Does Rosetta Stone come in Dinka?

Me: (in English) Can you help me practice my numbers?
Rafael: (in English) Numbers?
Me: (in English) Yes. (in Dinka) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5…
Rafael: (in Dinka) Oh! 6, 7, …
Me: (in Dinka) 8, 9, 10, 11, 12…(in English) I don’t know any more.
Rafael: (in Dinka) 13, 14, 15, 16…
Me: (in English) Can you say them more slowly?
Rafael: (in Dinka) Hmm? 17, 18, 19, …
Me: (in English) No, more slowly. Slooooowwwwer. What was 13 again?
Rafael: (in Dinka) 13.
Me: (in Dinka) 13?
Rafael: (in Dinka) 13.
Me: (in English) Okay, good. Now, how do you say “How old are you?”
Rafael: Hmm? (confused expression)
Me: (in English) How old are you? What is your age? How many years do you have?
Rafael: (in English) I’m 32.
Me: (in English) No! I mean, I want to say, in Dinka, “How old are you?”
Rafael: (in Dinka) I’m 32.
Me: (in English) I mean, I want to ask the question, in Dinka.
Rafael: (in English) In Dinka, I would say…(in Dinka) I am 32 years old.
Me: (in English) No! The question!!! How old are you?
Rafael: (in Dinka) How old are you?
Me: (in Dinka) How old are you? (directed towards Rafael) How old are you?
Rafael: (in Dinka) How old are you?
Me: (in English) No, I’m asking you. (in Dinka) How old are you?
Rafael: (in English) I am 32.

Does Rosetta Stone come in Dinka? Anyone? Please?!

A Very Starry Night

We're having electrical issues. Apparently, our resident handyman is not the most skilled electrician. He didn't realize, for instance, that it's generally well advised to shut the power off before you begin fiddling with wires. And the day I arrived here in Wunrok he succeeded in frying a bunch of fuses and our main electrical switch. Conveniently, a high-up guy from the logistics department in Nairobi was visiting, and he managed a quick patch job, but he warned us that it would only be temporary, and today the system conked.

I'm truly sorry for the loss of power, only because I had a long-awaited Skype chat this evening. But at the same time being without electricity has really changed the social dynamics here. Untethered to the internet, my colleagues and I have enjoyed quite a few leisurely conversations--about working in Sudan and Palestine, long-distance relationships and European countries' varied approaches to foreign language learning.

And in the absence of technological distraction, I made some progress bonding with our female cleaning and cooking crew. Someone explained to them on my behalf that I was trying to learn Dinka, and so they helpfully started providing me with some useful vocab, everything from "sandals" to "tomato paste" to "watermelon." Abstract concepts are harder territory to navigate, but it's a good start nonetheless.

Then I made my first solo trip anywhere in Sudan, to the Wunrok market to buy some "warr," or flip flops, that actually fit me (the ones that were provided for me are designed for Sudanese feet, that is, long and narrow). A bit of gawking, lots of laughter, cries of "Kawaja!" all around, but nothing threatening whatsoever. Having the freedom to move, to explore, feels fantastic, even if it's a pretty limited freedom.

Finally, this evening, after a couple of hours trying unsuccessfully to rig up a back-up generator, I sat down with the night watchman and company. Word of my interest in "Muan jang" (Dinka language) must have gotten around, because they immediately started rattling off vocab. Their pedagogy could use some work (one of them began listing the numbers from 1-100 at breakneck speed), but I much appreciated their intentions. No soccer game on the TV to distract us, just a night full of bright stars and the sounds of our own voices and the croaking of a million frogs.

To cap it all, the driver who had acted so sullen on the way home two days ago greeted me by name and revealed that he used to teach Dinka language in Khartoum. He seems like an intelligent, precise kind of guy with a somewhat analytical approach to language, which is what I need. Much as I'd like to, I don't learn well simply by listening--I need to understand concepts, patterns, logic. And I may well need many more trips to the market, chapati-making sessions in the kitchen and leisurely, starry nights.

Transport

Aka hurtling along deeply pitted and potholed roads through herds of unconcerned cattle and curious goats. Speeding on narrow, eroding shoulders past overburdened trucks bearing loads of market goods all the way from Khartoum (800 miles to the north), hoping that the drivers see us (and care enough to make room for us to pass) through the clouds of orange dust that trail in their wake.

From what I have seen, our drivers are men of few words. Probably in part because there's more than enough on the road to occupy their attention. And also because their English is limited, and because, despite my efforts to be friendly, they likely don't feel the need, or desire, to strike up a conversation.

This is significant only because whichever expats happen to be riding in a car on a given day are officially responsible for making sure the driver proceeds with caution. And I'd like to build some rapport with a young, hotheaded Sudanese guy before politely suggesting that maybe 30 mph is a bit fast to be racing through a roadless village, or that he navigate the potholes with a bit more regard for the human passengers in the backseat. As one of my colleagues said last night, "We are humans; we are not a load of bricks."

I have joined my Food Security "Mentor" on three site visits over the past week, and the rainy season's mud has foiled us all three times. Twice, extracting ourselves was a fairly simple matter, as the passengers, along with hordes of farmers emerging from the scrub, cleared away the mud, gathered branches for traction and pushed us free. Once, our smiling rescuers piled into the back of our vehicle, jabbering away among themselves, and happily accepted a ride to the nearest town.

The third time, we were not so lucky. In the morning, our local program staff told me they didn't think we'd make it to our destination. The rains were too recent, our Land Cruiser too weak, the mud pits too extensive, the village in question too remote. But my mentor, an affable Italian expat attempting to stay on schedule, insisted that we try. We needed to visit this village to conduct a baseline assessment, and the roads would only become more impassable as the rainy season progressed.

But the locals were right. We succeeded in getting not only the two vehicles in our caravan impossibly lodged in a 500-yard mudflat, but also the "rescue car," which showed up about an hour before sunset, without headlights. Five of us, sensing the inadequacy of the proposed rescue effort, ditched the car mid-afternoon and slogged the 7 miles back to the compound. (A very welcome slog, mind you, at least on my part, since exercise has been hard to come by.)

Our driver yesterday started out at a comfortable, cautious pace, and I was pleasantly, though perhaps prematurely, content. For two-thirds of the day, all appeared fine. The we stopped for a final soda in a large market town on the way home, and the driver disappeared for a few minutes, returning with a mysterious package. My expat mentor approached him; apparently some drivers have created problems in the past by transporting goods that they intend to sell elsewhere in company vehicles, and he wanted to make sure that the driver wasn't abusing his privileges.

As soon as we rejoined the road, the driver became defensive and angry. The rest of the staff protested, and as the volume of the shouting match increased, so did the driver's speed and apparent disregard for the human and animal life on the road ahead. Finally, my Italian friend managed to shut everyone up. "Let him do his job," he insisted. "We can deal with this later." Our driver seemed to relax somewhat, but his good humor was clearly exhausted, and I reluctantly gave up hopes that this was at least one driver in South Sudan that I could trust.

This morning, we have yet another site visit planned, but as of 10 am, our driver has not yet made an appearance. Rumor has it he may be ill, or angry, but in any case, I for one am not entirely sorry for the delay.

Arrival

At the moment, all I have are questions. I would love to know, for example, if I will eventually come to like goat meat; if one of those terrifying-looking wasps that keeps zooming past me in this outdoor “office” will sting me, and if so, how much it will hurt; whether entering my tent in the darkness one night, I will surprise a cobra, or a viper, perhaps, who has taken refuge among my things; if I, like my co-workers, will lose all sense of irony about the absurd nightly Mexican soap opera dubbed into English, and watch its melodrama unfold in all earnestness; if my current stomach upset is indeed due to the oral cholera vaccine I took a few days ago (as I suspect), and not some parasitic creature that has found its way into my system; how many times, as happened yesterday, rural farmers, emerging from the scrub, will help to rescue one of our organization’s vehicles from the ubiquitous mud flats that emerge during the rainy season here in the vast floodplains of South Sudan.

But most of my questions are much more complex, and may not have clear answers at all. Most pertinently, can I, an unmarried, foreign female with no knowledge of local language or customs, contribute to positive change here in a matter of a mere three months?

Why are people here malnourished? How much is due to ongoing political instability and violence? How much to proud adherence to patriarchal traditions that place more value on the size of cattle herds than they do on investments in education or health care? What else is to blame? Perhaps well-meaning but imperfect organizations like my own?And what role can non-governmental organizations (NGOs) play in the big picture? Realistically, can they simply serve to help provide basic humanitarian needs while the various Sudanese factions—North and South, tribes and clans, political movements and militias—jostle for power? Or can grassroots development make real, lasting changes in the absence of strong, secure government?

I am six days into my initial foray into the food security and livelihoods field, which will likely include three months here in South Sudan, followed by a year in the D.R. Congo. Because politics are extremely sensitive here, I won’t take a stance on them in this blog, for the sake of my personal security as well as that of my organization, which I won’t mention by name. I’ll instead try to share stories, thoughts and pictures about my life here and efforts to improve food security in some of the most battered, war-torn regions of the world, with the most open, critical eyes, and all the humor, I can muster.