Bone

Disclaimer:

The next few blogs I will write will all be describing the past four days we spent out in a rural area. I am splitting up each day into its own blog because if I tried to cram everything I saw, heard, smelled and tasted into one entry, you would think I was attempting to rewrite War and Peace and would never read this blog again. Even so, it's important for me to record the experience as I saw and felt it – for me to process and to remember. When (or maybe I should say if) you read the next few blogs I write, please keep in mind that my eyes are the only ones you get to see this world through, and therefore are only one (limited) perspective. Remember also, especially those of you that love me and tend to worry when you hear these strange stories, that I am happy and safe. We are so honored to be in this place in this time. I promise.

Wednesday June 30, 2010:
On Wednesday of last week Bryan and I packed up our tent and water filter and headed back out of town again. The community we are working with was holding what we had heard described as a "tribal gathering" and we had been invited to witness this celebration of culture and learn more about the people, language and history of this group. We were excited about what we would find and deeply curious because we knew very little of what we should expect. Our travelling companion (and host of sorts) was our guard Abdul. He was born and raised in this village and his two wives and youngest children still lived there.

We were blessed with dry weather on the way out. We took a back route to avoid the last river that nearly trapped us, but as a result had to cross several smaller ones along the way, many of which were only muddy. Thankfully, we only got stuck in one for a little while, and other than a flat tire, had no more problems. At about four o'clock in the afternoon we arrived, dirty and a bit hungry, but none the worse for wear. Abdul lives in a small village on the outskirts of "town" at the base of a small rocky mountain, (maybe better describes as a big rocky hill). The cluster of mud huts scattered around the hill seemed surprisingly deserted, but Abdul explained that most people had still not moved back from their dry season homes closer to the river. We were welcomed warmly by Abdul's family. After a round of strong freshly roasted coffee served in tiny glass cups, we were told that Garin would not actually begin until Friday evening. However, there was a similar celebration in connection to the "main event" at a nearby mountain (hill) that night which Abdul suggested we should see. He wanted us to wait until closer to sunset and then begin walking.

We set out around 6:45, just as dusk was settling in. We walked through several homesteads on the way out, greeting old men and throngs of mostly naked children. All we know of the vernacular language so far is very basic greetings but even these were received with much happy laughter and good natured correction. But it didn't take long for the huts to thin out and soon the trail was winding only between green grass and acacia trees. Just as the sun was setting Abdul pointed out the mountain we were heading towards and I was careful to disguise my surprise. It was much further away than I had anticipated. Even though Abdul walks with a heavy limp, he moves unbelievably fast and I was grateful to be in the back of the line so that my occasional trots to keep up were unseen.

We walked for an hour and a half.

Other than our headlamps, it quickly became absolutely and completely dark. As we walked Abdul was provoked by passing landmarks to narrate stories of the war. "You see that field over there?" he would ask. "That is where they shot all our cattle. All of them." Or more sobering, "This place right here…this is where forty-three men and seven women were shot. Over by that tree two more men were killed." We asked Abdul questions about the things he said, morbidly curious but cautious too. He had been there when these things had happened. He knew those people's names. He spoke freely though, even when he pointed out the place where his father had been shot, grabbing his upper arm to show where the bullet had entered. We continued walking in silence until, almost as an after-thought, Bryan asked if Abdul's father were still alive. Abdul seemed surprised at the question. "No. He died right back there were I showed you. There were no doctors or medicine. The bullet killed him." Almost to confirm the things Abdul was saying to us but that I had such difficulty comprehending, a dark shadow rose off to the side of the path ahead of us. As we walked up I could make out bent metal, twisted seats and burned out windows. I didn't know what it was and had to quietly ask Bryan. It was the rusted carcass of a gunship, lying on its side, the barrels of it tank guns pointing awkwardly into the starry sky. A broken chunk of modern warfare lying dead in a field between dried up stalks of sorghum looked to me like it must have fallen out of the sky. But people like Abdul know all too well that it didn't.

We reached the neighboring mountain around 8:30. The path was growing increasingly hard to follow in the four feet of light our headlamps provided and Abdul kept stopping to listen for sounds to guide us, voices carrying across the night, darks barking, drums beating. We eventually moved towards the small island of light given off by the soft glow of a fire, and I was surprised to see that gathered around it were not people, but bright-eyed goats. The people were nearby and welcomed us to join them in their dark circle, talking quietly and waiting for a signal that the celebration had started. We sat on woven mats and listened. All I could see were the brittle silhouettes of trees catching bright stars in their net-like branches. We sat so long I was starting to get sleepy but eventually the darkness was pierced with shrill cries faintly under laid with drums from somewhere very close. The people around us rose and started walking towards a near home, so we joined them.

When we walked up we were gently hustled over to a woven rope bed. The moon still hadn't risen so everything you couldn't see and imagine was dark. The only memories of light were the occasional artificial beams of a cheap flashlight, fractions of firelight between dozens of closely shuffling feet or the eerie glow of a cigarette end as someone nearby inhaled deeply. In the absence of light our ears and nose and fingers had to add texture and shape to the darkness. Through them I could see this: Somewhere very close was the sound of loud singing, mostly female, and many bare feet hitting the hard ground over and over again. Of the many smells drifting by intermittently, the few I could recognize were smoke, sweat, urine and cinnamon. Many people moved closely by on every side, occasionally brushing skin against skin. At one point what seemed to be a very old woman stumbled into me and giggled, "Come and play with us!" somewhere near my ear. I didn't know whether her choice of words, (in English no less), was amusing or deeply disturbing but she passed on before I had to decide in order to respond. We sat in the dark and listened to the beautiful rhythms and unfamiliar cadences and to the sound of many people dancing for a long time. To my ears everything sounded very old, like echoes off the mountain from a very long time ago. It was one of the most fascinating things I've never seen.

Eventually, Abdul suggested we start the long walk home and we said our goodbyes for the time being. On our way back I thought I saw a fire on a near hill, but later realized it was actually the moon rising out of a bank of clouds. We were quieter on the way back than we had been walking in and I had to concentrate hard to keep moving quickly while keeping an eye open for anything on the path that would make me regret accidently stepping on it. One of the only times we stopped was for Abdul to point out something starkly white lying several feet off of the path. We shined our lights on it vaguely. "It's human bone…" he said, "from during the war." I couldn't make out what part of a person it used to be, but didn't try too hard, and Abdul moved quickly on.

When we go back to Abdul's home his wife and children were asleep on mats outside their hut. Bryan and I quietly brushed our teeth in the dark and then crawled into our tent. I slept so deeply that night, more tired from walking so far than I wanted to admit. But I fell asleep thinking about dancing in the dark and Abdul's father. I couldn't help but wonder what memories played through Abdul's mind on our walk that night, memories my imagination can hardly touch.