Darfur Diary

Daryn Kobata, editor of Caltech 336, is taking a leave of absence to serve as the communications officer for the World Relief Darfur Relief Collaboration, a group of six humanitarian agencies working in conflict-affected areas of West Darfur, Sudan.

February 14 2005, 1:30 a.m.

It's the longest night of my life.

Each 15 minutes creeps by like an hour. I flop this way and that, the heat smothering me like a blanket. I'm jet-lagged, exhausted, and Montezuma is taking revenge in a big way.

If I'd been too busy getting shots and visas to think about it for the past month, it's finally hitting now. The enormity of what's about to happen comes crashing down. In about eight hours, I'm going to land in Darfur, Sudan - a conflict zone that UN Secretary-General Kofi Annan recently called "hell on earth." For a few minutes, fear engulfs me like deep water.

Every possible terror comes to mind: the journalist I'd met in Kenya who later died in a small plane crash...wreckage scattered over the ground...armed holdups and kidnapings of aid workers. My stomach has been churning since afternoon, but now has more reason to do so. For about the fourth time, I get up, this time to put my passport in my money belt. If anything is going to happen, at least there'll be ID strapped to my body.

Another 30 minutes passes, or maybe it's 10. I get up yet again and pull out the send-off cards and gifts. Even as the kind words from friends and colleagues encourage me, I feel like a fraud. "It's wonderful what you're doing...We should all be so courageous...You are very brave!" I've never felt as un-brave as at this moment.

Finally, a measure of peace comes from the small blue book, inscribed by a group of friends who've been my spiritual support group. They include inspiring quotes and paraphrases in their notes.

"Don't be anxious about anything. In everything make sure to keep asking for help thankfully."

"Rivers know this: There is no hurry. We shall get there someday." (Profound words from Winnie the Pooh.)

And a favorite passage from C.S. Lewis's The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe:
"Then he isn't safe?" said Lucy.
"Safe?" said Mr. Beaver. "Don't you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about being safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you."

The meaning of "battlefield conversion" becomes all too clear. I'm reminded that in trying to live out faith, I have to trust that my life is not in my own hands. When I first saw the job listed in November, with everything going on in the world it just felt like the most real thing I could do. And the way all the details just fell into place so quickly has seemed a confirmation that, however daunting, this is where I'm supposed to be. I hope that my going will, in some small way, help the people of Darfur to know they haven't been forgotten.

I take a deep breath and say a prayer. After a while, almost without my noticing, the anxious thoughts slip away, and more immediate, blessedly mundane concerns take their place. "I sure hope that plane tomorrow has a bathroom..."

I get up for the umpteenth time, make sure the Sea Bands and Dramamine are in the outside pocket of my carry-on, and add extra plastic bags alongside.

February 19 2005

It was kind of amazing to fly over what looks like the middle of nowhere - miles and miles of sand, rock, and bush - and suddenly land in this little oasis called El Geneina. Then the drive through town: huts made of adobe-like bricks and thatched roofs; women in brilliantly colored topes (a traditional Muslim garment that wraps around the head and body), balancing trayfuls of food on their heads; men in white galabeeyas (which look like long nightshirts) and turbans; donkeys pulling carts and carrying people; kids waving and calling, "How are you? How are you?" In some ways, it feels like you've gone back in time hundreds of years, except for all the four-wheel drive vehicles and the ringing of cell phones.

For the most part, this week has been peaceful. People are generally friendly and curious, and will wave and greet you. At times, it's easy to forget we're in a conflict zone, but we're reminded again before long by the guys with guns walking or driving around town (some in uniform, others not), our strict security guidelines (don't walk alone, always carry a radio, avoid crowds, 9 pm curfew), or the sound of gunshots at night. This is kind of a gun-happy culture, it seems, so gunshots aren't necessarily bad-it could just be someone celebrating something. On the other hand, the presence of guns adds an element of danger to any situation, and can ratchet up a simple incident into something much more chaotic (hence the rule of avoiding crowds). So, we try to be open and foster good relationships with everyone, but always make sure we're aware of what's going on.

Today I went to the field for the first time with the agriculture and livelihood team. They're working in a camp of internally displaced people in Azirni, about an hour out of town. (It's actually only about 10 miles or so, but you can't go more than about 30 mph most of the time because the roads are so bad). The ag/livelihood team has been holding training sessions in building fuel-efficient stoves, and we tried to track down a woman named Jedda, who's kind of a community leader, to have her spread the word to her friends and neighbors. In so doing, we inadvertently crashed a wedding party (oops!). No one seemed to mind, though; they offered us beer, dates, and punch, and someone sprayed me with perfume. (Was that a hint?) A number of people were pretty smashed (so much for Sudan being a dry/Muslim country?!); one guy was thumping on a drum, while others were jumping as high as they could and ululating (the women). The bride and groom never appeared - apparently they were inside the hut on their "honeymoon." I don't think I'll be getting married over here, thanks very much. Lastly, I got to ride a camel, thanks to an older gentleman who was passing through and apparently feeling benevolent (perhaps he was a bit tipsy as well). I knew it'd be high up, but I wasn't prepared for the violent rocking as the camel got to its knees before standing. "Whoa-oa-oa!" I kind of stammered, and the crowd of kids started giggling.

I'm definitely not in Pasadena anymore.

February 25 2005

Friends have been concerned that I may see some terrible things while here. It's possible, but quite honestly, being on the administrative end of things, I'm pretty removed from what's happening on the ground. Our field staff - the water and nutrition and health specialists - are the ones who are really in touch, who hear people's stories and are able to help in very hands-on ways. Sometimes, when my day comprises 10 hours of meetings, report writing, interruptions, and futile attempts at emailing, it's hard to feel like being here is really doing any good.

Today, though, I had an incredible talk with our nutritionist, Agnes - humorous, outspoken woman who at our first introduction gave me a bone-crushing hug. I'd heard she was from Rwanda, and that she had been led to work in Darfur because of her experience there.

I had seen the film Hotel Rwanda just before Christmas, and it took me back to 1994 and the sickening feeling of a nightmare come true. Based in Kenya with Food for the Hungry International, my colleagues and I watched helplessly as a tiny Central African country - just two hours away by plane - descended into madness. Over three months, ethnic Hutu extremists slaughtered more than 800,000 people believed to be Tutsi or moderate Hutu. A few weeks after the killing ended in July, we went into the country to assess the needs and begin emergency operations.

Although I was spared from seeing most of the carnage, the experience still took an emotional toll. Mostly, what I remember was how surreal everything seemed - bits and pieces flashing by like scenes from a movie - and a frightening numbness, just going through the motions each day. And if someone who hadn't even experienced the horror felt this way, I couldn't begin imagining how the survivors would be able to carry on.

Now, reading the reports of killings and burned-out Darfur villages filtering through the media, I wanted to somehow connect with Agnes and hear her story. In retrospect, I hope it wasn't selfish or insensitive. I know at least partly, though, I felt heavy with the collective guilt of the rest of the world for abandoning Rwanda in its direst time. Not really knowing how or where to start, I asked her if she felt our efforts were making a difference. She was preoccupied with email and so the conversation kind of foundered for a while. Finally, hesitantly, I said I wanted to know what she was thinking because I'd heard why she came to Sudan. Then, feeling awkward, I began explaining about having been there, but right then all the feelings of helplessness, remorse, and doubt - over Rwanda and now Sudan - came crashing down. I started to lose it.

Agnes told me her story and showed me her scars. She had lost her husband and two of her three children. For years afterward, she said, she saw no real point in living. The only thing that kept her going was her surviving son and her sister's two children, who now had only her in the world. Then she began developing a huge goiter. She was told she needed to go to Kenya for surgery, but she couldn't leave the children. Friends prayed for her as her condition got worse, at one point nearing death. Finally, she decided to risk having the surgery in Rwanda.

It was a turning point. Not only her body, but her heart and soul were healed as well. "I knew then," Agnes said, "that if God had saved me from death twice, there was a reason." That was in 2000, and now here she was, helping people who are facing a chillingly similar situation.

I wish I could recall our conversation word for word, but one thing has stayed clearly in my mind. When I told her that I couldn't fathom how it must have been, and how Rwandans have been able to carry on with their lives (here I started to lose it again), she said, "You cannot cry from January to December." Life goes on, and we have to decide what we're going to do with it.

And yes, she told me, "We are making a difference by being here," as she gave me one of her bear hugs. Here was someone who had survived unspeakable things, and she was the one trying to comfort me. Right then, it felt like whatever else might happen, this conversation was one of the reasons I've been led here. Whenever the doubt sets in, I'm going to try to remember her words.

March 3 2005

When I really think about it, it's been pretty amazing just to be here. I mean, a lot of the time, like anywhere else in the world, life is very ordinary. Mundane. Aggravating at times. But I'm trying to appreciate even the mundane and annoying moments, what it is that they can show me. And then there have been those transcendent moments, where for just an instant, everything seems so blindingly clear and in the right place...

We have a great team of people here who come from six countries. Most of our staff are Sudanese; Agnes is Rwandan; our medical director, Dr. Pierre, is from the Congo; and our logistician, Nelson, is Kenyan. We also have two Canadians and two Americans. Considering we're with each other in this compound almost 24/7, it's already a minor miracle that we all manage to get along most of the time. But at times, like when we're sharing a laugh around the dinner table, I marvel at how we're so diverse, yet able to find common ground to be able to work together and enjoy one another as a team.

March 7 2005

"You cannot cry from January to December." I think that wedding party we crashed in the IDP (internally displaced persons) camp spoke the same message. Life might be challenging, but it goes on, and there are still reasons to laugh and to celebrate. My friend Steve puts it another way. Something like, those who are fortunate enough to have everything they need have an obligation to appreciate and enjoy those blessings; not to do so is an affront to those who don't. (He put it much more articulately than that.) Anyway, the point being, at times when I just have to laugh at, or make some dry comment on, life here, I wonder if I shouldn't be so flippant, like it's disrespecting the seriousness of the situation. But, I hope, it's more in the spirit of what Agnes and Steve are saying - not to mention absolutely necessary for sanity's sake.

On that note, here's what life is like. Our compound (living quarters and offices) is quite basic: stucco buildings with concrete floors and metal doors (which clang and squeak when you're trying not to wake your roommate). We buy our water each day from boys who haul it from wells on their donkeys, and it's stored in barrels. Our showers work using gravity - just elevate the barrels eight or ten feet off the ground and voila! The worst part is probably the squat latrine ('nuff said). If you think of it all as an extended camping trip, it's not too bad.

We only get electricity from town three or four evenings a week. The rest of the time we run a gasoline-powered generator, but it gets pretty expensive, so we turn it on about half of the day (when our laptops batteries start dying or we need to print something). We have a small fridge, but since it's only on a few hours a day, we can't keep things long term. (Once upon a time, I heard, it used to be able to make ice, but the freezer door went missing somewhere along the way.) So it'll be interesting in the next few months, as the past two weeks it's gotten up to 100 or 105 F in the afternoons - and we're told it might reach 110 F or more before long. (And no, we don't have A/C, unless you take a trip in the Land Rover; we do have ceiling fans.)

Here at the main base, Fatma and Fatiha, our cooks/housekeepers, make lunch and dinner for us Saturday to Thursday. (The work week is six days; Fridays are the Muslim Sabbath and our weekend.) Normally they use a propane stove, but propane hasn't been available for about the past week, so they're cooking everything over a charcoal fire. The meals tend to be pretty meat- and starch-based, so being vegetarian, I've had to get a little creative at times. Lunches are usually fine: omelettes or boiled eggs, fresh tomatoes and onions, ful (a kind of bean dip with tomatoes, onions, and feta cheese), and pocket bread. We've had falafels and lentils a couple of times - on those occasions, I tell the cooks how tamaam (good) it is in the hope that they'll make it more often. :) Dinner, though, might be chicken, "mystery meat" stew (possibly beef, sheep, or donkey) with a few potatoes and carrots, liver, rice, plain macaroni, and a little salad (tomatoes, cucumbers, and girgir, a local green). I'd had forewarning, so I brought protein powder, and my thoughtful housemate Parimal had given me a large box of energy bars before I left - both have been well used, along with peanut butter. Fruit can be expensive and hard to come by. (We recently bought some fruit cocktail that we didn't realize cost about $7 a can.) It's almost mango season, though, which sounds promising. For some reason, we're also able to get Red Delicious apples - yep, from Washington state.

I can't quite figure out the economy here - the only rule seems to be that khawajaas (white people or foreigners) will be charged more than locals. The first time I visited the market, Teri (the communications who I replaced) and I brought Fatma, Fatiha, Sucra (the cook at our other base), and Mohammed, our office assistant/translator, in order to let them do the bargaining. A simple dress (usually the first layer underneath women's topes), imported from China, was 800 Sudanese dinars - about $3.20 - but Mohammed said we could get it cheaper elsewhere. A locally made stool of wood and woven strips of animal skin was less than $2. Yet a dozen or so eggs cost $4, even though there were scads of chickens running around at our feet. Go figure.

Although I'll be here a while, I thought I would grab a few things while we were at it. But almost everything I saw was made in China, India, or Indonesia. I asked Mohammed, "Don't they make these things in Sudan?" He said yes, but I couldn't seem to find any. Finally I saw a scarf with a label in Arabic - then I noticed the English translation: Made in Egypt. Close enough. I bought it.

15 March

After being here for a few weeks, you start to appreciate the smallest things. Little things get us excited: muesli cereal (a treat after days of bread or oatmeal for breakfast) and Heinz ketchup, sent from our Khartoum office. French fries, chocolate custard, or "zalabiya" (a doughnut-like pastry) from the cooks. Electricity from town-on those nights, you can hear an audible cheer go up. Finally emailing successfully after several days. Going for a walk on the Sultan's Hill (with an actual former sultan's palace) and seeing a spectacular sunset, with stripes of dusky clouds laying across a purple-pink orb of light.

I hope some of this sense of appreciation stays with me when I return home--but, from experience, it probably won't last too long. Funny how quickly our expectations adjust to the environment.

21 March

It's hard to believe I've been here for five weeks already, and I'll be leaving for a break in Khartoum in two days. When I first signed on and read that five days of R&R is standard for World Relief staff in hardship zones, I thought, That's nice, but I wonder if I'll really need it.

Now I am so ready for a break, it's kind of embarrassing. In some ways, it feels like I haven't really accomplished anything. On the other hand, I guess, it's just a challenging situation all around to try to do relief work in a developing country. Things just don't work well most of the time: Internet and e-mail access is spotty at best (it's hard to be the communications officer when you can't communicate), not to mention the even more basic electricity situation. Given the amount of dust here, it's actually remarkable we haven't had even more computer problems than we have. Also, the staff has been in transition and without a field director until just a few weeks ago when Elly and Jack, our new directors, arrived. I'm hoping that some of our operations and practices will be straightened out and I can do more of what I'm really supposed to, instead of the tasks that fell to my predecessor by default.

23 March

It's funny how much more wonderful Khartoum seems when you're arriving from Geneina than when you first arrive from the U.S. The three-bedroom apartment where World Relief staff stay seems like a palace - even some of the tackier furnishings (zebra-print rugs with leopard-print sofas, a shiny green horse statue) look nice right now.

After weeks of eggplant, tomatoes, and potatoes, I had visions of broccoli dancing in my head. My colleagues obliged me and we went out for Chinese at dinner. I had a feeling broccoli was too much to hope for, and that proved the case. Still, the mixed veggies and sweet-sour fish (which would be so-so in the San Gabriel Valley) seemed like the best thing I'd tasted in months.

29 March

(Disclaimer: This entry is somewhat long and detailed, pursuant to the goal of trying to remember all the little details and quirks of this experience for posterity.)

Alas, the five days went far too quickly. But they were so nice while they lasted. Didn't do much at first except sleep in, enjoy being able to wash clothes in a machine, and veg out. Finally, my colleague Louise and I made an agenda. On Saturday, we took a walk to the downtown/business area of Khartoum and looked around. We stopped by the Office of Tourism and Photo Permits (or something like that) first, as you have to have a permit to take photos or video of any kind. We found that we needed our passports, so we planned to come back the next morning, when we were hiring another colleague's friend to guide us around town.

Sunday didn't really feel like Easter, as it was an official workday. So when Hakeem arrived, we piled into a rented "taxi" (actually a mini-minivan, about the size of a regular car) and our smiling, turbaned driver inched us to the Office of Tourism at about 30 km an hour (18 mph). Not that we cared-we weren't in much of a hurry. We knew about the infamous bureaucracy, and were about to get a (fortunately small) taste. Now, as we filled out the forms, the guy told us we also needed a passport photo. Almost every type of permit or visa requires one, but of course they hadn't mentioned it the previous day. Louise had one, but I didn't. That's okay, the man said; you can just take a copy from your passport-there is a copy shop right down the street. (Hey, there's one way to lower government spending.) So Hakeem and I found the shop, got several copies (which were so bad my face was barely discernible anyway) for good measure, and walked back. Okay, the man said. Now we just need a copy of this permit, a copy of your passport, and a copy of your entry visa. So Louise, Hakeem, and I trudged back to the copy shop, got our copies, and trudged back. We handed them the copies (on which my photo was now just a gray blur), and the guy said Okay, you're all set. The whole process took, what, 40 minutes over two days-it could have been worse-and the rest of the day was great.

We visited the presidential museum, housed in a beautiful former church; the National Museum, with artifacts dating back several thousand years; and crossed the Blue Nile to the area called Omdurman, where we had lunch in a nice restaurant not far from the river. (By that time our driver must have had low blood sugar-at one point we were crawling along at about 10 mph.) After that, we saw the palatial burial place of the Mahdi, the leader who defeated the Englishman Charles George Gordon at the Battle of Omdurman in the 19th century, and drove past the famous marketplace. On the way back, we passed the University of Khartoum and got stuck in a traffic jam. Although the traffic flow here is generally slow (case in point: our driver), what I find nerve-wracking is that people don't stop, and they often pay no heed to the (few) traffic signals. Fortunately, soon after our driver doggedly pushed past a truck whose side mirror missed my window by about an inch, we got past the stalled truck, and sailed (slowly) the rest of the way home, in time to catch an Easter service at 5:30.

The next day was pretty cool, too: we rented a car and driver again, and drove a few hours north of Khartoum to see the pyramids at Meroe. It took about 45 minutes till we reached the city limits, and the roadside shops got fewer and farther between. Then there were miles of flat desert that looked like a Dali landscape, punctuated oddly here and there with piles of rocks, small villages of low adobe compounds, gently rolling hills, what looked like huge hills made of rock, and the occasional filling station and cafe. Suleiman, our taciturn driver, spoke up and said there was something to see about 10 km off the road, near the river; we said sure. So he turned off the pavement, asked for directions at a tiny adobe store, and we bumped and lurched off into what looked like nowhere. The fact that there were lots of tire tracks in the sand was some comfort. We passed occasional villages, asked a guy on a donkey for directions (I started to wonder if Suleiman knew what he was doing), and kept going. Finally we saw a lush line of trees that heralded the river. We turned to follow it, seeing green, irrigated fields, and then found what looked like the Jungle Cruise ride at Disneyland: a small thatched-roof resort that offered boat rides to see the "cataract," or waterfall. Also like Disneyland, the guy wanted too much money, so back we went to the car and drove as near as we could to the river. As we got out, a group of guys offered to "guide" us. After some discussion, an older man on a donkey appeared to win. We followed him about 75 yards toward a bluff overlooking the river, and he pointed triumphantly: There it is! The vaunted "cataract" was a tiny streak of whitewater barely rippling over a couple of rocks in the river. Louise and I started laughing. Maybe during the rainy season it really was something to see. On the other hand, it was somewhat worthwhile just to have seen such greenery, almost like a rainforest in the middle of the desert. As we turned to go, the man started asking for money because he'd brought us there (not that we couldn't have found it ourselves). But when we offered him a small bill, he refused it, asking for more. Suleiman kept trying to hand it to him as we walked back (I don't know if he ever took it; maybe Suleiman ended up with it.) And as Louise guessed, the other guys wanted money for "protecting" the car-after all, one of them pantomimed, he could have let the air out of our tires, but he didn't! We just kind of rolled our eyes and left.

After maybe another hour, Louise said, There they are! Off to the right, the pyramids looked dark against the sand dunes and pale blue sky. We drove over to where a group of people lined the entrance, selling jewelry, baskets, and the inevitable pyramid statuettes. After paying the entrance fee (about $10), we started off toward the closer pyramids and some guys with camels offered us rides for one thousand dinars each (about $4). So I got my second ride ever on a camel, and Louise her first. It was hot, the wind was whipping the sand around, and Louise felt like she was going to fall off. She's about a foot taller than me, and her camel was quite a bit smaller than mine. (Her camel wasn't too happy either and made loud gargling sounds all the way.) The pyramids are smaller than Egyptian ones, but still interesting to see and to try to imagine what life was like so long ago. Some had been reconstructed in concrete, which was kind of a shame, but others still had their original bricks and hieroglyphics. Louise had read that many pyramids went undetected for centuries because they'd been buried under sand dunes-with the wind blowing around us, it was easy to see how that happened. We switched camels when we got back, which was a better fit all around, and investigated the farther group of pyramids before plodding back. By the time we finally got back to the entrance, the camel guys had upped the price to 1,500 dinars each. Well, that was kind of annoying, so we tried to stand our ground on principle, then met them halfway with 2,500. Then we had to contend with the souvenir peddlers. I wanted to buy a few things, but in this situation - where these folks probably only got a few customers each day - I should have just run for the car. Luckily, by default I bought stuff from the two guys who were inside the entrance. As I walked past the others, they began following me, and by the time I got to the car, two or three of them almost tried to climb in with me. Suleiman had to intervene and physically get them to move away from the car so he could shut the door. I felt kind of bad, but there's only so much you can do.

After crossing the highway to see the Royal City ruins - the remains of a huge temple, bathhouse, and sauna - we started back to Khartoum. We'd brought some snacks, but there were very few places to get a meal, and we'd pretty much eaten only granola bars all day. Around 4:00 p.m. Suleiman stopped at one of the "diners" (probably thinking, Don? these khawajaas ever eat *real* food?) and seemed surprised when we got out with him. Fortunately, they had eggs and *ful*, which hit the spot. We got back about an hour later; all in all, the day was a great note on which to end our R&R time.

April 2

Today was my mom's birthday and I wanted to call her, so at about 8:00 p.m. (9:00 a.m. LA time) I borrowed Louise's cell phone, then tried the land line. No luck. Finally got through on the satellite phone. It was fun to hear the surprise in my mom's voice. The connection was nice and clear, with just a short delay after speaking, and it felt like I wasn't so far away after all.

April 9

It's hard to believe I've been here almost two months. In some ways, the time seems to go very slowly, and yet my time is already two-thirds up. I was hoping to have made several real field visits by now, but will only be making my first next week. By real, I mean going out with all the sector teams - nutrition, water and sanitation, food security and livelihood, and health and hygiene promotion - who generally leave in a convoy of six vehicles on Sunday morning, stay at our base in Um Tagouk (about three hours away), and come back Thursday afternoon. Their work - providing supplementary feeding to malnourished kids; helping communities to have potable water, latrine facilities, and gardens that provide extra nutrition; and teaching people about good health and hygiene practices - is the heart of why we're here. I hope that Stephanie, who's arriving at the end of the month to replace me, will be able to visit the field more often. When I'm in the office writing reports all the time, it's easy to be disconnected from the hands-on work, to not see beyond the statistics, the real people and situations that comprise them.

When I asked Agnes what I should pack for the field, the first thing she said was "Toilet paper." Hmm. I have a feeling it's going to be a bit rustic out there.

April 15

Happy Tax Day! (Speaking of which, I will need to do mine as soon as I get home...)

I survived my first (and unfortunately only) trip to the field! Yes, it was rustic, but if like Geneina, you think of it as camping (except even more so), it's not bad. My main problem was the food. There just isn't a lot available in that area, plus our field base cooks didn't really understand the concept of not eating meat. So, not wanting to be too much of a high-maintenance khawajaa, I largely ate boiled potatoes, rice, and okra during my stay. Good thing I'd brought a can of tuna, a round of Laughing Cow cheese, and peanut butter, and we also had catfish, lentils, and beans once each, and papaya a couple of times. (My advice to Stephanie, who's replacing me as communications officer and is also vegetarian, will be to bring lots of food to the field.)

It was a bit difficult, but - as I tried to remind myself, and this has been an ongoing struggle even as I complain about the heat or email problems here - it paled in comparison to what these struggling communities face every day. After about two and a half days of boiled potatoes, I was reminded of my friend Gen's experience as a nutritionist in western Kenya. One day she asked some colleagues what their favorite foods were. Well, they just couldn? fathom what she meant. Food was not something you usually even had a choice about. Food, if you were fortunate enough to have it, was something you ate to stay alive, and whether you "liked" it, or got tired of eating the same thing every day, was not a thought that even entered their minds. The people in our project areas are in a similar situation. Many, if not most, eat *aceda* (a thick porridge of sorghum or millet) twice a day, and not much else - if they're fortunate. And since the Darfur conflict began displacing people two years ago, thousands have survived only because of World Food Program distributions. I tried to keep all of this in mind, and to be grateful for my potatoes.

So it was really good to see our projects firsthand, and to meet some of the community members who are participating, because it jolted me into the reality of the situation and reminded me why we're here. The bulk of our work is with the IDP populations around Um Tagouk (oohm ta jook'), and Sanidadi, another area a couple hours north. We stopped in Sanidadi around 1:00 p.m. Sunday afternoon, and I observed Dr. Pierre working in the medical clinic with the assistant. The crowd of people waiting under the tree outside soon doubled, and the line of mothers (and one father) with kids seemed endless. Finally, around 4:00, Dr. Pierre stopped, and the medical assistant's wife fed us lunch in a small grass hut next to the clinic. Dr. Pierre said it was a typical day - there are so many people that he can't usually stop for lunch. Sanidadi is a place with a huge water problem - rather, lack thereof - and where there's a lack of potable water, you see high rates of illness resulting. Our water team has been trying to work with another agency to drill boreholes, but the agency had their drilling rig - along with three staff - taken hostage in late December. Thankfully, all three staff and the rig were returned unharmed this month, and drilling will hopefully begin soon.

In the next few days, I also talked with families in Um Tagouk who had dug new latrines, and others whose donkeys were vaccinated by World Relief-trained assistants; women who were using their newly built fuel-efficient stoves; and a family who had received seeds and tools for planting a seasonal garden near the *wadi*, or dry river bed. I also observed the nutrition team weighing and measuring children for malnutrition, and met the first group of hygiene promoters who recently trained with World Relief's motivators/trainers, and who are now working in their communities to spread the message of hygiene and health.

Our medical/hygiene, nutrition, and water/sanitation teams are working together to promote health and hygiene, because all these areas are interrelated. For example, children are often malnourished because they suffer from diarrhea caused by poor hygiene practices. So the hygiene promoters and nutrition assistants are showing families the importance of washing hands, using latrines properly, not letting animals drink from the family's water supply, and feeding their kids the right kind of food. Providing supplemental feeding to children, and seeds and tools for growing vegetables, will only go so far; people need to make some lifestyle changes if they want to maintain whatever nutritional gains are made. From what I saw, these messages - conveyed through home visits and community-wide meetings with skits and lectures - seem to be well-received. If that's the case, the teams should start seeing decreasing rates of malnourishment and of certain illnesses among people treated at the clinics.

The days were long and hot and very full. There's no electricity at the base, so in the evenings, we mostly just relaxed and ate dinner before getting ready for the next day. With only the glow of a fluorescent lantern and our flashlights, the stars looked incredibly brilliant and endless. I shared a tiny tukul (hut) with Regina, one of the nutrition assistants. We fell asleep to the chirp of crickets - sometimes to the clucking or bleating of the next day's dinner, tied to the nearby fence. In the mornings, we woke to roosters crowing and the haunting, melodic calls to prayer from the mosque.

Finally, it was Thursday afternoon, and we headed back to Geneina. First, we went by the clinic - we were going to transfer a man with a badly swollen leg to the Geneina hospital. We moved our bags from the back of the Land Rover and tied them on top, and the man's younger brother and wife lifted him in, arranged his belongings around him - hospital patients here have to bring all of their own food, blankets, etc. - and then also got in. Ahmed, our driver, then guided us as gently as he could through the sand, rocks, and wadis for the three-hour trip home.

I wrote earlier how wonderful Khartoum seems after you've been in Geneina for a while. Well, there's another level to that. I was very glad to see run-down, dusty Geneina after four and a half days in Um Tagouk.

We stopped at the hospital and Dr. Pierre helped get the man checked in. I didn't know it at the time, but his diagnosis was Kaposi? sarcoma. We learned a few days later that the doctors had recommended amputating his leg. The man refused, said he was going to find a local doctor, meaning someone who practices traditional medicine, and ran away from the hospital.

This man must have made what was the best decision for him, given the information and beliefs he had. I just hope when he finds that doesn't work, he'll change his mind and come back - if it's not too late.

April 19

Yesterday, we heard that Ahmed, one of our two office guards, had had his house burn to the ground. Fires in homes and down at the market are fairly common, as many people cook over open fires, and homes and market stalls are often simple structures built from tree branches and straw. Ahmed is 27, with two young children - one born a couple of months ago - and just the day before he had brought his shy, pretty wife to the compound to meet us. They had been living in a part of town with other displaced people - kind of an unofficial IDP camp (as opposed to the official ones, which have names and are administered by the aid agencies).

IDP (internally displaced person) is a euphemism along the lines of "collateral damage" - it sterilizes the horror of what is really happening. People are being displaced because their villages have been pillaged and destroyed. An estimated 400,000 people have now been killed in this conflict, and thousands more have been raped, beaten, and robbed of all they own. Many of our staff are IDPs themselves, some with terrible stories in their recent past, now helping others in the same boat. You wouldn't know it, to meet them - the culture here is so welcoming, gracious, and generally upbeat.

A few hours later, Ahmed came by to tell us that his family was fine, but that they had lost everything they owned. Fortunately, they were able to stay with relatives temporarily. But it sounded like they'd have to rebuild and refurnish their home from scratch - not easy when you only make 28,000 SD (about $110) a month. A few of us took up a collection and were able to present Ahmed with 21,000 SD ?so relatively little for us, yet it was three weeks' salary for him. He came over to shake my hand and thank me afterward.

One Arabic word that I've used a lot here, unfortunately, is malesh - it can be used to express condolences, as in "I'm sorry" or "What a shame." All I could do was tell Ahmed Malesh, malesh, and wish that I spoke more Arabic so I could really express how bad I felt.

Nelson, our logistician, later said that when he went with Ahmed to the house, he stood looking at the charred remains and thought, "Why him instead of me?" I don't understand it either, why some people have to bear what seems an unfair amount of adversity, and I'm so relatively fortunate - it's not like I've done anything to deserve it. And coming here for such a brief time to try to "help," then going home to my comfortable life in Pasadena - I don? know if it helps balance things out, just a little, or if it merely soothes my conscience.

April 25

As up and down as life has been here at times, in some respects I wish I were staying longer. When Elly and Jack, our field directors, asked me to extend, I seriously considered it. Three months isn't long in this sort of situation - it feels like I'm just getting to know people and to understand what's needed in the job.

Sometimes, though, you just know when it's time, and I'm really ready to come home now. For one, World Relief did find another communications officer and I won't feel like I'm leaving them hanging. For another, so much has happened in this short time, on many different levels, that I haven't even begun to process; it feels like I'll need months to sort through things and to see what it all has meant. Lastly, there's unfinished business and health issues to attend to at home, including replacing two caps that have fallen out in the past month. Gen, my nutritionist friend, says to listen to your body; the message seems loud and clear.

April 27

A small miracle happened today.

I am now sending blog entries via our very own Internet connection. Up till this time, we've been using a satellite modem for email, which apparently was the only option when the project began last September. It works, well, ok. It often takes several attempts and reboots to be able to connect with the modem, and then you might not able to connect with the email server. I'd say the rate of success averages about 65%. Also, we couldn? send photos or access Internet due to the cost ($10 per MB transmitted), and to top it off, soon after I arrived, my laptop refused to connect with the modem at all, and I've had to email from a laptop that's shared by three of the field sectors.

Internet became more widespread in Geneina early this year, and we first applied with Sudatel (the government-run phone company) in late February. Then we got the runaround for over a month, made numerous visits and calls to the office, were told we had no application on file (were they looking for baksheesh?), and filed another application. Finally, our land line died this week, and Felix, one of our logisticians, made yet another trek to Sudatel yesterday. I'm not sure how he did it, but today we had two live technicians come out (we had to go pick them up and drop them off afterward) and hook us up in about 20 minutes.

Now, I can email from my own laptop once again (at 10 times the speed), and don't have to get a driver to take me across town to surf the Web or check Yahoo mail. Yet another one of those things that sound so basic, but it's been cause for great rejoicing among our whole staff.

May 2

Today is an official holiday called - believe it or not - Smelling the Breezes. Hmm. I'll have to use our new Internet connection to find out what's up with that. Perhaps it's the Sudanese version of stopping to smell the roses?

Stephanie, the new communications officer, arrived today around noon. We'll have about a week of overlap so I can hand things off, then I'll fly to Khartoum next Tuesday the 10th. The days continue to somehow stretch themselves out and yet fly by, all at once. Each 24 hours seems infinitely long as I look forward to family, friends, and the comforts of home. At the same time, it seems like I just got here - and now I have only eight days left.

I asked Fatma and Fatiha to walk to the suq (market) with me to do some shopping today. It was fun and quite successful, even though Fatma's English is limited, and Fatiha's, as well as my Arabic, even more so. A few words, numbers, and gestures can go pretty far. Fatma and Fatiha even got a bunch of shopping done for their families, and we hired a kid with a wheelbarrow to help us bring it all back.

Daryn Kobata, editor of Caltech 336, is taking a leave of absence to serve as the communications officer for the World Relief Darfur Relief Collaboration, a group of six humanitarian agencies working in conflict-affected areas of West Darfur, Sudan. The views expressed here do not necessarily reflect those of Caltech.