Rural Life in the Capital City (part 1)

This past Tuesday was a day I will never forget.

I have been developing a friendship with a local woman doctor here. She is the wife of an acquaintance and a recent mother of one. I met her at a dinner party and for some reason (perhaps it was my particularly humorous attempts to converse in anything other than the formal, stilted, Modern Standard Arabic) we really clicked. I gave her my card and got her cell phone number. Almost a week after the party I called her.

"M! What took you so long! I've been waiting to hear from you! When can we meet? Today?"

"How about tomorrow?" I said.

We arranged to meet in the downtown area of the city. I thought this would be convenient because we could have a glass of tea or a coffee at one of the local establishments, then we could both go back to our busy work lives.

We greeted each other and she took me by the hand. I asked where she recommended we go for a drink. She said, "Tea, yes. But there is much more to do. Are you ready?"

I went and rearranged the rest of my day quickly, knowing by now that if I don't have control over where we're meeting, I don't have control over how long the meeting will go, and I won't have control over making it to my other appointments in a timely manner. And we were off!

Traveling in an un-airconditioned car across the city was a new experience for me. The wind blew at us hard and hot. Our driver seemed very suspicious about having me in his back seat and I followed bits and pieces of his conversation with my friend. When I asked her about it later, saying that I had sensed some uneasiness, she said, "Oh yes. He doesn't trust Arabs."

Right. Those of you who know me, know that I don't really look like and Arab. Not even on a good day. But as we talked, I remembered that the white colonizing force will be interpreted according to the particular circumstances of the occupation. In this case, the while people to be feared are the Arabs.

We drove and drove and drove. My friend pointed out important locations along the way: this is the neighborhood where the engineers live. This is where the doctors live. This is where the university professors live, etc. It does not take long to get away from the recognizable cityscape of Khartoum. Just across the river and we were driving through areas of one-story plaster/cement shops facing the road, with living quarters behind. Then we were driving past one-story mud and straw buildings with stick-made roofs.

We stopped in front of a big mosque. By far the nicest and most beautiful building in sight. Across the street was the compound my friend, her husband, their baby, (and all the nieces and nephews of their entire family who are in town for the school holidays in the summer), and some cousins live. The traditional style of building here is the compound. In both rural and urban developments, people usually surround their homes with tall walls, separating them from the outside world almost completely. We went through the big metal door at their gate and into their private quarters.

Immediately inside was a small atrium, cris-crossed by low-hanging laundry lines. We ducked and wound around and came into a second atrium where the children were sitting and playing. On one side of the atrium was a kitchen outbuilding. On the other was the entrance to the two formal "living rooms" of the compound, and then on to the bedroom. I did not see a bathroom and am not sure one was there.

My friend and I went inside. She turned on two big ceiling fans, and the sweat that had accumulated on my face and neck in the short time between the wind from the moving car and our short walk through her home began to blow dry. We sat down and began to talk. We talked about her childhood, her family, her work. I asked whether she would like to have more children and she told me I sounded like one of her family. I laughed - both she and I have people here constantly asking us why we don't have (more) kids. We also touched on some of the political and social issues. As a doctor, my friend sees the specific impact of many severe social problems: the destruction of so many livers by those who drink contraband moonshine, the malnutrition, the impairments that could have been prevented if only there was enough money to cover health care AND food, the lack of family planning, and more.

Two hours later, when I thought things were wrapping up, she asked if I was ready to go. We went outside to call for a rukcha' and got in. This was when the real adventure began.