Puff Addy

Hawa and some of her sibs, coming through
the compound to get water

            I was chopping onions furiously, turning my head ever so slightly to the right as to not catch a draft of the stinging fumes, when I heard Hawa’s familiar voice.  “Jonifa? Ita kweis…”  Knowing that my ever-curious (ever-loitering) thirteen-year-old neighbor didn’t merely want to know how I was doing, I put down the knife, brushed my wet hands on my skirt, and went out to see what she needed.  Expecting her to ask for some old clothes or a jerry can, I only half-listened to her, waiting for the moment when I could tell her (like I do every week) that the team only gives out items on Friday.  However, amidst her jumbled Arabic, one word stood out more clearly above the rest— “debiiba” – snake.    My ears perked up.  After listening some more, I got the gist that a big snake was in her house and she needed someone to come and kill it.  “I am scared,” she kept repeating.  I was beginning to fear that it was only Hawa and her toddler siblings there at the compound.  I called Rooney over, who was doing some handiwork for John that afternoon.  We picked up a hoe and weed slasher and set out at a brisk pace to get this snake before it slithered its way back into the bush.  

            Upon walking into the compound, I noticed that the majority of the family was there, including some young men.  Under my breath I asked Rooney, “And why are the men not trying to kill it?...”  We walked with the guys over to the snake’s location, ready to offer our services as experienced, brave, snake-killing machines.  Our guides stopped about fifteen feet from the entrance of the tukul, not daring to go an inch closer.  Rooney and I both moved closer, squinting into the dark hut to see the snake.  As my eyes adjusted to see it, I gave a guttural shriek and turned away covering my mouth, like some damsel in an old horror film.  The thing was huge.  It was like python-huge, like something I’ve only seen in books or on television.  I don’t tend to be very scared of snakes; however, this was something I did not want to see coiled up inside my neighbor’s bedroom—it was just too unnatural.  Of course, I am in Africa, so it kind of comes with the territory.

            I quickly decided that the tools we had were not nearly long enough to reach this thing from a safe distance, so I ran back to get the 20-foot hoe, which has been used in the past by “Snake Killah” Melissa to behead snakes.  In typical African fashion, I returned to the neighbor’s home with three extra people in tow.  (The Bishop’s teenage sons had just killed their own snake twenty minutes prior and were eager to make another kill.)  As we trekked back to Hawa’s compound, Joseph exclaimed, “Watch out, Jack!”  Looking ahead, where I expected to see another snake, I saw Duniya, the neighbors’ little dog, trotting up to Jack.  “You are scared of the tiny dog?!”  I asked incredulously.  “That dog is crazy,” stated Jack.  Duniya is NOT crazy—merely curious and playful at times.  I couldn’t believe that, here we were, about to kill a venomous snake, and the guys were more concerned with a puppy.  However, minutes later, when the boys got a look at the chunky, spotted snake, they too shuddered and shrank back in fear.  It looked like it was going to have to be a whole group effort.

            The boys and I surrounded the tukul with our weapons of choice, ranging from bamboo poles to bricks to bows and arrows. (I personally prefer the normal sized garden hoe.  It is long enough to keep your distance, while having enough heavy metal on the end to slam down and decapitate the creature of choice.)  Joseph, Bishop’s middle child and thinker of the group, stated, “We need to create a plan.”  He was right.  Rushing at the thing with all of our weapons would only cause confusion and injury on our part.  We had little margin for error, given that the snake was a Puff Adder, the most poisonous of all the snakes in S. Sudan.  I made sure to reiterate that tidbit of information every time a boy got overzealous and wanted to get a closer look at the situation.  We didn’t need to look any closer—the situation was clear.  A puff adder was lounging on the windowsill of my neighbors’ tukul. Although deadly, Puff Adders are quite slow.  I advised the boys that whatever they chose to do would be a helpful step in slowing the snake down to a lumbering speed.  Then we could worry about making the deadly blow.    

            I stood at the back end of the hut, in case the snake decided to retreat out through the windowsill and into the bush.  We all held our breath as Hawa’s older brother brought out his trusty monkey-slaying bow and arrow and took aim.  The first shot missed and hit the thatched roof.  The second shot was spot on.  The snake dropped down, fully inside the tukul, and we all rushed around to the front to see it.  It was curled up in the back corner, under the bed.  Tough-guy-Rooney then took the reigns of the operation and began stabbing away at the thing, using the safe but sure 20-ft hoe.  It was quite a process.  The snake would torque its body around to best absorb the blows with its muscular end.  Rooney could not break the skin on the thing.  Eventually, he got some good bludgeons in and dragged the near-dead snake out into the open for a proper beheading.  I stepped up to be the one, but still couldn’t break through its neck, even when putting all of my body weight into the hoe.  Eventually, Joseph jumped up, got some air and momentum, and slammed down into the Puff Adder, taking its head clean off.  VICTORY!  Man beats Nature yet again!  Iya, Hawa’s mom, was overjoyed.  Everyone gawked over the carcass of the puff adder (which had a surprisingly short body, given how thick it was).  Joseph and Jack took the head back to their home for bragging rights and for the opportunity to torment Ferida, while she was trying to cook dinner.

    

           

When I ask Sudanese children what they fear the most, they all say “debiiba.”  I guess that’s not so different from the kids in the United States.  However, when American children think of a scary snake, it is often one from their nightmares, from the story in the picture book or on a television show.  It’s that elusive monster that someday just may crawl out of the closet and slither into your bed.  For the children here, it is a reality, but they don’t let it stop them from living their lives from day to day.  A snake is just another living thing that God has put in South Sudan.  So they accept it. And respect it.  And thank God for everyday that He wakes them up to see the sunrise and traverse across the green land to get their morning water… although they may now be watching more carefully as they walk through the tall grass.  

The Lord will keep you from all harm--

He will watch over your life.

-Psalm 121:7

Garden Party

          A morning of work in Fatna’s garden was long overdue.  I had been visiting her at her compound practically every Monday since February, toting with me my Arabic dictionary, some English sentences scribbled down onto folded notebook paper, and a colorful picture book for the kids.  My visits to her house had become one of the more constant parts of my shifting schedule here in Mundri.  Her home was a place where I quickly felt comfortable enough to behave as part of the family, helping grind g-nuts, prepare greens, and wash my own dishes.  The next-door children were finally becoming accustomed to seeing my white face and blazing red hair as I parked under a tree reciting Arabi– they were now coming up to me and touching the glossy pages of the book I held, talking to me in their sweet, simple Arabic.  My lessons at Fatna’s place were such a blessing that it made sense for me to pour out some of that blessing onto her family.  There seemed to be no better way to show I cared than to help out in their garden.       

            For those who aren’t aware of what African agriculture is like, each family has its own garden—sometimes shared with a couple of other families—and this garden is the top priority for these families.  They work their whole schedule around clearing, planting, weeding, and harvesting these plots.  Children will skip school, mothers will leave church early, even men will pick up a shovel to help ensure the success of the various crops planted.  Some gardens are comparable to the size of suburban horticulturist’s garden, taking over a small backyard space.  These plots tend to be right beside the family compound.  Most people, however, have a large garden that is further out into the bush.  These plots can be up to an acre in size and require a commendable amount of time to maintain.  Many people in Mundri have built small huts near these remote gardens, giving themselves a place to sleep when they spend full weekends doing digging and planting.  These gardens are a community project and people are expected to help on their neighbors’ land if they want to receive help in return.  Fatna and Yogo’s garden is a smaller one on their compound in town, but it still requires a lot of work.

            Their compound is just off of the main road, down a steep, short hill.  Surrounding the living space are the gardens of maize, pede pede, and g-nuts.  I found, a couple of weeks ago, that the location of these gardens, while convenient, has proved to be problematic.  The accumulation of rain water floods downhill off the main road and settles into their gardens, swamping vegetation, mucking up the soil, and spilling over into their huts and living space.  I found one tukul slanting over, about to collapse, while streams traversed the compound.  I squirmed to see little babies splash around in these mucky streams and quickly diverted their attention when I saw them attempting to put some of the water in their mouths.  Everyone on Fatna’s compound was suffering with a painful, relentless cough, a result from having to live in such a swampy environment.  My first thought was about how Fatna would have exams the next week and she didn’t need any distractions while being tested.  Then, my mind turned toward the garden.  The recent onslaught of rain had flooded the g-nut garden; if the crops weren’t taken out of the heavy ground soon, they would rot and the family’s major source of protein for the year would be gone. 

            I showed up around 9:30 on Saturday morning and apologized for being 30 minutes late; of course, no one noticed or cared.  They were just happy to have me there to help.  The neighborhood kids smiled and watched as “Jonifa Ria” set out to be a “big help.”  As soon as I sat in my chair, it sunk over in the mud and I fell back onto the ground.   Nothing like some physical humor to make people laugh even more at the kawaja.  Yogo did the hard work of cutting the plant out of the soaking ground.  I merely took piles of branches and searched out the healthy g-nuts to pick and toss into the bucket.  I got into a steady rhythm, remembering to use the proper form like I had learned during last year’s harvest.  (Hold the branch in your left hand and pick quickly with your right.  Fill up your hand completely before tossing the g-nuts into the bucket.) Yogo’s older mother (who has to be at least 80 years old) had been there since dawn, sitting in a broken-down wooden chair and picking nuts like a champion.  She watched me to make sure I got the technique down, and then proceeded to give me ample verbal affirmations of, “Aiwa! Aiwa!” and “Ita arif tamaam!”

            After a mere hour of work, the sun came out from behind the low-hanging clouds and bore down upon our heads in full force.  The women decided I was too delicate for the sun and moved me inside a tukul to wait to be served a meal.  So soon? What about all the good work I was going to do?!  Was I not an important part of the garden work force?! I was disappointed to be treated like a special guest when I felt like part of the family; however, you really can’t reason with the stubborn hospitality of a Moru woman.  Fatna and I ate a delicious snack of chopped tomato and onion on bread.  Then we sat under the shade and chatted with the rest of the women on break.  Doe-eyed Dani (Yogo’s  two-year-old grandson) was in town from Juba and was running around with his long time buddy Ataba (one of the most flirty little toddlers in Mundri).  It was thoroughly entertaining to watch the two of them play with whatever random objects they could find.  They particularly liked stretching out a long rubber band and toting it over their shoulders like strong men.

            I was soon begging the ladies to let me continue working.  They only allowed it under the condition that I pick g-nuts in a shady spot.  I sat with Yogo’s uma (mom) and continued with the task, occasionally stopping to say a phrase or two in Arabic.  When the work for the day was done, I sat with Fatna and listened to her read from one of my picture books.  It was encouraging to hear an increase in her speed and fluidity, and I was happy to hear her say that English was one of her stronger subjects.  I’m not too worried about Fatna—her mother keeps her accountable to her schoolwork, and she has a sensible head on her shoulders.  However, I still get that protective, older sister mentality whenever a teenage boy passes through the compound and lingers longer than necessary. 

            I guess I just need to trust that God has it all under control.  I need to believe that He will keep my teenage friends in His hands, that He will protect and provide for my neighbors.  He will use me when I show up, but it will be He who does the work—not I.  How many times do I need to remind myself that I’m not the hero in the story?  If anyone, I’m the weak, helpless side character who is repeatedly blessed by the kindness of others.  This couldn’t be more apparent than when I left Fatna’s house that day with a gift bag of g-nuts two times the size of the amount I actually picked.  

"A friend loves at all times..."

-Proverbs 17:17