The good, the bad, and the ugly...

Such seems to be cry of life in Nyala at times...life everywhere I suppose...

The Good
Only a few places in the world do Thursday night and an old warehouse make for the perfect party spot. Various NGO trucks line the muddy streets and a few Christmas lights offer the appearance of decor. Yet this scene has become a wonderfully regular occurrence for those working in S. Darfur. Yet this evening was not marked by music or dancing, but rather the awe inspiring light show taking place outside of the warehouse. Rumbling across the plains of Darfur a huge thunderstorm was fast approaching, shooting streaks of lighting across the clear vast sky. The sheer size and violence of the storm was hard to capture in person and impossible to translate into words...yet standing on the terraza watching Mother Natures cinema we were all happy to be in Nyala at that moment. Good times even here.

The Bad
Over the past two months nearly nineteen NGO trucks have been stolen at gunpoint throughout Darfur by rebel groups as well as three large oil trucks that where stolen from the AU at the cost of two soldiers lives. The trucks roofs are surely chopped off and painted green, permanently transforming the vehicles from humanitarian trucks into Tactical war vehicles. This stock piling of arms and transport is unprecedented in Darfur and in less then a month the AU troops will be gone...with no one coming to replace them. IRC released a report yesterday stating the violence against women is getting worse in the camps. It will only be a short time now until the world sees the sham of a peace treaty fall to pieces. Bad and getting worse.

The Ugly
Saturday is my day off and I was looking forward to sleeping in a bit...until I was awoken by the bleeding of a sheep coming from behind my room. This is not uncommon; I am typically awoken by some various animal (donkey, goat, dog, giant bug, etc...) several times a night. The problem arose when the noise coming from the sheep was cut short by a quick choking sound and numerous voices saying something in Arabic. Quickly I remembered that today was the going away party of Sarah (my good friend and current co-worker) and that this morning was the time to slaughter the sheep for the dinner. So reluctantly I pulled myself out of bed, grabbed a cup of tea, and walked over to the sheep hanging from the tree outside my room to begin to help...so much for that time of vegetarianism...ugly, really ugly.

Sand Print

Sand it one of those substances that belongs in very specific locations and should be enjoyed in vary specific circumstances. A prime place for sand is on a beach, in front of an ocean, lake, or other large body of water. The enjoyment of said substance is found in the building of sand castles, burying your feet, or laying your blanket across it for sunbathing and relaxing. Sand might also be permissible in other contained instances such as a sandbox for children to play in or possibly placed in a small glass jar so that the various colors makes some sort of picture. These are perfectly acceptable locations for sand and in its proper locations I would admit to being a fan of sand.

Now let me discuss where sand is not acceptable…most notable anywhere with high winds and a rainy season. For example Darfur is a horrible place for sand. For one there are no large bodies of water to sunbath along and the hundred plus temperatures would seem to deter even to the most avid sun seeker. In addition, Darfur has a rainy season which sends torrential down pours of water upon the arid land, forming large wadis, huge sink holes, and unseeable sand traps. This brings me to the next place sand does not belong…leaning against my truck window! Unlike the sand I know in the US, sand here in Darfur is tricky…it may look like solid ground one minute and the next be a sinking pit of doom of which even Tarzan would be helpless to extradite himself from! Such was the pit we found ourselves in yesterday. After 5 hours of shoveling, two winch systems burned out, and the truck progressively getting worse with each attempt, we conceded victory to the sand monster and head in for the night with hopes that a new morning and some reinforcements might prove more successful.

A few other quick notes of where sand doesn’t belong…in the air looking like a rain storm but actually being a huge stinging dust storm, in my sheets, in all of my food, in certain parts of my body, and in general anywhere where I can’t be drinking a Margarita and watching a sunset!

So much for sand castle daydreams…

The hardening of the heart is often like the calluses upon ones hands. The calluses are the results of hard work, and while painful at first, as they build up they strengthen the hands ability to work in difficult and otherwise painful situations. Such often seems to be the case of the hearts of those working here in Darfur. During the day we head to the field to battle Cholera outbreaks, deliver much needed food aid, build sanitary water pumps, and provide schools for those who have never had a chance to open a book. Compelled by their heart, most workers here understand the suffering of humanity and have taken the step of action, willing to entangle their lives with the lives of those who are hurting.

Yet when the day is over we walk back to our compounds, past dilapidated huts lining the river bed covered in garbage, past the barefoot children holding out their hands for food, and past the very misery that sits right outside our doorsteps. We try not to look, or kindly tell the children “no, not today” and go about our way, through the doors of our own personal sanctuaries. Each individual exhausted in their own way by the day’s labors and frustrations. And as the days go bye the huts, and hands, and horrors simply become part of the scene of daily life, almost like the country side passing by the window of a speeding car. We have all learned to “live here” and yet, as our hearts become more callused I often wonder what the price has been.

Painful Paths

War is a game for boys in young men of which we are all forced to play and in which we all inevitably lose.

The rain pours outside, turning village paths into swollen rivers as the sound of rain drops drowned out any other sounds. Dry, in our dimly lit hut, I sit with a variety of boys and men playing dominos in an attempt to pass the day away. For now we are all able to rest, my supplies are packed away in the truck and their AK-47s are piled in the corner. Sitting with me in the hut are the SLA soldiers who are assigned to protect the town of Saboon. Laughing and joking we could be anywhere else in world, except we are not any where else, we are in Darfur, in Fur country, in a rebel stronghold. Each man has decorated his body with numerous hijabs to protect him from the enemies’ bullets. Instead of talking about the latest football match they discuss GOS troop movements and relay their fears to me that they believe the government is planning something big in the region. And hundreds of miles away rebel leaders and government officials direct operations and make power moves, while here on the ground boys die in some vain attempt to usher in manhood. What is manhood if it only offers death? It seems that in the end humanity if only made to suffer in this absurd brotherhood of arms. Leaving me only to ask what type of injustice must be suffered to desire peace at the point of a gun?

Wadis, roads, checkpoints, and parties...

Darfur is a patch work of controlled areas by various armed groups. Within a 30
klm area one could pass through villages and checkpoints controlled by the Government of Sudan (GOS), the SLA (one of the many rebel groups), the Janjaweed, or roaming nomads who have turned into bandit/opportunists during the ongoing conflict. The borders of each stronghold shift like sand blowing in the vast desert and attacks often happen without warning or purpose. This can often make travel a rather precarious situation at best.

As the clock strikes 6pm on Thursday evening and all of us ex-pats flood out of the doors of the weekly security meeting we are all looking forward to the weekend (Fri/Sat here is Sudan) and the upcoming party that ICRC is throwing. Our work day is done and we can finally relax...that is until Sarah gets a call on the radio that our Water and Sanitations team has gotten stuck in a Wadi (river beds that get swollen with water during the rainy season). Normally this would be no problem; this happens all the time to everyone and our trucks are designed to handle it. The problem being that no one is supposed to travel through check points after 6pm and NO ONE should be on the road outside of Nyala after dark! Our truck is conveniently located between the last SLA checkpoint and before the first GOS checkpoint in an area that sees random Janjaweed activity. With no other options, we send two more trucks out to get them unstuck hoping that we can race night fall and get everyone back in time...this plan could work...that is until the rescue truck also gets stuck in the wadi, and when I mean stuck I mean then entire 10ft high truck is submerged under water!

Again our trucks are designed to handle this, but the delay has cost us the last few precious minutes of sun light putting our staff in a dangerous situation. The options being heading back into SLA territory where a bunch of high teenagers are standing guard with guns, staying in the middle of no-mans-land with no proper supplies, or trying to make it into GOS territory at night coming from SLA territory...none of these are good options. We opt for the latter figuring that Sarah, Aaron, and I can head out to the GOS checkpoint and let them know our team is coming.

Unfortunately the normal way to the checkpoint it blocked by a flooded Wadi and out attempt to find another way in the dark gets us very lost in our race against time. Finally the car is stopped and I jump out to convince two local Sudanese to get in the car with us and take us to the check point (Only in Africa would this even be an option). The two wonderful men direct us, as Aaron uses his broken Arabic to explain what’s going on. The flood plains where the checkpoint is located are a vast array of confusion and darkness and before we know what is going on we are being yelled at in Arabic to stop the car as several AK-47 are being pointed at our vehicle...aahh we have found the checkpoint! After making "introductions" and sharing some cigarettes, Aaron (bless his 5 months in Egypt) explains what has happened and Sarah is able to secure passage of our vehicles as long as they come with their hazards on so the guards don't shoot them. The team finally gets back around 10pm, soaked from the neck down after wadding through the wadi, but otherwise unhurt and in remarkably good spirits.

We even have enough time left to make it to the party where a few quick drinks of the local "underground" alcohol (its made from dates, but taste more like gasoline) calms the nerves a bit and gets my dancing feet going for a few rounds of Salsa. This is life here, brief attempts at normalcy in an otherwise chaotic land.

Peace

A comedy of errors

Consider this the lighter side of otherwise heavy and preachy bloggs, enjoy.

Upon arriving in Nyala I found myself bunking in a small shoebox of room with a large Kenyan named Jim who runs all of our Food Distribution work. And while Jim’s jovial personality and endless wisdom about relief work (5 years in South Sudan and 2 in Eastern Chad) allowed us to become fast friends, it did not convince me that two grown men should be living in a tiny sweat box for the next year. So with that in mind I began my exploration for a new room. I quickly located a nice room on the back of the compound that amounted to a screened in porch. Based on the intense heat the pours down on us most days this option looked perfect for me! I spent the next day moving my bed, dresser, table, and most importantly tying up my hammock! In a stroke of genius I also installed plastic tarps on the outside and rolled them up under the even to pull down in case of a rain or sand storm…as far as I could tell I was all prepared.

…so the first night in the new room I spent with a 24 hr. flu bug that has been going around the office, so the next evening I remember that I have two Cold/Flu Sleep pills (thanks Heidi) that should assure me a good nights sleep. As I rest my head back on the pillow a cool breeze covers my body and I drift away looking forward to a good nights sleep. The next thing I remember I am waking up with the sound of a waterfall raging all around me…oh yea did I mention it’s the rainy season now…it turns out that while I was sleeping a huge storm front has moved in and decided to dump several months worth of water at one time. My ingenious tarps are doing me no good rolled up under the eve and getting out to unroll them would simply defeat the purpose of having them. So like a caption going down with his ship I grabbed my only long sleeve shirt (the wind was blowing like a hurricane) and wrapped myself in my sheet to battle the storm. As the rain begin to let up I began to drift back into a victorious slumber, unfortunately the storm had knocked out our power so as soon as I closed my eyes the generator (located behind the wall right next to my room) kicked on with the roar of a lion. Of course the generator dilemma was short lived because the rain quickly picked up to Noah’s Ark levels. Still I was undaunted…until I realized that the cross beam above my bed was collecting water and raining it down right on top of me. I attempted to then move under my bed, but the small pool that had been gathering on the floor from the water blowing into my room prevented that option from succeeding. Finally with my head held in the shame of abandonment I made a mad dash for main living area of the compound, only to find myself sprawled out on my back on the floor when I discovered a leak in the ceiling of the entrance way. I eventually crawled my way to the living room where I curled up on the floor finally looking forward to at least a few hours of precious sleep…and then the power came back on, along with all the lights, TVs, and radios in the house! As I turned everything off all I could do was laugh, I’m not sure if it was a laugh of insanity or pity or simply realizing how funny all of this would be if it was happening to someone other then me. Never the less as I finally fell asleep with the Muslim call to prayer ringing in my ears I had an odd smile on my face…such is life I suppose.