The Wonders of Technology (first part of . . . many, I'm sure)

This weekend as I was contemplating the subject of my next blog post, I called up my sister on Skype. We've got a pretty cool webcam set-up, so when we want, we can give each other virtual tours of our homes, show each other our latest projects, make faces at each, other, the usual. The bonus of this communication situation is that when another family member, say my sister's husband or darling daughter, enters the room, they get to join the conversation as well! It's an amazing way to stay connected.

So there I was, chatting away, my niece seated squarely in the webcam's view, in the way-too-big-for-her computer chair (she's 2 and 1/2), yakking about the latest events, when, "WHAM!" It hit me! There was nothing in my past week's series of events that could even come close to comparing with how cool it was to videoSkype with my family! I mean, who could resist this:

??????

That's what I'm talking about.

We sat and talked for some time! We sang a couple songs, played interactive games, talked about her school and plans for the rest of her day. All of this through the wonders of modern technology. I don't think it phased her one bit!

There was one point where we lost picture for a second, and I heard my niece say "Where is her?" She got it that I was there for her, to communicate with her, and she connected with me. The fact that my face on a digital screen was talking to her, and that she had to talk back to this machine to get to me was no problem. It really was like being there . . .

Nuba Wrestling Continued . . .

Potential orientalism acknowledged, the event really was a site to behold. We spent the next hour or so trying to figure out how it all worked, and to the best of our knowledge, it goes something like this:

1. the two teams of about 10 men parade around the arena, pausing occasionally to strike poses, jump, pick up the dust and chalk from the ground and rub it on their thighs, hands, and the backs of their necks


2. then they disappear to opposite sides of the ring, settling back deep into the crowd


3. a referee, in the middle of the inner-most chalked circle, blows his whistle and a couple wrestlers from each side make their way to the center


4. the athletes tease, pose for, and rile up the crowd, pacing their side of the outer chalk boundaries


5. one of the chosen wrestlers steps forward


6. the other team's chosen wrestlers size up their competitor until one of them approaches him and either the referee sets up the match to begin or they pick up a handful of dirt and throw it at his feet, apparently indicating that it's not a fitting match for the competition


7. if it isn't a good match, this selection/nomination process goes back and forth several rounds


8. eventually the referee decides it's time to start


9. the wrestlers crouch in the center of the ring, taunting each other by making quick grabs at each other's shoulders, head, and legs


10. after dancing around for a bit they usually lock heads and shoulders, reaching around and under their armpits and circling


11. the match ends when one wrestler is able to get both of the other's feet off the ground

Considering the power of my exoticizing imagination, the sport is fortunately un-gory, and graceful to watch. The athletes strut slowly around demonstrating their flexibility and stamina, with minimal flexing of muscles and overt aggression.


E contests that for him, the spectacle of Nubian Wrestling was an opportunity for him to be "one of the guys," out for their weekend entertainment, enjoying a good competition. For obvious reasons, I felt like more of an outsider at the event: . . .

Ancient Athletic Competition Lives On

Time travel eludes most of us, but for a few, it is possible to participate today in rituals and activities that have been going on continuously since ancient times.

We had heard that Nubian Wrestling was one of the "must see"s for Sudan. Alongside the pyramids at Meroe, the confluence of the Blue and White Niles, the Whirling Dervishes, the Camel Market, and the Omdurman Souq, this millenia-old sport done northern Sudanese style is not to be missed.

The broiling heat has slowed our accomplishing visits to too many of these tourist/historical interest sites. The Meroe pyramids, for example, will have to wait until September. Just the thought of driving the 18-hour circuit (best broken up into two days with a stop at the Italian Camp in between) in the relentlessly blazing sun and sand makes my skin flush and my forehead sweat.

This weekend, our curiosity got the better of us. We headed up to the north edge of Khartoum, into the neighborhoods of mud and straw compounds, free ranging goats, and un-paved roads for a chance to witness the famous Nubian Wrestling. We pulled up for the 4pm show time just a few minutes after the hour, thinking it wouldn't be a problem to grab a seat at the last minute for an outdoor show in this heat . . . what and with everything taking place on Africa time and all . . .

As you might guess, we were among the first spectators to arrive. Our effort to be just fashionably late got us there about 90 minutes early. We rented our chairs (25 cents each) from a friendly vendor outside the woven-plastic-mat-walled arena and went in.

There were about 20 other early birds, all squeezed into the 14 inches of shade along the west edge of the dusty arena. Our fellow spectators/organizers encouraged us to pull our chairs right up along the outer chalk circle indicating the boundaries for the match. We squinted into the sun in that direction and then pulled our chairs up alongside everyone else in what would become the very last row. At least we had shade.

After about an hour of watching men finish the set up for the show: a boom box and a loooooong extension cord, a mic, a speaker, more chairs, and generally herding the slowly trickling (all male) crowd to the correct part of the dusty corral, we were asked more firmly to move from our inconspicuous spot in the shade to a place just a few feet from the action, and right smack in the middle of a section of people with no chairs. Yeah, we weren't going to stick out or anything, us being the only white people and all, and perched up there on chairs above all of our neighbors . . . but we couldn't seem to talk our way out of these better seats, so we acquiesced.

After another half hour the athletes finally appeared. As I looked out over the now tightly packed ring of spectators, I marveled at how this ancient sport still drew such a crowd. Waffling back and forth between appreciating the wrestling matches and observing the other observers, I struggled with the feeling that I was romanticizing the exotic I saw all around me. Orientalism is something hard for Arabic-o-philes like ourselves to avoid sometimes, and this experience brought that internal debate to the forefront for me. If nothing else, Nubian Wrestling offered us a window into the past . . . and once we get our video all up and edited and ready, you can have a look out that window too . . . stay tuned!

Literati

We met Rashid Diab the first week we were in Khartoum. We had been invited to a fancy party at the home of a Middle Eastern financier, and as we mingled, we had the great pleasure of being introduced to one of the country's most celebrated artists, Dr. Diab.

Rashid Diab spent most of his life in Spain, and to show his gratitude to that country after returning to his homeland, he hosted a party at his art center to honor the opening of the new Spanish Embassy. We also attended this event and got to tour one of Dr. Diab's studios, galleries, and educational centers.

We were immediately taken by the vibrancy of his work. Diab's paintings capture the sometimes glaring brightness of life in Sudan: the sun, the colors of the women's thoubs, the burning peach sand, the clear sky.

This week, while researching for work, I came across an interview and feature of Dr. Diab on NPR. I had been meaning to highlight some local literati, and this story signaled to me that time had come for us to mention Diab here on our blog.

While on the subject of artists who tell stories about the experience of life in Sudan, I hope you will also take note of two authors:

• Kamal Ibrahim Hassan
• Tayeb Salih

The former is also a good friend of a friend here, who hosted a lavish evening of food and drink that we were honored to attend. Hassan is a poet and journalist, as well as a professor at the University.

The latter is perhaps Sudan's most famous writer. His work is available in in translation, including in English, and it is accessible to a variety of readers with a variety of interests. "Season of Migration to the North" is Salih's best known work. E and I are currently working through "The Wedding of Zein," translating it as we can, a page or two at a time. (NB: this is the kind of thing you can do when your leisure time has the pace of an octogenarian tortoise, in the desert, in 110 degree heat, like ours does).

As we get to know more about this rich culture and are exposed to more artists and notable figures, we will try to share them with you. If you have others to suggest to us, your comments on this blog are most welcome.

Forgetfulness and other survival mechanisms

It's funny how quickly you can get used to things.

Like the fact that I used to hate mangoes and now I can peel, cut, and eat them like it's my job. Like the fact that I'm online roughly 16-18 hours out of every day. Like the fact that I now respond to the names "Abyad" ("Whitey"), "Khawaga" ("Stranger") and "Madame" (I think you'll be familiar with that one) even though they're oddly impersonal and/or ill-fitting.

Like the fact that I have hired two women to work in my home and help with the house work while I sit here in my home office to telecommute. Like the fact that five times a day I get to listen to men singing through amplified microphones from the tops of tall towers from several directions near my home, all roughly at the same time, all using the same words, all just slightly different, forming this rippling, echoing, harmonium.

Like the fact that life in this distant place now seems normal. There's less to comment on, less that just makes me go hmmmmmmmm.

Of course there are the reminders that things really are different here. Like the story I just heard about a man whose wife was raped by his cousin and now the wife faces charges of stoning. Or the fact that I have to have a permit to take a photograph or travel to another town. Or the fact that if I go on writing in this vein, I put myself and family at risk . . .

How does that happen? That things once so unfamiliar and shocking have now become unremarkable? Is it a phase of acculturation/culture shock? Is it early-onset senility? Or is it just the human ability to adapt, forget, move on, and survive?

Notes on the Video Below from Trip to Juba, Sudan

• 13 minutes long
• Tips to make it run smoothly: 1) Hit play and wait for the video to start. 2) Once the video starts playing, hit pause and take a break. Get a cup of coffee or do something else for five minutes. 3) Return to the video, hit play and it should run smoothly. (The video was first posted to google video and you have to download it from that site. Your connection speed and google's servers will determine how smoothly it runs).
• From May 2007
• Trip focused on de-mining assessment. (See the article and photos below).
• If it doesn't work for you, send us a line, and we can try to send you the link.

Thanks for watching, E & M

Juba Video

Barber

Happy 4th of July!

I just had my first haircut in Sudan. It went pretty well and involved a lengthy discussion in Arabic and English about American policy in Sudan. After the hair cut the barber motioned for me to come to the corner of his little shop. He said in a very hushed voice in Arabic, "I got some special for you man." I thought oh boy... this is going to be bad... he's either going to offer me some hash, talk about the nearest brothel, or whip out his razor and cut the yankee's throat. Then leaning in really close to me, he whispered, "I've got the best honey in town." I thought to myself that there is no way he could be talking about food, so I said, "Are you talking about the honey you eat, or about ladies?" He said, "honey that you eat-- you know that you put on bread." At that point, I started cracking up and he looked somewhat offended and I said, "Next time man." As I was opening the door he yelled, "Best in town man." It was one of those weird experiences that happens now and then in this bizarre and lovely place called Khartoum. ~ E