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:

A Place of Rest.

Right now I’m in Rumbek, a city a few hours drive from Tonj. I decided to take my R&R here instead of going to Kenya because it comes out much cheaper for me. Plus, the low-key atmosphere is healing.

Each morning I wake to birds chirping and the gentle swish of the grounds keeper sweeping outside my cabin door. Some mornings I lay in bed longer than usual just to listen... and soak up the peace it brings.

The new baby Bush Buck.

The hotel I stay at is full of bird-crowded trees, including a mess of vultures and a spattering of woolly-necked storks. Red-Breasted bee-catchers hop from branch to branch, while Abyssinian Rollers saunter aimlessly among the blighted grasses.

It’s delightful!

But birds are not the only wildlife about. There are also countless Duiker (small, horned, skittish deer-like creatures) who scour the grounds for fallen leaves. Plus they just got a baby Bush Buck which I’m told will grow to be larger than the Duiker but shorter than an antelope.

One of the Duiker that lives here.

I love it here.

The staff is friendly. The food is amazing. And well... there’s also a pool. What a blessing! I can’t think of a better place to be as I stop and pray about my future.

I can’t imagine too many of you are planning on coming this direction. But if you do, I recommend staying at Safari Style. It’s the best!

Weekend away.

 When my directors saw how tired and discouraged I had become, they worked hard to get me some time off. It’s not simple getting away for the weekend in Sudan, but they made it happen and I cannot thank them enough.

My time off came in the form of a mini-retreat in Rumbek at a hotel called Safari Style. They have air-conditioned rooms (not so important now that the rains have come, but nice nonetheless), fancy meals and a pool!

It was the first time I’ve donned a swimming suit in at least a year and half! My oober white skin didn’t look all that strange since most of the others in the pool where all Kowajas too. Safari style caters to expats and NGO workers based in the area.

I met people from all around the world, each with a story to tell. Hearing about what Sudan life has been like for them was strangely cathartic. It helped me gain perspective on the many different kind of works taking place here. It was good.

One of those people I met told me about a number of chimpanzees that they had rescued over the years. They were due to be flown to Uganda in a few days to be placed at a sanctuary and one of them liked to hug.

A hugging chimpanzee? This I HAD to see. When I asked if I could meet her, he shrugged and suggested I come the next morning. His compound was just around the corner and the hotel director promised to take me there.

The next morning I woke excitedly, scarfed down my breakfast and then jetted over to see the chimps. I found there were four in total. The three adults had long leashes and lived each in their own tree. The last was a baby who had adopted one of the more aggressive females as her surrogate mother.

The chimp that hugged was super friendly. She loved to be tickled and was quick to play with anyone willing. She particularly loved her keeper, Charlie. She made a hissing-laughter sound anytime he tried to tickle her and curled up in a ball. Too cute!


When it came my turn, she simply looked at me, cocked her head to the side as if to size me up and then lifted her arms like a toddler for me to pick her up. How did she know I needed a hug?

Then together we hugged without moving for several long minutes. I should say, she hugged me. I could have lifted my arms and she would have stayed in place. I was perhaps no different to her than a tree, but I LOVED it.

Getting to hug a chimp was definitely a highlight to the whole trip!

Table for Four.

Yesterday, shortly after landing, figuring out my visa-fiasco, and doing a bit of grocery shopping, Sabet, Albino, Awad, and I decided to have lunch.

Pulling up next to a place that Sabet said had ‘the best beans in town’, reminded me instantly of Tijuana. I don’t know why. Flash backs of crispy fish tacos sprang to mind and I started drooling.

But this place wasn’t Mexican. It was Ethiopian.

“What would Ethiopian beans taste like?” I wondered. I guess it was time to find out.

The shop was slow, as it was two in the afternoon. The lunch crowd had apparently come and gone... or quite simply had never come. We were the only customers.

Empty tables --decorated with salt trays, toothpick dispensers, and flies-- were scattered randomly around the room. On the left, five men sat in a semi-circle next to an un-used outdoor grill; they talked softly as we washed our hands in the buckets provided. Behind them, a number of large aluminum pots sat humming over a low heat.

In the back of the main room, a young man rested obliquely in a white plastic chair --one leg up on the handle. Apparently, it was his job to guard the icebox.

Choosing a lop-sided table to his right, Albino and I sat down, whereas Awad and Sabet sauntered over to a man-behind-the-desk; they had to order.

After discussing dishes and prices, Sabet pulled out some money.

-- Albino, are they ordering for us?
-- Yes, here you pay. Then you eat.
-- Oh. So they don’t have menus.
-- No.

Albino is a man of few words, and I think he had just run out.

He’s the kind of son-in-law every mother dreams of-- Kind, patient and great with kids. (He should be though.... as he has so many, I’ve lost count.) He has done a number of jobs for In Deed and Truth over the years. Right now, he translates at church and does the odd job around the compound. His English is excellent.

Once the order was paid for, Sabet and Awad made it back to the table. We had the right to a soda. What kind did I want?

The options were: apple flavored sugar water, mango flavored sugar water, a cola imitation or Vims. Sabet said Vims was similar to Dr. Pepper.

I chose the mango flavored sugar water, and smiled at the first sip. It definitely tasted like mango.... and it was cold.  --So double bonus!

Lunch was served family-style. 

We had yellow sop, brown sop, chunks of fatty meat and chopped, raw onions. In the center, a fried omelette swam in a half-inch vat of oil. And then there was bread... lots of bread as silverware.

We prayed, licked our lips, and dug in.

The yellow sop turned out to be lentils, and the brown was pinto beans -- neither of which was salted. In fact, none of it was salted or seasoned, so I added the white gold liberally. It was palatable after that.

I think I like the goat meat the most. Despite seeing its other half still hanging in the middle of the room, I have to admit it was tasty. But then again, I don’t mind bones and gristle.

Once we had downed our oily eggs and salted sop, and nibbled all the meat off the bone chunks, it was time to go. Washing our hands, we made our way back to the truck. It was time for the ride home.

I wish I could describe the road from Rumbek to Tonj but I don’t remember much. By then, I was doggedly tired; I fell asleep a few miles into it.

When we hit a large rock... checking if tires were still good.

The seventy-five mile trek normally takes five hours, but they have been fixing the road. The potholes that usually make it unbearable have been filled in... all but a few miles of it. However, those last few miles sure give you a beating!

Mounds of dirt they are using to fix road.

Remarkably, it only took us 2h30 to return.

Now, I’m home.

While I was away, I’m told that the antenatal program... and the clinic, had a doozy of a month. There were 15 births -- three of which died-- two women came in with eclampsia and one woman with a stillbirth.

Yesterday, one baby was born with a crushed skull. She was the same woman who was hit by a car four months ago and had a broken leg. There is some confusion as to whether or not the baby’s death could be due to the car accident. Read her story here and pray for all involved.

I also learned that a young boy died after being bit by a poisonous snake, and a girl of 15 was diagnosed with a imperforate vagina!

Oh... and Mary, the woman who got the mastectomy, delivered a healthy boy at home. They named him Thomas (after Dr. Tom who did the surgery)! Woohoo!

Please pray for all these strange cases. Please pray for all the heartaches involved. Also, lift up the staff, and pray for strength in these coming weeks.

Pray for me too... pray for wisdom in how to move forward in evangelism and service to this community. Thanks.

Deported?

Awad, one of our beloved staff in fatigues.

The flight home was a bit like stepping through the looking glass. I had to keep telling myself, “You are in Switzerland. And now you are in Turkey. And this, my dear Stephanie, is Kenya. You are going home.”

Those who watched me do this mental check at each country must have thought I was nuts. But do I care? No. This is how I handle the changes. This is how I transit through culture shock. Just follow the White Rabbit with the stop-watch! Right?

I know. I know. It’s strange... but it somehow works for me.

However, once semi-settled in Kenya, I realized I didn’t have my Sudanese visa yet, (because one of our staff recently resigned). In the hub-bub, my papers were forgotten or misplaced. The problem was I couldn’t leave without it, and my flight was scheduled early the next morning!

Normally, this sort of thing would have stressed me out to the max. But oddly, I just laughed.

(Here’s the skinny: If I missed my plane, I’d be out a lot of money-- non refundable tickets and all. If I landed in Sudan with no visa, I might be deported, then I’d be out three times the amount of money. Why? Well, I’d have to pay my return ticket... then another flight again later this week when I have the right documentation.)

In a mad flash of texts and long-distant calls, my directors were able to procure the visa I needed in Tonj. The plan was to bring said documents to Rumbek and hand them over when I landed.

But when I arrived at the airport in Kenya the next morning, the flight company wouldn’t let me on the flight. Yep. They didn’t want to risk having issues with the government. But when I pushed them further, it came down to money.         -- lots of things do in Africa.

Plainly put, if they allowed me on the plane and I was deported, they might have to bare the cost. They needed some assurance, I’d pay my plane fare back.

Oh.

Frankly, the idea hadn’t occurred to me. In my mind I thought, 'Of course, I’d be responsible for paying my flight back. It would be my fault and I’m the one taking the flight. Duh!'

When I told the airline employee this, he just looked at me warily under half-slit eye lids. Had he heard this story before?

He wanted me to call my director so he could then present my visa to his director who would then call him, and confirm I could get on the plane. Simple right?         -- Ha ha... only to Kenyans.
There were just a few obstacles to this plan.

One: it was 6:30 am and my director was sound asleep. Two: my director lives more than three hours away from the airport. Three: my plane was to leave in an hour and a half.

I told him I’d be willing to make the call, but couldn’t there be a simpler way?
-- “What if you gave me a blank piece of paper where I write a ‘promise-to-pay’ statement and sign it? You could then sign it, too, as a witness. It would state that I am responsible to pay for my plane ticket back, in the off chance I’m deported. Would that work?” I proposed.

I could see the cogs in his brain slowly turning. This was obviously not how things are done in this country. But did I know that?

Standing there in jeans and a bright red hoody, my sleepy no-make-uped-self smiled with that dogged American optimism (or naive ignorance -- not sure which). I’m guessing he didn’t know what to think of my plan. Perhaps he was trying to decide if I had the funds in my bank account. I certainly wasn’t giving him much proof that I did!

Slow, eager seconds ticked by while he sat there looking at his papers-- probably thinking worst case scenarios in his head.

But honestly, what was the worst thing that could happen? I could miss my flight and the frozen dog food I was hoofing in for the compound mascot would melt? Oh... and the fact, I’d be out hundreds of dollars? That too.

(Yes, flights into Sudan cost the ‘peau de fess’ as the French like to say. There is no easy translation for that.... It literally means it would cost ‘butt skin’. Sounds better in French. Right? Ha ha.)

After taking a few long seconds to pause.... dramatic drum roll please..... he gave me a piece of paper and I wrote a very official sounding paragraph promising to pay for all expenses if deported.

I, Stephanie Williams, promise to incur all financial responsibility for any flights..... yada yada.

After reading it, he smiled wryly and gave a slight nod of approval. He wasn’t convinced they would let me off the plane in Sudan... but at least this way he wouldn’t get in trouble with his boss.

(Mental Note: When flying to Sudan, dress better so you don’t have to write a financial promise-to-pay statement at the airport. Better yet, get a visa on time!)

Boarding the plane an hour or so later, I was given a small paper bag with my ‘in flight meal’ of unsalted peanuts and a bottle of water. Oh... and don’t forget the peppermint candy tucked in the bottom!

There were about a dozen passengers, most of which deplaned in Loki, our first stop. Loki is the Northern-most city in Kenya. It’s a dusty stretch of land tucked in between a few mountain ranges. Not much can be said of it, really.

It’s home, however, to a handful of NGOs with large warehouses near the landing strip, a few mud huts, and one overpriced concession stand.

Since we were running late, the lay-over there wasn’t long. The second leg of my flight would take me to Rumbek where I planned to meet my director.... and my visa.

Climbing back on board, I found a seat quickly, and waited for the rest of the passengers. Two other heavy set men boarded with me and made their way to the very back. One was talking loudly on his cell phone.              --Annoying.

But then, the pilots boarded and closed the plane door. Huh? There were only three passengers on this leg?

The pilot (who doubled as a flight attendant) asked the loud Kenyan on his phone to hang up because ANY form of frequency would interfere with the flight. Somehow I believed him. We couldn’t leave until he hung up. He had to ask three times before acknowledged, and then a fourth time, before he actually obeyed.

Looking around I was a bit taken aback by the plane. Empty. Old. Dirty. Packed with boxes marked ‘unattended’ where people should be sitting. This is not your typical commercial flight.

Plus, my outside window pane was chipped in numerous places; I imagined it shattering causing this metal bird to plummet to a crinkly, mangled death. Tragic. At least there would be only 5 reported deaths... the two pilots, me, Mr. Cell Phone and his friend. Would we be missed?

Laughing at my overactive brain, I finished off my peanuts and tried to sleep.

Once we landed, they searched my bags (definitely a first in Sudan), and asked for my paperwork. Fortunately my director, Sabet (who is referred to by his wife Suzy as ‘the King of Rumbek’) met me with the right papers.

A view of Rumbek from behind.

He argued on my behalf, and I quietly left to wait in the truck with Albino and Awad (pronounced OW-wad) --two of my favorite staff members. (They had come because we needed to pick up groceries for the compound on the way home.)

Awad greeted me in his fancy blue military fatigues. He even proudly pointed out his new AK47 resting haphazardly in the back of the truck. It seems like every time I see him these days, he’s decked out in some new military outfit. 

After all the proper hellos and handshakes, I asked them how things had been lately at the clinic. Awad, always the talker said: “Oh, so busy. Busy-busy. You know, the pregnants is waiting for you. You will see, on Monday there will be sixty coming to see you!”
-- “Sixty! How will I see so many?” I laughed to hide my apprehension. (I was sure he was right. They told me they’d be waiting for me.)
-- “Yes, the clinic so busy. Margaret so tired. Everyday many many patients. So many. You will see. The women they say, ‘Go to this clinic. There is no cost. You can have free medicine. You can deliver no cost. That is why they come from East Tonj... they even come from Thiet.”

As he spoke, I realized I was walking back into the craziest season of my time here. (I don’t know if I should be afraid or excited.)

Not long afterward, my director Sabet joined us in the truck. The customs officers wanted me to pay a large sum for not having the right papers, but The King of Rumbek talked his way out of it.  New papers will be arranged this week, but fortunately... I won’t be deported.

At least not this time.

So thank you all for praying for my time off, and for my flights home. I’m back enjoying the hot humid afternoon rains.

But please pray for the clinic and staff. There is more work than ever. Pray for laborers. Pray for midwives. Pray for nurses. Pray for doctors. Pray for missions-minded hearts to serve... starting with me.

I’m also told we are going to be desperately short-staffed this summer as our Kenyan staff takes their much-deserved breaks. Please pray that I would not be overcome by all the need, or spread myself too thin. I don’t want to burn out. Pray that I would find rest in Him alone, and that He would be my strength and song. Thanks.