There are two sides to being a Kawadja in
the middle of nowhere. One is that everyone notices you. The other is that
everyone notices you.
Let me explain. I just returned from a
field project that was longer than normal. I was studying the way male and
female farmers in a part of South Sudan learn their farming skills. This kept
me in the field for two months. Aside from the occasional missionary, I was the
only white person for hundreds of miles. My field work required me to visit
several communities, and live with them for around a week each time. For a lot
of people in those communities, I was the first white person they had met.
I was living with people from two tribes,
the Buya and the Didinga. The Buya are principally pastoralists. Their entire
life revolves around cattle. They live in barricaded villages (because of
cattle raids) and the men drive their cattle from the corrals every morning on
eight hour treks so they can graze. The herders are armed with AK47s to defend
themselves from raiders. I went walking with them. This one little event
confused the hell out of the Buya. A white person? Walking? With the cattle?
Can they walk?
These were not the only questions I was
asked, through my interpreter. Here is an example of one conversation:
“Can you eat our food?”
“I am a human being like you. I can do the
same things.”
“Can you eat porcho and sukumawiki?” (bread
and kale)
“Yes I can.”
“Can you eat cheese?”
“Yes.”
“What about raw milk?”
“Ye… ummmm. No. Not the raw milk.”
“That is ok. We curdle it before we drink
it.”
“Oh. Is that better?”
Being the object of such curiosity has some
real drawbacks. People don’t leave you alone. Kids will follow you and giggle
at everything you do. Adults will simply walk up to you and stare without
saying a word or even doing anything. I was once surprised by a young man who
walked up behind me in the dark, stood staring at the back of my head for a
while and then started playing the home made flute he had. It was very loud and
directly behind me. It was not a pleasant surprise. When the tent I was using
was flooded, a dozen people came and stood around staring at it. They were
doing this to express concern at the hardship and misfortune I was facing, but
I think most westerners would not feel comfortable with a bunch of strangers
hanging around you uselessly when you are dealing with a small disaster. Every
time I sat down to do some writing, I would have people looking over my
shoulder at what I was doing, even though they cannot read.
Being the object of curiosity was not the
only issue. As I was staying in the chief’s house, there were occasions when he
wanted to introduce me to other members of his family in the surrounding areas.
This was annoying, because it would mean a detour from our schedule for me. But
it was double annoying for another reason. I was on show. The chief was showing
me off to his neighbours. It is an indication of his standing that a visitor
had come to his village, and he was making social credit out of it.
I felt a little like a trophy wife.
The fact that
everyone notices a Kawadja means that every move I made was the subject of
curiosity and intrusive study. There is, however, another more amusing side to this coin.
Twice now, mothers with newborn babies have
offered to name their children after me. People here do not keep track of the
years and dates according to the calendar. They time things according to
events. For the people of the Buya village, October 2013 will now be the time
the Kawadja drove their cattle. The funniest thing I heard came from a
colleague who is working in a place hundreds of miles away from where I am
based at the moment, which is called Chukudum:
“Today at breakfast my neighbor, who is
from Chukudum, told me his relatives are saying there is a Kawadja in
Chukudum who is eating the same food as them, drinking the same drinks,
becoming like one of them. Wonder who that could be?”
