Daniel, my dearest Sonshine,
Sweet heaven! Surely this must be the end of the earth! Have I fallen off yet, or am I about to fall off? If only it were not so inhumanly hot! If only I were not so abominably homesick! It has been almost a full year since I have seen my kiddies and nearly as many moons since a letter has gotten through to me! This engulfing loneliness does not hit me often, but when it does, suddenly and completely out of the blue, it is like a sledgehammer, straight to the gut. Where does it come from? I was so happy yesterday!
But I am getting ahead of myself. Yesterday? Oh yes, I was coming back to Kadugli from Kelek, a village in the mountains. There is a lake of sorts at Kelek. Its waters are impossibly clouded, slimy and filled with animal ordure. Great herds of cattle and goats wade into it every morning and evening to drink, while water for human consumption is ladled out no more than a hundred yards away along its banks, as if it were any less polluted there! I have cursed the weight of my full water bottle all too often, but what a treasure it becomes in places such as this!
And what a village! Absolutely untouched! It is altogether innocent of the ubiquitous plague of plastic bags. There is not a single soda can. I was cariying a stack of book matches, donated by a kindly stewardess in Khartoum, and they caused quite a stir. I tried to explain that they could be very useful during the rainy season, but the irresistible magic of this marvel proved to be too much. Whenever I gave a pack away, having first demonstrated its powers, its recipient merely sat and lit one match after the other until they were all gone. Perhaps it is best that way. Quite obviously they have ways of making fires even during the rains and have no need for my matches, except as a wonderful entertainment!
They call me Chiwadja, white woman, and when they ask my name, I say that it is El Shadida, the strong woman. I dont feel too strong at the moment, I must confess. I feel weepy and abysmally lonely. This too shall pass. It shall, it shall. It always does, eventually, with the next step, the next day, the next adventure. All that I need to do is to hoist my pack upon my shoulders, put my left foot in front of my right one, then the right in front of the left one and just keep going. It is a formula that never fails me.
The ride to Kelek was not too bad, but Ive learned to make allowances for the discrepancy between theory and reality here. In theory, the lorry leaves Kadugli at 3 p.m. and gets to Kelek at 5 p.m., and there should have been ample time for me to pitch my tent before dark. So far, so good.
In actuality, the driver did not leave until 6 p.m. and after the usual breakdowns and visits with the relatives in the villages along the way, we finally wheezed into Kelek at midnight. But it was all quite wonderful, for all along the way there were gifts of dates and peanuts for me at every stop, invitations to tea and lemon juice at every village, and many exotic sights to see.
And so, there I was at 12 p.m. trying to pitch a tent. The ground was hard as stone, and for the life of me I could not sort out that monster of a tent in the feeble moonlight. Oh well, no matter. The sleeping bag would have to do. But it does get cold here! The mercury creeps well beyond 110 degrees during the day, but at night it must be in the vicinity of 40 degrees.
A word about roads. (There will be a brief pause while I giggle hysterically.) There is no such animal, of course. There is, however, a path of dried lorry ruts, a legacy from the rainy season, and these are great sport when the springless vehicle descends into and climbs out of the many dry gullies that have to be crossed.