Loriann in Sudan

I sat on my bed in Gondollo Thursday morning after my first half successful attempt at making pancakes for my Gondollo family and I asked God what he would have me do with the day.  I presented my list of ideas: find a friend and go door to door and talk about the gospel, visit friends, re-mud my house, get firewood because I was running low.  I sat quietly and knew He was nudging me toward the firewood option though I questioned it because it was the least “spiritual” of the options.  As I prepared to go, Suddenly Wlku came to mind, and I felt prompted to go…and go NOW, “Can I brush my teeth first, Lord?” Surely clean teeth are important, but to my surprise He seemed to be urging me to go NOW.  So with dirty teeth, I did.  As I walked out of my house to the path, right outside at the crossroads of paths there stood Wlku!  It might sound a little funny, but the best way I can describe it is that I felt like I just “smiled at God” and we exchanged winks of acknowledgement that his hand was on this as we headed out to cut grass together.   Wlku, her oldest daughter with Papa strapped to her back, a few other companions, and I headed out with a few sickles in our hands to cut grass, carry it on our heads, then sell it in market to the people who will roof their houses with it.  Wlku was hungry and planned to use the money they got to buy flour to cook for her family. 

I learned to cut grass, refined my “finding rope in the bush” skills, learned to tie unbelievably large bundles of grass, and held Papa and made him smile and enjoyed seeing the extra weight he’s put on.  His arms and legs are filling out and he’s even got a little bottom now!  It was so nice to see Wlku’s smile as we enjoyed his progress together. 

Wlku worked quickly yet agitatedly as Papa’s cry became more urgent from the bundle tied on her.  My heart welled with compassion as I watched her work, her baby clearly needing her, yet her own stomach paining and knowing she needed to finish this work to ease her own hunger as well as those of her children back home.  They decided to come back and carry the grass the next day since the sun was too hot.  We picked up some firewood on the way home, to which I just had to smile again, knowing that God knew all along that I needed to go to the firewood place that day.  We cooked lunch and drank coffee back at my house.   I don’t know what fruit will come of it all, but I know that God led the day.

A steady flow of women came to my house in Gondollo on Christmas Eve to enjoy some coffee, rice and potatoes, enough finger nail polish to paint the toenails of most of my Gondollo friends and to share about the reason for the coming Christmas celebration.  I found out that Red is by far the color of choice!

Jura and I at Damo Church last winter

Jura found me washing dishes in a bucket by the borehole and told me she had been sent to find me and that she was spending the night at my place because the rest of the women who usually stay near my house were traveling. 

A while ago, Jura was really sick and had been for a long time.  (I wrote about her in “Jura’s Sparkle”)  When we’d visit her during this time, one of us would pray for her and then I’d encourage her, “Ensosh ye—You pray.”  But she would look shy and say she didn’t know how to.  About two weeks ago at meal time I encouraged her again, “Ensosh ye.” And she prayed a beautiful, short prayer.  This past week she joined the line of those declaring their faith for all to see in the Yabus River. 

So Jura and I got ready for bed, my first Sudanese sleepover.  I tucked in my mosquito net around the edges of the mattress that rested on the bamboo bed frame.  I crawled in and since I only have one bed, I welcomed her to climb in after me.  As we lay in the pitch black darkness we prayed together again, this time she prayed a little longer, and I prayed a little shorter.  I’ve never had sleepover “girl talk” quite like this  before, under a mosquito net in the Sudan bush with my Ganza friend insisting that I have a boy in Nairobi and telling me about the four different guys who have been asking her to come and get married. 

Girl talk died down, midnight rolled around, and I realized that she wasn’t kidding when she informed me earlier that her cough had kept her awake for the last few nights.  At least we were both away to hear the carolers who burst into song outside our house!  I scrambled to find a skirt and some beans to give the carolers who laughed when I came out and clapped when I gave them the “beans.”  

Jura and me at the nail painting Christmas party the day after our sleepover

Sabrea and me at Thanksgiving, Shagi Katibo

Sabrea, born a year and a couple months ago just after I arrived in Sudan, stood all on her own on her way to learning to walking. I was delighted because it was the first time I saw her stand and I exclaimed, “Shagi Kanibo!” My friend erupted in hysterical laughter. Was it that funny that she was standing? Then I realized that I hadn’t said, “Shagi Katibo-she is standing” rather I had just declared that this little one year old was pregnant! Oops! 

The sight of the nursing baby jolted my memory back to the severely malnourished baby we cared for and lost about a year ago.  Here was a little boy, 4.6 pounds, four months old, his tiny bony arms flailing, his ribs visibly showing through his delicate skin.  I tried not to gasp as I squatted down, put out my finger for his little hand to hold , and asked, “What is his name?” He doesn’t have one.  I asked how long he had been sick, 2 months.  His mom had taken to the “swak” and she demonstrated for me how the witch doctor removed the things from his body that were making him skinny, but clearly the tiny baby was still tiny.  We prayed together.  What else could I do?  She agreed to take him to the clinic, and I walked away with heavy steps and an even heavier spirit. 

I couldn’t get him off my mind and prayed fervently for God to spare his little life.  As I imagined his tiny body I remembered meeting another old woman.  As we walked around Gondollo to meet new Ganza people one afternoon, my friends said, “Lori, there’s a sick lady in here, come and see if you can help.” Expecting to pray with a woman lying on a bed with a fever, I ducked into the house totally unprepared for what I saw.  It took all my restraint to keep my hand from rising to my mouth and my eyes from spreading wide with shock.  I could hardly believe that the skeletal figure curled on the bamboo bed before me could possibly still have the breath of life in her, and she had been like that for two years!  

I resolved that after church the next day I would find the mama with her baby and the old woman and take them all to the clinic.  It couldn’t wait.  As I went to pick up the baby first, I was surprised to find the old woman in the same house!  She was the baby’s grandma.  A dark feeling of hopelessness seemed to rest in that place, the home of two sick and starving people.  I had to tell myself, “Lori, this is NOT the time to cry.”    

Wlku, the mom, strapped the baby to her back and struggled with confusion about how to mount the four-wheeler.  Shimba, the grandma, feared falling off and decided she would rather stay home.  The Yabus clinic, though very concerned, was not equipped to care for the needs of such a small baby and planned to take him to a place more equipped to care for him in a few days.  The Yabus clinic staff agreed to drive the truck back to their home, drop off Papa, the newly named baby with his mother and pick up Shimba, the old woman.  As we took off on a fast and bumpy truck ride, terror etched Wlku’s face as she tried not to be jostled while at the same time comforting her child.  I wondered if this was her first time in a truck.    

It was a flurry of confusion as the clinic staff waited outside the house for Shimba who refused to go to the clinic.  I translated for the doctor, her family tried to reason with her, a sister presented groundnuts to the driver as he waited, and I squatted to sit on a log as I struggled to find a spoon, clean cup, and water that did not come from the river so I could explain how to properly mix the formula for Papa as well as the dosage for the antibiotics.  In the end, Shimba refused to come, and I feared that Papa would be drinking river-water formula and the spoon for the medicine would end up on the ground and the dosage would be confused.   

After the look of terror on Wlku’s face during her first truck-ride, I couldn’t have imagined that I’d get the pleasure of accompanying her and Papa on their first airplane ride! 

By divine timing, and some compassionate hearts, God opened the way for a plane to be diverted and pick up Wlku, Papa, and Papa’s uncle over to the Nutrition Village at the SIM base in Doro where a lady named Grace has set up a place specifically designed to care for malnourished babies and children. 

I fought back distress when I went to pick them up the morning of the plane ride, and discovered that Wlku and Papa were nowhere to be found.  Her family avoided eye contact as they told me they didn’t know where she went.  The airplane would be landing soon and we still had 30 minutes on a four-wheeler to get to the airstrip, pilots don’t like delays and he was already going out of his way to make this stop.  I knew that if Papa didn’t make it to the village only a miracle by the hand of God would spare his life.  I felt overwhelmed with frustration at the challenge of communicating urgency in a different language across cultural lines.  I couldn’t find them, and it was becoming increasingly clear that they did not want to be found.  I finally realized that I had to just leave it, though I knew it meant his life.  I got back on the four-wheeler with defeat and grief at the life I feared would be lost and desperate frustration with no words to pray yet hoping that SOMEHOW God could still work it out. 

I found some of my Ganza friends, and apparently my face is not a great mask for emotions, they immediately knew something was wrong, and when they asked, they saw me cry for the first time.  Two agreed to come back and try to explain again that they need not be afraid.  One guy even reasoned with the family, “If you don’t want to go, give the baby to me and I’ll take him.”  Finally, Dua the uncle and Wlku, in the haste of our departure got on the four-wheeler with no shoes and no shirt but the blanket that strapped Papa to her and we began the ride to the airstrip at the very moment we heard the plane landing in the distance.  Now I had words to pray, “Spare his life, and PLEASE let the pilot wait!”

Gritting my teeth over the bumps and going as fast as possible while trying to be gentle on the delicate life I was carrying, stopping so Wlku could put on a shirt, we finally made it to the airstrip.  The pilot waited.  Hallelujah!  Though my adrenaline rushed as if I just dismounted a rollercoaster, I knew I needed to be calm for their sakes.  I tried to explain what would happen, and with a pleading look of vulnerability Wlke asked if I would be coming with them.  I took Papa in my arms and watched the pilot help Wlku’s as she climbed the airplane ladder with her bare, calloused feet.  Before take off we prayed, and she asked me, “Lori, where to I hold on?” As we taxied down the runway, she asked, “Have we ridden the air yet?”  She and Dua were amazingly calm for their first airplane ride, and I sure enjoyed holding Papa all the way to Doro as I pointed out houses and rivers from an aerial view. 

After some glitches in which Dua refused to stay because he needed to dig his groundnuts and Wlku refused to stay if Dua didn’t because she doesn’t understand Arabic, I agreed to take Dua’s place and provide translation for Wlku, mentally prepared for what would be an intense week or two immersed in the life of a lady at the Nutrition village, then Dua had a changed of heart and agreed to stay as long as I would bring word to certain people who would go and dig his groundnuts. 

A little over a week later, after some formula and a number of medicines, Papa’s cheeks were beginning to fill out.  Wlku’s milk started to come in more after a week of eating  this great stuff called, “Plumpy Nut.”  When they returned to Yabus on their now second plane ride ever, Wlku was glowing, happy, and hopeful.  Nothing like the woman who turned to me as we sat under a tree together at the Nutrition village and said, “Lori, I was afraid on the airplane.”  I asked her if she was afraid this time and with a wide, confident grin she said, “No, I wasn’t afraid.”

That same afternoon I went to visit them and to bring some “Plumpy Nut” for Grandma Shimba.  As the Yabus clinicians described how many packs of Plumpy Nut to eat each day, I noticed a difference in Wlku.  She sat up straight and with the confidence of a new graduate she explained how often to eat it and to drink water with it, and she beamed as living evidence that this stuff really does make a difference. 

My prayer has been not only that God would spare the life of little Papa, but that he would use this as one step towards drawing the entire family to Himself.  I visited again a little over a week ago and brought pictures that depict Bible stories.  Wlku sat with Papa nursing and they served tea to Asule, on of my SIM teammates and I, as the whole family sat and listened intently with nods of understanding as I explained about God’s work at Creation and the perfection of things at the beginning.  I’m eager to continue returning and sharing more of God’s story.  I want them to see God’s love, power, and mercy woven through their lives not only through the way He is working to bring healing to Papa, but most importantly, in the way he has woven redemption through history by the blood that has bought their lives back for God. 

Shimbe eating Plumpy Nut, today was incidentally the first day I saw her smile.

Reflections

Papa didn’t stand a chance without the help of the Nutrition village, and though it is a place where many children have come and their lives were spared, Wlku and her family didn’t want to go.  Like so many people who hear the story of Jesus, but for whatever reason they hide out and refuse to come.  However, others decide they’ll get up and come along, even if they don’t have the shoes or shirt for the journey.  And when they return, they speak with a new glow of this way to life.  Some will follow as well, others will continue to refuse and hang out at home, imprisoned and cut off from the only way to real life.

Is this home or National Geographic?

 “Yeso asi na kyib? (Do you hear the dancing people?” Jura turns to ask me as we near the end of our 45min walk from our already remote village in Gondollo.  Soon the grass clears and opens to what feels like a family reunion with greetings, hugs, smiles, laughter and delight.  An old woman whose stature makes me feel like Manut Boule, with a stick and large Ganza smoking pipe in one hand and my hand in her free hand leads me to the “dance floor.”   Dust rising and filling the air mixing with smoke from countless pipes as we march to the rhythm in a circle around the men huddled in a circle beating the zele (or big piece of wood wedged between their legs) to the rhythm.  I try to imitate the calls that she cries out as we go around the circle. 

All of a sudden I halt with a smack as if my mind has just walked into a glass door.  Here I am dancing and greeting, hugging, singing, enjoying festivities with my friends and then WHOA!!! Lori, you are dancing hand in hand with an old woman in the middle of a scene that could easily make the next issue of National Geographic.  

My Dancing Partner

Some people trade spaces, others trade sisters.

Ganza Marriage Customs

One man gives his sister to his friend as his bride and in turn takes his friend’s sister as his bride.  In essence, the two men in the families trade sisters in marriage.  If the man has more than one sister, he has the option of taking more than one wife because he has more sisters to trade.  If one man takes as his wife the woman he chooses, then his sister is expected to marry his bride’s brother.  This keeps the same number of women in each family. 

So what if a man doesn’t have a sister?  He can still take a woman as his wife, but not without risks.  When the bride’s father discovers that a man has taken his daughter as his bride, he searches for the man to kill him for taking his daughter.   The new couple hides out together at a relative or friend’s house.  The father’s hunt for his daughter’s husband officially ends when the woman becomes pregnant. 

The man also has the option of marrying a woman who has already been married but has been left by her husband.  No one will hunt him for taking her as his bride.

Wedding

Women express their availability with their jewelry, women generally between 12-18 years of age or 40+ years.  If they are looking for a husband, they make it known by adorning themselves with thick strands of beads around the waist, necks, and sea shell ankle bracelets that rattle when walking or dancing.  The official “wedding” of man and woman takes place when a man and woman agree and then head off to the bush together to consummate their marriage agreement.  Perhaps it is while dancing and celebrating another marriage and the boy chooses the girl he likes and they agree to go off together.  Or perhaps they take a liking together and when she is going to fetch water he calls to her and she leaves her water to follow him out to the bush. 

Wedding guest wearing the beads of availability

Wedding Celebration

Once married, the bride will grind lots of sorghum and make alcohol for the guests who will come.  They will spend maybe two days in celebration dancing and drinking alcohol.  The dancing consists of about six men in a circle facing each other with a zele (large pieces of wood wedged between their legs) and a rhythm stick in one hand to hit the zele for keeping the rhythm.  They hold a decorated, hollowed out piece of wood in the other hand into which they blow like you would blow into an empty bottle.  These men face each other in a circle and keep the beat while everyone else marches and moves to the rhythm, calling out and singing and keeping the beat with their bodies.  The women dance in pairs, holding hands.  The men lean in toward the women on beat and the women bend away from them, all in rhythm.  Many of the dancers carry throwing sticks and hold them in the air while dancing.  After a song or two, the zele players in the middle move onto another place, it seems like it is because of the dust that is raised while dancing, a new place with clear air is preferred, whether this is their reason for moving to new places, I have no idea. 

Demonstration of how to play a Zele

The bride was adorned in plenty of blue beads around her waist, neck, and head.  She wore shells on her ankles, a simple black skirt, no shirt, and oil all over her body.  When serving her guests she kneels on the ground and using both hands while serving.  Her in-laws bend down and she pours water over them for washing.  Though women and men do not partner in dancing, the new bride and groom, alone dance side by side with their arms around each other. 

The Bride