This morning at 8 am, with nothing but a cup of tea and a few biscuits to fuel me, I and the team of 5 vaccinators set off for the village of Marial: a two hours’ walk.
As we set out, I ask just how many rivers we would have to cross.
“Many! – maybe 4 or 5.”
About 15 minutes into the hike, it’s announced that we’ve arrived at our first river.
It’s at this point that I realize that the word “river”, when delivered via English as a second language, in this particular context, actually translates to “muddy, mucky, murky, swamp”. It’s a giant sloppy puddle with deep, unavoidable mud all around.
I realize why all the vaccinators are wearing gum boots for this 2-hour hike, an offer I had declined for fear of blisters. For a moment, I hesitate, realizing that my running shoes are going to become massive blobs of mud the moment I make my first step. I decide that this won’t likely matter as there is bound to be more water and mud on the journey and thus, bravely make the first sloshy, gushy step.
I got myself into this journey. I came to the field to do another round of computer training, but when I heard that the vaccinators were planning to go out for an outreach, I suggested we postpone the training a day, and eagerly asked if I could join the outreach trip.
“Can you swim?” they asked me.
“Yes.”
“Ok, then you can come.”
They had just finished telling stories of various recent journeys in the area and how the rivers are up to “here!”, holding a measuring hand proudly against their chests or necks as appropriate.
I wanted to understand our immunization program (and why it doesn’t work very well) better by seeing it in action myself. I also wanted to see the “village” and real life in “the bush” in Sudan. I also wanted to take part in one of these famous long “Sudan walks” my mother told stories about from her time in Sudan and follow in my mother’s footsteps and her legacy as an impressive walker for a Kawajah lady (a white person).
“That Janice! – your mother – Ay! - but she could walk FAR!”
I was right about the first messy steps being the first of many.
Swamp #1 is shallow and muddy, requiring some serious trudging and complete disregard for my footwear. Swamp #2 raises the stakes with knee-deep water. Swamp #3-5 have knee-deep water plus unpredictably slippery, sucking, surprisingly deep or very sticky mud beneath it.
Swamp #6 passes the crotch-line and I am now committed to this swamp-walking in a more intimate manner.
Swamp #7 – here it is at last – water up to here. This is crazy!
As I step and trudge and splash my way through, attempting to keep up with the impossible pace of 4 long-legged Nuer men leading the way, I think how ridiculous it is that I’m walking through chest-deep swamp water and mud. Crazy, disgusting, and potentially risky. Names of various water-borne diseases roll through my thoughts with accompanying horrific images of worms emerging from foreheads. Now…was that the one you get from drinking stagnant water, or from bathing and – gasp – walking through it!? Oh my…what is that floating in the water beside me? I’m just going to pretend I didn’t see it. O yes – and I saw a big black swimming snake.
Temporary disgust and fleeting fears aside, however, I’m thrilled. This is truly an exciting African adventure – the real deal. And I can’t wait to share the story.
My travel companions are good fun, the weather is beautiful and not yet scorching, the water is cool and delightfully refreshing. Fellow journeyers on their way to the town stop to shake our hands in the middle of the pond and exclaim or giggle at the site of a Kawajah lady in the mud. And suddenly, surprisingly, in the midst of mud and scum and murky water – the most beautiful flowers are growing. I felt like an orchid seeker wading through the swamps in the film Adaptation.
At last, we reach our destination. 2 hours precisely, despite my being much slower in the water than my experienced swamp-walking companions.
On the edge of the village, we are met by a large group of women, all balancing large baskets and bundles on their heads They’re on their way to the town we just came from for a big celebration later in the afternoon to mark the appointing of some new military officers. In their celebratory mood, they start ululating upon seeing me, bringing a huge grin to my face. They start doing this happy dance and some of our staff attempt to join in to lots of giggles and smiles.
We head on into the loose scattering of huts which constitute the village and begin four hours of vaccinating children under the scorching mid-day sun. We arrive at each household to warm greetings and curious children and leave to tears and whimpers of pain. A thankless job in terms of instant feedback.
I’m struck with what a ridiculously challenging job this is under a relentlessly hot sun after walking 2+ hours through 7 “rivers”, to reach a population that rarely stays put. And you’re supposed to reach each child 3 times to fully immunize effectively. The barely literate vaccinators have a hard time even filling out the forms to record their names. They struggle, when I ask them which children of which ages they ought to vaccinate with which antigens.
The families lose their record cards and don’t know what vaccinations their children have been given in the past. The vaccinators don’t quite have the capacity to track everyone effectively and keep good records. There’s no sense of duty to comply or remember a follow-up appointment on the part of the mothers, very little comprehension of the need for the vaccines, and often hostile feelings towards the idea altogether.
The vaccines are volatile and must be kept cold – in a place where the idea of keeping anything cold is laughable.
In short, the immunization program is doomed.
On the other hand – and praises be, there is another hand! – the other thought that struck me as I sought to find even the smallest pool of shade to squat in in one family’s evidently treeless, shade-less yard, is “this is amazing”.
Here we are, in the middle of very arguably “nowhere”, and we’re standing out (in the sun) next to a basket-full of maize, giving this wee brown baby and her beautiful mother the antigens they need to protect them from some potentially deadly but easily preventable diseases – right at their doorstep. That is an amazing feat.
And we even managed to complete the 3rd dosage for some children on this visit - success. And the new intensified strategy we’ve been trying this past quarter is actually showing unprecedented results. It could be possible that it’s actually working, that vaccinators are actually getting it and that children are actually being protected because we work so hard that they can be. That is wonderful.
About 15 households and many crying babies later, we begin the trek home, knowing, this time, exactly what we’re in for on the journey. By now the water is like a warm bath when you really didn’t feel like taking a warm bath, but thankfully cool fat raindrops bring a short reprieve.
We’re drawn to our destination back through mud and water, and through herds of impressive Nuer cattle by the beating of drums on our auditory horizon. Gradually it builds in volume and I imagine myself to feel like the excited village girl coming to town for the big celebration.
On arrival, we find the town positively charged with excitement. Young men are leaping around with spears and dancing together in mock fights. Their spears are now only sticks – a new law after frequent “dance-place brawls” broke out. After a shower to scrub off my swamp smell, we venture out to observe the festivities.
Clusters of older men, women and wide-eyed children press around a circle of young men singing, stomping shaker-clad feet, whooping and spearing.
Later, topless young women and girls enter in to these circles and…well…shake their goods...before all the young men. I politely decline the offer to learn how to dance as the young women are (although admittedly, it is an amazing skill how their breasts can move entirely independently from the rest of their bodies). Adolescent energy is clearly a driving force behind the whole event. Later the staff tell me that there will certainly be many young women abducted tonight – a cheaper, faster way to get a wife than following the usual dowry procedures.
The community members are delighted to have a foreign guest observing their festivities and I undoubtedly shook nearly 100 hands and felt a few tugs at my hair by curious onlookers in the jostling crowd. I feel very much a welcome guest and fully enjoy the cultural display. - It's all a welcome change from my rather sheltered existence at my office desk in Juba.
Back at “home” on the staff compound, I climb into my bed at the end of a long day and look up at my crude grass roof of my tukel, feeling a little more Sudanese than I ever have before.
The end...of a remarkable day.
