Rural Life in the Capital City (part 2)

. . . so we got in the rukcha', and after some gentle prodding by my friend that the strange white person accompanying her would not cause any problems, we continued our journey away from the recognizable city and into the outermost suburbs.

Our first stop was "The Grandmother Compound." As I have said, Sudanese live on compounds for the most part. Whether modern or traditional, this style of home building is omnipresent. We went in through the nondescript mud and straw-walled compound gate and into the Grandmothers' yard. Inside were a collection of small huts: mostly open walls with four wood posts and a stick roof, some sheets up as dividers, one closed off sleeping room, and a kitchen outbuilding.

The first grandmother was sitting on a straw mat on the ground doing bead work. My friend warmly greeted her and introduced me. The grandmother shook and held my hand tightly for several minutes. I couldn't understand a thing she was saying, so I just kept smiling and greeting her, asking how she was doing and holding her hand back. Eventually she let go and we moved back to the one hut with walls.

My friend directed me into the hut to join her sitting on the bed. In this one compound with some seven or so grandmothers and 5-10 grandchildren, there was one single bed. It was a simple frame piled with newspapers for padding and covered with a blanket. We sat, and the other grandmothers came in from their various tasks to join us for a "barid."

I would learn that this is the protocol for Sudanese house visits. You bring the outsider in to the shaded part of the compound, and send a reliable child or grandchild out to purchase one or two bottles of coke (or the local equivalent) which are then shared using one or two cups among all present. "Barid" means "cold," and here when they ask you what you want to drink, they ask "Barid ei?" ("Which cold?").

My friend and the grandmothers regaled each other with their latest news. A neighbor had recently died, so they were discussing the funeral preparations. I couldn't catch all of what they were saying, but I asked my friend later about a comment I had heard her make that "in the end, there is only Jesus." She explained that there was a divide in the family of the deceased about the type of funeral service that would be done for the neighbor - whether it should be Catholic or Orthodox. I heard and understood her comment correctly and was reaffirmed that we are kindred in the believe that regardless of the prayer practice, we'll all end up in the same place.

The grandmothers were very friendly and insisted that I come back, with or without my friend (their niece). Before we left, my friend wanted to make sure I saw one more thing about the grandmothers' compound - their lab for making home brew. She led me behind the kitchen outbuilding to see this lucrative black market activity in the making. The woman stirring the pot looked up at me and smiled a gappy grin. My friend said to me, "Ahh this is one of my best friends. We call her Whiskey. Why? Because she makes the best moonshine around."

Next we headed (by ruksha' again) to the compound of another close friend and extended family member. We knocked and then went into their yard, to find 7 or 8 small children, the bigger ones, tending to the smallest, but no adults. We learned that the mother had gone to the hospital for an operation, and her husband had gone along to care for her. Who was here for the children? I wondered.

The babies were crying and the children were reserved and glum. My friend, being a doctor, went straight in to attend to the crying babies, making arrangements to get some milk from a neighbor and the promise of a meal for the others in a bit.

After that rather disturbing scene, we walked across to the next stop, "The Village Chief." I know it's confusing to think about villages and chiefs in the context of the capital city. All I can say is that the area I was visiting could only be described as "suburban" because of its proximity to a larger city. There was really nothing of a recognizably urban life in these communities at all. Some would say they're most accurately described as IDP camps.

I was impressed upon entering the chief's compound at the tidiness of the yard and huts. In the same layout as the previous compounds, We found here that the dirt floors were swept clean to the dry clay ground, and the few belongings stacked neatly in the corner of the one walled hut at the back. We enjoyed the "barid" and more animated conversation. The wife of the chief was a dear friend of my friend, so we sat and talked about personal things and family affairs. "Girl talk" is the same, regardless of culture, language, and family situation. We laughed and shared so much that I barely noticed how broilingly hot it was.

When we stepped outside (to head home? I hoped . . .) there was again no ruksha' in sight. We began the long walk back. It had now been about four hours and I was starting to feel the heat and exhaustion. We trudged from the outermost area back towards the large mosque. To my surprise, we made one more stop, at the home of my friend's in-laws. I was once again warmly welcomed and invited back "with or without" my friend. We sat for another drink and news update.

When we were done, after the requisite questioning inclduing when more children would be born, and when we'd be back for the next visit, we trudged back to my friend's home to pick up my bag and return me to the city.

I was filthy, but cheerful, after this long day. My friend had really shown me, in the most generous way, what it is like for her to live here. She welcomed me into her home and into her family. I told her that the next time she made the rounds to visit her extended family, she would have to include the newest member - the white one who lives with her husband out in Garden City. She squeezed me and said "Ma'aloum akhti" ("But of course my sister").