by Jan Coates
“You look like a frog,” Willy said, giggling. “Are you catching mosquitoes?”
Before long, all the boys in the line heard the splashing, and they began surging toward it. Finally, from the top of a rise, they could see it, a wide, twisting river, gurgling and sparkling across the plains. “It must be the River Gilo!” Monyroor said, his deep voice shaking with excitement. “Ethiopia is just on the other side of the river. We’re almost there!”
Hundreds of legs pounded down the hill; waterfalls of sand sprayed out behind them. Jacob looked over the tall green reeds and across the broad, swiftly flowing river. Ethiopia? But it looks just the same as this side ... I don’t see anybody preparing a great feast for us there ... I don’t see any fine schools and homes ...
Willy looked up and down the endless river, its gray water churning around boulders, leaving mud-speckled clouds of foam in its wake. “I am sorry—but how do we get across?” he asked, his bottom lip quivering. “I can’t swim.”
BOOK III
Chapter Ten
RIVER GILO, BORDER OF ETHIOPIA / SOUTHERN SUDAN, DECEMBER 1987
The boys slid down the steep bank to the water, holding each others’ hands for support. They stopped at the border of tall grasses and fuzzy cattails lining the edge of the river.
Other boys plunged straight in, hurling themselves from the top of the bank, like brown arrows piercing the water.
Jacob, Oscar, and Willy licked their lips and stared at the rushing river. “No!” Monyroor said sternly, pointing upstream.
Two bulging, hooded yellow eyes and a long, lumpy snout glided eerily through the water. Several feet behind the eyes, Jacob saw the crocodile’s muscular tail, whipping back and forth, side to side. It was hunting.
They watched in horror as the crocodile’s powerful jaws opened wide, revealing its sharp teeth. “Crocodile!” Monyroor shouted. Jacob closed his eyes as the jaws snapped shut. A boy was dragged under; red strings marked the spot where he had disappeared. Jacob covered his ears to block out the watery screams.
“Did you see who it was?” Oscar shouted, grabbing Jacob’s arm.
Jacob shook his head. “I couldn’t look.”
“I can’t go in there,” Willy said tearfully. “I’m scared.” His body was rigid as Jacob put a protective arm around his small shoulders.
“Look,” Monyroor said, pointing again.
“Is that Majok?” Oscar asked. He put a hand above his eyes and squinted in the bright sunlight.
“Of course it is. He is telling everybody what to do,” Jacob said. They watched Majok gesturing to the other boys, waving his arms about wildly and shouting. They had uncovered a huge log on the riverbank. It had been roughly dug out and had space for perhaps twenty small boys. Within seconds, it was crammed with three times that many, piled one on top of the other. It quickly began to sink in the shallow water. They could hear Majok screaming out orders, but no one paid attention as some boys leapt out, scuttling back up the bank like scorpions, while others pushed and shoved to keep their spot in the boat. “You must be patient,” the tallest boy shouted at Majok, as he pushed him out of the boat. “I’ll be back for you.”
Impatient boys set out swimming for the opposite shore alongside the boat. “Stay away—I don’t want to poke you,” the tall boy shouted. Soon the river was full of thrashing arms and legs as the strongest swimmers pulled smaller boys along with them. Most made it safely to the other side. Some were swept away by the strong current. It was a most lucky day for the hungry crocodiles of the River Gilo.
Jacob, Oscar, and Willy stood close together, watching the chaos. Jacob buried one hand in his pocket. There must be a way we can get Willy across safely ... and what about Oscar’s boomerang arm?
“We will wait until it is quieter,” Monyroor said. Kneeling by the river, he scooped up handfuls of the muddy water. “Probably this water is safe, as it is moving so fast, but we should still filter out the dirt so it doesn’t make us sick.” He took off his shorts and poured the water through the fabric into the waiting hands of the younger boys, who slurped it up in great gulps like thirsty calves drinking mother’s milk.
“Our giant white tongues thank you!” Oscar grinned as the water dripped down his chin and chest, leaving clean trails in the grime.
“It’s your turn, Monyroor.” Jacob reached out for the shorts.
“Not now.” Monyroor rubbed his forehead. “I am trying to figure out a way for us to cross.”
“Will we wait for the boat?” Jacob frowned and rubbed his ear as he looked at the long line of boys snaking along the river bank. “I can swim; I could help Willy.”
Monyroor watched the loaded log boat making its way slowly across the river, the edges of it riding just above the surface of the water. It teetered from side to side, then flipped over, dumping its load and banging heavily into its passengers. Everywhere, boys screamed and scrambled to save themselves. Monyroor looked at Oscar.
“Can you swim, Oscar?” he asked.
“Can I swim? I am a strong swimmer; I swim like a fish, like a shark. If my mama were here, she would tell you,” he answered.
Jacob touched his friend’s crooked arm. Oscar’s smile vanished. His face sank. “That could be a problem,” he admitted, rubbing his bent elbow.
Monyroor rubbed his forehead again. “We’ve come this far—there must be some way we can get across safely.”
Jacob paced back and forth, studying Oscar as he did so. “Aha! I have an idea—we can do it together,” he suggested. He linked one elbow with Oscar’s and made swimming motions with his free arm. “Like this!”
Oscar’s face brightened. “We will be like a spider ... well, most of a spider, with seven legs to kick!”
“Do crocodiles like spiders?” Willy asked quietly.
“We will be a giant tarantula—instant death to any crocodile that dares get in our way!” Oscar said, thrusting back his thin shoulders.
“Willy, you can ride on my back,” Monyroor said, kneeling down. He picked up a stout stick and handed it to the little boy. “Can you be a brave crocodile hunter with this?”
Willy’s face lit up. “Thank you, Monyroor. I will do my best to be brave,” he said, but his bottom lip trembled when he tried to smile. He climbed onto the older boy’s broad back, linked hands across his scarred forehead and stuffed the club between his stomach and Monyroor’s backbone. Monyroor untied his lion’s tail belt and wrapped it tightly around both Willy and himself. They set out, paddling quickly for the opposite shore.
“Time for the giant tarantula to follow the giant two-headed turtle,” Jacob said. He looked nervously in both directions but didn’t see any sign of the crocodiles. “Hurry, Oscar,” he said, splashing into the river.
Several times, Willy swung wildly with the club, screaming that he’d seen a crocodile snout, but each time it was only a floating stick or a stone jutting out of the water. Jacob and Oscar swam beside each other; Jacob counted out loud to keep the rhythm of plunging their hands into the river on alternate strokes. They worked hard to keep their skinny spider legs from dangling too deeply into the murky waters beneath them.
They all reached the shore at the same time and quickly clambered out of the water and up the bank. “I ... can’t ... move!” Jacob said, panting as he threw himself down in the long grass. “The current is so strong; my arms feel dead.”
“But the nasty crocodiles didn’t get us!” Willy clapped his hands, then turned and stuck his tongue out at the lumpy creatures, lying in wait for another victim.
“It’s hard work being a water tarantula.” Oscar plopped down beside them. “I have a joke, though. Why are tarantulas such good swimmers?”
Jacob groaned. “Are they? I’m too tired to think now, Oscar.”
“Because they like water?” Monyroor guessed.
“No ... good idea, though. They’re such good swimmers because they have so many legs, like me and Jacob! Don’t you get it?” he said.
Jacob reached
over to slap his knee. “Yes, Oscar. We get it. We all get it. Now just be quiet for a few minutes so we can rest.”
They didn’t have long to rest—they were soon greeted by an enthusiastic welcoming party—thousands of hungry mosquitoes, buzzing and biting.
“We must be the first people they’ve seen in a long time,” Monyroor said, swatting at them. “A very long time!”
“I was hoping to have a feast, not be the feast!” Oscar said, covering his eyes and nose with his fingers. They hurried away from the mosquito-infested grasses and took their places once again in the re-forming line of boys. Slap! Slap! Got you! Leave me alone! Aarrrgh!
“We are making a new dance,” Jacob said, laughing. All around them, boys were waving their arms around frantically, slapping themselves and each other, jumping up and down.
“Like boys at a dowry dance, showing off for a girlfriend,” Oscar said. “But there are no girls.”
“Maybe we can rub dirt on ourselves—that might keep the bugs away,” Jacob suggested. He picked up a handful of dirt and began rubbing it on his arms. “It sticks to my sweat,” he said. The others quickly did the same.
“We look like clay boys now,” Willy said. “I hope we won’t break when the mud dries.”
“Welcome to Ethiopia!” Monyroor said a short time later as they settled in for their first night in the new country. “Land of a million, no ... a billion hungry mosquitoes.”
“Day 78,” Jacob mumbled in response. He remembered the seventy-eight steps he had counted with Uncle Daniel. His trip to cattle camp seemed so long ago now.
“Is that a very big number?” Willy asked lazily. The others laughed.
Jacob lay awake watching the stars and rolling his blue stone across his face, neck, and ears to keep the bugs away. I am here in Ethiopia, Mama. Do you see the stars, Mama? There’s a falling star—quick, make a wish! Wish for my blood to taste like ash so these evil buzzing monsters will leave me alone!
As he waited for sleep to come, he imagined Mama’s strong hands gently spreading soft ash on his parched skin, protecting him from the buzzing insects. Half asleep, Jacob’s fuzzy thoughts went back to the night before the bombs. Just before bed, after the Papa fish story, Mama had taken him to the cattle barn. She carried a small jug of cold ashes from the fire in her hand. “Crawl on the ground underneath my legs, Jacob,” she had said, parting her feet and lifting her blue dress to her knees. Not understanding, but respecting Mama’s serious tone, Jacob had done as she asked. The soft brush of the feathery ashes tickled against his back as he crawled along in the dirt. As they walked back to the fire, holding hands, Mama had said, “You will be safe now, my son.”
Jacob smiled at the strange memory and turned over. I miss talking to you, Mama. I miss you every day. Monyroor is good, but he is not you. I am in Ethiopia ... Where are you? Are the SPLA soldiers keeping you safe? Before he could finish his thought, the croaking of the frogs and the rushing of the water sang Jacob to sleep.
Chapter Eleven
PINYUDO REFUGEE CAMP, ETHIOPIA, 1987
The white-hot morning sun over Ethiopia felt much the same as it had over Southern Sudan—relentless, like a stubborn boy who never gives up. Oscar woke up, looked around at his friends, and started to laugh. He jumped up and down, laughing like a hyena, slapping his bony knees, then finally dropping to his back and kicking his legs in the air.
“What is wrong with you?” Jacob said, stretching to work out his stiffness. He struggled to open his eyes. They felt swollen and sore. “You look like a dying grasshopper.” He squinted up at his friend.
“Are those pox, or is it warthog disease?” Oscar said, hooting like an owl.
“Jacob, you didn’t finish telling me the story about why the warthog is so ugly,” Willy said.
“Another time.” Jacob looked down at his arms and legs. They were completely covered with small red bumps and itchy lumps, where blood thieves had attacked and robbed them while they slept. Jacob’s eyes were tiny slits in his puffy face.
“At least we were protected by the dirt—until it all rubbed off,” he said.
“Where are the militia with their swords when you need them?” Oscar said. “They would destroy these blood suckers; slice off all their legs, and their stingers!”
“I think I would prefer the mosquitoes,” Willy said.
“What you see, you are,” Jacob said, smiling and pointing at his friend. Oscar looked down at his own arms. He stopped laughing and started scratching.
“But look at my tongue.” Jacob opened his mouth wide. The chalky white film had been washed away by the river water. It was about the only part of his body that felt good.
“It’s almost pink again!” Oscar said.
“My throat feels good, too,” Willy said excitedly. “It doesn’t hurt to swallow anymore!”
The boys stood up and began to look around. “But where are the villages, the schools, the churches, the fine food waiting for us?” Oscar asked. “There’s nothing here but dirt, lots and lots of dirt.”
“Sss ... sss ... seems like Majok doesn’t know everything, after all,” Jacob said.
“We are safe here,” Monyroor said, putting a hand on Oscar’s skinny shoulder. “And, thankfully, we do not have to walk so far today.” He stood and opened his arms wide, raising his face to the sun. “The centipede has arrived!”
“Thank you, brave lion hunter, for keeping us safe,” Jacob said, smiling at his nephew.
“You are my Little Uncle; of course, I had to keep you safe. Your papa, my grandfather, would have expected it of me,” Monyroor answered.
“Day 79. How did we walk for seventy-eight whole days?” Jacob plunked himself back down on the hard ground and examined the soles of his feet. They were tough and leathery, hard as rocks. “My feet are like the hooves of our cattle,” he said, laughing.
“But do you have warm, sweet milk for us?” Oscar asked, bending over as if to drink from Jacob’s belly. “It is breakfast time, after all.”
“Remember toc?” Jacob asked, shoving him away. “Imagine—if we could drink the milk from many cows for many days—just to see how fat we could get before a wrestling match!” He put his hands on his belly, thrust his shoulders back and stuck his stomach out as far as he could stretch it.
“My youngest uncle will be the wrestling champion this year; our cattle always have the richest milk,” Oscar boasted.
“Do you forget? My Uncle Daniel, younger brother of my mother, won last year. He is still the champion!” Jacob said. “I am sure he is a soldier in the SPLA now. Probably one of their bravest soldiers.”
“Why are you always bragging?” Oscar said, turning away.
“And who is always the best at everything?” Jacob said, elbowing him in the ribs.
“Well, I am the best soccer player,” Oscar said, dribbling a stone around his friends’ feet. “You have to agree with that.”
“We will have toc contests again,” Monyroor said confidently. “Wadeng, Little Uncle ... wadeng.”
The great line of boys slowly began walking once again. On the third day, they came to a fork in the road. Each road had a sign, but no one, not even Majok, was able to read the letters. The boys at the head of the line chose the road to the southeast. They made the right choice, and when the sun was high overhead, they came upon a ragged cluster of shelters, loosely constructed from sticks, cardboard, and other materials. Jacob thought of his neat home in Duk, with its baked mud walls and thick grass roof. These do not look like places for people to live. Where are the huts? Where are the fences and the animals?
A man came out to greet them. He spoke through an orange horn. “Welcome to Pinyudo Refugee Camp, your new home. You will be safe here. And Happy Christmas!” A Dinka man beside him translated for the walking boys.
“This is Christmas?” Willy asked. “Jesus’ birthday?”
“I guess so,” Monyroor answered. “Our gift is that we are not walking today.”
“What is wron
g with him—why is he so pink?” Oscar hissed in Jacob’s ear as they filed into the compound. “My oldest brother once told me if I was not good, the devil would capture me and peel away my skin, like a banana. Is that what happened to him? What did he do wrong?”
“And why does he bugle on that orange kudu horn? I don’t see any elephants to scare away,” Jacob wondered. He put their questions to his nephew.
Monyroor laughed, then wiped away his smile when he saw the boys’ genuine confusion. “There are many people in the world whose skin is not black, or brown. They are called khawaja. I have seen them when visiting Juba with my uncle.”
“But his skin looks sore, Monyroor,” Jacob said. “Like it is burned.”
“It is true—he does seem to be burned, by the sun, I think,” Monyroor agreed. “Your brother only told you that story to scare you, Oscar. This is a good man. He must be—he came all the way to Africa to help us. He is not bugling; I believe he is speaking a language called English.”
“Will we have to speak English, also?” Jacob asked.
“Why would we? We are proud Dinka people. Dinka was the language of our grandfathers and great-grandfathers,” Monyroor said.
“Did he bring food with him?” Willy piped up. “My throat is better, but my belly is like an empty pumpkin.” Padum ... Padum ... Padum ... It made a hollow sound as he drummed on it with his skinny fingers. “At home, we always roast a goat for Christmas.” Willy licked his lips and closed his eyes. “I can almost smell it cooking ...”
Jacob stuck his nose in the air, closed his eyes and sniffed loudly. “Ummmm ... Grandmother’s spicy bean stew—I can taste it ...”
Oscar began dancing around, scratching his armpits like a monkey. “Yummy bananas fried in ghee!”
“We must be patient,” Monyroor said. “We need to make a new home for ourselves first.”
“With what?” Jacob asked, looking around at the barren landscape. There was little to see other than dirt, a few short, scraggly trees, and many rocks. Monyroor spun around, sweeping his long arms in a wide circle.