Backlog 4: Nearly Home Again

We reached the Sudan/Ethiopian border by late afternoon. That particular border crossing is really little more than a dirt trail and a collapsed bridge. I quickly hopped up on the roof of the LandCruiser to unload all of the baggage and produce that we had carried from Gambella.

I had finished dropping down most of the bags up top, when I started to disentangle this big bastard of a woven plastic sack full of tiny red onions from the roof rack. Likely its many repeated uses and numerous days in the sun meant that any time I pulled at it to lug it upright, it developed a new tear somewhere and at one point the entire top section I had grabbed, simply tore off sending a few off the roof. As I got it over the edge, my lower back quickly send a signal that all was not well. I called Odongo to replace me up top and hobbled my way across the short metal bridge. The bridge itself is only about forty feet long, and seemed to be about ten too short. It had slipped down from one of the banks of the creek and had to be connected by a small four-foot wide concrete slab just large enough to fit a quad-bike across.

By the time I got to the other side, the shooting pain prevented me from moving much further and I went to chill out for a few minutes on another concrete block off to the side next to some maize and a tangle of brush growing on the Sudan side of the creek. The minutes turned to an hour and I laid back closed my eyes, and tried not to move. A bit later the quad-bike arrived, and Judith and Laura loaded up some bags and headed back to the compound with David.

I heard them drive off, the gearbox grinding and yowling as David quickly discovered the need to engage the clutch before the bike would go anywhere. Duncan walked back over the bridge and chatted with some local boys and again I closed my eyes and just zoned out. Although Duncan was not more than 60 feet away, being tucked away a few feet into the brush I felt very alone.

It’s strange. I didn’t feel alone in a panicky way nor one that made me wish for company. Despite the pain and the heat, I felt an incredible sense of serene calm. I started to listen, and look at everything around me. Lying back, I watched the stalks of maize bow gracefully to an approaching breeze. I counted one, two, then three giant grasshoppers clinging forcefully to the underside of the long broad leaves. A sharp gust of wind would trap and entangle the leaves. A few seconds later, “pop” the leaves would suddenly free themselves and the maize would return to its rhythmic swaying, one or two grasshoppers fewer.

I closed my eyes and listened to the insects, birds, and the kids swimming in the creek somewhere to my left on the other side of the maize and brush. To the other side, some kids and a few men gathered around a friendly SPLA soldier who had brought out a cassette player and started playing music that I could only assume was Sudanese or Ethiopian. Beyond the tattered flag flying above the small SPLA border outpost on the other side of the dirt path, a bunch of hawks were riding a hot air column in a lazy circle and slowly circled their way upward. A group of four boys, perhaps around six years old came and sat on the slab right next to me, not really caring that I was there but also making sure not to disturb me. They chattered away in clip bits of Nuer punctuated by quiet laughter. I watched them as they were talking and wondered what it must be like to grow up in the bush in a place like Pagak. They were so happy, like a couple of school kids just hanging out on a lazy afternoon. Yet their skinny arms and large bowl-shaped distended bellies belied the mood, quietly telling of severe malnourishment. The summer months mark an anxious patience, as the few crops that are planted must mature for a few more weeks before they can be harvested.

As suddenly as they came, the four kids ran off into the brush, and quickly disappeared after only a second, leaving only the sound of rustling plants and increasingly muted child’s conversation.

While I was laid out, entirely unmoving, birds, small butterflies, and a few other odd animals scuttled out of the bush. A small yellow bird landed sideways on one of the stalks of maize. As he hopped his way to the tip, the stalk gradually bent under his weight until I thought he might continue his dip all the way to the ground. He sat perched on one of the many grain stems, its stalk bowed in an upside down “J”, and pecked at the precious grain, sending small green husks off towards the ground.

The world looks very different lying down. There’s a strange sense of detachment, watching everything perpendicular to what the brain is accustomed to. A young man crossed the bridge with a reluctant cow and had to put all his weight into coaxing the animal to walk up the concrete connecting slab. Behind him, an old wild-eyed man quickly strode up with a limp yelling something angrily in Nuer at the man as both went over to the smiling but entirely disinterested SPLA soldier who was sitting and tapping his feet to the Sudanese pop. Occasionally, an old Nuer woman would cross the bridge, usually carrying supplies or a baby basket atop her head, look to the left and be somewhat surprised to find a laid out foreigner lazing about in the bushes. They would stare, offer a quick “Maale” (Hello) and continue on, singing or simply muttering to nobody in particular.

Eventually, I heard the mechanical “brrrrrrrrrr” of an approaching quad-bike and the moment was broken. David had returned and it was time for me to finish the last 15-minute leg of my journey home. For a moment, maybe an hour, I simply just was—existing with a heightened sense of the small details of life around me. For that moment in time, I felt like one of the grasshoppers in the maize, watching and listening until a gust of wind finally dragged me away.