Di spatches|sudanUN team members with villagers (with James Parker at back, centre-right.) Below: James Parker and “The Beast.”rounded by a shaky fence and guarded bya platoon <strong>of</strong> Egyptian soldiers, our camphas a cafeteria, showers and toilets and afew other buildings for the 60 or so <strong>of</strong> usliving there. It is all rather austere, but thisarea, surrounded by the Nuba Mountainsis astoundingly beautiful. The sunsets arethe most spectacular I have ever seen.15 May 2008–The BeastWell, three weeks have gone byand here I am in my UN trailer,still surviving. Let me introduceyou to my fellow team members: Kay andChat are from Thailand and are nice chapswho work hard and believe in “face.”(Face means to retain one’s dignity, selfrespect,humility and so forth in the“face”<strong>of</strong> say, someone else’s anger or abuse.) André,Peter, Gabrielle and Morten are fromNorway and Denmark. They’ve foundit impossible to leave their Nordic-nessbehind and are not happy campers in this20heat. Song comes from Cambodia. Leenand Hank come from Holland. Sigi andArne, who are Germans, are the best andmost disciplined team members. Ahamed,Mousa and Mohammed are from Jordanand Yemen, nice guys and tremendous assetsbecause they speak Arabic. The teamleader is Ionell from Romania, who does atough, thankless job very well. Finally, thebest <strong>of</strong> the lot, young Janan from Canada.They are pr<strong>of</strong>essionals. They like to jokearound but they take their jobs seriously.I’m on air patrol (Russian MI8 helicopter)next week and am very excited.I decide to buy a bicycle today. Eventhe locals are laughing at how beaten-upit is. It is an attractive rust colour becauseit has not a lick <strong>of</strong> paint anywhere. When Iheft it, it seems to weigh 200-plus poundsand looks as though it was built in themid-19th century. But what the hell, it’llprovide cardio exercise. (My colleaguesfrom below the Equator run daily in the40-degree heat, no problem.) The bicycle isa much better way <strong>of</strong> interacting with thelocals than sitting high and mighty in ourbig white SUVs. With an antennae wiredwith a UN flag, I’ll be set.I see many disturbing things, at leastto my delicate sensibilities. Poverty, dirt,refuse everywhere and animals treatedharshly as working creatures or left to runwild. I especially feel for the little donkeys,which are the mainstay transportationvehicle, pulling water tanks, cartage wag-SPRING 09 | APR–JUN
sudan|Di spatchesons and families about the town. All thedonkey drivers have a rubber truncheonwith which to beat the animal to go faster.I know I am bringing in my urban sensibilitieshere, but really. So far at least, Idon’t feel impacted in any psychologicalsense. Maybe it doesn’t happen until yougo home? Perhaps it is cumulative? Maybeit takes viewing or participating in somethingabsolutely horrendous?A big rain-lightning-wind storm is approaching.The containers we sleep in arelight and made <strong>of</strong> tin, or something, forthe UN. Mine is all dented and twisted bybeing bowled over in the last windstormbefore I got here.I decide to ride my bike, dubbed TheBeast, home today. It’s hard. Either I amw-a-y out <strong>of</strong> shape, which is very possible,or I cannot function in this heat. OrI’ve never ridden in long pants and armyboots. Or there is one long hill. Or the bikeis made <strong>of</strong> cast iron. Or the brakes arestuck on. Or – the one I prefer – I am justnot used to this style <strong>of</strong> bicycle. I will haveto take it back to the bike shop, whichconsists <strong>of</strong> tools and a bike stand on thedirt, under a burlap awning, for a newcrank arm. The right one is wonky andpretty near breaks my ankle every revolution.Still, I get lots <strong>of</strong> waves, thumbs-upsand laughs as I sweat and wobble my wayhome. The bicycle is a big hit, outfitted asit is with UN flag and antennae. We are alwaysshort <strong>of</strong> vehicles anyway. I ride TheBeast throughout the tukol (clusters <strong>of</strong>huts) neighbourhoods, always garnering afew laughs and attempts at conversations.Some children run away screaming.June 1, 2008–The kids <strong>of</strong> SudanWow! June already. A thought:Looking at the encroachingvillage tukols, I am reminded<strong>of</strong> the growth <strong>of</strong> Toronto towards Barrie,my home town, destroying and devouringeverything in its path. These neighbourhoodslook more benign because thetukols are made <strong>of</strong> straw, wood, dirt andred brick. One <strong>of</strong> my Danish colleaguessays the earth is red with the blood <strong>of</strong> theSudanese caught in the war. However, justlike home, villagers consume all the localresources and must go farther and fartherafield to gather materials.Another thought: Janan and I go intothe village to get my flat tire repaired.Janan buys a table for his quarters. WhileI wait, I just stand there trying to takeit all in. I must remember everything.Wandering soldier (Sudan People’s LiberationArmy?) with an AK-47 slungover shoulder and full ammo pouches.Tailors using treadle sewing machines.Bike repair shops set up in the middle <strong>of</strong>dirt roads. Garbage everywhere. The heat.Cute girls with trays <strong>of</strong> sweets for sale balancedon their heads. And <strong>of</strong> course, thetall, slim, beautiful Sudanese women withtheir languorous gaits. I know I will neverever be able to adequately tell this story.I ride The Beast through a nearbyencampment <strong>of</strong> straw tukols. This isthe equivalent to a Canadian suburb,"The children <strong>of</strong> Sudanand <strong>Dilling</strong> make myadventure. For themost part, theyare dressed in clean,pressed, if sometimesragged, clothing. Theywear brilliant smilesand are allowed to liveindependent lives, unlikein Canada where westifle our children withorganization and security."complete with shops (made <strong>of</strong> bits <strong>of</strong>canvas, plastic and burlap), tea and c<strong>of</strong>feeklatches, dirt soccer fields and ‘handraulic’water pumps for the women to fill theirhead-carried containers. Of course it’s hot– in the high 30s. However, both The Beastand I are rusty so we set out in the heat fora wee tour. I always enjoy getting on theground. These two-wheeled excursionsremind me why I am in Sudan, so I saddleup and follow the aimless and rutted pathsthat meander everywhere. I throw out myfew bits and pieces <strong>of</strong> Arabic and receivegreat smiles, waves and better English inreturn. Often I stop, especially around thewater pumps, just to watch and practicemy Arabic. When they find out I’m fromCanada, the smiles grow even wider. “Ah,Canada. Great country, Canada. We arevery happy you are here to help us. Vancouver,Montreal, Toronto – we know allabout your great country!”It is, <strong>of</strong> course, easier to engage themen and children, as the women are abit more cautious. Still, I am able to elicitquite a few smiles from them, especiallywhen I try to balance a water containeron my head and am not even able to liftit up. When I do get it settled on my headwith their assistance, I spill it all, forcingmyself to refill it at the pump. Still, I thinkthey think I am a good sport or possibly adumb kawaja (foreigner or white person)who doesn’t know any better. Watchingthe women work enthralls and saddensme. These beautiful, wonderful women donot rate high on the scale in families or society.There are, however, glimmerings <strong>of</strong>change as more women become educatedat the university level. But it will be a verylong time.The children <strong>of</strong> Sudan and <strong>Dilling</strong>make my adventure. For the most part,they are dressed in clean, pressed, ifsometimes ragged, clothing. They wearbrilliant smiles and are allowed to live independentlives, unlike in Canada wherewe stifle our children with organizationand security. The ones not in school areenterprising and hard-working. This includesshoe-shine boys with modified oilcontainers holding their supplies, donkeycart drivers, plastic bottle scroungers,little street merchants, moochers, herdsboysand more. They play soccer onrough dirt fields and make skeletal goalposts <strong>of</strong> branch limbs. Their soccer ballsare so worn, they are held together withstring.So The Beast and I are bouncing along,round the corner <strong>of</strong> a straw fence, andthere are some children playing in the dirt.They don’t have Barbie dolls or Tonkatoys. Their parents are not watchingindulgently as they ride plastic tricyclesaround or suck juice from juice boxes. Justhalf a dozen or so kids playing in the dirt,some <strong>of</strong> them looking after wee babies.The fantastic ingenuity <strong>of</strong> their homemadetoys amazes me. One boy proudly pulls a“lorry” around on a string. It’s manufacturedfrom bits <strong>of</strong> wire, bottle capsfor wheels, empty matchboxes for lightsand bits <strong>of</strong> coloured wire and string for“bling.” He doesn’t seem to mind thathe doesn’t have an iPod or light sabre,although I am sure he would love thoseas well. I ride on after a bit – after his bigbrother, who is in the army, pumps upThe Beast’s rear tire. I’m thinking aboutthe huge dichotomy that exists betweenour two societies and if ever it could beshrunk somewhat to make things a bitfairer for all.diplomat and international canada 21
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