Independence Day!!

I.O.U. several blog posts about Independence Day... but, right now, I'm too overwhelmed and tired from all the celebrating... let me just leave you with this photo. I think it says it all.

Movin' on up (or over... or North)...

So, its time for an update on what is happening with me in South Sudan. That is, besides taking photos and getting sick..

I came back from leave in the middle of May, and had finally gotten a handle on this job/ life. I like my colleagues, had made some good friends here in Yambio, and my veggie garden was finally coming along.

Plus, the work is really interesting, I did some fun (and occasionally heartbreaking) assessments with IDPs, learned about constructing slaughter slabs for goats, and how to stay awake during a 6 hour ceremony where "His Excellency, the Commissioner of xxx County" spoke at length about... something...   (I said I could stay awake… not that I could focus)

I've been helping to write lots of proposals, and have discovered that in the past few years, I've learned a thing or two about what makes a good indicator and what qualifies as relevant, efficient, effective and sustainable programming. Most days, I feel competent. All in all, I'd say that I learn new and interesting things every day, have grown a ton, seem reasonably competent and feel like I really found my niche. And, even though I still don't think of myself as a "grown-up"; I feel like a professional. Basically, I’ve comfortably settled into this life and just started feeling like I knew what I was doing.

So, last Sunday, when I got a phone call telling me that I was being relocated, I was a little stunned. Apparently we are having (another) re-organization. As part of this I am getting what is being called a promotion, but I think it’s actually just a new title on the business cards and a harder job.

Instead of being a "Program Quality Officer" in the "External Engagement, Program Quality and Resource Acquisition Department" I am a "Quality Assurance Officer" in the "Quality Assurance Department". (if this sounds a little Orwellian to you… you’re not alone)  I am also being moved from the state I currently live in, Western Equatoria, to a state called Warrap. This new position is supposed to be something like a we’ll-send-you-to-the-mess-and-ask-you-to-trouble-shoot, fix things-and-make-sure-they-stay-functional kind of a job. There will be lots of travel and I won't have a "base" I'll be mobile all the time-- moving within Warrap, to Juba and to the other regions if needed.

The mandate does actually sound like a lot of fun. That being said...

Western Equatoria is a tropical paradise, we have mangoes everyday and great weather. The projects were just starting to function, and we were starting 4 new ones that I was really excited to work on from proposal to close-out. Plus, we just got a new cook and I've stopped eating goat every day.

Warrap has 3 times the number of projects (i.e. 3 times the amount of work) and is easily twice as big (i.e. 2 times more bone-jarring rides in Land Cruisers)
Also, I hear that you can't find a vegetable in the whole state, there are snakes and scorpions all over and that the weather is absolutely miserable.

I'm 8 parts excited for this new job, 1 part sad to be leaving the one I love so much, and 1 part absolutely terrified that the new position is WAY too big of a job.

I will keep you updated and let you know how it goes. The good thing is that I'll have some breaks coming up. In August, I'm going to Honduras for a HEAT security training (totally awesome) and then my family is coming and we're going to spend a week each on Egypt and Tanzania.

History in miniature

Wanna know a secret? 

It’s not just me in here.

If the history of Africa in the last 200 years has been one of colonization, war, independence and rebuilding, then that history has been playing itself out in miniature inside of my body these past few weeks.

Not only have I been colonized, the colonial powerhouses are warring with each other over territory.

Playing the roles of exploitative interlopers: Giardia lamblia* and Taenia saginata. (Better known as a nasty parasite and a tapeworm.)

And, cast as Nelson Mandela, Kwame Nkrumah, and Leopold Senghor: Flagyl, Albendazole and Tinidazole (Independence movement leaders in South Africa, Ghana and Senegal, and some strong drugs, respectively).

The fight is on. As with many independence struggles, things are getting worse before they get better. To (almost) quote Colonel Nasser, a leader in the Egyptian struggle for independence, “The liberation movement should get rid of (the tapeworm) as quickly as possible in order to deal with what is more important- namely the need to purge the country of the corruption that (the parasite) will leave behind him. We must pave the way towards a new ear in which the people will enjoy their sovereign rights and live in dignity. Justice is one of our objectives.” 

My sovereignty has been violated; my dignity is not intact. Fortunately, unlike many freedom fighters in the past, I have technology on my side. Biomedicine and strong pharmaceuticals are the AK-47s and anti-aircraft guns of this war. I will triumph, I will emerge stronger, I will expel these aberrations from my body and begin the work of rebuilding.

*Note: for those of you who have been following not only my adventures of the last several years... but the adventures of my intestines... you'll recall that Giardia is what made me so sick in Mongolia. Luckily, this time I recognized the signs and knew what to look for...

Photo essay 2: Crayola bombs

Maybe we should develop a Crayola bomb as our next secret weapon.  A happiness weapon.  A beauty bomb.  And every time a crisis developed, we would launch one.  It would explode high in the air - explode softly - and send thousands, millions, of little parachutes into the air.  Floating down to earth - boxes of Crayolas.  And we wouldn't go cheap, either - not little boxes of eight.  Boxes of sixty-four, with the sharpener built right in.  With silver and gold and copper, magenta and peach and lime, amber and umber and all the rest.  And people would smile and get a little funny look on their faces and cover the world with imagination.  ~Robert Fulghum



The most I can do for my friend is simply to be his friend. I have no wealth to bestow on him. If he knows that I am happy in loving him, he will want no other reward. Is not friendship divine in this?” -Henry David Thoreau

One of the virtues of being very young is that you don't let the facts get in the way of your imagination.  ~Sam Levenson



Wherever there is a human being, there is an opportunity for a kindness.  ~Seneca





I don't think it's possible to skip with a frown on your face.... I'd like to see the world's governing and terrorist leaders on a skipping tour through the Middle East and across the subcontinent and China to Korea.  ~Sue Irwin, as posted on iskip.com



He who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe is as good as dead; his eyes are closed.  ~Albert Einstein

Photo essay 1: IDPs of a certain age



"Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art....
It has no survival value;
rather it is one of those things that give value to survival." 
~C.S. Lewis

"Travelers who put their homesickness behind them, who explore a place thoroughly, may find upon returning home that they experience a new kind of homesickness, a benign kind, that which comes only to those who travel well: homesickness for a place once visited, even if only briefly -- the sense that only in the western Highlands of Scotland, the beaches of the Lesser Antilles, the markets of Marrakesh, did some deep and very real part of their soul feel completely and exhilaratingly at home." W. D. Wetherell
A friend of mine recently posted this quote on her blog, and I think that it perfectly sums up something the Germans call, "fernweh". That is the oppowite of homesickess, its yearning for the far away. I suspect that when I'm an old lady, I will sometimes look up from what I'm doing and see these people again in my mind. I will have a longing to be at home with them once more. The following blog posts include photos taken at a seed fair for Internally Displaced People (IDPs) who have had to flee their homes, land and livelihoods to get away from the LRA.   

A single conversation with a wise man
is better than ten years of study. 
~Chinese Proverb

 

Adopt the pace of nature: 
her secret is patience. 
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

 


It takes a long time to become young.  ~Pablo Picasso

 

  



Some people, no matter how old they get, never lose their beauty
- they merely move it from their faces into their hearts. 
~Martin Buxbaum

  

"The age of a woman doesn't mean anything.
The best tunes are played on the oldest fiddles."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson



In the central place of every heart there is a recording chamber.  So long as it receives a message of beauty, hope, cheer, and courage - so long are you young.  When the wires are all down and our heart is covered with the snow of pessimism and the ice of cynicism, then, and only then, are you grown old.  ~Douglas MacArthur







a dinner invitation

Adorable little boy in Ezo with a mango.

Tomorrow, I'm going for dinner at a colleagues house. Rather, I'm going for dinner at her grandfather's home. She and her family live about 30 minutes by motorbike from Yambio. Her grandparents and parents live much as their grandparents lived before them. Their houses are tukels (grass-roofed brick and mud huts), they cook over wood or charcoal fires outside, and they eat what they grow-- cassava, greens, maybe some ugali made with maize flower. When I was there last, her grandmother came chasing after me, on the dirt path, with a plastic cup full of small red fruits. They were palm fruits. One can boil them to extract an oil that is used to cook with and flavor greens. I didn't even know that palm trees had fruit before this. I also didn't have the heart to tell her grandmother that I didn't have a clue what to do with the fruits.
There were kids running all over the place; dirty, happy little boys and girls, showing me to how to fetch mango's with a long pole and giggling into their hands when I made faces at them. One little girl, my friends' niece, is about 9 years old. She was born deaf. I've never seen a happier, gigglier little girl. Even though there is no standard system of sign language, her family communicates with her by facial expressions and hand motions. Everyone understands each other perfectly and she is clearly the darling of the family. I asked my friend if she knew why her niece was deaf. She said that the week before this little girl was born; the LRA came and attacked her mother's village. Her mother ran away and then fainted. She was unconscious for two days. A week later the baby was born. My colleague asked me if I thought this was how she had become deaf. I didn't know. I don't know. I hate the LRA.
Eventually, I told them that I had to leave. I can't take public transportation (a guy who will drive me the 1/2 hour back home on the back of his motorbike) after dark. OK, maybe I'm not supposed to take these bodas regardless of the time of day, but how else could I visit these amazing people down windy, red dirt paths, through the bush? As I started to walk away, my colleague, who is a lovely 21 year old, well educated young woman started up the path with me. “Oh! You don’t have to come back to town with me, I can make it.” I said. To which she replied, “ I don’t live here, I live in town. My father doesn’t want us to stay here in the night. The LRA might come. So he sends my two eldest brothers and I to live in town.” So, we went, leaving her grandparents, her father and stepmother, her sister, her niece, and a half dozen other children in their tukels, under their mango tree, tending their fires, waiting.
On our way out she says, “You see that big mango tree over there? I was conceived under that mango tree. And over there, that’s my mother’s house.” Even as I’m grimly thinking about the LRA and those cute kids, I laugh at the easy spontaneity with which she shares these details, I giggle at the absurdity of being conceived under a mango tree… of your family sharing that story. I remember I had a friend in high school, Daniel. When we turned 16, his father handed down a very, very old van to him. After a few weeks of proudly driving that van around, bragging about the shag carpeting, his father nonchalantly mentioned, “Hey, you know, you were conceived in the back of that van…” I remember Daniel’s face as he told us that story the next morning in the high school parking lot. I was smiling to myself at the memory. “My father can’t go there anymore… and if my sister cooks food there, he won’t eat it.” Recalled back to the moment, I looked up at the dilapidated tukel and overgrown area in front of it. She then told me the story about her mother, how she died when my friend was only six. In Zande culture, when someone dear to you dies, you move to a new home- a new compound. Otherwise, that person’s spirit might stay with you, not giving you peace. The mango tree story became more bittersweet the more I thought of it. Everyday, this young woman walks by that spot, she sees the tree where her life began; she sees the house where her mother’s life ended.

This is life here, a series of ups and down, separated by only moments. Visiting a charming family, playing with little kids, eating warm mangos that fell from a tree minutes before.

High.

Conducting a focus group with IDPs in Ezo

Realizing that this paradise can end in a heartbeat with a bloody LRA attack.

Low.

Smiling at an old memory and an even older story with a new friend.

High.

Thinking about the loss of a young girl when her mother dies and a father’s grief.

Low.

Jumping rope with kids in Ezo.

Last Thursday, I conducted an assessment among internally displaced people (IDPs) in Ezo county. As we went house to house asking questions about crops and schools and water and sanitation, I saw kids with distended bellies full of worms. There were mothers who were a decade younger than me with 4 kids hanging onto them, some of them their own; some of them were orphans of the war and the cross-border violence. I saw men, who were once proud farmers reduced to taking charity from foreigners… charity that was soon going to run out. People were drinking water so dirty and smelly that I couldn’t even bathe in it. The Dickensian sight of children in rags and bare feet was depressing as hell. Women told me that their children were afraid to go to school. They were afraid of being attacked on the way, they were afraid of coming home and finding their mothers missing or worse. Children told me stories about seeing dead bodies. They told me stories about amputations, beheadings, torture, abductions. They were terrified. We talked to them about all this. All the while I was praying that I wasn’t making it worse by asking them to dredge up these memories. After we talked, we skipped rope, played silly games, sang some songs, and ate candy together. Little girls braided my hair. Little boys held my hand.
Highs and Lows.

Giving a speech to open a new HIV counseling 

and testing center

I came back to Yambio and saw an article about foreign investment in South Sudan. All I could think of was industrial farms, abusive labor practices, indigenous land rights being taken away by corrupt politicians, blood diamonds, and much more violence.
Another Low.
On Wednesday, I went out with some staff early in the morning to monitor a seed fair. We invited IDPs and farmers to come together. The IDPs were given coupons for seeds. They “paid” farmers with their coupons and farmers cashed the vouchers in for cash at the end of the day. Happy people. Happy farmers. These IDPs had the dignity to choose their own crops, something which traditional aid distributions deny them. They could buy local, familiar seed, preserving the regions biodiversity. They had a day of celebration with their friends and neighbors at the fair. They could look forward to working again, to feeding their families, to being productive. As bad as the IDP settlement in Ezo was, Wednesday helped. 150 families had seed to plant. 30 vendors made their money for the season. We did this. In some, small, small way, I helped do this. 150 people out of 70,000 IDPs. It’s a drop in the bucket, but it felt good.

Another High.

South Sudan is full of highs and lows. I love my work, I love my life, I feel like I’ve found my place. That’s a high. I look around and I see women and children dying needlessly of easily preventable causes. I see the sky falling in Abyei, I see another war coming. That’s a low. I don’t know anymore how to feel. I just know that I wouldn’t rather be anywhere else.

27 candles (or, in my case, types of exotic meat)

This past month, I turned 27 (or as I sometimes prefer to think of it, the 6^th anniversary of my 21^st birthday). And though I had a great time with friends in Nairobi at the world famous Carnivore restaurant, the idea that my mid-twenties are over is startling and a little scary. Actually, the idea that my teens are over is still surprising. 

"Maturity is a high price to pay for growing up..." -Tom Stoppard 

Am I finally growing up? 


Am I getting old?

I don’t feel old (though a slight crinkling at the eyes when I smile is looking suspiciously like crows feet) I don’t act old (though I prefer to be in bed by 10:30 every night, and cannot make it past midnight). My friends aren’t old (though every single one of my girlfriends is either engaged or married). It’s… well, its damn confusing is what it is. Maybe this confusion shouldn’t surprise me. According to a recent study, US research has suggested that, “mental powers start to dwindle at 27 after peaking at 22, marking the start of old age.”    

Meh hey-hey anyone??

Alas, science has spoken… but, everything she has to say isn’t negative… This excerpt is taken from an article that claims that women become sex crazed at age 27. Look out world.

“What often crowds our minds are our biological clocks. By 30 and continuing into our 40s, all we can hear is a faint, imaginary murmur from our anxious tubes: tick-tock, tick-tock. It's this "sound" that, according to new research from the University of Texas-Austin, that drives us to "capitalize on our remaining childbearing years."

In layman's terms, we have sex and lots of it.

And although there is a little Samantha Jones in all of us (maybe a lot for some of us), the study attributes "adventurous bedroom behavior" not to our upbringing or racy TV shows but to low fertility. The study, published in the July edition of Personality and Individual, found women between 27-45 (those in the "low fertility" category) to possess a "heightened sex drive in response to their dwindling fertility," and that these women are "more likely to have frequent sexual fantasies, an active sex life, and a willingness to have casual sex."

Lilian, Myles and I at the world famous "Carnivore". The menu for the evening included ostrich, camel, and ox balls... (among other tasty offerings)

I did a little more internet research about the big two seven. It seems to be a good year to do big things. At age 27:

o   Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. dropped out from his job at General Electric to become a full-time writer.

o   Henry David Thoreau went off for two years to live alone in a cabin at Walden Pond.

o   Cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin became the first person in space.

o   Memphis millionaire Frederic W. Smith, whose father built the Greyhound bus system, founded Federal Express.

o   Scottish botanist David Douglas discovered the Douglas fir.

o   Ernest Hemingway published his first novel, The Sun Also Rises.

o   Boston dentist William Morton pioneered modern anaesthesiology after learning that inhalation of ether will cause a loss of consciousness.

o   Barack Obama’s speech writer was just 27 when he wrote  Obama’s inaugural address at a Starbucks. 

o   Conceptual artist Piero Manzoni crapped in 90 small cans which were then factory sealed and offered for sale at the price of gold.

My favorite Kenyan, partner in crime, and good friend Lilian

I hope that I also have big things to fill my 27th year, (OK, maybe not the poop in cans thing...) Personally, I think that year 27 will be no different from the previous 26. It will be filled with adventures, good friends, interesting places, and a wonderful family. 


I guess those lines around the eyes aren't so bad after all-- they're just indicators of a life filled with laughter...

P.S.  I'm very, very pleased that I have absolutely no musical talent... 27 is a bad age to turn if you are a famous musician.  Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, and Kurt Cobain all died at 27. (see mom and dad, NOW I betcha you’re glad those piano lessons didn’t pay off)