Let it snow?

The crackling of the grass fires drowned out the chirping of crickets and the squeaking of the dark bats that circled high in the star-strewn night sky. The music of the night-the groggy rustling of the midnight risers, the whistling of the wind through the trees, the song of the gibbous moon spinning on its axle-were all squelched in the searing heat. Twas sometime between 2 and 4 am that the wind shifted from the stillness that prevented the spread of the fires to the stiff breeze that blew the ash towards the mission. So this morning when I awoke and went to my desk, I found my Bible, textbooks and scrap paper covered in what I thought was a thick layer of eraser shavings. I tried to brush it off only to see an inky smear replace the fine dusting. I glanced out the window. Our cold corpse of a compound lay at the heart of a giant snow globe. Only the snow, instead of frozen H2O falling from the clouds, was a silent storm of shriveled pieces of charred grass catching on the screen of the window, landing on the dying leaves of the neem trees, swirling through the rustling wind like butterflies flitting over a flowered shrub.

Tis the season for lighting fires. The rain has stopped and the grass in the fields is dry so it’s the best time for clearing the fields. To light the fields takes only a small spark, a lot less exerting than clearing by hand. Unless of course it gets out of hand and then you have to fight it back from your houses so it doesn’t destroy your home. It also chases the rats from their homes and into the traps, and consequently into the stew pot.

It is now 2:30, and I sit at my desk, trying to wrap my dazed brain around numerous complicated and sometimes completely senseless geometry problems. Mom stands out at the laundry line shaking the dust and ash from the clothes before putting them in the basket. The wind shifts and all of a sudden, the crackling is louder. The air turns into a thick, suffocating blanket of grey-ish orange. My nose stings of smoke. My lips taste ash. Pieces of charred grass which somehow escaped the screen on the window float in my coffee. Once again it is snowing. I think it just got hotter.

At 4:00 we stand at the fence line peering between the thorny branches of our compound, watching the red-orange flames ebb and flow with the wind. It almost reminds me of the ocean, its fiery waves rising and falling to a deafening roar and crash. The fire is far, yet near. Surrounding our compounds are the mission fields fences by wooden poles and barbed wire. On the other side of that is no-man’s land edged by cassava fields. As we watch, an entire WFP cassava crop is razed to the ground. The ravenous jockey of flame races with the wind to the south. We watch the tall elephant grasses just two feet from our fence line flare red, shooting smoke in our eyes.

Standing out in the smoke, Akol and Papa Lokwii, two generations of warriors, beat out the flames that threaten to jump the fence. Kites and eagles circle over head, darting down now and again, then returning to the sky with a rat or snake clutched in their talons. Now, hands on hips, the warriors stand in the field facing the wind. Waiting. Watching. They say the danger is passing, yet still they stand. They say it is traveling east, yet the wind blows south. They say the flames will not com, yet the blinding blizzard of ash still blows in my face.

We cross to the northeastern corner of the compound, meeting Akol there, trousers rolled to his knees, hands grey with ash. “Itemokin” he says, announcing the fire’s change of direction. The wind once again shifts, picking up the fragments of char it had brought to us, then turned right around and marching north. The snow embraces me one more time before slipping its shoes on and following its master. I see the men from Nakaale rush out with branches to steer it away from their homes. The flames fade, then crawl away, dejected. I sit on the cement-like dirt, a pile of dead leaves and ants hugging my toes, and watch the snow rustle away, dancing in the heat.

on cholera

Cholera is not an airborne disease like meningitis. It is not communicated by breathing in the general vicinity of another person. It is from dirty water. It is from physical contact with another person who has cholera. It is from contact with the diarrhea of a person with cholera. So as long as we touch no one, stay away from the public latrines and drink only the water in our houses, then we should be safe from the epidemic that has seized hold of south and central Karamoja.

There have been epidemics before. About four years ago, there was a meningitis epidemic. I remember very vividly sitting for hours in the clinic ward pinching pieces of cotton off a gargantuan fluff ball and rolling up cotton balls to be used for immunizations. After that day, however, we were all basically quarantined into the mission. Doctors and nurses went to the clinic, we still had morning church, but village bible studies, friendly house visits and evening worship were put on hold. Of course, since cholera is not the same sort of disease as meningitis, such measures need not be taken.

It has been several weeks since the few cases that have been seen were declared an outbreak. The initial scare that had dominated this area first the first two weeks has now died down to an extra careful caution. Truth be told, people around here are far more diligent about washing hands and trying to keep the spread at a minimum these days. Perhaps it is only in the presence of mzungu that they adopt such measures, but seeing as even after such a short time, Nakaale is on the verge of being considered cholera free, I really do believe that people are getting better. People are scared, to tell the truth. They rush to the clinic at the slightest headache sobbing with the fear of cholera. And while sometimes this can be considered annoying and foolhardy, it is a much better practice to adopt in the place of resisting medical treatment until it is too late.

The other day, I was sitting in my house studying when I heard a Karimojong voice speaking over a loud speaker. The voice was yelling a warning to people, telling them not to drink Ngagwe, the locally brewed beer, saying that since it is all drunk from the same pot, the risk of enhancing the spread is high. They also stated that anyone found drinking Ngagwe would be arrested. The following Thursday, Dad was out in a village by the name of Akuyam, and he came across a number of green wheelbarrows that he had never seen there before. His friend from there said that the….people…..had driven in with their trucks, given people wheelbarrows and told them to dig latrines, saying that it will improve sanitation and reduce the spread of cholera. Notice they did not give them shovels, or hoes or anything with which to DIG the latrines.

I really do believe that the sanitation and hygiene around here has gotten better since the outbreak. I was eating lunch with one of my friends and her young daughter and after she had brought out the food, she brought out dish of water and a big thing of soap with which to wash our hands. What before had consisted of a little splashing of water now took minutes of careful scrubbing before rinsing massive soap suds off.

On the other hand, it has also encouraged the buying and consequently drinking of etule, illegal booze. The witch doctors are telling people that it is the only way to cure and prevent cholera. I suppose to an extent, that claim has a little truth in it. An alcohol as strong as that will certainly kill many things in your body, but with the scare of death hanging in the air, the risk of this turning into a disaster is high.

It has been at least a month since cholera has first appeared in our area. And again, I really do think that it is dying down considerably. The aura of fear has taken its shape in over-careful vigilance rather than foolish disregard. There seems to be more caution than irrational panic around recently. The way things are going, now cholera will have to fight pretty hard for control of Nakaale.