Seed of South Sudan (23 page)

I'm glad she had that confidence, although I didn't. Still, we had suffered far worse, that's for sure.

We called for assistance. The accident occurred about 9 at night. We waited and waited, getting colder all the time. It was about midnight when an officer finally arrived, but he said there would be no tow trucks for a long time. He suggested we move the cars ourselves. And we did. Finally we pulled out nine cars, freeing them from their icy locks. Even accident reports were handled by exchanging insurance information. We got on the road, and returned to Judy Maves' house, where we'd gathered early that morning. It was quite an end for the South Sudanese, whose country in Equatorial Africa was created that day, to be involved in such a snowstorm. And for John Manyok Anyieth, Judy's son, whose means of getting around before coming to the United States was walking, much less driving a car, to be exposed to driving in such a huge snowstorm—that was a very big deal. We've never forgotten it.

In April of 2011, I traveled to South Sudan again, this time on a Dreamliner jet owned by Ethiopian Air Lines, minus the stop in Rome. It was a direct flight from Dulles International Airport in Washington, D.C., to Addis Ababa. Every area of Africa is changing, and the significance of this much more convenient flight service is a boost for South Sudan. It is still difficult to get to Rumbek, but it is getting easier, little by little.

This trip was to have the marriage to my wife, Ajok, to perform the traditional Dinka ceremony where the wife comes to the husband's home and stays with him. We were to be married May 23. Once I got there I arranged to buy three cows, a bull for the father, another cow for the father-in-law and a cow for the uncle-in-law. Then I needed to purchase another bull—this bull cost 1,800 Sudanese pounds, or $700 U.S. Buying it was in addition to the other cows my family and I had already supplied, and it was to celebrate the in-laws arriving at my home during our ceremony.

There would be another bull involved, but that was from my family. That is the big bull that would be slaughtered the day of Ajok coming to my house. The ceremony basically involves the girl leaving her family's home with her parents beside her and walking to my house. In this case, my home was my sister's home with her family in Rumbek. I stayed in Rumbek rather than in my father's village of Billing Daldiar in order to have access to generators powering satellite phones and Internet access. At my sister Lela's home, my people were ready to receive Ajok. The procession from her home included all the local people, and lots of girls, her special friends. Everyone was dressed in traditional costumes, and there was lots of Dinka traditional dancing in the afternoon. According to tradition, the parents stayed at the home with us for two days, and the girls stayed at our home for seven days. And then they left.

The bull that Majok bought for $700 U.S. for the wedding celebration when he married in Rumbek, May 23, 2011.

But in the meantime, there was a lot of celebrating. We killed the bull and served the food along with the meat for two days. Then we slaughtered a goat every night the girls were there for more feasting. All this while, the traditional dances went on every afternoon from about 3 to 5 p.m. This includes the men's jump dancing, for which the Rumbek Dinka are famous, and the women's dancing that is not as exuberant but that involves traditional rhythms. People covered themselves in ashes and made the traditional body paint from natural materials and ash that cover their skin. The elaborate tattoos that are the fashion in the United States have a lot of competition from these beautiful body designs—head, feet, legs, arms, torsos—the whole body is covered.

Men dye their hair using cattle urine—it looks like the peroxide bleaching that U.S. people do. The body decoration and clothing that they wear at this time is something that has been done for centuries in my tribe. Picture books and documentaries have carried images of the lovely Dinka wedding and celebration customs over the years. We had a second celebration in Billing Daldiar in June, with a goat slain in our honor.

After the wedding, the wife does not work for three months. The girls come to her house and take care of all her duties—carrying water, gathering firewood, cooking, making clothes and fashioning gourds for cooking. All this is handled by the others for a while. She is to relax and get to know her family and her home and to create healthy conditions for a baby if that is in the works. At the end of three months, a goat is killed and a celebration is held to mark the end of that early marriage time. When she has her baby, she goes to her mother's house to have her first baby and then returns.

So that is what happened with Ajok. We had a little over six weeks as a newly married couple, and then she stayed with my sister and her family while I returned to Georgia. It was very sad to leave her after all this time of being with her.

Unfortunately, this time of return was also when South Sudan was to become independent, and there were stoppages in airline services that I hadn't anticipated. The stoppages were to keep service levels down while the transition to the new country of South Sudan took place on July 9, 2011. Everyone feared that the Khartoum government against which we'd fought for so many years would attack and not allow a peaceful transition. The small prop plane that I normally would fly from Rumbek to Juba did not fly for several days out of concern that hostilities would result in the plane being shot down. Because of this, I hired a car to take me to Juba later in July so I could connect with the flight to Addis Ababa and home.

When I did return to Georgia, I felt like a different person. I had fulfilled the Dinka tradition of taking a wife and was involved in all the ceremonies that went with that. For sure, I had more need to earn money, because I must provide for my family. I sent funds to help pay for Ajok's care, and later in 2011, I found there would be even more need: Ajok was expecting!

So in one year, a new marriage took place, a new country was born, and a new family member was on the way! I knew midwives and other women and my mother-in-law would help Ajok, but I was very concerned for her still. I came back ready to work even harder on this book so that we could have some funds to help support this new family. A complicating fact was that my work hours were less due to the worldwide recession, which affected the plumbing business a great deal. No one was building new houses, and repairs to existing homes were not being done as frequently as in the past. So my hours and earnings were less.

From Atlanta and my calls to Ajok by satellite phone, I followed the progress of her pregnancy. A midwife checked her every week. We were not sure exactly when she would deliver. At first I thought it would be February, but it turned out to be longer than that. In my country, there is not so much counting of one's months to birth, or birthdays, so much as your stage of life—a young boy, is distinguished, for instance, from a
parapuol
, one who has undergone the scarification ritual of manhood.

In April 11, 2012, Adikdik Majok Marier, a lovely little girl, was born to Ajok, who had her mother, her sister, and a midwife in attendance. She is growing every day. I have not yet been able to see her, although I talk to her on satellite phone. She recognizes Daddy or “Ba” now, and talks a little bit. I want very badly to be able to see her. However, the costs of providing for her and her mother in addition to my costs of living have made it very difficult to save for the nearly $2,500 airfare and the extra money I would need to take with me to support them and me for three months in South Sudan. Immigration processes likewise are expensive. I have not been able to find a second job that might increase the income.

Greater pressures were presented when, about a month after she was born, my daughter's umbilical cord area became infected, and she had to be treated in Rumbek. I was very worried, and I had all my friends praying for her. Most of the villages in South Sudan do not have a clinic, and the clinic in Rumbek is very basic. People must travel long distances in order to be seen by a doctor or by any medical personnel. It was decided that the baby and Ajok must go to Juba for treatment. The baby finally recovered, but my wife was diagnosed with malaria. This is a disease that often kills, but in her case she was treated with medicines and apparently is now okay.

In order to keep them near medical facilities, I arranged for Ajok and Adikdik to stay with her uncle's daughter, Anib Makur, in Juba, and so now I needed to send money for their upkeep in this town where milk and food must be purchased. In addition there are the medical visits to pay for as well as medicines. A doctor visit costs 100 Sudanese pounds, or $30 U.S. So my dream about schooling has to be just that right now while I take care of my family. I continue to visit with them frequently by phone.

Many of us among the Lost Boys find ourselves between two worlds like this. There is our new home in America, which is not new anymore, but we still have lots to learn. We have our home in South Sudan. It is not to our liking to be in two places, but we feel we do not have many choices. Our employment here benefits our communities in South Sudan and makes our marriages possible. We also feel we are contributing to America. In my case, I help make many Atlanta and Decatur homes functional for their residents through M. Cary and Daughters Plumbing Company, “The Old House Specialists.” The know-how I have gained here will someday help my communities in South Sudan.

Many of the Lost Boys have not found the education they came here for—yet. There have been many obstacles, mostly financial, as higher education has continued to become more and more expensive. And there are doors that remain closed once you have the education. Stephen Chol Bayok will return from his new marriage in South Sudan to look for a job in education again. He hopes to eventually start schools in South Sudan, as the Arab-language schools that Khartoum did provide will not be available anymore. I continue to seek funds so I can go to school full-time and study geology to explore more of South Sudan's many mineral and oil resources.

My family in South Sudan helps me by encouraging me and being proud of my accomplishments. One day, my wife and daughter will be here, but just as it took a long time to reach Ethiopia, the journey to have them join me will be long perhaps, but there will be an end. In the meantime, the changes to South Sudan that need to occur will take some time and there will be bumps in the trail along the way, but we will get there. The tall grasses that line the paths we took to Ethiopia still hold the remains of the many who did not make it. For them we will drill water wells and build schools and clinics and improve South Sudan's infrastructure so we will no longer be mistreated by the north and other parts of the world that think we are not a good people. It will be our knowledge and sacrifices in the name of those who did not make it that help South Sudan thrive.

As I wrote about the journey and reflected on what happened there, I was reminded of some of the people who were with us and the stories we told during our difficult times. I have spoken of my mother's mother's brother, my uncle, Dut Machoul. There was another relative with us also, Kau. The things that Kau and Dut did for us during these times of near starvation and thirst and animal or enemy attacks show the way our people care for each other, and that is good to know.

As I mentioned, Dut found me first, and then we found my cousin Kau, who is my cousin on my mother's side, so he is also related to Dut. The three of us, Dut, Kau, and I, walked for a while, and then the boys Laat and Matoc joined us after we heard them on the path speaking our dialect. So Dut and Kau did a lot of things. When Dut was not going to be around, Kau could take care of me.

Each night I slept between Dut and Kau; just as in our village, we slept side by side, boys in one area, girls in another. This was for safety. In the night, if something happened, I could not just wake up and run away; someone needed to know. I had to wait until they actually knew the way to go and then I could follow. I was told, “If you are in the night and you hear something, you have to find us.”

The older guys, Dut and Kau, looked out for me and they looked out for Matoc and Laat. Matoc was a little older than me, and Laat was near the same age. That is our culture. If you have a child and the child is young, parents look out for him. But if you grow up to be older, you can be responsible for anybody. You can defend people. That's what happened for us. People would see children going by themselves. There would be groups, and they would have an obligation to help them. As I said, very often our parents and grandparents were training us to survive, to be able to do for ourselves, if something happened to them.

If the parents are gone, older sisters may be in charge. When we were at home, some soldiers or animals or illness could come, and the parents could die, or the mother could die in childbirth. Someone would be responsible—a brother, a sister, or a grandmother. Now if anything happens, you have to make a life like other people who know their parents. The people in our country never know what may happen. If you don't train your children to be strong, they won't survive. So that is part of our culture.