for him, his wife, and their four children.
“It’s very helpful to us, since we just arrived here,” he says in a gravelly voice, speaking Arabic. “I can grow a crop that will multiply and get bigger.”
As the supply of seeds begins to dwindle, Gaga Goofoe comes to the head of the line. A wizened-looking old woman, she has a few wisps of thin white hair, a pair of metal hoop earrings, and sunken brown eyes clouded by time and cataracts. A middle-aged man, possibly her son, waits with her; Goofoe holds his shoulder to keep herself steady in the blazing sun.
“My son will cultivate for me,” she says in a voice barely above a whisper, when asked what she plans to do with the seeds. “I can grow a big crop with this.”
When the seeds are exhausted, the distribution comes to an end. As Mayodi, Wenesa, and the others fold the tarps and sort registration forms, a small boy who looks to be about three- years-old walks up, carrying an empty plastic water bottle. He grabs one of the few remaining handfuls of sorghum seeds in his small fist, and drops them into the mouth of the bottle. Filling it just under halfway, he gives a small smile and trudges off determinedly away from the rest of the crowd, heading away from the houses, and towards the waiting fields.
Schools, Malualkon, Juba, and the Goat
There are a few different things in this album, but the main element is a series of photos from a visit to a school construction project I visited near the town of Malualkon. You can read the complete story below the photo album.
I also have photos later in the album from air travel between Malualkon, Juba, and Yei, as well as the fate of a rather unfortunate goat...
Enjoy...
"Pariak/Riang-Aketh, Northern Bahr-el-Ghazal state (Sudan) – Angelo Garang, the Deputy Headmaster of Pariak Primary School, picks up a small slate chalkboard, carefully draws a large capital ‘F’ on it, and holds it next to the trunk of an enormous palm tree.
“F!” He shouts. “Repeat!”
“Eff!” Shout the 40 students of class 1C at the Pariak Primary School. The lucky ones with a seat on the upward-sloping edge of a fallen log have a clear view, while the rest stand in a crowd around the tree and Garang, jostling for position. In their first year of school, and between about seven-and-nine-years-old, they haven’t graduated to using notebooks; each holds a similar slate, and some clutch bits of chalk in their small hands.
“Eff! Eff! Eff! Eff! Eff!” The children chant, as Garang smiles in approval. A small boy begins to draw a rightward-leaning ‘F’ on his slate.
This could be primary school in virtually any village in southern Sudan. Decades of civil war destroyed what little infrastructure existed previously, and for many students, the only place they can go to learn is in the shade of a large tree. When the rains come to Northern Bahr-el-Ghazal state in June, however, school is often put on hold, as students have no place to shelter.
“When it starts raining the students won’t come, and the teachers won’t teach,” says Angelo Garang Adjo, a teacher, and a cousin of the Deputy Headmaster.
With the help of Mercy Corps, however, this is changing. With funding from the United States Agency for International Development (USAID), the organization has partnered with communities such as Pariak to build needed infrastructure such as community centers, clinics, and in this case, primary schools. Mercy Corps typically contacts the leadership of each payam (an administrative division), and on their advice, approaches communities throughout the area to propose new construction projects in these selected villages. Mercy Corps typically provides expensive and difficult to procure items, such as cement and tin sheets, while the community is asked to contribute locally-made materials for the project, such as bricks, creating the sense of partnership and self-reliance that is a key step for sustainable development.
“Mercy Corps is promoting development where it hasn’t previously existed,” says Apollo Nelson Atiba, the organization’s Economic Recovery and Development (ERD) Project Manager at the field office in the nearby town of Malualkon. “This way they have ownership and can feel proud. They’ll feel like, ‘We struggled for this on our own.’ If you just give something to someone, they won’t take care of it.”
In Pariak, and in the nearby village of Riang-Aketh, Mercy Corps has funded the construction of two school buildings, each at a cost of approximately $25,000 USD. In Pariak, the new three-room school building is still a series of deep square trenches, surrounded by piles of tan-red bricks. A long rectangle of bricks, the beginnings of a foundation, sits in one of the trenches as laborers in torn t-shirts chip away at the brown soil with shovels, sweat dripping down their foreheads.
Teachers at the Pariak school expect that approximately 60 students will be able to use the classroom. And while this is a good start, it is only a first step- Pariak Primary School enrolls 404 students, just over 100 of whom are girls. While the new building cannot accommodate every student, the Deputy Headmaster still sees the construction as a good start on the way to positive change.
“It’ll be important because it’ll increase [the students’] morale, and when there is rain, they can be there. The textbooks and materials will be protected too,” he says. And while not everyone can fit, Garang has a strategy for making the best use of the new building.
“The small children will be inside because they can’t control themselves and pay attention,” he points out. He may be right- many of the children of Class 1C seem to focus on everything except the letter ‘F’, following birds with their eyes, shoving their classmates, and chewing the pumpkin-like peel off the orange deleb fruits that fall from the overhanging coconut trees.
In the past, schools have been built in the area using local materials to create mud-and-grass tukuls (huts) where the students could learn. The tukuls would often collapse in the rain, dust, and heat common to the area, making them a short-term solution at best. Additionally, responsibility for the construction typically fell to the parents of the students, a time-consuming task.
James Wiik Tem is a member of the Parent-Teacher Association in Pariak. An older man, he wears a white short-sleeved golf shirt with blue flip-flop sandals. His deeply callused hands are rough to the touch, the result of a lifetime of manual labor. He has three children, each of whom finished school in Pariak a few years ago. “It is a positive change to move from local infrastructure to permanent buildings,” he says in the Dinka language, speaking through an interpreter. “It will be a pleasure for the children to do their exams inside.”
Mercy Corps and the community are in the early stages of a similar project in Riang-Aketh, approximately 25 kilometers from Pariak, on the way to Aweil, the state capital. Far off the main road, the village is little more than a collection of tukuls in the midst of a few sparse palm and acacia trees. Rounding a bend in the dirt track, several piles of sand and gravel are suddenly visible, bordered by stacks of bricks.
The new building will be a major improvement, not only for the school itself, but also a first on the road to development for the community. “This is the first time a concrete building has even been constructed in Riang-Aketh,” says Atiba, the Mercy Corps Project Manager.
As in Pariak, classes in Riang-Aketh operate under the trees. According to the Headmaster, Mr. Carbino, the school has six classes, with 250 students enrolled. In a worrisome trend, however, only 10 of the students are girls. The students cluster in the shade of a thorny acacia, against which a large improvised blackboard is perched. The lesson on the board is in Christian Religious Education (CRE), a mandatory course in school systems throughout East Africa. “Christians do not offer sacrifices” reads a line.
Both Carbino and James Geng Rel, the Deputy Headmaster, attended the school themselves, which has operated since 1996, the height of the civil war. They sit with a group of other teachers under the shade of another tree near the site of the new construction. A pile of English textbooks and a dictionary with the cover ripped off are stacked on the ground in front of Rel, next to a bar-coded box of UNICEF chalk.
As is the case in Pariak, the new school building in Riang-Aketh is in the beginning stages. Trenches have been carved, clearly marking the spaces for the school’s three new classrooms.
“We need to finish the construction soon, because when the rain comes, vehicles can’t come through,” says Carbino.
Despite this concern, Rel shares Mercy Corps’ belief that the new building will be a major improvement. “[It] will be an important improvement,” Rel says. “We’ll expect more output from the children.”
At the site, Atiba walks through the trenches, carefully inspecting the work and jotting figures in a small notebook. Mercy Corps expects each building to be completed in a maximum of 70 days, hopefully less, given the coming rains. As he walks through, he notes the progress, and reflects on its importance to the community and the motivation it provides for other similar villages hoping for future construction.
“They’ll have enough time to study, and won’t have to run home because of the rain,” he says, looking at the gathered students under the tree. “Other communities lay their bricks, and hope that [we can] come one day to help them too.”
I also have photos later in the album from air travel between Malualkon, Juba, and Yei, as well as the fate of a rather unfortunate goat...
Enjoy...
"Pariak/Riang-Aketh, Northern Bahr-el-Ghazal state (Sudan) – Angelo Garang, the Deputy Headmaster of Pariak Primary School, picks up a small slate chalkboard, carefully draws a large capital ‘F’ on it, and holds it next to the trunk of an enormous palm tree.
“F!” He shouts. “Repeat!”
“Eff!” Shout the 40 students of class 1C at the Pariak Primary School. The lucky ones with a seat on the upward-sloping edge of a fallen log have a clear view, while the rest stand in a crowd around the tree and Garang, jostling for position. In their first year of school, and between about seven-and-nine-years-old, they haven’t graduated to using notebooks; each holds a similar slate, and some clutch bits of chalk in their small hands.
“Eff! Eff! Eff! Eff! Eff!” The children chant, as Garang smiles in approval. A small boy begins to draw a rightward-leaning ‘F’ on his slate.
This could be primary school in virtually any village in southern Sudan. Decades of civil war destroyed what little infrastructure existed previously, and for many students, the only place they can go to learn is in the shade of a large tree. When the rains come to Northern Bahr-el-Ghazal state in June, however, school is often put on hold, as students have no place to shelter.
“When it starts raining the students won’t come, and the teachers won’t teach,” says Angelo Garang Adjo, a teacher, and a cousin of the Deputy Headmaster.
With the help of Mercy Corps, however, this is changing. With funding from the United States Agency for International Development (USAID), the organization has partnered with communities such as Pariak to build needed infrastructure such as community centers, clinics, and in this case, primary schools. Mercy Corps typically contacts the leadership of each payam (an administrative division), and on their advice, approaches communities throughout the area to propose new construction projects in these selected villages. Mercy Corps typically provides expensive and difficult to procure items, such as cement and tin sheets, while the community is asked to contribute locally-made materials for the project, such as bricks, creating the sense of partnership and self-reliance that is a key step for sustainable development.
“Mercy Corps is promoting development where it hasn’t previously existed,” says Apollo Nelson Atiba, the organization’s Economic Recovery and Development (ERD) Project Manager at the field office in the nearby town of Malualkon. “This way they have ownership and can feel proud. They’ll feel like, ‘We struggled for this on our own.’ If you just give something to someone, they won’t take care of it.”
In Pariak, and in the nearby village of Riang-Aketh, Mercy Corps has funded the construction of two school buildings, each at a cost of approximately $25,000 USD. In Pariak, the new three-room school building is still a series of deep square trenches, surrounded by piles of tan-red bricks. A long rectangle of bricks, the beginnings of a foundation, sits in one of the trenches as laborers in torn t-shirts chip away at the brown soil with shovels, sweat dripping down their foreheads.
Teachers at the Pariak school expect that approximately 60 students will be able to use the classroom. And while this is a good start, it is only a first step- Pariak Primary School enrolls 404 students, just over 100 of whom are girls. While the new building cannot accommodate every student, the Deputy Headmaster still sees the construction as a good start on the way to positive change.
“It’ll be important because it’ll increase [the students’] morale, and when there is rain, they can be there. The textbooks and materials will be protected too,” he says. And while not everyone can fit, Garang has a strategy for making the best use of the new building.
“The small children will be inside because they can’t control themselves and pay attention,” he points out. He may be right- many of the children of Class 1C seem to focus on everything except the letter ‘F’, following birds with their eyes, shoving their classmates, and chewing the pumpkin-like peel off the orange deleb fruits that fall from the overhanging coconut trees.
In the past, schools have been built in the area using local materials to create mud-and-grass tukuls (huts) where the students could learn. The tukuls would often collapse in the rain, dust, and heat common to the area, making them a short-term solution at best. Additionally, responsibility for the construction typically fell to the parents of the students, a time-consuming task.
James Wiik Tem is a member of the Parent-Teacher Association in Pariak. An older man, he wears a white short-sleeved golf shirt with blue flip-flop sandals. His deeply callused hands are rough to the touch, the result of a lifetime of manual labor. He has three children, each of whom finished school in Pariak a few years ago. “It is a positive change to move from local infrastructure to permanent buildings,” he says in the Dinka language, speaking through an interpreter. “It will be a pleasure for the children to do their exams inside.”
Mercy Corps and the community are in the early stages of a similar project in Riang-Aketh, approximately 25 kilometers from Pariak, on the way to Aweil, the state capital. Far off the main road, the village is little more than a collection of tukuls in the midst of a few sparse palm and acacia trees. Rounding a bend in the dirt track, several piles of sand and gravel are suddenly visible, bordered by stacks of bricks.
The new building will be a major improvement, not only for the school itself, but also a first on the road to development for the community. “This is the first time a concrete building has even been constructed in Riang-Aketh,” says Atiba, the Mercy Corps Project Manager.
As in Pariak, classes in Riang-Aketh operate under the trees. According to the Headmaster, Mr. Carbino, the school has six classes, with 250 students enrolled. In a worrisome trend, however, only 10 of the students are girls. The students cluster in the shade of a thorny acacia, against which a large improvised blackboard is perched. The lesson on the board is in Christian Religious Education (CRE), a mandatory course in school systems throughout East Africa. “Christians do not offer sacrifices” reads a line.
Both Carbino and James Geng Rel, the Deputy Headmaster, attended the school themselves, which has operated since 1996, the height of the civil war. They sit with a group of other teachers under the shade of another tree near the site of the new construction. A pile of English textbooks and a dictionary with the cover ripped off are stacked on the ground in front of Rel, next to a bar-coded box of UNICEF chalk.
As is the case in Pariak, the new school building in Riang-Aketh is in the beginning stages. Trenches have been carved, clearly marking the spaces for the school’s three new classrooms.
“We need to finish the construction soon, because when the rain comes, vehicles can’t come through,” says Carbino.
Despite this concern, Rel shares Mercy Corps’ belief that the new building will be a major improvement. “[It] will be an important improvement,” Rel says. “We’ll expect more output from the children.”
At the site, Atiba walks through the trenches, carefully inspecting the work and jotting figures in a small notebook. Mercy Corps expects each building to be completed in a maximum of 70 days, hopefully less, given the coming rains. As he walks through, he notes the progress, and reflects on its importance to the community and the motivation it provides for other similar villages hoping for future construction.
“They’ll have enough time to study, and won’t have to run home because of the rain,” he says, looking at the gathered students under the tree. “Other communities lay their bricks, and hope that [we can] come one day to help them too.”
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Back in the world
I couldn't sleep this morning.
The streetlights woke me up. It was cold too. Neither of these things have been a problem in almost five months.
I'm in Nairobi (Kenya), having just left Sudan yesterday afternoon. I'm on my way back to the States, via London, tomorrow (Tuesday) morning. I'm at the organization's guest house, which is actually in an apartment complex, the first place I've been in months that feels like something you'd see in 'real world.' When I say 'real world,' I don't mean to imply that southern Sudan is somehow false- hardly- it's very, very real, and the fact that so few people are aware of the reality there is part of the problem. The simple fact is, however, that things are so underdeveloped, the infrastructure is so bad, and the challenges are so great, that it feels like being in another reality.
Until yesterday, the largest city I've seen in almost five months is Juba, which has warped my perspective. Juba is a place where a nice hotel is a converted cargo container with air-conditioning and a generator, the roads in the center of town (which happens to be the unofficial national capital) are so rutted and cratered that it takes a Land Cruiser to move around, and everywhere you turn you see piles of trash, sewage spilling out into greenish-black puddles, and wandering sheep and goats.
The sense of relief I felt when the plane took off from Juba yesterday for the short (1.5 hour) flight to Nairobi was something I've rarely experienced, a palpable sense of, ' you did it, it's finally over.' Southern Sudan is poor, hot, and undeveloped, but I expected all of that coming in, and feel like I was as prepared as possible. I'm not sure what it was exactly that made my time there start to feel so frustrating, and like such a slog, although I'd guess that at least part of it was the fact that I was offered another job elsewhere within five weeks of arriving, meaning the majority of the time with the organization, I felt like I was just waiting for something new and better to happen.
Given this, when I arrived in Nairobi yesterday afternoon, I spent the majority of the time walking around in something of an amazed stupor. Even as we taxied to the gate at Jomo Kenyatta Airport (the main international airport), it was the first time in months I'd seen proper taxiways, jet-bridges, and even an airport terminal. I walked into the airport and found that I couldn't stop laughing as I looked around and saw candy, souvenirs, cafes, electronic displays of flight information, and so much more.
This sense of shock only continued later in the afternoon as I walked around Nakumatt Junction, an enormous shopping mall just a five-minute walk away from the guesthouse. I walked into a bookstore that was every bit the equal of anything you'd see in the US or Europe, had smoked salmon and cream cheese on a whole-wheat bagel for lunch at a coffee shop with pleasant music and souvenir t-shirts for sale, and finished it off with vanilla and berry gelato. I walked into the enormous supermarket (Nakumatt is a huge store here, similar perhaps to Wal-Mart or Carrefour), and saw... everything. From flat-screen plasma TVs to hundreds of varieties of toothpaste, it was all there.
I remember hearing as a Peace Corps volunteer about how intense the initial shock can be coming back to the developed world, but yesterday was the first time I really felt it. I wandered through the candy aisle, not so much because I wanted candy, but simply because I couldn't stop staring at all the packages, the colors, the varieties.
I certainly understand that the place where I was is a wealthy part of Nairobi, and there were foreigners (mostly white ones) everywhere, but there were also plenty of Kenyans, not simply the people serving drinks or cleaning, but shopping, dining, chatting on phones with Bluetooth headsets, and more.
I don't want to get overly philosophical here, or be an apologist for the colonial past of this place. The British ruled Kenya with an authority based on exploitation, violence, the pitting of tribal identities against each other, and arrogance. For all of this, however, the systems that they left behind, particularly the education and infrastructure, are what seem to me to have made all the difference. So many educated Kenyan professionals have built their country, and the amount of capacity among people here is such that there seems to be little need for expats- people can run their own affairs, and seem to be doing a good job of it, for the most part. One of the reasons why this is possible is because there's an infrastructure here that works- people can drive to work on a decent road, go the ATM to withdraw their Shillings, shop at the supermarket, eat at a restaurant, and catch a flight somewhere if they need to. None of this exists (or at least exists easily) in southern Sudan, and the difference is enormous. It isn't only an issue of violence- Kenya has had its share of war too, most recently last year, when the election went haywire. And despite the obvious advantages over a place like southern Sudan, Kenya is still very much a 'developing country.' Still, the degree to which things work here, and work properly, feels stunning after being in Sudan.
It's time for me to head to the office, so I'm going to wrap this up- before I go though, I'll have my granola, check my email again, and take a hot shower. It'll be London tomorrow, Miami and Tampa on Wednesday- crazy to think about. In any case, it's nice to be out, and in a place that feels at least a little closer to home...
The streetlights woke me up. It was cold too. Neither of these things have been a problem in almost five months.
I'm in Nairobi (Kenya), having just left Sudan yesterday afternoon. I'm on my way back to the States, via London, tomorrow (Tuesday) morning. I'm at the organization's guest house, which is actually in an apartment complex, the first place I've been in months that feels like something you'd see in 'real world.' When I say 'real world,' I don't mean to imply that southern Sudan is somehow false- hardly- it's very, very real, and the fact that so few people are aware of the reality there is part of the problem. The simple fact is, however, that things are so underdeveloped, the infrastructure is so bad, and the challenges are so great, that it feels like being in another reality.
Until yesterday, the largest city I've seen in almost five months is Juba, which has warped my perspective. Juba is a place where a nice hotel is a converted cargo container with air-conditioning and a generator, the roads in the center of town (which happens to be the unofficial national capital) are so rutted and cratered that it takes a Land Cruiser to move around, and everywhere you turn you see piles of trash, sewage spilling out into greenish-black puddles, and wandering sheep and goats.
The sense of relief I felt when the plane took off from Juba yesterday for the short (1.5 hour) flight to Nairobi was something I've rarely experienced, a palpable sense of, ' you did it, it's finally over.' Southern Sudan is poor, hot, and undeveloped, but I expected all of that coming in, and feel like I was as prepared as possible. I'm not sure what it was exactly that made my time there start to feel so frustrating, and like such a slog, although I'd guess that at least part of it was the fact that I was offered another job elsewhere within five weeks of arriving, meaning the majority of the time with the organization, I felt like I was just waiting for something new and better to happen.
Given this, when I arrived in Nairobi yesterday afternoon, I spent the majority of the time walking around in something of an amazed stupor. Even as we taxied to the gate at Jomo Kenyatta Airport (the main international airport), it was the first time in months I'd seen proper taxiways, jet-bridges, and even an airport terminal. I walked into the airport and found that I couldn't stop laughing as I looked around and saw candy, souvenirs, cafes, electronic displays of flight information, and so much more.
This sense of shock only continued later in the afternoon as I walked around Nakumatt Junction, an enormous shopping mall just a five-minute walk away from the guesthouse. I walked into a bookstore that was every bit the equal of anything you'd see in the US or Europe, had smoked salmon and cream cheese on a whole-wheat bagel for lunch at a coffee shop with pleasant music and souvenir t-shirts for sale, and finished it off with vanilla and berry gelato. I walked into the enormous supermarket (Nakumatt is a huge store here, similar perhaps to Wal-Mart or Carrefour), and saw... everything. From flat-screen plasma TVs to hundreds of varieties of toothpaste, it was all there.
I remember hearing as a Peace Corps volunteer about how intense the initial shock can be coming back to the developed world, but yesterday was the first time I really felt it. I wandered through the candy aisle, not so much because I wanted candy, but simply because I couldn't stop staring at all the packages, the colors, the varieties.
I certainly understand that the place where I was is a wealthy part of Nairobi, and there were foreigners (mostly white ones) everywhere, but there were also plenty of Kenyans, not simply the people serving drinks or cleaning, but shopping, dining, chatting on phones with Bluetooth headsets, and more.
I don't want to get overly philosophical here, or be an apologist for the colonial past of this place. The British ruled Kenya with an authority based on exploitation, violence, the pitting of tribal identities against each other, and arrogance. For all of this, however, the systems that they left behind, particularly the education and infrastructure, are what seem to me to have made all the difference. So many educated Kenyan professionals have built their country, and the amount of capacity among people here is such that there seems to be little need for expats- people can run their own affairs, and seem to be doing a good job of it, for the most part. One of the reasons why this is possible is because there's an infrastructure here that works- people can drive to work on a decent road, go the ATM to withdraw their Shillings, shop at the supermarket, eat at a restaurant, and catch a flight somewhere if they need to. None of this exists (or at least exists easily) in southern Sudan, and the difference is enormous. It isn't only an issue of violence- Kenya has had its share of war too, most recently last year, when the election went haywire. And despite the obvious advantages over a place like southern Sudan, Kenya is still very much a 'developing country.' Still, the degree to which things work here, and work properly, feels stunning after being in Sudan.
It's time for me to head to the office, so I'm going to wrap this up- before I go though, I'll have my granola, check my email again, and take a hot shower. It'll be London tomorrow, Miami and Tampa on Wednesday- crazy to think about. In any case, it's nice to be out, and in a place that feels at least a little closer to home...
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Poorest of the poor?
I'm back in Juba, sitting in the dining room at the Shalom Hotel this morning with Taban, one of the accountants for the organization. We're having the standard breakfast of omelettes, fruit salad, and fresh bread. The hotel is owned by Eritreans, so everything can come with a dusting of beri-beri spice (the distinctive flavor you always taste in Ethiopian and Eritrean places), if you ask for it. I do.
We're chatting, and I distractedly keep an eye on CNN– the sound is off, so I can only follow so much– plus, it'd be rude to watch too intently. I swallow a few multivitamins and my daily dose of Doxycycline (an anti-malarial pill), and we continue to talk.
I mention to him that I'm heading home- going to Nairobi this Sunday, London Tuesday, and Florida on Wednesday. I'm excited to be leaving, and I suppose it probably shows. It's not that this has been a bad experience in every way, but it definitely has not been what I'd hoped for. I feel like I've spent the better part of the past five months on a permanent camp-out, and frankly, I feel like I did that for two years as a Peace Corps volunteer. In any case, I'm not writing this to rant- that'll be the stuff of individual conversations with some of you.
"I have a brother in the US," Taban says, seemingly out of nowhere. "One in Australia too."
"Really?" I ask, surprised.
"Yes, they were resettled during the war."
"So they came as refugees, right?"
"Yes. The one in America is in Fargo, North Dakota."
I can't help but laugh a bit as I picture an enormously tall, rail-thin Sudanese man who'd never known days cooler than 25º C cruising around in Fargo, a place where I'd imagine 'cold' doesn't begin to do justice to the bone-chilling frozen-ness of the place. Odd how the US government tends to settle refugees in some of the least-expected places. I wonder how they decided on Fargo?
Like many of the Sudanese men and women working for the organization, Taban tells me about how he spent most of the past few decades out of Sudan. He left his village in 1985, as the north-south civil war was at its worst. As we finish our omelettes, he tells me about how people in the village, called Kajo-Keiji, managed to get ahold of an anti-aircraft gun, and shot down one of the north's Russian-built Antonov bombers. Supposedly, the wreckage is somewhere in the nearby mountains. With the war escalating he fled to Nairobi, where he attended university, and became an accountant.
As we talk, I realize something, my own misperception.
One of the things I've noticed, I tell him, is that I think working in this amorphous 'development' thing, it's easy to lose sight of the reality on the ground, and in some cases, that includes the positive. Working to do things like install hand-pumps, distribute seeds, or train people on the proper use of ox-plows, we spend most of our time working with the 'less than one dollar a day' segment of the population.
When all you see are the people who have nothing, it's easy to forget that while this is a large segment of the population in a place like southern Sudan, it's not the only one. There are entrepreneurs, scholars, and professionals, people like Taban. Honestly, it's encouraging. Working with people in villages, providing things that feel incredibly basic, and teaching things that seem so simple, it's easy to lose perspective, and feel like there's no hope for this place. As challenging as things may be here though, there are reasons to feel positive, and the reminder of this sometimes comes in the strangest places- in a hotel dining room, in this case. Taban came home- he tells me about how his brothers have talked about coming back as well, to do what they can to rebuild their country.
I hope they do. Southern Sudan clearly has a very, very long way to go as it moves forward. For the time being, at least, the government and the people here will probably continue to need the support of NGOs, most of which are led by expats. If things work how they're supposed to though, and the goal is to 'build capacity,' (a phrase you see constantly in reports), eventually a new group of Sudanese professionals will be ready to take the helm.
If that happens, I know a good accountant...
We're chatting, and I distractedly keep an eye on CNN– the sound is off, so I can only follow so much– plus, it'd be rude to watch too intently. I swallow a few multivitamins and my daily dose of Doxycycline (an anti-malarial pill), and we continue to talk.
I mention to him that I'm heading home- going to Nairobi this Sunday, London Tuesday, and Florida on Wednesday. I'm excited to be leaving, and I suppose it probably shows. It's not that this has been a bad experience in every way, but it definitely has not been what I'd hoped for. I feel like I've spent the better part of the past five months on a permanent camp-out, and frankly, I feel like I did that for two years as a Peace Corps volunteer. In any case, I'm not writing this to rant- that'll be the stuff of individual conversations with some of you.
"I have a brother in the US," Taban says, seemingly out of nowhere. "One in Australia too."
"Really?" I ask, surprised.
"Yes, they were resettled during the war."
"So they came as refugees, right?"
"Yes. The one in America is in Fargo, North Dakota."
I can't help but laugh a bit as I picture an enormously tall, rail-thin Sudanese man who'd never known days cooler than 25º C cruising around in Fargo, a place where I'd imagine 'cold' doesn't begin to do justice to the bone-chilling frozen-ness of the place. Odd how the US government tends to settle refugees in some of the least-expected places. I wonder how they decided on Fargo?
Like many of the Sudanese men and women working for the organization, Taban tells me about how he spent most of the past few decades out of Sudan. He left his village in 1985, as the north-south civil war was at its worst. As we finish our omelettes, he tells me about how people in the village, called Kajo-Keiji, managed to get ahold of an anti-aircraft gun, and shot down one of the north's Russian-built Antonov bombers. Supposedly, the wreckage is somewhere in the nearby mountains. With the war escalating he fled to Nairobi, where he attended university, and became an accountant.
As we talk, I realize something, my own misperception.
One of the things I've noticed, I tell him, is that I think working in this amorphous 'development' thing, it's easy to lose sight of the reality on the ground, and in some cases, that includes the positive. Working to do things like install hand-pumps, distribute seeds, or train people on the proper use of ox-plows, we spend most of our time working with the 'less than one dollar a day' segment of the population.
When all you see are the people who have nothing, it's easy to forget that while this is a large segment of the population in a place like southern Sudan, it's not the only one. There are entrepreneurs, scholars, and professionals, people like Taban. Honestly, it's encouraging. Working with people in villages, providing things that feel incredibly basic, and teaching things that seem so simple, it's easy to lose perspective, and feel like there's no hope for this place. As challenging as things may be here though, there are reasons to feel positive, and the reminder of this sometimes comes in the strangest places- in a hotel dining room, in this case. Taban came home- he tells me about how his brothers have talked about coming back as well, to do what they can to rebuild their country.
I hope they do. Southern Sudan clearly has a very, very long way to go as it moves forward. For the time being, at least, the government and the people here will probably continue to need the support of NGOs, most of which are led by expats. If things work how they're supposed to though, and the goal is to 'build capacity,' (a phrase you see constantly in reports), eventually a new group of Sudanese professionals will be ready to take the helm.
If that happens, I know a good accountant...
Monday, June 8, 2009
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...
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...
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