When I first arrived on campus of the Yei Vocational Training Center, I found that my simple home was nestled in the back corner.  At that time, the campus was filled with young men taking courses in mechanics and carpentry.  Their dorms are located at the front of campus, not far from the make-shift soccer field that they spend the evenings running up and down.  My nearest neighbor was a gentleman named Patrick.  Patrick teaches mechanics and generally keeps to himself.  He has a girlfriend with a beautiful singing voice who often comes by on the weekends.  Without the barrier of glass windows, her singing, along with the sounds of the soccer field and the children playing on the other side of the back fence, filled my house in the evenings.  At the end of the day, it was wonderful to be able to retreat to solitude accompanied with sounds of joyful life; it made my place feel homey and comfortable.

Then things changed.  As I sat at my table on Saturday afternoon two weeks ago, I watched a group of the young men carry two bed frames past my window and towards the room across the way.  As any good and nosey neighbor would do, I put on my shoes and made my way over to the room to find out what was going on.  The manager explained that there would be a catering course starting on Tuesday and sometime in the next few days, twenty-eight women would be arriving on campus.  They were preparing rooms for their arrival.  To be honest, I was more than giddy with the thought that I would no longer be the only female living on campus (even though I knew I would still be the only foreigner).  When the new students arrived I greeted them and was glad to realize that I would have many new people to help me learn Arabic!   My little corner of the campus was alive with people moving about to gather water, wash their laundry, and visit with one another.  In a funny sort of way, it felt nice to be the one watching rather than the one being watched.

On the second or third day that they were here, a young woman named Emoya got brave.  She came to my door, called my name, and as she stepped over my threshold she gestured to her eyes and walked right into my living room.  At that moment, I looked at my ‘simple’ home with fresh eyes.  As she slowly sat down on the couch, I could see her noticing every detail of my house: the computer, the books, the refrigerator, the kitchen.  I even saw her lean back so that she could see into my bedroom.  I wanted to melt.  Although I wasn’t exactly sure where she was staying, I knew that there were currently two women, two babies, and a teenager staying in the small room that Angie had resided in while she was here.  I was sure that Emoya was in a similar room.  She doesn’t speak much English, but was able to ask if I lived alone and I was forced to admit that this big place was all for me.  Up until this point, I had been enjoying a swift internet connection and a good Facebook chat with my sister, Susan.  Emoya sat there in awe and I wished my house would shrink and all this stuff would disappear.  I was rather put off, but stopped chatting with my sister and, because of our different languages, we sat in silence.  After what seemed like ages of discomfort, another young woman walked by my see-right-in windows and called for Emoya.  I didn’t understand her response because it was in Arabic, but something tells me that if she had been speaking English I would have heard her say: “You’ve got to come check this place out! It’s crazy how much stuff this woman has!”  I heard the screen door open and slam closed, and in walked my neighbor, Nancy, carrying her baby.  The entrance was the same and after a thorough look around, she took a seat as well. She gave me a thumbs-up and called out to her roommate, Sandy.  In less than a minute Sandy, her baby, and Rosaline were all sitting in my living room.  By this time I had given up on trying to divert their attention from my things and instead closed my computer, offered them water (as any decent South Sudanese person would do), and racked my brain for a way to start a conversation.

From that meeting on, my house has no longer been a fortress of solitude.  Several times a day, someone will walk by and shout my name, having seen me through the open curtains.  A young woman will stand at my kitchen window, point to the sill and say “Give me a lemon.”  Although I know that her native language isn’t a polite one and the words for “please” and “may I” don’t exist, my gut reaction to this seeming demand is never a good one.  Margret the teenager has made a game of sneaking into my house (even with a baby on her back) and seeing how long she can stand behind me before I see her and squeal with fright! She’ll then plop down at my table and make herself at home.

I was sure my limit for being welcoming was reached at the end of the first week the new students were here.  It was after 9:30 and I had locked my doors and was just shutting down my computer when I heard Margret call from outside my front door: “Mama Eliza, moya!” I sighed deeply, knowing that she wanted water, but wondering why in the world she couldn’t get it from the borehole not ten steps from where she was standing.  I had observed that the two ladies she was staying with (one of which is her sister) tend to send her on errands, and figured this was another one of those times.  I unlocked the door, invited her in, filled the two cups she handed me with filtered water, smiled, and refrained from asking her why she needed MY water.  “Shukran, Eliza (Thank you, Elizabeth)” she said quietly and bowed slightly as she took the cups from me.  With that, my heart changed.

It’s been a real challenge to put aside my lens of American culture and look at the actions of these women without it.  I have been denying my desire to close my curtains and smiling and waving when the women walk by and even stop what I’m working on and sit with them when they ask me to.  I have refrained from hiding all of my lemons under the counter and often offer them before they’re asked for (and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’m also trying to teach them to say “May I have…” rather than “give me”).  I find myself smiling when Margret ‘Mama’s me, seeing it as an honor to be able to help take care of this little girl who spends her days washing clothes and taking care of the two babies.  I am coming to understand that these women aren’t looking to take what I have, but they are offering me what I don’t have: a community.  They are inviting me to be a part of the giving and taking, the afternoons spent together laughing, and the responsibility of looking out for one another.  What they really want from me is a relationship.  If that isn’t the work of Christ, I don’t know what is!

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In training for the mission field, they teach you all about culture shock. You learn that there is, of course, the initial shock of stepping into a place so different from your own. They explain that learning to exist in your new environment will wear you out both mentally and physically. Then, they say, after several weeks, you will be more accustomed to your new way of life and the shock subsides. But often, when you least expect it, they tell you even as many as three or four months in, you may very well be hit with another wave of it. I’ve heard the stories, seen the diagrams, and experienced it myself a few times. This time, though, the shock is different. Having been here before, I was able to prepare myself for the culture pretty well. I knew that things move MUCH more slowly here and to not expect anything different. I knew I would not be able to jump into my work immediately; that it would take time to figure out a plan and get it into place. I knew that the food is dramatically different, and so I planned according and rationed out mac and cheese so that I’ll be able to enjoy it once every week until I return home for Christmas. I was ready to be stared at, laughed with for no reason, and I was even prepared to use a latrine rather than a flush toilet. But I did not think to prepare myself for what I am currently experiencing.
I was born in Versailles and graduated from Versailles; I never had the awkward experience of trying to fit into friendships that were already formed. At Miami, all of the freshman girls from Anderson-1-South stuck together, so I never had to look for someone to do my grocery shopping with. When I moved to Colorado, I lived with girls I knew from summer camp and my friend Jocelyn from home, so we all discovered how to get around the city together. And when I began teaching at West Carrollton and was greeted by Berger’s “The last time I saw you, you were just an annoying little eighth grader,” I somehow found comfort in the fact that I would be working alongside three people who knew my family and understood where I was from. But now, here, I am: The New Girl.
Relationships have been formed, routines have been figured out, and transportation has been perfected. For the first time in my life, I have to ask for help with all of these things. I imagine that God must have been playing guidance counselor when he asked the Hodges’ to be my friends. Just like the new students at school get a buddy to help them open their locker and find the cafeteria, Steve and Diantha have taken me in and show me the ropes. Diantha stops on her way into town to take me to the market and Steve teaches me the most important words I need to know in Arabic. They have invited me to dinner with their friends and check to make sure I’m doing okay. And I am, minus the unfamiliar feeling of vulnerability.
Even though I am struggling with knowing that I have been here six weeks and have yet to do a teacher training, I know that I am making progress. I have deemed these first months “South Sudan Orientation,” and am determined to learn as much as I can about how to thrive here. I am proud to say that not only can I greet the students in my compound in the local Arabic, but I can also answer questions about where I am going or when I’ll be coming back (Thanks mostly to Margaret the typical 13-year-old who, between making funny faces at me and mocking my English, patiently quizzes me regularly with questions that she knows I should be able to answer). Late last week I made it all the way in to town to buy grape juice without getting lost! I look forward to the coming months when I will form relationships that go beyond “how has your week been?”
Now that I am knee deep in it, if I were doing the naming I wouldn’t have called it culture shock. It would be more appropriate to call it “senses shock.” Every moment of every day in this place each one of my five senses is bombarded with unfamiliarity. My eyes are overwhelmed with the sights of the dirt roads and marketplace. My ears can’t comprehend the languages of the people or these strange birds. My skin doesn’t understand how it can be hot with the heat of the sun and cold with the moisture of the air all at the same time. My tongue can never prepare itself enough for something that looks familiar but tastes foreign. My nose can’t figure out why my clothes don’t smell like they belong to me or why my wallet doesn’t smell like money. But slowly, just as my brain is creating a schema for understanding life here, I expect my senses will do the same. Until then, I will continue to indulge myself with bowls of macaroni and cheese, playlists of English music, and bed sheets washed with tide.
When I headed out of the compound yesterday, I sighed as one of the students called me over. “Lisabet!” he called, and I was frustrated that even my own name sounds different here. But then, as another student called in the same way, the irony of the sound hit me. In the local tongue the phrase “lisa bet” literally means “not yet home.” And that is exactly it. South Sudan is not YET home, but I am learning to be patient.

These months are some of the cooler months of the year here in South Sudan.  Although the temperature is hot in the middle of the afternoon (90 degrees or so), when the almost daily rains move through, the heat disappears.  The other day it actually felt as if there was a bit of fall crispness in the air!  At that moment, I found myself thinking about football and wondering if you were experiencing the same thing at home.  I’ll enjoy it while we have it, though, because I know that much hotter weather is just around the corner.  In order to take advantage of the rather cool mornings, I have started running again.  It certainly does help that the darkness of the night is completely gone by 7:15, ruining any chance I have at ‘sleeping in’ (which is definitely relative!).  It is quite a nice change to be woken up by the sun rather than an alarm clock!

By the time I have donned my knee-covering shorts, tennis shoes, and iPod and head for the road, most of the students here are up and working.  They often multi-task and brush their teeth while sweeping the compound in order to remove debris that has collected overnight.  They greet me and wish me “a good exercise.”  I head out to the road, giving a two-handed wave to the students who will doubtless greet me again when I return.

I have learned already that a run here is never dull.  The streets are always full of people making their way to their destinations.  They often stop and greet one another on their way to work or to school.  Women walk in groups carrying vegetables to the market and men sit on motorbikes waiting for their next taxi customer.  As I run, I pay close attention to my feet and search to find places in the road that were not washed out by the rain of the previous day while seeking to avoid rocks that threaten to trip me.  I answer the many children who call out “Kawaja, how are you?” with the standard “I am fine.”  I smile as I pass people who have stopped to watch the foreigner running by and wave to those who shout encouraging phrases like “good run” and “keep going.” These things, although very different from my experiences running in my quiet neighborhood in Kettering, have all become part of the routine.  However, I always look forward to the “fun” part of my runs; the part where something completely out of this routine happens.  Luckily, I rarely complete a run without at least one of these offbeat occurrences.

One such occurrence took place the other week when I was approaching a hill.  I had been trying to gear myself up while looking for a path around the two small boys who were walking and laughing in front of me.  Just as I was stepping around them, they stopped without warning.  I nearly ran into the Tweety backpack one of them was carrying and just nearly missed a huge puddle.  When both the backpack and my feet were safe, I looked up to see that EVERYONE on the street had stopped!  Here I was completely confused and quickly slowing to a jog and then a walk before stopping and removing my earbuds.  I wondered what on earth could possibly be happening as I looked around for any clues.  When I made eye contact with a middle-school aged girl, she saw my obvious confusion and filled me in by whispering “flag” while nodding to the school yard just ahead.  It was amazing to see the street ahead of me filled with more than eighty people of all ages, all stopped and silent to honor their country.  Then, just as suddenly as everyone had stopped, the street was again filled with movement and noise.  The boys with the Tweety backpacks passed by me, laughing again, and things were back to normal.  As I, too, began to move again, I wondered how it was possible for all of them to be so attuned to the seemingly silent signal to stop while I was so completely oblivious.  As I finished my run, I made a mental note to try to be more aware.

The local people liven up my runs in many other ways, also.  Last week I passed a group of young men headed to work, and like often happens, they cheered me on while laughing with one another.  One of them, the one who was wearing a suit, tie, and flip-flops, went as far as to run over beside me.  He stood up tall (all 7-foot of him), held his head high, and laughed as he jogged effortlessly beside me.  He looked around from side to side and continued to laugh.  I returned his laughter and picked up my pace.  If I would have been thinking, it would have registered that my American legs were no match for his Dinka stride, even in suit pants and flip-flops!  I pushed it with all I had in me and went the remaining hundred yards or so to my compound (grateful for the downward slope of the road), both of us laughing all the while.  He shook my hand when we arrived and then jogged back towards his friends.  It’s hard to know if he was making fun of me or just having fun, but I have decided it’s best to join in with the laughter and enjoy it rather than to take it personally and be offended by it.

Other runs have often been spruced up by boda-boda (motorbike taxi) drivers slowing their bikes beside me asking “Aren’t you tired?” and “I’ll give you a ride if you want it.” or “You can be finished and I will just return you home.”  I have to say, these offers are certainly challenging to resist, but up to this point I have always found it within me to keep running.  Just yesterday I ran past a five-year-old girl who seemed to be walking home from town.  When I entered her peripheral vision, she burst out in a fit of giggles- she sounded much like my niece Lauryn used to when you discovered her in her hiding place.  She must have been so surprised (and maybe a little frightened) to see my white skin, but her giggles filled me with such joy!  I can now say, though, that I can actually understand how she must have felt.  Earlier this week I myself was startled at the sight of another light-skinned American.  I caught a glimpse of him, his white tee-shirt, and comparatively pale legs out of the corner of my eye.  The stark contrast between him and all of the dark skinned people I have become accustomed to seeing caught me completely off guard. I laughed to myself at how quickly we become used to and comfortable with our surroundings!

Although I’ve run many, many miles and tried for years to learn to love running, I’m not yet convinced that it will ever happen for me.  However, I have come to love the relationships it is allowing me to build with the culture here.  So I’ll continue to lace up my running shoes and try to happily anticipate the next surprise of the road.