Of Cows and Men

Today I finally managed to go to the Nile. Since I came to Bor, I’ve always wanted to go and see this famous river, but failed to get company. But then we finally set off this morning---and oh la la, what did I see?

Certainly not so many naked men! Hmmmm. I’ve never seen so many men in all their naked glory bathing in the river at the one time! How many exactly? Maybe twenty! Or thirty! So many naked men all in the water, bathing, fishing---as if it they were nine-year-olds! 

Okay, I have to stop rambling about that because there were other things to see on the Nile. Not just so many naked men. (How many times have I used that phrase? I’m still shocked.) But what impressive anatomies they had---the kind of stuff that many women dream about. I can’t even believe I’m talking about this on the blog. 

I wanted to take pictures, to save this precious memory for the rest of my life, but every time I took out my camera, someone came over to see what I was taking. I might have pretended that I wanted to go and take a pee behind a bush, and then I might have had a lot of opportunity to take as many shots of the hunks in the water as possible, but that thought never crossed my mind. I was too . . . stunned. 

They did not know I was watching them, I hope. I was wearing sun glasses and a hat, so they thought I was only looking at the river, yet I was feasting my eyes---okay, enough about that.

Now, I sat on a rock by the river bank, to enjoy the free show. There are these cafes on the riverside, selling mandazis and soft drinks and local beer. The men who think they are cool, the elite of the tribe, hang out in these riverside cafes to drink and gossip. I would say these are cafes were “formal”- and “educated”-looking men sit and drink and talk.

Well, I sat on a rock, enjoying the scene, and maybe the men in the cafes took notice of me. How, yet I’m so small I might be a little girl, I don’t know. A group of these men offered me a chair, which I refused. I insisted on sitting on the rock, all by myself.

By and by, one of them got the courage to come over to me. And we started to talk about this and that and Sudan and the other. Nothing serious. Only stuff you might talk about with a stranger. I don’t know if I’ve ever met him before. I meet so many men here and I don’t remember all their faces. (I hope you don’t read that wrongly, for I’m certainly not talking about any other kind of “meeting” other than what might happen if you ran into someone in the street.)

Well, I am talking to this gentleman. He seemed educated. He talked good English. Typical Dinka man. Tall. Lean. And surprise, surprise, he proposed to marry me. Just like that. One second, we are talking about the problems facing Sudan, the next, I thought he was going to say something like, “Yes, these rains are going to last another month.” But instead said, “Madam, will you be my wife?”

I don’t remember whether I was shocked or pleased or what. Anyway, I told him that I couldn’t, because I already have a husband. And he said, “Oh, forget about your husband. Get a black Sudanese man and you'll not regret.” Now he named a price, which surprised me, because I did not think I would be that expensive in Sudan. He offered me a hundred cows!

One hundred cows. How much is that in dollars? Some cows cost as much as 500 USD! He told me I could go with him to the cattle market and pick whichever cows I wanted. Any cow. Here women are valued by how many cows they are offered before marriage. The cows, however, go to the parents, so daughters are precious commodities here.

Anyway, I replied, “It would be very difficult to ship the cows to the Philippines.” And he said, "Oh, is it expensive to ship the cows?" I had to try hard not to laugh. He probably thought the Philippines was a town down the Nile in Uganda, or maybe in Ethiopia. He sounded serious but I didn’t think he was. I wonder what would have happened if I had said yes.

Good thing the car came before he could utter another word, so I left him there, thinking about his 100 cows. I did not know I would be that expensive, because here the "expensive" brides are the young, tall, and uneducated ones. Young because they would bear more children. Tall because they believe tall women can do more work. Uneducated because they can't oppose their husbands.

I guess this guy had a bet with his friends. He must have told them, “Give me one minute and I will marry that foreigner!” He probably thought all foreigners are liberal and would jump into bed with the first hunky giant they come across. Well, he must have lost a cow in that bet!

We drove back to the base camp, but what an exciting day it was. My Indonesian colleague fished for four hours, and all he got was a little fish (which they are cooking for supper). We did also go to this port where barges came from Khartoum with goods. Ah, but it’s now too boring to talk about that after the impressive accounts above. 

Children fishing on the Nile.

Women washing clothes on the Nile.

Men doing business on the Nile.

How I wish I took photos of the other men on the Nile!

Dressed to Kill

Every day I spend in this place, the enormity of its patriarchal madness gives me a new surprise. (I don’t even know what that sentence means, but when my male colleagues will hear that they’d think I’m educated and in charge.) Well, it’s not just a traditional society. It’s a society where women are still “women.” 

Now, before I came here I was warned about what to wear, that I should dress as conservatively as possible. For those who know me personally, you would seldom see me all covered up. It’s either I wear jeans and a sleeveless blouse, a long-sleeved shirt with shorts, a strapless long dress, or a dress with sleeves but falls just above the knees. You get the picture. But of course, that’s back home. Here, I try to cover up as much as I can despite the scorching temperatures. 

Yesterday, I had a meeting with a big guy from the Ministry. I dressed up in my best trousers and a “formal” shirt, and I did look really decent. Not exposing anything. I even wore socks!

But just as I was about to get into the car, one of the Sudanese staff whispered to a Kenyan colleague, “Please, tell her not to go dressed like that.” Apparently, he was too shy to tell me to my face to go and change, and so he told a fellow man, who is not a Sudanese, to tell me. Maybe in their culture they can’t openly discuss with a woman what she is wearing as that might be taken as a sign of having interest in her. So my Kenyan colleague told me, “Reiza, when you go to the Ministry, I suggest you wear a skirt. These male directors don't take kindly of women who wear trousers entering their offices.”

I was shocked. I thought I looked really polished and respectable. But no, I can’t wear trousers to go into this big shot’s office. I must be “properly” dressed---in a skirt like a “normal woman.” And it wasn’t even a skirt that I was supposed to wear, but a really long dress. Down to the ankles or mid-calves. And the shirt sleeves long to my wrists. But well, I had to make do with a maxi summer dress (that I reserved for my R&R) and layered it with a long-sleeved shirt.  Forget about fashion here.

Dressed like real respectable women.

It beats my understanding, why they expect women to be all covered up in this heat! It gets to 40 degrees, and you feel like walking around in flimsy clothing! But no, you have to be “properly” dressed!

The comment they made the moment I stepped out of my hut in my “female” clothing was, “Ah, now you are a real girl.” That should say it all, about their attitude. When I got to the big shot’s office, I was curious to see how the other women in there were dressed. But why wasn’t I not surprised to discover I was the only woman facing Mr. Director General? 

On seeing me, he exclaimed, “Why do they send such a beautiful lady to a place like South Sudan?” I wanted to take that as a compliment. But if you read between the lines, the way Freud would, you would really know that he was thinking, “What work can a woman do? They should have sent a fellow man!”

Juliet Foxtrot Omega 3

If I write that in this blog, will I be breaching a security whatever? Giving the enemy---whoever that is---secret communication codes? Okay, just to be on the safe side, I’ve changed the actual name I use, but it has something to do with Juliet and a romantic dance. I use it over the radio every evening, while doing the security checks. I have to keep saying words like “Roger that,” “Bravo this,” “over and out.”

Well, ever since I got the name, I’ve been wondering who Romeo Tango is. You would want to know too, for Juliet can’t tango alone, can she? I just hope that Romeo isn’t someone I have in mind, who has not given me any peace of mind since I came here (read: co-worker from hell).

And I keep wondering about it---who Romeo is in this case---because almost every day they (meaning my colleagues and some random people) keep asking me about my marital status. Talk about men and minding their own business. They are always wondering why I’m not married and have no children; they think I’m maybe too old to be staying single. Their persistence makes me to think continuously about this Romeo, especially since after a whole day of being pestered about my marital status, I have to go to the radio and say, “Romeo, do you read me? This is Juliet. Do you want to foxtrot? It takes two to tango. Romeo, come in please.” And when I say that, I imagine he is just outside the door and I’m telling him to come in: “Romeo, do you read me? This is Juliet, over.” Of course, I’m just kidding. This is what happens when you don’t have anything else to do in the evenings than mind the radio.

A few days ago, while I was doing field work, an old man from the village---he might have been 70 years old---exclaimed, upon learning I’m thirty-something without a husband, “What’s wrong with you? Do you want to get married when your teeth are falling out?” Then he gave me a toothless grin before he snickered away.

Well, the way they talk too much about it, they probably think they can woo me to make me their second wife, because they believe once a woman is my age and isn’t married, then there is a problem with her. She may be desperate. And she won’t mind being a second wife, or a fifth wife. The thought is giving me goosebumps.

So did they give me this name “Juliet” to mock me?

"Oh, Romeo, Romeo. Where art thou, my Romeo?"

At least their “sexual harassment” is only limited to words, and it’s not so outright. Only wondering why I’m still single and asking it to my face. The people are otherwise polite and nice. When I go to the market, they treat me with respect.

This is a far cry from Ethiopia, where the harassment was so physical that I’m surprised I wasn’t raped in broad daylight. Don’t get me wrong. I think Ethiopians are generally nice and caring, but many times while I was there I had been subjected to outright sexual harassment even in public places like the bank or even the market. 

On the contrary, I enjoy going to shop in the open markets out here. People don’t follow foreigners around, nor do they grab your arms or touch you in private places or pull your hair, nor do they try to ask for money from you. It’s heaven here. No hassling. They smile and say hi and hello, very friendly. 

The only problem is the fascination with marriage and having children. A woman is not considered highly if she fails to give birth. There is a lot of pressure and honor associated with marriage. So help me, God. (4/9/2011 9:06

The Story So Far

Before I came to South Sudan, I knew it was not going to be a walk in the park. I read a lot about the place (see news reel at the side of this page) and was intimidated enough to at first name this blog “Surviving Southern Sudan”, but got rid of that when it struck me how negative a title it was.

And what can I say of my first weeks here? Am I surviving, or is this the experience that will forever change my life, make me into a Lara Croft without the guns? 

Without guns? There seems to be guns everywhere. Reminds me of the Wild West films, where he who owns a gun rules the land. One night while we were in Juba, while driving back to our base camp---after a meal in a rather overrated and extortionist Indian/Chinese restaurant brimming with aid workers from every international NGO you can think of----with my new colleagues, we ran into a shooting incident. It had been a long day, my second night in Juba. And when we heard the loud pop of a Kalashnikov, our country director, who was driving the car, calmly said, “Oh, another random shooting again. That’s the reason, Reiza, you have to be in the compound before 10:00 PM, the curfew.”

I nodded enthusiastically in a vain effort to hide my fear. I couldn’t show them I was afraid, when no one else was acting scared. Also, I didn’t want my boss to think I’m a sissy. Sudan doesn’t have a place for petite Asian girls who would jump at the sound of a bomb exploding. It also doesn’t help much that I’m the only woman on the team. So I guess I have to perfect my oh-I’m-so-used-to-gunfire-I-can’t-be-bothered act until I can convince myself that I’m really brave, as most people back home believe.

Apparently, the place is awash with SPLA, or former rebels turned soldiers after the referendum, and there are so many guns lying about. There have to be guns, given the decades of conflict that have laid this beautiful country to waste. It is very easy for arguments, over anything, even over a soccer match, to turn into a shooting argument.

Early this week, my first trip to the field was disrupted when a wrestling match turned into an inter-clan clash. I was feeling good to be here, amid these wrestlers who tower above me like giants from Jack and the Beanstalk. By the way, I’m the size of a small child here, and when I run into children, they don’t know whether to treat me as an adult or as a peer. Everyone is so tall here. My workmates keep asking for my age, and no amount of telling can make them believe that I’m not a teenager pretending to be a twenty-something---okay, thirty-something.

Well, so we were going to this field trip, and we ran into a wrestling match. I had the chance to take pictures with the wrestlers, but what trouble it was trying to take a photo of a giant! I had to ask someone else to take a proper picture; otherwise, all I could photograph were his legs. He wasn’t the machoest (forgive the term) of all wrestlers, had “love handles,”and not so muscular as some I’ve seen in other photos, but he was still of an impressive height and build. If he walks in the Philippines, huge crowds would follow him wondering where his spaceship is.

That's the wrestling hero in the middle, flocked by his collection of women. :)

The local fighting had something to do with the wrestling. And here wrestling is a matter of pride. When you watch football, and see Manchester United fighting with Chelsea, it’s all a matter of money. Here, wrestling is a matter of honor, and pride, and the reputation of a whole tribe can rest on a single wrestler. So when one wrestler won, the supporters of the fallen hero started taking out sticks and spears out of nowhere, which soon erupted into a tribal clash.

At that time, I was talking to some leaders of the “war heroes” in their barracks. Our meeting was cut short by gunfire and bloodied men with sticks and spears running towards us. And this time, I didn’t have to act I was scared because I wasn’t. I felt safe with all these giants around me. Of course, I had to take cover inside one of the tukuls( huts). Luckily, the police were able to contain the clash before it spilled into an all-out war.

But that is the kind of life I’m leading here. One minute, the security level is at 2. The next, it rockets to 5. I have to carry a radio (walkie-talkie) with me at all times---the last time I used it was 20 years ago when cellphones didn’t exist---and have to call in to say I’m okay. Every night, I have to answer the security check for if I don’t, the UN will report me missing and will deploy helicopters and stuff like that to find me. I can’t walk on foot outside my camp (and what a camp it is, more about that later). We have to go with a driver wherever, even when just buying salt from a local shop. When the security level is 5, you have to be escorted to the bathroom! (Okay, that’s a little joke of my own.) But the kind of tension in this place is a life changer.

When it’s not guns giving you sleepless nights, it’s snakes, and bats, and lions (though I’ve not seen them yet). While growing up, I had never dreamed of living in a place where I’d wake up every morning to the roar of a lion. I’m living in a game park, as an expertourist---you know, a combination of expatriate and tourist---but this is an experience that no tourist can ever get! The average rural person will wake up to a cockcrow, and you can tell it’s dawn when you start to hear the cocks crowing. Here, we know it’s dawn when we hear the hyenas doing their morning laughing session, and what a sound it is. I will try to capture it on my phone one morning, for you unfortunate folks to have a listen.

Though I’m not so sure just how big a threat the snakes and bats pose. I know it’s very unlikely that a lion will walk into the camp to eat me. Someone will see it from a long way off and get it before it reaches our camp. But the snakes?

The base camp, kept immaculately clean to discourage uninvited guests.

Well, in every village, there is a big mouth. An alarmist. The boy who cries wolf. But the person I’m talking about here is actually a sweet man from Indonesia who took a lot of trouble to help me settle in, to make me feel welcome. And I wouldn’t want to call him a big mouth, or an alarmist, because he isn’t that. He is just a very talkative and charming man. Only that he keeps telling me all these scary stories about black mambas. How they can swim under your bed during the floods! They did see a black mamba inside one of the huts and fortunately the guys killed it before it could make one of us history. We do have an anti-venom, which is being kept by UNAMIS, because there they have 24/7 generator. Ours is only 16/7. Now the UNAMIS compound is about 10-15 minutes drive from our compound, maybe 30 during the rainy season. Now Wikipedia says black mamba bites can potentially kill a human within 20 minutes. You do the math.

But the bats are a real menace. One night, I woke up at about 4 AM, to the sound of wings flapping in my hut. It’s a hut, with mud walls and grass roof covered with iron sheets. I at first couldn’t tell what was making all the noise in the room, until I saw this face on my mosquito net. It looked like a miniature dog, and the first thought that struck me was Dracula. I however realized that we were very far away from Europe, and Africa doesn’t really have vampires (I’ve never seen them mentioned in any film or book as existing in Africa)  though they have their own version of evil folk that fly in the night. And I’m not keen on meeting them either.

It was just a little bat, maybe a baby who lost its way home. But I failed to go back to sleep that night. I have to fumigate the hut, to get rid of all these pests.

So now I’m wondering whether I should call the blog “Surviving South Sudan” after all, but it’s not all survival here. It’s actually a lot of fun and a great experience living among giants.