Walking the Streets.

On my last day in Tonj, I went for one last walk in town. I wanted to get a few gifts --if they were to be found-- but I also wanted one last goodbye.

As my friend Mario and I walked about, familiar faces greeted me loudly in the market. Women I’d welcomed into the antenatal program, and who even delivered with me, called me over to their stalls to greet me.

When they saw my camera, they insisted on a photo. Gathering their children in close and squaring their shoulders proudly, they stood and sat stock still for me “to make a design” of them.



I would have stayed to chat, but it was already late. Mario needed to give me something at his sister’s house. So we waved our goodbyes.

As I walked past, a wrinkled woman motioned insistently that I had my fly down. When I checked to see if she was right, laughter rippled through the crowd.

It took me a few seconds to realize she was teasing me, but then I laughed along with her another wave of laughter shook the crowd.

In South Sudan, teasing is a national sport!

Mario called me through the crowd, impatient to get to his sister’s house, so I waved my final goodbyes and walked on.

Mario has worked with In Deed and Truth ministries for years, most recently as a translator and clinic health worker. Although he is young, his English is great.

Over the years, he has been a good friend to me. When I told him I would be leaving earlier than June, he shook his head in protest and said, “I am not comfortable with this...” I initially laughed at his choice of words, but they fit somehow.
    --Changing countries, packing bags, saying goodbye... I’m not comfortable with it either.
As we walked, Mario veered me in the direction of his sister’s house. It was late in the afternoon by then, and she was doing laundry. When she saw us, she wiped her hands on her skirt and then extended her still wet hands with us in greeting.



On our arrival, her children stirred from their naps, and we sat in the plastic chairs next to them. As we talked, they milled about trying not to stare.

Mario explained to his sister that I was leaving early --the next day in fact! Surprise flashed across her face, then she quietly excused herself, saying she had “something small” to get me.

Turning away, she hurried inside her tukel. Meanwhile, Mario and I played with the slingshot I had just bought off a kid in the market.

Made of recycled bike tires, it was surprisingly accurate. But Mario insisted on shooting the goats. Poor, defenseless goats!

A few minutes later, Mario’s sister returned with my gift --a brightly embroidered sheet with two intricately stitched peacocks facing each other. She wanted me to have something to remind me of Sudan.... as if I could forget!

I thanked her over and over, gushing over the beauty and skill involved.

What an honor!

Honestly, saying goodbye has not been easy. The tears come at random times, surprising me by their inconvenient warmth.

The Sudanese --like most African cultures-- do not cry. It is seen as weak and portrays fear rather than love. So in my goodbyes, I did everything I could to not weep.

But I failed.

I failed with silent, languid tears. Large and heavy, they ran down my cheeks before I could bite them back. Excusing them with a wry smile, I tried to explain to my African friends that it was my way of saying I loved them.

They nodded that they understood... but looked away for my benefit.

Three of my translators tried not to cry with me as we said our goodbyes. They succeeded. I failed.

One privately called me aside to say goodbye, saying, “We will not forget you, Akuac.” As we spoke, my eyes filled with tears and I turned away.

Yes. Those are the words I was looking for...

South Sudan, I will not forget you.

Coffee and Friends.

 

After last year’s elections, Christina returned to South Sudan from Khartoum to find a new life. Even though she spoke no Dinka --having spent the better part of her life in the North-- she knew that her future was here.

So she packed up her children and came.

I first met her last fall, after she stumbled across our church one Sunday. She was overcome with joy to find a Bible believing church just a stone’s throw from her tukel, and has been coming regularly ever since.

Even though our church service is in English and Dinka (not Arabic), she comes for the fellowship and the worship. When I hear her raise her voice in song, I can’t help but delight in her faithfulness.

She’s a joy to know --even if I can’t understand what she’s saying.

Recently, I found the location of her tea shop in town and have been frequenting it regularly. I take anyone who’ll join me so I can practice the handful of Arabic words that she’s taught me, and drink ‘boon’.

‘Boon’ means coffee, which for Sudan means thick, sweet, sirup-y goop that looks like tar but tastes like heaven. She mixes fresh ginger in with the grounds along with a medley of other spices. I asked once which ones, but no one knew the words in English.

I think there might be cinnamon and cardamon, but I’m absolutely sure there’s ginger. Lots of spicy ginger!

My second favorite drink is the hibiscus tea. It’s velvety smooth and refreshing on a hot afternoon. Plus, it’s less likely to keep me up all night!

This week in an effort to say my goodbyes, I went to see Christina one last time. She was surprised to learn that I was leaving but encouraged me to return as soon as possible.

-- “I don’t have plans to come back right away,” I explained, “But if God wills it, I’ll return and speak to you in Arabic.”

She smiled at the thought and said, “Before you go, I want to give you an Arabic name.”
-- “Really?” I asked excitedly, “You have an Arabic name for me?”
-- “Yes. I want to give you the name Nadie (Nah-DEE-Ay).”
-- “I love it!” I said after slowly rolling the sounds around in my mouth. “What does Nadiee mean?”
-- “Nadiee is the name of a beautiful flower.”
-- “Excellent,” I said grinning ear to ear, “Thank you for this honor.”

I don’t know what it is... but when someone names me in a new language, I get excited. It often means I have a new language to learn! And believe me... Sudanese Arabic is high on my lists of languages to learn next.

I’m going to miss the ginger coffee and sticky sweet teas... but I’m going to miss this sweet lady more.

Blacksmiths.

One of the blacksmiths, notice the wheel used to fan the coals.

I’ve wanted to get spearheads and bracelets as gifts for some time now, but I’ve had disappointing luck. No one seems to know where to go. Each time I asked around in Tonj, my friends shook their heads sadly and said, “That. That is only in cattle camp.”
-- “They do not have any in town?”
-- “No. Cattle camp only.”

Would I really have to go to a cattle camp to get a spear? 
      -- I guess so.

Eventually, I attempted to buy stuff off strangers in the streets. But invariably the conversation was always end in the same way.
-- “Hi. Did you rise well from your sleep?” I’d ask in greeting.
They’d smile, stop, then ask in return,“Did you rise well?”
-- “Yes,” I’d respond, “My body is well. Is your body well?”
-- “Yes. My body is well, too.”
-- “My name is Akuac...” I’d continue, extending my hand in greeting. From there we’d exchange names three or four generations back, so we’d know which clan we are from. Naturally this takes a bit of time, but it is always fun.

After the formal greeting was over, I’d find someone with better Dinka skills to translate.
-- “Would you sell me your spear?” I’d ask. It’s best to be clear right off.
-- “Ehh? You want my spear?” they’d gauff in confusion. 
-- “Yes. Will you sell it to me? I’ll give you a good price.”
-- “No. I do not want to sell it. What will I fish with tomorrow?”
-- “But don’t you have another one?”
-- “No,” they’d say, then walk off leaving me pleasantly frustrated.

To be honest, I love that commercialism has yet to come to Tonj. However, that means no spears for me.

Well... Rumbek was a different story.

In Rumbek I found the spears, daggers, and bracelets I’d been looking for all in one place. But I also paid Kowaja prices for them. When my friends in Tonj heard how much I paid, they clicked their tongues in disappointment.
-- “You paid too much,” one friend complained. “Three times more than a Dinka.”

I couldn’t help but smile at his concern. It is true. I paid too much... but at least I didn’t have to go to the cattle camp to find them. And at least I didn’t have to beg them off a stranger in the street.

Anyway back to my story...

Finding the blacksmiths in Rumbek was not easy. I needed a guide.

Jumping on the back of a friend’s motorbike, we zipped through the city center, passing tea stalls and mechanic shops along the way. A right turn down a potholed road, zig-zagged us passed schools, then churches, then a whole mess of tukels.

Another right turn drove us into what looked like someone’s backyard. Bamboo fences. Children running about. Goats.

A few minutes later, we arrived at the cattle auction where dozen of spectators crowded the bamboo corral to get their bids in. Goats complained and cows lowed loudly in protest. It looked interesting, but we didn’t have time to stop; the blacksmiths were just up ahead.

Men hammering out cooking utensils and spears.

Cooking woks made from barrels.

Once the rumble of the bike’s engine cut out, new noises took over. Sharp clanks of metal upon metal cluttered the background.

Steel. Iron. Sparks. Soot. Dirt.

Thin, low-hanging stalls lined one side of the road, each displaying their wares on makeshift tables.

Spears. Daggers. Cow bells. Bracelets.

I found what I was looking for almost immediately, but the price they gave me was high. I wanted to haggle... but the Dinka don’t seem to have learned this skill yet.

Was I willing to fork out three dollars for something I knew should only cost a dollar fifty? When I put it that way... I laughed.

Yes. I was willing.

The bracelets were made out of melted bullet casings. They heat them over coal fires, mold them, then hammer them out.

I also wanted a spear made, but I had to wait for them to fashion it right. While I waited, one of the blacksmiths thrust a large bracelet in my face.

It was easily three times heavier than the other bracelets I’d purchased. Its deep cross-cut patterns were carefully etched on both ends.

Beautiful.

--“Is this a nose ring?” I asked, lifting it to my nose jokingly. I was trying to make him laugh.
He smirked and shook his head. So I lifted it to my ear and asked, “Is it for my ear?”

This got me a few chuckles, but again he just shook his head. 

Then I tried to open it by prying it with all my strength, but it wouldn’t budge. So I complained, “How can I wear this... it’s too hard to open.”

One man stepped forward to explain in English. I knew what he was going to say, but I wanted to hear him say it anyway.
-- “This. This you must beat on with hammer.”
-- “Okay. You tell your friend, if he can get it on my arm, I will buy it.”

The blacksmith smiled at this news, then moved under the stall for his hammer. Signaling for me to follow, he pried it open with a crowbar then placed it around my wrist.

Next, he placed both bracelet and wrist on a worn anvil and started pounding.

I can’t say he was careful --as I still have a few bruises-- but I can say he was successful.

What an adventure!

I love my new bracelet but now that it is hammered on my wrist, the question is.... how will I get through airport security?

Drum & Dance.

In addition to lots of rest and relaxation, Rumbek has afforded me some fun new experiences. My favorite so far has to be dancing with the Jurbel tribe.

My first Saturday here I went to Freedom square with some friends to watch the drum circles and the traditional dances. On this particular day, there happened to be a dozen or so Jurbel women dancing from the Wullu region.

Their dances were different than the Dinka’s jumping and the Bongo’s swaying. It was choreographed. Lined up in a circle, they all faced the same direction and chanted. As they sang, they stomped out a steady rhythm with their feet. Arms cupped to the sky they rocked back and forth.

I asked to join them (which may have been irregular, I’m not sure). But once they realized I was serious, they laughed and started teaching me the moves.

To dance properly, however, I needed props. So they adorned me with a band of cloth tied in the crux of my left arm, and a plastic traditional bracelet for the other.

The cloth band played an important role in the dance --as I was soon to discover. It was used to swat at the other dancers in a mock battle. One would attack with the cloth and the other would evade it, then go stomping on in unison.

This was the dance.

There is no way my dancing could be described as good, but I must admit I enjoyed it tremendously. I could not stop laughing at how fun it was to “fight” these women. They laughed with me --obviously amused at my lack of skills.



But after a few minutes of this, I realized I was disrupting their show and I said goodbye. In parting, they laughed and slapped hands with me. And I handed back their bands and bracelets.

One woman, came up to me as I was about to leave and thanked me for dancing. Then in appreciation, she offered me a ring.

Fortunately, my friends did not know how to work the video on my camera; so my dancing was never recorded.
    -- Euff! So glad I dodged that bullet.

But they did take a few pictures.

Sigh.

It’s times like this that make me never want to leave.

I love Sudan.

Hope this video works:

De-citizenized. De-valued. De-stroyed.

I read an interesting article in the New York Times today about the struggles of the Southerners living North of the border, and I thought you'd enjoy it. Plus, there is a must read article in the opinion section about what is happening in the Nuba region.

If you liked/read it, you might also consider these other links. They are very informative.

• Sudan Tribune article about Southern ethnic groups losing citizenship in the North.
• A video of what's happening in the Nuba region. 
• A long but excellent survey on the insecurity and violence against women in South Sudan. 

A Grief Observed.

Yesterday morning I heard wailing coming from the clinic, and I knew. I knew from the strength of the piercing cries and the intensity of their sound that it had to be about the boy. The little cherub that I had prayed for the night before --the tiny toddler with pneumonia-- must have died.

He was very sick, struggling for every breath. We had put him on oxygen until we ran out of fuel to run the machine. But even when he was on it, he struggled.

His mother had come two days before, got medicine, and was told to return the next morning bright and early. Instead she stayed home, only coming late that night once the convulsions started.

She was frantic, wanting to take him to the witch doctor since our medicines were not working as fast as she liked.

Dr. Tom was not sure he’d make it through the night. But he did.

However by sunrise the shallow rasps coming from his chest finally stopped. He was dead.

When Tom pronounced him, the mother let out a guttural shriek that carried some distance in the dawn silence. It shook me from my bed.

When I arrived to check on another patient a few minutes later, I found her still shrieking and wailing sharply every few seconds. She punctuated her grief by throwing herself again and again on the ground --arms flailing --feet pounding.

Her family and friends sat quietly by and watched. Silenced by her grief, they did nothing to calm her.

Each wail eventually faded to a sob, then slowly she would stand again. Once standing, she would start to pace which eventually led to another wail more pitiful than the one before; and she would throw herself to the ground. Pounding. Stomping. Beating.

No one approached. No one comforted. No one joined in.

It was a difficult grief to watch --too fresh --too real. But eventually there were no more screeches to be uttered, and she quieted to a steady sob, prostrated in the dirt.

Only then did her family gather her up from the dust and walk her home. A friend followed with her child wrapped tightly in his arms.

The wails may have stopped, but the grief was just beginning. Please pray for her. I don’t know her name. But God does. Thanks.

Leopard Attack?

The other night a man in his 20's was brought in from the village. His head was sliced open, his right arm was punctured, and he was bleeding excessively.

As Dennis sutured his skull, I causally asked what had caused his wound, assuming it must have been another motor bike accident. But it wasn't.
-- “He was attacked by a leopard,” my translator explained in disbelief.
-- “A leopard? Really? Are they even around here?" I asked stupefied and scared. I had heard of hyenas... but leopards? Honestly... a leopard??
Once I got over my initial surprise, I said, “Tell me the story in detail. How did it happen?”

 By this time Dennis had already closed off most of the foot long wound on his head. A thick gauze bandage covered the man’s face leaving only right eye uncovered. He searched my face in fear but didn’t speak. So my translator asked his friends to relay the story, instead.

As they spoke, a half dozen people slowly inched into the room to hear as well.

He was fishing by a river in a far off village when he passed next to a large bush. He heard something and turned to see a leopard pounce on him, taking him to the ground. The beast swiped his head in the process cutting a wide, ragged wound from his left eye socket to the back of his skull. Then the animal turned quickly and sprang on him again. This time grabbing his arm he had raised it in his defense. Then without explanation the leopard left as quickly as he came.

Since he lives so far away, it took him all day to reach our clinic --all day with the muscles in his skull protruding and various holes in his body tied off with old rags.

I asked if I could take a few pictures and he nodded but still didn’t speak. After each picture, I flipped my camera around so he could see what we were doing. He had to lower the gauze to see them, but he did it readily and thanked me afterward.

I don’t know about you but if I had been twice attacked by a leopard, I would not have been so brave!

Dennis was able to sew the wounds closed leaving proper drainage to prevent infection. Please pray he heals both physically and psychologically from this attack. Thanks.

Update: Jan 29 2012
I saw him today and he's healing well. The wound on his head is not septic. Please continue to pray.

Friendly Farewell.

Achan and me after her birth last August.

Achan delivered a few months back. She blessed me to no end during her birth with her serious promise of friendship.... if I could just stop her pain! When she delivered a few minutes later, she decided we’d be friends for life! (Read her story here.)

What an honor!

I’ve seen her a number of times since then. Each time she has greeted me loudly, while repeating over and over again the only English words she knows.

My friend! My friend! My friend!

I can’t help but just love her to pieces.

Well today, she came to say goodbye. Apparently, she must return to the village and can no longer come to visit.

She brought her doe-eyed daughter with her, and proudly handed her over for me to snuggle. Then through a translator and while continually repeating “My friend! My friend! My friend!” she told me that she named her baby after me.

When I expressed my happy surprise she explained, “Her name is Akuac Kowaja!”

You might recall that my Dinka name is ‘Akuac’ which means ‘White cow with black spots and uneven horns’.
          -- Yep, I'm a Jersey cow.

However, you may not know that ‘Kowaja’ is the term used for anyone who is not Sudanese. Technically it means ‘foreigner’ but it is also the term most often used for ‘white person’.

She is the first baby named ‘Kowaja’ that I’ve met!

I was happy to see my friend one last time and hope that we’ll get to meet again soon!

Placenta Previa?

Two days ago, Adhieu started having contractions in her sleep. She thought it was unusual since she was only 6 months along, but there was nothing she could do about it. She lived too far away to get immediate help. She’d have to wait until light.

But as the sun peeked up the next morning, the bleeding started. Lots and lots of bleeding. She bled heavily until noon.

She said her baby kicked like mad during that time, but then suddenly stopped.

That was a day ago.

She knew something was wrong, but it took time to get the family involved. Someone needed to bring her to town. She couldn’t go alone. Who would come?

Eventually it was decided her father would accompany her.

By the time she arrived, her clothes and legs were crusted in dirt-stained blood. A large flap of membranes hung from her introitus but she was no longer in labor.
    --Was this placenta previa?

(For those who don’t know, placenta previa is when the placenta presents first, causing painless bleeding. It can be life threatening for both mother and child, depending on the blood loss.)

There were no heart tones to be found. No movement. Nothing. Her baby was dead.
        --Could she have had an abruption?

(For those who don’t know, an abruption is when the placenta detaches from the uterine wall prematurely. This is very painful and presents with bright bleeding. An abruption can be complete or partial. It is almost always life threatening for the baby unless delivered quickly.)

She wasn’t surprised when I told her baby was dead. And she didn’t cry, either. Instead she looked unblinkingly off in the distance, hardening her jaw. Resolved.

A quick speculum exam revealed a 2-inch chunck of placenta plugging up her cervix like a cork. Thick membranes dangled down the canal, but the bleeding had stopped. She was 2 cm dilated and had no contractions.

Ideally, she would have gone to Wau for a c-section, but I intuitively knew this was NOT an option.

Had you asked me how I knew this, I would have been hard pressed to give you an answer. And yet when Tom asked me to send them anyway, I gawffed, “That’s not going to happen. They don’t have the means.”

He insisted on it though, expounding on the potential danger of her bleeding to death if it was a previa, etc.
-- “If contractions start, her cervix can open and she can hemorrhage... maternal mortality.... too dangerous... must transport....” He lectured pedantically. He wanted us to warn them of the risk of her dying. Just in case.

I listened to his words --I even agreed with them-- but I knew they’d never go.

Her clothes were too worn. Her body was too lean. And neither of them wore shoes. Plus her only companion was a frail father with clouded pupils and trembling hands.

But the biggest clue was the fact it took her a day and a half to get to us.

No one with any sort of means waits a day and a half to seek treatment with this much blood loss. No one. 

I respected Tom’s wishes though and talked to them about transporting. The discussion was disheartening short.

Conclusion: They had no money. His goats were back in Thiet. It would take time to arrange their sale --perhaps two days.

I listened and nodded, then induced her.

I had peace about this induction. Her bleeding was almost nil, and she was a multigravida. If the medicines worked... she’d deliver quickly and this would all be over.

Then no goats would need to be sold.

By God’s grace, the induction was effective and she delivered 2 hours later with very minimal bleeding.

Her baby weighed just 800 grams, but he was perfectly formed. Tiny ears. Delicate fingers. Two thin eyebrows neatly knit atop unseeing eyes.

He never opened his eyes to this world... but I believe he’s seeing something much more beautiful now!

Please pray for Adhieu as she grieves this loss. It was not her first. Pray that it is her last. Thanks.

A Sudanese Christmas.

Christmas morning started slow and easy. There were no children to wake me at dawn; there were no presents to unwrap; there were no babies to be born, so I slept late.

By the time I got out of bed, the sun was high in the sky casting a thick oppressive heat on all below.

Out my window off on the distance several dozen well-dressed church-goers marched and sang Sudanese Christmas carols to a beating drum. They were quite literally marching off to church. As they paraded passed they picked up people on the way, telling them it was time to celebrate Jesus’ birth.

They marched slowly allowing time for children to tag along. A white flag bopped up and down as they passed.

Later I asked a Sudanese friend about it. He told me that this is the ECS church’s (Episcopal Church of Sudan) way of informing people it’s Christmas.

He explained that they start beating the drums on December 20th, (Yep, they sure did!) to get everyone ready. Then starting on the 23rd, they march and sing each morning announcing the coming celebration. How else would those in the villages have time to make it to town?

I loved this explanation --not only for the festiveness of it all-- but also for how culturally appropriate it is. There are few calenders around here --especially off in the village. So why not drums, songs, and dances?

Since Dr. Tom and I are the only staff/missionaries left on the compound over the holidays, we were also the only ones left to perform church. That means we were alone in singing off-key Christmas carols interspersed with scriptures. It was a short service but it blessed me nonetheless.

Later that afternoon, I arranged to celebrate Christmas like a local. This entailed walking around from house to house, catching up on life and eating cookies. I invited Dr. Tom to join in on the fun.

I missed out on it last year, because I didn’t know I could do it. But this year I was determined to celebrate Sudanese style.

I arranged for my friend Mario to act as my guide. He knows the area well and happily took us to homes of babies I’ve delivered in the last few months.

Me holding Nyankiim, & her mom.

The first baby I saw was by accident, though. A woman stopped me on the street and handed me her toddler, saying “This is your baby. You delivered her. She is named “Daughter of the clinic” or Nyankiim in Dinka.

Holding her doe-eyed tot in my arms put a huge smile on my face. I thanked her for letting me hold her child, we slapped hands, and she walked off in the other direction. What a joy!

As we walked on, I asked Mario who we’d be visiting first.
-- He said, “We are going to see the baby with no knees.”
-- “What? The baby who has no knees?” I repeated, more than a little confused.
-- “Yes. He was born last week...” he added trying to clarify.
Guessing I asked, “Do you mean the baby with the clubbed feet?”
-- “Yes. Yes. The baby with no knees,” he insisted while indicating his own patellae.

When we got to her house, Akoot’s friends asked us inside while they went to get her.

Since the door was only 4 feet high, I had to bend completely in half to enter the tukel. Pink wall hangings covered the interior. Two plastic chairs and a bed with an intricately embroidered sheet made up the sitting room.

I sat on the bed, and Tom and Mario took the chairs.

Akoot breastfeeding & me.

Beads of sweat formed on my forehead, then gathered to stream down my face. Akoot was happy to receive us and came to sit next to me. As we talked, she proudly breastfed her son while her other children bounced around the room in excitement. One kept sneaking up to Tom to inspect his white-ness, then would run away in happy shrieks when seen.

Sweet laughter!

They served us fluffy sugar cookies as we talked about her son’s progress. I’m happy to say he’d doing well.

We didn’t stay long, however, as Mario wanted us to visit his sister.

Atong was a prenatal girl but ended up delivering elsewhere. Her labor started while visiting friends in Wau, and she delivered there.

Atong telling me about her birth.

As we sipped on orange Tang and enjoyed another round of cookies, she told us about the birth.
-- “You were right,” she started, “My boy came out with his legs first.”
Handing me her prenatal book, I read my notes. Her boy had been persistently breech each visit.
-- “Did you go to the hospital to deliver?” I asked, eager to know how it went.
-- “No. No. My friends helped me with the birth. He came out easily.”
-- “In your book it says this was your second breech,” I started then added, “It says your last breech baby didn’t breathe for a long time but is okay. Is that right?”
-- “Yes. But this baby breathed well right away,” she explained.
-- “Oh, good!” I said, bouncing his chubby body in my arms.

Tom & Mario at Atong's house.

Tom watched our interaction on from across the richly draped tukel, then teased, “The babies in Sudan... they come out feet first, hit the ground, and run off!”

He dramatically miming the various actions, causing those who understood English to burst out in fits of laughter. Even though she doesn’t speak any English, Atong chuckled hesitantly with us, knowing she should laugh but not why.

But once Mario translated she laughed very hard --genuinely amused at the idea.

It was a nice visit. I got to see what a middle-class Dinka family’s house might contain. Their wealth was obvious. On a nightstand, a black boom-box with a neat stack of cassette tapes picked up radio waves from Wau.

The DJ bounced from English to Dinka to Arabic with ease, as love ballads set to metal drums filled the air. Mario tried to translate one of these ballads for me. It was something about a woman doing a man some kind of wrong... and how very sad he was.

Kids watching us from the tukel door.

Behind the radio stood a rack with neatly folded wraps and skirts which served as a closet. To the left, dozens of drinking glasses stamped with fading Pepsi logos lined the shelves. Behind me tucked in the opposite corner, a black 1990‘s TV set with bunny-ears collected dust under a mess of bottles and trinkets.

Mario pointed it out and sadly stated, “It was working before... when we had a generator. But now it does not work. No power.” I nodded in understanding. Fuel prices are just too high for such a luxury.

What that television must represent to them though! It’s the first I’ve seen outside of our compound. Just owning one that works must be a powerful statement of wealth.

A baby I delivered 2 mo. ago.

Afterward we visited two other women and their families. Then Mario showed us his tukel and brought us home. It was a wonderful way to learn about my patients and build relationships. I’m so blessed to have gone.

I hope that all of your Christmases were as fun as mine! Merry Christmas... a bit late!

Maloney Outreach

Last Friday I was invited on outreach to Maloney --a small cattle camp community lost in the bush.

It’s a 30 minute drive winding past sun-baked fields of brick clay hidden under a fuzzy layer of yellowing grass.

Since the rainy season is over and summer is inching the thermostat skyward, the roads are more than passable; they are concrete hard.

Miles of yellow stretched out before us as we inched along in the ambulance. Deep ruts carved by a smattering of traffic during the wet season still marred the route, making the ride more reminiscent of a roller coaster than a road.

Children waved in enthusiastic surprise as we bounced past. Some leaned against sturdy walking sticks while cattle lowed behind them.

Long-horns sauntered lazily beside us, callously ignoring the beep of our horn. Vultures circled above.

Off in the distance the smoke of burning cow dung hung in the air; its earthy odor wafted passed in the stifling mid-morning heat.



By the time we arrived at the Rual tree which doubles as medical clinic, there were already a dozen patients waiting to be seen.

They sat sprawled out on a green plastic tarp --their books in hand-- and greeted us with welcoming smiles.



We saw roughly 120 patients (one of which was the newborn with tetanus), but only a handful were actually sick.

I enjoyed getting out and seeing the country. It was a beautiful break full of beautiful people.

Funny side note:
One man chatted me up after staring at me all day. He complemented me on my toe nail polish then asked if I wanted to marry him.

My suitor was the one in orange.

Straight and simple. Gotta love that in a proposal.



He didn’t take it too hard when I declined the offer though. Instead he suggested that I must be one of the Catholic-nun-types as he walked away with his buddies.

Oh Sudan!

Baby Teeth.

Recently our resident doctor has morphed into a dentist. Yep. Dentist.

Saturdays are usually reserved for tooth extractions. And come Saturday morning I can often find Tom --chisel and pliers in hand-- pulling and prodding, coaxing and coercing a tooth free. He’s good at it and his willingness to provide this service has been a huge blessing to the community.

Weekly people come to see if they can be next.

This week however a new dental patient was brought in. She was 5 months old.

Her young mother bounced the effervescent toddler in her arms while pointing to her gums.
--“My baby needs her teeth removed,” she started to explain while rubbing her finger over the toothless gums.
--“I’m sorry I don’t understand,” I hesitated. “You want your baby’s teeth pulled?”
--“She is crying a lot because of her teeth. I want you to remove two on the top and two on the bottom,” she announced.
As I looked in her baby’s mouth, I could see bright pink gums but no tooth sprouts.
--“I’m sorry. But we don’t remove baby teeth at our clinic,” I explained patiently through my translator.

He was having a blast watching the exchange. He likes to laugh at my funny world view. But this time he was laughing at the mom. He thought it was silly of her to want to remove teeth that hadn’t even come in. Unfortunately, this mom did not appreciate his teasing and I asked him to stop.

“Tell her that she can have her baby’s teeth removed if she wants to... but not here. We won’t do that here. God gave her baby teeth for a good reason. Her baby needs them...”

After he translated, the mother smiled politely then answered: “I know your culture is different than ours but here we remove teeth. I did it for my first baby. I’ll do it for her too.”

I nodded that I understood and said, “I know I see things differently than you. You are a good mother and I’m sure you think this is best. But I can safely say our dentist will not agree to take out your girl’s baby teeth. Sorry.”

She nodded and walked off carrying her slobbering, teething toddler in her arms.

I wonder where she’ll get the procedure done. Is that something witch-doctors do? Or is there a local dentist who can cut out unsprouted teeth in toddlers so they won’t fuss?

Sigh.

This does explain why there are so many adults with gapped-toothed smiles around here though.

But hey... maybe they are on to something.

Teething can be troublesome for parents and painful for babies. Why not just pry them out early and get it over with? They’ll get a new set later on anyway, right?

Achol’s Journey.

She walked 5 hours over dusty roads in the heat of the day. She walked carrying a blue plastic bag which held a change of clothes, but no food. She walked in active labor.

40 kilometers.

She arrived after the noise of the day had settled to a low hum with only the bleating goats left to complain at her late arrival.

As I entered the birth room, she flashed a familiar smile my way. I recognized her square jaw and sparkling eyes immediately and we slapped hands in greetings.

It was Achol!

Achol had come for several prenatal checks over the last few months. Her gentle demeanor impressed me, but I never dreamed she’d come to deliver. She lived too far away... or so I thought.

I was happy to be wrong --for there she sat on my prenatal bed with contractions every two minutes.

But she was so calm I was having a hard time believing she was in labor. So I asked if I could do an exam. She agreed with a smile.

When I told her she was fully, her smile deepened touching the corners of her eyes.

It was time!

In fact, the only thing keeping the baby inside was her bag of waters. Did she want me to brake it?

Nodding excitedly, she consented and out gushed a warm wave of amniotic sea. Almost immediately the head dropped lower and she started pushing.

But the funny thing was... she wanted to keep walking.

So I stood aside and watched as she slowly pace the birth room floor. During each contraction she’d bare down for a few seconds then chuckle softly at the pain.

It was mesmerizing.

Pacing then pushing then pacing again, she let her baby settle even lower in her pelvis. But eventually she got tired and eased herself onto the bed with a sigh.

But that didn’t stop her from pushing.

Within minutes a fuzzy head emerged like a winter’s sunrise --calm and quiet and warming to the bone.

When I announced it was a boy, her eyes lit up the room and she asked to hold him. Long joyful minutes passed while she whispered softly in his ear and laughed. I couldn’t help but laugh with her.  
     --A son!

Her birth was different... but for the longest time I couldn’t figure out why. What had made her birth so different? Was it the joy and trust? No. Was it the intimacy and laughter? No. Those were amazing but not new.

What was it?

Then I looked around the room and it hit me; she was alone.

Not one friend had sneaked into the room during pushing. No one had asked to hold the child. No one had screamed for her to push.

Where was her cheer squad?

When I asked her, she smiled softly and explained that she had had no time to inform them when she got to town. Since she knew she was close, she didn’t want to risk delivering unassisted, therefore she didn’t stop to tell them the news.

But that meant she had no one to goo and gaw over her precious jewel. But more importantly... that mean there was no one to feed her.

Fortunately her family lived just a few minutes away, so we arranged for our health worker to go tell them for her.

He was there and back in a flash, and her family soon followed... bringing with them even more laughter and love!

Thank you Jesus for allowing me the honor of seeing such miracles on a daily basis. Birth... I’m awed at its beauty and mystified by its power. It is one miracle I hope to never fully understand.

Blue Nile Bombing

I've come across more information on the bombing in the Blue Nile State. Perhaps you are already aware of the skirmishes and indiscriminate bombing of civilians. Perhaps not.

Either way, please pray.

Article on the last remaining doctor in the area.

Read and Pray. Thanks.

Blood.

“Adut went to Wau and died,” Albino informed me.
"Adut?" I asked.
"The woman who needed the transfusion," he explained.
Albino is our compound manager and was the one who arranged for their transport.
He continued, “They were bringing her body back for the funeral, and their truck broke down. They want to use our ambulance again.”
“She died?” I asked incredulously.
“Yes. She died in Wau. They are stuck on the way back...”
“Did she get the transfusion?” I asked suspiciously. “Because had she gotten it... it’s unlikely she would have died.”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask them,” he explained quietly.
“And what is going to become of the baby? Is there a wet-nurse in the family?” I persisted.
“I don’t know... I didn’t ask,” he repeated.
“Please ask them. I have to know...” I said, thinking to myself that I’d take the baby before they let her starve.

Mothers who die in or shortly after childbirth are trouble for the family. I’ve heard of more than one child left to die. I told this to Albino who nodded knowingly and told me he’d find out for sure.

That was two days ago.

Today Albino knocked on my door inviting me to go speak to the family. He remembered my offer to help if the family couldn’t (or wouldn’t) do it and wanted me to join him for a visit.

Eager to get the details of her care in Wau, I went with him. Sam, a Kenyan pastor on staff, joined us.

When we entered their bamboo gate, three men sat somberly beside a tukel and several sets of female eyes peered out at us from inside. Everyone was hiding from the mid-morning sun which was hotter than normal for the season.

The men didn’t rise to greet us, nor did they smile; the pall of mourning was heavy. They did shake our hands, however, and gesture to three empty plastic chairs. We sat down.

A long, respectful minute ticked by before Albino spoke. He told them we were sorry for her death and asked for details of their time in Wau. What had happened?

After a long discussion in Dinka, he turned to me to explain:
“She never got the blood,” he started, “They try to buy but there was no blood to buy. So, many got the test to see if they can give. They not have right blood.”

He paused to ask a few more questions, nodded as the husband explained, then continued:
“She had O+ blood. One man, he had same blood. But this man, he refuse to give. So she die.”

As he explained, my brain raced with this new information. I have O+ blood. I could have donated. Had I known, I would have given it happily. Why would that ‘man’ not give his blood? Why would he withhold what could so easily cure?

Albino then kindly asked them about the baby. I needed to know the child was well. In response, they brought her out of the tukel.

She was sleeping the deep sleep of baby-bliss. She knew nothing of the burial mound just 15 feet away --a mound topped with all of Adut’s worldly possessions. A worn out mattress. A green plastic basin. A cooking pot. Several dresses. A shovel.

As I looked from the child to the mound, I wondered what I’d leave behind if I were to die today. But I was quickly pulled from my reverie when Albino said my name.

“Stephanie,” he started, “they are giving the baby milk from market.”
“What kind of milk?” I asked. “Could I see it?”
They brought me a canister of baby formula and I asked them how they were giving it. What kind of water were they using? Were they giving it with a bottle or a cup? How many scoops were they using for the fluid?

Their answers were spot on; everything was being given correctly, and I was told that Adut’s mother (the grandmother) was now sole caregiver of the child.

As I looked at her thin, strong arms and grave but determined expression, I was comforted to see she was still young; she could be no more than 40 years old. There wasn’t a gray hair on her head, and only the slightest of crows-feet nestled in the corner of her eyes. The child would be well cared for and loved.

Albino suggested we pray before going, but I wasn’t ready. I wanted to teach them on how to prevent this from happening again. They agreed to hear me out and the newly formed crowd followed us to a shade tree outside their yard. 

We sat in a circle and I prayed silently to myself before I began; I didn’t want to mess this up. I don’t remember all that I said, but it was a lot.

I explained the role of good antenatal care in preventing such sicknesses and the importance of delivering at clinics. They listened with rapt attention, eyes never leaving my face. I had a captive audience and was grateful for it. Perhaps this information will prevent any more women from dying in their family.

The women sat a bit further back but were equally attentive. They didn’t fidget or cough. They hung on every word.
        --Lord, may all these women live!

After some time, I finished and Albino asked Sam to share the gospel. Sam spoke on the a verse in Isaiah that calls men grass (Is 40:6), reminding us all how fleeting and short life is. He encouraged them to place their faith in Jesus. Then Albino shared again.

I don’t know what he said but the crowd listened carefully.

Then the patriarch spoke. I never asked his name, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget his face. His dark blue jalibia stood out sharply against is cole-black skin. His piercing ebony eyes gazed fixedly on mine as he spoke. In them I saw pain and grief but no condescension.

His questions were honest --his pain real.

He spoke about the difficulty of being a patriarch, but he didn’t complain. Instead he explained how in the village when his daughter got sick, he had to take her to the witch-doctor first.

He lamented the social pressure he was under that forbid him from going to the hospital first. He added that in the village, when someone gets sick they must first find out if it’s a curse. So he took her to the witch-doctor.

Only when she didn’t improve did the witch-doctor allow them to bring her to the hospital. That’s when they came. But when they learned she needed new blood he finally understood. But by then it was too late. They weren’t able to get the blood.

“... had I known she just needed blood, I would have brought her earlier,” he explained, “But I was told she was cursed.”

My heart ached more and more with each sentence he spoke. Albino translated his words but the grief on his face needed no translation.

“Why is God letting all my children die?” he asked us. “It must be because He is far and does not know our troubles. He must not care...”

I listened carefully, thankful for his candor. Here was a man who really did want to understand. When he finished I asked for permission to answer his questions. Even though I spoke directly to him, everyone in the circle listened attentively.

Then I shared the gospel. I spoke about how his daughter was cursed, but not in the sense the witch-doctor suggested. She was cursed by sin. We all are. I explained that death was the consequence of sin, but that God had provided a way for forgiveness.

He listened carefully. Respectfully. They all did.

I gave them the clearest gospel message I could and we invited them to church. Afterward they thanked us for sharing this information with them. They had never heard these things before.

We prayed for them and left, shaking each one’s hand in respect.

As sad as her death is, I pray that it will be the start of new life for the rest of her family. Please pray with me that the seeds shared would find good soil and bring much fruit. Thanks.

Also pray for us to find a way to do blood transfusions. This is now the 3rd maternal mortality I know about that could have been cured with a simple transfusion.

Rumors of War...

I have friends that live in Sudan but on the Ethiopian border. They were recently evacuated.

Unfortunately, I cannot share their identities. But I'm moved by their experiences and hope you will be moved as well --moved to prayer.

Just know that parts of Sudan are being bombed regularly. 

The Deng Rain!

For those who speak a bit of Dinka, they will understand (and hopefully forgive) the pun.

Deng means rain in Dinka. And right now.... we have a LOT of it!

As a result of it, I have learned two new Dinka words today.
-- Tiop: which means dirt
-- Tiok: which means mud

Deng + Tiop = Tiok!    

And lots and lots of it as my gum boots can testify!

The rainy season has come very late this year and it’s caused a number of problems. People planted their crops at the regular time but since it stayed dry, the seeds failed to sprout.
And now it’s harvest time and the rain is upon us with a vengeance. Whatever crops did grow are being flooded out of the ground.

This rain will help the sorghum crops I’m told, but it came too late for the peanuts and pumpkins.

Please pray for the remaining crops to produce... or else we are going to see some hungry people come December. Thanks.

Family Planning?

I was asked recently by a visiting Ugandan what kind of family planning is used around here and my mind went blank.

“Family planning?” I said dumbly back to him, “It’s called sex and .... then more sex. That’s how they plan their family here.” And then we laughed. 

No. What he really wanted to know what what kind of birth control was used. But then again I knew what he was asking... I just didn’t know the answer.

Instead I went on to explain that everyone I know wants to be pregnant; no one wants to stop it.

When a woman miscarries her whole family is distraught. When it’s chronic they think she’s been cursed.

But after explaining this... he still didn’t fully grasp it. How do I explain to this African man --a man born and raised just a few hundred miles from here-- just how different life is in Sudan.

Seriously, how?

Here, babies are not aborted even if they are conceived out of wedlock. In fact, some girls get pregnant by a family friend with the clear agreement that if she produces a healthy child he’ll marry her. It’s not only condoned by the family... it’s arranged by them.

Like I said there is much planning when it comes to families here.

Family planning.

There are no condoms and no birth control pills here. I’ve never heard of anyone wanting an IUD or tubal ligation. I have yet to hear anyone ask for an abortion.

In fact most women will do just about anything to conceive if they feel there is a problem. They will pay just about any price.

I met a young girl named Aguak today. She is one of those women. Even though she has three healthy babies at home, she has had trouble getting pregnant this year. So she went to the herbalist (aka: witchdoctor).

She paid him four goats (the equivalent of about $600.00 -- a fortune here!) and he gave her a gray clumpy concoction that she was instructed to drink. It would help her conceive he promised.

That was 4 months ago and she’s still not pregnant. 

However, this week she came to our clinic and heard the gospel for the first time and received Christ. The joy of her salvation was evidenced on her face as she sat in church.

Praying for Aguak to be free of witchcraft.

Afterward she showed us her concoction and asked us to pray. We prayed for her to be set free from any hold the witchcraft might have on her, and she happily threw it in the toilet.

Throwing out her herbs in faith.

Before she did though, we looked at it closely. Small maggots the size of pin heads floated on the surface. Clumps of rancid gray blobs moved beneath the surface.

She was supposed to drink that?

Like I said, they will do just about anything to get pregnant.

Please pray that God would open her womb and allow her the joy of bringing another child into the world. May she see Him as the Author of life like never before! 

Better yet, let's pray for every woman desperately hoping to conceive right now. Let's pray for that faint fluttering of a precious child to be felt moving in their wombs!

Flying Home

The journey from Kenya to Sudan once felt unbearably long. My body was not used to the cramped seats of the insect-sized puddle-hoppers lovingly referred to as planes. Now it is.

This flight in --albeit cramped-- went quickly and dare I say... routine?

How does a shuttle to the Northern-most stretch of barren scruff of Kenya become mundane? How can riding a bouncy 4-seater beneath the cumulus cotton-candy clouds ever be run-of-the mill?                              -- Seriously, how?

Nevertheless, this flight stirred nothing in me. No longing. No drive. Nothing but the easy breath of home.

Because of its size, the charter we flew had to stop in Akot --a small village an hour’s flight from Tonj-- for fuel.

Halfway through hand pumping the fuel in to the insect-sized plane, the kids arrived. Dressed in their Monday’s best with blue shorts and a buttoned top,  it was clear they were fresh out of school.

They gathered under the low-hanging wing and volleyed phrases back and forth. Oh how I wish I understood!

I was considerably less interesting than the other backseat passenger, my director’s daughter. The boys kept talking to her, but she refused to engage and they pretended not to care.

Yet when she folded herself into her seat in preparation for departure, they had to get a better look, and a half dozen heads peeked in.

Why did she get to ride the metal bird?



A few minutes later, we were once again air-borne and homeward bound.

Landing in Tonj, I was greeted by dozens more looky-loos --many of which were pregnant-- who welcomed me warmly.

To my surprise, there was also a water truck that had rolled just a few minutes before, tottering on its side in the middle of the main road.

The driver had been speeding and (perhaps) inebriated. He and his passenger were taken to our clinic for evaluation, then arrested later that night by police.



Oh Sudan! It’s nice to be home.

South Sudan's Independence Video

Here is a link to the video of the dancing in Tonj done to celebrate South Sudan's Independence on July 9th 2011.