Cold, wet blessings

    RENK, Sudan – It’s the rainy season here in Sudan, a season lived in enough humidity to make you uncomfortable, enough mildew to make you sneeze and enough mud to make you go crazy.

    We need these rains; they are what make our crops grow. And with only one growing season this far north in South Sudan, anything that helps us raise enough dura -- a sorghum-type grain – is welcomed and blessed.

    But the rain here is not quite like any other rain I’ve ever experienced. For one, it is cold, which is surprising in a land where the temperatures routinely are in the 90s, and where temperatures over 100 elicit only the mild comment, “It’s hot, today, yes?” I had thought the rain here would be warm, the way it is in Florida, where I lived for many years, or in Kenya, where I lived 20 years ago. But the rain here is not warm – it’s downright cold, almost to the point of being painfully so.

    For another, the normal rainstorm here – which usually occurs every three to four days – is violent. It often is accompanied by high, powerful winds that force the rain sideways and tear at houses and fences. Although the wind is nowhere near hurricane strength, the results often are the same: buildings blown over, fences torn asunder, roofs peeled off.

    When these storms hit, they leave huge puddles – no, lakes – of water behind. The ground here is called cracking clay, which means it takes time for the water to be absorbed into the soil. Streets – none of which are paved – become flowing streams. And when the water finally is absorbed, what’s left behind is mud – blackish-brown, clingy and so slippery that it’s like walking on ice.

    Even as I write this, another storm has hit, coming seemingly out of nowhere, with no warning this time. Water is pouring into both the classroom where I teach and the library in which my office is located in the Renk Bible College, streaming under the doors and windows, leaving my little friend Madjur to fight a losing battle once again against this latest invasion.

    But this storm is nothing compared to one we had recently, one that set the standard for what Sudanese rainstorms are really like. A few hundred of us were gathered in the middle of Renk town to celebrate the transfer of command for the local contingent of the Sudanese People’s Liberation Army (SPLA). The commander who had brought the troops here earlier in the year is leaving us, moving on to a new job; the commander who replaces him has just arrived. It is our custom here to celebrate such transfers of power, particularly ones concerning the SPLA. So some colorful tarps were erected in the middle of one of the streets (street parties here are quite common and do not seem to need police permits). Chairs were brought from all over town, including from churches. The women began cooking in the morning so as to feed everyone after the celebration ended.

    When the celebration began, there were few clouds in the sky. By the time the prayers and Scripture readings were done, the sky had darkened, threateningly so, and the temperature had dropped, perhaps 15 degrees within 15 minutes. Before the sermon could begin, the wind erupted out of nowhere, blowing hard from the south, gathering up dirt and loose bits of garbage, hurling both right into our gathering. Most of us covered up as best we could to keep the dirt out of our eyes.

    But the celebration continued.

    Until the skies opened up and the rain began … not to fall, per se … but to be hurled at us almost horizontally. The tarps, tied up on tall metal poles, first tried to twist loose, then began to fill with water. The power from the generator went out, and then the rain’s noise was so great that everything came to a halt.

    Of course, with the wind blowing and the rain driving at us, there was nowhere to go. So we simply stood there under the dripping tarps and waited. I was the only one there with an umbrella; when people asked how I had thought to bring it along, I simply replied, “It is the rainy season here,” at which point they all laughed. The rest of the folks had nothing to protect them from this downpour, so they picked up their seat cushions and held them over their heads, forming a sea of bobbing furniture parts. The water flowing through the street rose almost to our ankles, carrying more mud and garbage with it, and the rain poured down from above, despite the presence of the tarps, making it was easy to think of the airline safety advice: “Seat cushions may be used as flotation devices.”

    As we all stood huddled together – three adults and one small child sharing my umbrella – we began to sing hymns, hymns that the Dinka people have known for years, hymns about God’s blessings and their hard lives, hymns begging for peace, and one old-time favorite from the English hymnal, “O Happy Day.” Women ululated and all of us laughed, rejoicing even in our cold, wet misery.

    In the midst of this flood, the two military commanders, along with the local assistant commissioner, sat quietly in their chairs, apparently not even being struck by the rain dripping from the tarps. While the rest of us got wet, they somehow managed to stay dry.

    During a short lessening of rainfall, we heard women coming down the street, dancing and chanting. A little rain wasn’t going to stop them from celebrating. Dozens of young men left the semi-shelter of the dripping tarps and joined them, dancing in lines up and down the street, then standing in place for another kind of dance that involves a lot of jumping straight up and down.

    Whenever the hard rain resumed, they all rushed under the tarps, laughing and celebrating. Whenever the rain lessened, out they went again.

    And so we stood, singing, laughing, getting soaked, and knowing that this storm, which was making most of us miserable, was also flooding our homes and our streets, as well as knocking down homes and fences and tearing roofs asunder. (When I arrived home a few hours later, I found 2 inches of standing water on the floor and a soaked bed, among other belongings.)

    But through it all, no one complained.

    This rain, we all knew, was a blessing, provided the needed moisture for our crops to grow, meaning that come the winter, we all might have enough to eat.

    Besides, we knew, this is the rainy season in Sudan.