I wish my luggage had an odometer, because I would love to know how many miles I have traveled over the last two months. I laughed to myself this morning when I realized that I was in Entebbe on Halloween, Aweil on Thanksgiving, Versailles (Ohio, not France) on Christmas, and will be in Nairobi on New Year’s Eve. For as long as I can remember I have claimed that traveling is my favorite thing to do. The irony in this is that packing is my least favorite chore; I told Susan just the other week that I would rather wash dishes, clean the bathroom, AND do all my laundry (if you know anything about me, you know I put off doing laundry as long as possible) than pack. So yesterday I began the process of packing, which really means doing everything I can to avoid packing. I have cleaned my room, swept the floor, and washed all of my laundry. I reorganized my closet, fixed homemade tomato soup, and sorted through the box of things I cleaned out of my desk last summer. After all of that, I have one of my three bags packed. I fully expect that by the time I zip up that third suitcase my car will be clean, my checkbook will be balanced, and my dog will have had a bath! Continue reading →

I’m not sure how many times it took me before I realized that trying to cut my own bangs is a big mistake. I don’t know why I was ever in such a hurry to have my hair trimmed that I couldn’t schedule an appointment at the salon or even make a trip to Great Clips. But more than once I could be found leaning over the bathroom counter armed with scissors whimsically chopping away. For me, the outcome was always the same: too much exposed forehead and way too much time before I felt comfortable appearing in public. I’m happy to say that I am smart enough now to keep the scissors away from my hair, but today another spontaneous act left me wishing I had a bag to put over my head! Continue reading →

I can’t believe that it has been almost three weeks since I have shared with you about my experiences here! I’m taking that as a sign, though, that I’m pretty comfortable in these new surroundings. I am no longer surprised when a complete stranger stops me on the road and asks for help with some money or food. I don’t feel scared or intimidated when I enter the busy marketplace. I have even gotten used to the fact that I have yet to put the vehicle in fourth gear because I’m too busy dodging potholes and ruts to drive any faster than 30 kph. (Although I’m not yet used to using the metric system and honestly don’t know that I ever will be!) It’s a good feeling to know more than just the names and faces of the students studying here at the vocational college; they often invite me to join them for dinner or to volley a ball with them in the evenings. They are still working on getting me to understand Arabic, but they talk to me more often in English now.
Not only have I formed some good relationship with several South Sudanese, but I am also becoming increasingly close to some of the other missionaries here. On Sunday evenings, a group of 10 to 15 of us meet together for Fellowship. We ex-pats from England, Australia, Holland, New Zealand, Canada and America come together to worship, share, pray, and, of course, eat. It has been wonderful to be surrounded by others who have also left their homes, friends, and families and understand firsthand the things that are hard to get used to. I am so thankful for these English speaking friends from the West who are helping me figure out how to thrive while living here.
A couple of weeks ago, we had Fellowship here at YVTC. When we finished, and I was walking back to my little cottage, Rosaline called me over to where several of the students were sitting. She inquired as to why all the “kawajas” (foreigners) were on the campus. When I explained to them that we meet each Sunday for Bible study, she frowned and asked “Why didn’t you welcome us?” My heart sank. I didn’t know what to say. I knew that much of what we talked about in Fellowship would be lost of them not only because of their limited understanding of English, but also because they are nationals and therefore don’t face the same sort of struggles that foreigners do. I also knew that inviting them would change the entire dynamic of the group. But, most importantly, I knew that I had created a major cultural faux pas by not welcoming them to join us and would be creating a major Christian blunder by excluding them. The only thing I could think of to possibly fix the situation was to invite them to my house to start a Bible study of our own. They excitedly accepted my invitation and we decided the following Sunday after prayers (church services) would be the best time to meet together.
When Sunday arrived, I half expected that the Bible study would be forgotten. I have come to realize in this culture that even when dates are set or plans are made people don’t always remember or show up. But to my happy surprise, when 2 o’clock rolled around, six of the young students were at my door with Bibles in hand. The young men crowded onto the couch and swallowed down the water I offered them, but Rosaline, the one who spurred the idea of the study, was nowhere to be seen. As I think is always true with a new group, the room was awkwardly silent. I wasn’t sure how to begin.
I cannot recall how we got there, but will never forget the conversation we had. As often happens when talking to the South Sudanese, someone had referred to the war and to their independence. I asked “How are things different in South Sudan now than they were in 2005 before the peace treaty?” The room was quiet for a few moments and I attributed the silence to them figuring out how to say in English what they were thinking. I was not prepared for the things I heard them say.
The young man to my right, named Eli, started by sharing, “Before, there were no vehicles. You could only walk and it was dangerous. Now you can see cars driving on the road and you can ride a bicycle or motorbike and not be scared. Also, trucks can come and we can have food; during the war this couldn’t happen.” The others nodded in agreement. Another student said “During the war there were no schools. People were moving and could not get an education. They could not learn how to make a life for themselves. Now the schools are opening again and we are learning. We now have a chance at a good life. During the war there was no life and now we have it. Hope is there.” After this there was more nodding and silence. At last, Eli spoke again, “When I was very young my family went to Uganda. When I was 12 my father wanted to return to our home in Yei. I was young, but I remember what things were like here. There were planes flying over and dropping bombs. I was in the market when a bomb was dropped and many people were killed. I can remember the things that I saw and it was always scary. But now, we can hear planes and there are no bombs and I can go to the market. These are some things that are different.” My heart broke. They went on to share about losing their parents and being separated from their families. I sat listening and envisioned scenes from the documentary “God Grew Tired of Us.” But these words weren’t prerecorded or coming to me from out of a television. These words were being spoken from the mouths of my friends; people sitting before me in the flesh. For the first time since my arrival, the hardships of these people were real to me. They have seen and felt true suffering, true fear, and true hopelessness. Nick Cunningham talked several months ago of love “with skin on.” If love in action is love with skin on, this then, would be pain with skin on. I could not believe I was sitting beside people who had endured these things just seven years ago. Not only was I sitting beside them, but I live and work and shop where these atrocities took place.
What is really shocking to me is how easy it has been to forget that this country was torn up by war such a short time ago. I drive on the roads and complain about how awful they are because of the huge trucks that use them, never thinking about the years that trucks would not or could not pass. I get frustrated with the neediness of the people who are constantly asking for help, never realizing that a visiting foreigner is a sign that the world is now aware of their longsuffering. I get emotionally and physically drained by the chaos of the marketplace, unaware that there was a time when it was abandoned for fear of bombing. But for the people here, these things are all signs of life and better times. They signify an end to hopelessness and a future to work towards.
Still, as close as hope is, it’s still far off. Although the fighting has stopped here in the south, it continues in the north. My prayers are with those people, still waiting for the horror of war and suffering to end, peace to become a reality, and life to begin to come back.

I would be willing to bet that I have walked more in the last eight weeks here in South Sudan than I walked over the last eight years in the US. I have been walking everywhere: to work, to the market, to church. I even have to walk a decent distance to my latrine! Some parts of the walking I have thoroughly enjoyed. I love being greeted by children on their way to school, welcomed into stores by shopkeepers, and even teased by the motorbike drivers. On foot, I am able to take shortcuts through small family neighborhoods and I cherish the opportunity to grab glimpses of their lives at home. The exercise I get from walking is also a major bonus, especially since most of our meals here are packed with carbohydrates. On the other hand, I don’t much enjoy some of the challenges that being transportationless presents. As you can imagine, in the middle of the day the sun here is intense. And, since we are just finishing the rainy season, if the sun is not beating down, chances are, the rain is; neither of which make for an enjoyable walk. The hours between four and six tend to be a bit cooler, which is really nice, but the sun has completely disappeared by seven each evening. Though this helps with the heat, the darkness prevents me from being able to go anywhere. There’s nothing fun about having a 7 o’clock curfew! The biggest obstacle that came from my only mode of transportation being these two feet was finding a way to get out to the village schools.
The other week I was scheduled to observe at the Ligitolo primary school which sits about 12 miles outside of Yei Town. Walking there was obviously not an option and the UMC vehicles were being used, so the big question was: How would I get there? We eventually decided that, since it really wasn’t a far drive and the road was relatively good, someone could take me there on a motorbike. I have always loved my occasional trips as a passenger on motorcycles and had been feeling pretty proud of the fact that I had ridden side saddle on my last few trips with motorbike taxis and hadn’t once requested that they slow down! So when Monday morning approached, I was pretty excited. It hadn’t rained the night before or even that morning, so I was confident that the road would be passable. I wore my longest skirt so that I could straddle the bike and still have my knees properly covered. I put on my backpack and sunglasses and was ready to feel the wind on my face and the warm sun on my back.
Alex, one of the guards from the UMC compound, arrived at my door a half hour before I expected anyone. I was a little surprised to see him, because the last I knew a man named Martin was going to be taking me. At any rate, I was glad to see his smiling face; I had come to know him well after my 5-week stay on the compound last summer. He greeted me and invited me to join him on the bike. I climbed on with only a little hesitation; the last time I had ridden on the back of his bike we had slipped in the mud and both ended up covered in it. But, as I said, it had not rained recently so I was sure we’d be safe. We headed out of town and I held loosely to the bar behind me. Shortly after we crossed the bridge at the edge of town, Alex told me that he was really just learning how to drive a motorbike. “I am beginning to learn these roads,” he said, “so I can begin to go a little faster.” With that my confidence waned a bit. I tightened my grip and said a prayer.
It may help you to imagine what this ride was like if I tell you that there is not one single paved road in all of Yei River County. The roads are made of packed soil that has a very high clay content which makes it as slippery as ice. When it rains and heavy vehicles pass over the road, you can image the deep ruts that are formed. When the rains are especially bad, huge chunks of the road are washed away and the deep holes fill with water. I have heard (and believe) stories of LandCruisers driving though puddles where the water comes as high as the windows! When the rains lessen and the dry season begins, the ground hardens, ruts and all. Tiny pieces of hard, dry clay break away and cover the road with a thin coat of gravel, which is also as slick as ice. The drier it gets, the more the dust rises with each passing vehicle. As you can imagine, travel in South Sudan is not easy.
As we rode along, I discovered the best thing to do was to try to keep my eyes off of the road. I found that if I focused straight ahead and I didn’t look at the ground I could relax a little. I enjoyed the two-hour-round-trip much less than I expected and was really glad when I finally climbed off the bike safe and sound at YVTC. Later that afternoon, I shared about the experience with Drs Lynn and Sharon Fogleman and the first question they asked was whether or not I was wearing a helmet. I was glad to be able to use the excuse that I didn’t have one, admitting only to myself that I knew better than to go without it. They reminded me that the Hodge’s had one that they were sure I could borrow. I agreed that I would. They went on to share with me horror stories about patients that they have treated after motorbike accidents: people with serious head injuries, numerous broken bones and painful skin abrasions filled with debris from the road. As I sat and listened to them I became increasingly convinced that riding out to the village on a motorbike was NOT a good idea.
Nonetheless, we had already made plans to meet at the school again the next day and the motorbike was my only way to get there. I decided that I could do it if I prepared myself accordingly. I made up my mind not only to borrow a helmet from the Hodges, but also to dress in my jeans and raincoat so that I could give some protection to my skin in case we crashed. I would also wear my tennis shoes rather than my sandals to protect my toes. By the end of the afternoon I was feeling much better about my upcoming ride.
I would like to say that I was smart enough to follow through with this plan, but I can’t. I know that I should be mature enough to not care, but I couldn’t bring myself to take the helmet home, because if I did I would have no good excuse not to wear it. I kept putting off going and getting it until it was too late and their house was locked for the afternoon. The next morning when I was getting dressed, I decided I didn’t want to show up and meet the teachers “improperly dressed for a lady” in jeans and tennis shoes. The sun was beating down much too directly for me to put on my black raincoat, so I climbed onto the bike no more protected than I had the day before.
Once again, I tried the method of staring straight ahead instead of at the road, but this time it didn’t work. As hard as I tried to not look at the deep ridges, I could not help but think about hitting one in the wrong spot, flying over the front of the bike and cracking my bare head on the ground. I couldn’t stop looking at the tiny, sharp pebbles and imagining sitting on a table having Lynn or Sharon pick them out of my skin with tweezers. I couldn’t forget the story they had told me about watching a motorbike crash when the woman’s skirt got stuck in the spokes, so I bunched my skirt up a little more to ensure that it wasn’t in the way of the wheels. I remembered the many times as a teenager that I had ridden my bike on the newly “paved” tar and gravel country road; I remembered the way the tires would slip and before I knew it I would find myself on the ground with skinned knees and elbows. As we made our way to the village I sat clutching the bar behind me, praying that friction would work in our favor keeping the tires underneath us, and wishing I had not been too proud to wear the appropriate attire. I realized that even scarier than the thought of getting hurt in an accident was the possibility that I would have to admit having done something so stupid when I knew better. Once again, when we finally arrived home, I climbed off the bike. I was thankful that Lynn and Sharon wouldn’t have to add me to their repertoire of motorbike horror stories, and glad, too, that their scare tactics had worked, even if it took a little longer than it should have.
I’m happy to say that my motorbike trips to the village are over, thanks to John and Poppy Spense, who, after hearing this tale, asked if I would mind driving their vehicle while they are gone. Needless to say, I gladly accepted their request. Now the adventure will turn from trying not to fall off of a motorbike to trying to keep from hitting one!

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.

I can remember drawing plot diagrams of stories when I was in school.  We were taught to identify the protagonist, the antagonist, and the type of conflict.  In the story of my new life in South Sudan, I am quickly finding one of the bigger conflicts to be between nature and myself. It’s too early for me to tell whether I’m the antagonist or protagonist, but maybe it’s a bit of both.

The first real battle took place several days after I arrived.  Angie, my dad, and I were preparing to settle in for the night, so I grabbed my headlamp and made one last trip out to the latrine.  Angie had consented to let me go first since she had to stop and get a flashlight of her own, and I had promised to be back quickly as to not let either of us get eaten alive by mosquitoes.  Upon entering the restroom, I found myself in head-to-head combat with a rather large cockroach.  He had claimed the toilet as his own territory, and despite my attempts to knock him off of it with a toothpick I just happened to be carrying, he solidly stood his ground.  Little did he know that I was quite happy to discover that he lacked the ability to fly like his cousins I met in Taiwan.  So there I stood, my only weapon against him having been dropped in the pit, wondering what I to do next.  I contemplated just walking away and leaving Angie to deal with the problem, but as I turned and released him from the glare of my headlamp, he quickly scurried off the seat and into a corner.  I silently thanked God that he hadn’t run across my foot and was very happy with the unexpected surrender.  I made a mental note about the effects of my headlamp and marked this up as a small victory.

The next small war against the soldiers of nature took place inside my house.  My little cottage sat empty for about three months before I arrived, and I had been noticing that several families of spiders had decided that my ceiling made of local materials makes a nice home.  They are not noticeable at first sight, but all too often I would catch a glimpse of a daddy-long-legs moving in on a snack.  Even though I know that on some level I should be allies with these creatures since they eat many of the other things I don’t want flying around, I could not see myself allowing them to be my roommates.  My weapon of choice against spiders is usually my Dyson sweeper, but seeing as how there were such strict luggage requirements, I hadn’t seen that as a logical item to pack.  I like for my second line of defense against eight-legged creatures to be someone else- anyone else, actually.  I contemplated calling Steve or Diantha to come help me, but knew that I would not like the teasing that was sure follow.  I could have kicked myself for not having my dad do it before he left.  So here I was, working alone to reclaim my house from these spiders.  I am not too proud to say that I suited up in a pair of rubber gloves I found under my sink and a bottle of bug spray for clothing that Jenny had left in the closet.  The spray didn’t claim to work against spiders, but I decided that with all the warnings about putting it on human skin, it was probably strong enough to do the job.  I must interject here and explain that these spiders in my house were nothing compared to the banana spider in Taiwan whose life ended with a baseball bat several years ago, but still they were unwanted.  I quickly developed a pretty good strategy against Charlotte’s offspring: I would first douse them with some spray and then wait until they could no longer run around frantically.  I would then knock them and their web off the ceiling with my homemade swiffer (a wooden spoon with a damp dishtowel wrapped around it).  Finally, I would grab the broom and ensure that the spider would not make any more webs, in my ceiling or anywhere else for that matter.  The gloves served their purpose well- although several spiders scurried across my hand in a last ditch effort to find safety, I didn’t have to feel a single one doing it!  When I no longer had fight in me and had gotten the biggest and scariest of the spiders, I took off my gloves and called an end to this battle.  I hadn’t gotten them all, but am working to invite in a couple of the small geckoes that tend to roam around here in hopes they will help me to control the spider population.

I’m not sure why nature has such an impact on me here.  I continually tell myself that things aren’t different than the months I spent backpacking in a tent in Rocky Mountain National Park or the many nights we spent sleeping in horse campgrounds, but somehow it’s a bit harder to deal with in this still unfamiliar place.  The ambush of nature here is seemingly relentless.  From the mosquitoes constantly buzzing around my ankles to the startling sound of nuts dropping on my tin roof in the middle of the night, I feel like I must constantly be on my guard.  I know from what I learned in school many years ago that all conflicts eventually find resolution so I am certain that at some point these things will become commonplace and I will no longer get the willies when I see an unidentified bug crawling across my patio floor.  But until that falling action in my story begins, I will continue to look forward to being able to crawl into bed under my ‘force field of bug protection,’ aka my insect repellent treated mosquito net, where I know that none of these small beasts of nature can get me.  Some things in life just seem too good to be true.

I can’t for the life of me remember learning how to put on gloves.  I’m sure that I was very small when I learned, given that I grew up in Ohio when it still snowed in the winter.  Maybe it was my mom and maybe it was one of my older sisters, but I’m sure that it took more than one time of them explaining how to locate the thumb and turn the glove so that they matched up.  This week I had the joy of watching my big sister teach this same lesson to forty some Traditional Birth Attendants.

My sister Angie has been a labor and delivery nurse for close to ten years. When I first told her about the TBA trainings that Diantha Hodges was planning for South Sudan she was immediately on board for coming to help.  She worked hard to raise support for her trip, but also for the cost of the trainings and supplies for the TBAs.  By selling Mothers Day cards and accepting donations, we were able to come to South Sudan with bulb syringes, latex gloves, pen lights, four neonatal practice dolls and 250 birth kits for these hard working women! What a blessing it was to be sent off with so much love and support.

Diantha has been working with TBAs associated with each of the 18 United Methodist Churches in the Yei area.  Alongside doctors Lynn and Sharon Fogleman, a missionary couple who joined the force in February, she has taught the TBAs to identify signs of complications, worked to get pregnant women prenatal care, and emphasized the importance of having at least two women present at each birth.  The focus of last week’s training was what to do it a baby is not breathing- training that has helped to reduce infant mortality in Zambia by as much as 45 percent!

The training started with each TBA receiving a bag of supplies: a clean sheet of plastic to lay their tools on, five pair of latex gloves, a bulb syringe (and instructions for sterilizing it), and a penlight.  The first training began with a demonstration of the use of each of the new tools.  Soon enough the women were broken into groups to practice for themselves; we were shocked to see their struggles.  The first few women had a terrible time getting the gloves on- they would end up with two fingers sharing the same space or a pinky finger bent into the place for the thumb.  When the task of properly gloving their hands was finally successful, they moved on to trying the bulb syringe. It was quickly apparent that they had no concept of how this simple machine worked.  They would move the bulb to and from the doll’s mouth without squeezing or letting go of it. Although they were mimicking the demonstration as best they could, the purpose of the syringe was lost on them.

As TBA after TBA met the same challenges, the teacher in me began to realize that the problem was not with the students, rather the poor teaching we had done.  I have often seen the same thing happen in my first period class when I don’t know what the students don’t know.  How could we have assumed prior knowledge of donning gloves in an area where the temperature rarely dips below 70 degrees? How can we expect these women to understand a tool for suction when the only tools they have been exposed to are sticks for stirring and hoes for digging?  We quickly put on the brakes and began practicing flexivity- a term my dear friend Stacy coined meaning to use creativity while being flexible.

It was amazing to watch the women’s faces light up as we showed them to turn the glove so that the thumbs matched up- a lesson all of us have learned at some point.  We then went step by step showing them how the bulb syringe worked: we showed them that squeezing the bulb forced the air out and releasing it sucked air in.  I wish we would have recorded the sounds of excitement when they saw me suck all of the water out of a clear cup using the syringe!  The action did not need any translation; as soon as they saw this, looks of understanding and joy flashed across their faces. It was apparent that they knew why it was going to be so helpful for babies.

After completing three of the five scheduled trainings for TBAs, Angie said a tearful goodbye to those she had worked beside. I’m convinced that the lessons she taught will stay with her always, tucked away in her heart along with the knowledge that her seemingly small lessons will have a tremendous impact on hundreds of mothers and babies!

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August is always one of my favorite times of the year.  As soon as that calendar page is turned, planning begins (or at least becomes more hasty) for the upcoming nine months.  Teachers everywhere set new goals, plan new routines, and anticipate possible challenges that lie ahead (and also those that will come walking into the classroom!) As the first weeks of August came and went this year, it was strange not to attend the staff retreat and to pull out my lesson plan book (I know, Jeanne, but I REALLY do try to stick to it), but the excitement of a new year of teaching and learning was just the same.

Stepping off of that plane on Saturday felt much like walking into a brand new classroom- only this time I am not the one making the rules and doing the teaching (AHHH!) Rather, I’m watching, listening and observing to understand and follow the many unwritten rules of this very new culture.  My friend Noel’s good advice is continually running through my head “be a sponge and learn everything I possibly can.”

I am extremely grateful for the help of Angie and my dad in getting my suitcases unpacked and helping my little cottage to begin to feel like a comfy home.  Full tanks for running water and working electricity have also helped in that area!  In between deciding where to keep my t-shirts and finding a good spot for the crock pot, the three of us have also helped lead seven much needed trainings.

My dad headed out on the “thirty minute drive”, which was really more like ninety minutes, to Mugwo to begin teaching the local fish farmers how to prepare fish to sell in the market.  Just nine months ago a fish pond was dug and filled with tilapia fingerlings.  UMCOR has partnered with area men and women who were interested in taking care of and selling these nutritious fish.  They arrived at the church and were told that the fish were currently being harvested and all would be ready for the training in just a few minutes.  After waiting more than thirty minutes, they decided to head into the bush towards the pond and see what was taking so long. What a sight they came upon! Picture this: twelve people standing around a small shallow pond watching three women wade around the pond frantically trying to scoop fish up in baskets. A woman would take five or six steps and then bend over, plunge the basket into the pond, and scoop as much water as possible.  She would lift the basket out of the water and wait for it to drain, hoping and anticipating a great catch.  Time after time the women would look into their baskets and then burst into laughter when they found nothing there! The people around the banks were also laughing while each giving their own opinion of how to catch the fish or pointing to where they think the fish might be.  My dad was shocked at the sight. The American culture within filled him with frustration and anxiety regarding this debacle- his plans were ruined; there would be no way to teach fish filleting if there wasn’t a single fish harvested.  Thankfully, he allowed himself to learn a lesson from these Africans.  They themselves were not frustrated at their very poor “fishing” skills, rather they faced this struggle head on with laughter, just as they do many of the hardships they face.  Now that is an invaluable lesson.  After a few minutes of allowing himself to laugh with the others standing on the bank, my dad headed off with some of the UMCOR staff to find alternative tools for catching fish.  The fillet training was rescheduled for the following day- “No problem,” as they often say here.  I can’t help but think about how differently this situation would have been handled in the US and am glad to have the opportunity to learn from these wonderful people. I’m happy to say that they eventually learned how to fish.  They gathered some old mosquito nets and were able to catch 20 fish the following day and the training went off without another hitch!

As I think back over the first seven days we have spent in South Sudan, I cannot believe how much I have already learned.  Two weeks ago I never would have been able to tell you that malarial mosquitoes’ back legs stick up in the air when they land (as opposed to a “friendly” mosquito who has all of its legs on you as it sucks your blood).  I had no idea that it was “no problem” for a landrover to drive through water up to the windows because the air intake is on the roof (I CAN tell you that this knowledge does NOT make it any less scary!).  I never would have dreamed how wonderful it is to wash my feet before climbing into bed at the end of the day!

I’m certainly missing my friends and family at home and do feel quite strange introducing myself as a missionary rather than a math teacher, but all the laughter and warm greetings make my heart feel more at home than it has in a long time!

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