Interlude: Timu Forest

We set out from the mission with some notebooks and a recorder.

“Where are we going?” Stephen asked.

“Eh… just through the center, i figure. And then maybe swing back to Mening Quarter and try to find Augustine, if nothing else presents itself.”

“What do you need to do in the center?”

“Not a thing in the world. But i imagine that if we walk to the center and back, we’ll run into somebody offering more promising prospects.”

And yet I wasn’t too surprised to find that nothing awaited me in the center except for beggin and passionate (almost angry-sounding) cries of ‘uru aja!’, a greeting in the Mening language.

We turned around and started back toward Mening Quarter. Maybe we would find Augustine. Maybe not.

But suddenly i was greeted more graciously by a few ladies on the left side of the road—a sister from the convent (Stephen’s second-favorite person in Karenga) and Pasca, who had told us that her aunt speaks Katibong and would work with us!

“Very sorry,” she said, “my aunt is only remembering just some few words of the Katibong language. She says that you should go talk to that musé in Nakitoit who you talked to last week, Akika. He is remembering. We will go right now, and I will translate for you.”

After a 45 minute hike, we had crossed the two or so miles to Nakitoit. Akika sat under a tree, looking various shades of amused, annoyed, uninterested, and eager to begin. A number of men of the town loitered about.

We started negotiating a price. And then things got weird.

“The musé says,” began the LC1 (a locally elected government office), “that he will not begin until you have paid him 50,000 shillings up front.”

“50,000 shillings!?”

“Ée… this man, he is the only one remembering this language. And so when the time comes for him to bring the rains, he will have to go to the cave just here. If he helps you and is crossing in the cave, then the spirits will bring bad things to him. Unless he has sacrificed a goat to them for giving away the language. So you will give him 50,000 shillings, and then he will buy a goat and sacrifice it in the cave. This is the message of God for him, that he is the one to smear the what? the cud of the goat in the cave, and to bring the rain. So he will not help until you have given him 50,000 shillings.”

i’m not particularly interested in violating the consciences of my consultants. i’m not particularly interested in being ripped off by my consultants. It seems like one of the above was going to be a factor in such an arrangement. i’d rather not help the last speaker (or one of the last speakers) of a language sell his birthright for a bowl a stew—or a $25 goat. Similarly, i’d rather not give a cash advance to somebody i’m only going to have a very limited amount of time to work with in the remaining two weeks that i will be in Karenga.

We walked back to the mission in beautiful evening light.



We have retreated from Karenga now. We are currently relaxing in Terrill and Amber Schrock’s Icien Paradise, a fine lodge (they call it home) on top of a mountain in Timu Forest, where the Ik live. Two Ik accompanied us on the drive up from Kaabong. As i heard them speaking to each other in the backseat of Terrill’s Land Cruiser, i realized that i have been studying Kuliak languages (So, Ik, and Nyang’i make up the Kuliak family) for three years, but this was the first time that i had ever heard a Kuliak language used conversationally.

We go for walks, we relax on comfortable beds, we chat with Terrill, and we eat delicious, delicious, delicious food prepared by Amber.



We will be here a week. This week will give us the opportunity to relax, to enjoy the company of people who are easy to relate to, to collaborate with Terrill, who has done extensive research in the Ik language, and to get ready for a productive last two weeks in Karenga.

This is our palace:



We’re halfway through our time here. Things don’t seem as distinct to me as they did at first. i am not as quick to notice flashes of recognition across the eyes of a child or uniqueness in a street-corner exchange. Hopefully having some time to relax in Timu will make me more attentive and sensitive to everyday moments again.

12:05 pm

It is 12:05pm. Stephen and i are sitting on a concrete block at the main intersection in Karenga. Flocks and herds of children stare at us. We stare at them. If we stare at a particular child long enough, that child will run away. We coordinate which children we are going to stare at. It’s like a game.

12:05 pm. We have been in Karenga for two weeks. We don’t—rather, i don’t—have anything to show for it. Stephen has been making progress at designing a survey of Napore Karamojong speech sounds from a descriptive acoustic perspective while i have been chasing the ghosts of speakers of undocumented languages all over Karenga and Lobalangit subcounties.

12:05 pm. We are waiting for a vehicle to drive by en route to Lobalangit. There is one place in the world that i don’t want to go. That one place is Lobalangit.

12:05 pm. This will be the fourth time in six days that i’ve made a trip to Lobalangit subcounty. Two of the three previous trips, i’ve gone all the way to Lobalangit Trading Center, 11 miles from Karenga. 11 miles is longer when you face the prospect of walking back late in the evening than it is when you have a car and paved roads at hand. And when you only hope that you won’t get caught in a seasonal downpour. i have very little to show for my trips to Lobalangit—mostly just a little bit of lexical data that i had collected from an elderly man in very poor health who does not seem likely to have sufficient energy for extensive future work. Even that work neatly duplicates work done by Bernd Heine (1974/5) and Terrill Schrock (unpublished field notes, 2008-2010). i keep going back because there is just one more man who is known to speak the language that i haven’t contacted yet: Komol Isaach.

12:05 pm. Komol Isaach is rumored to be overseeing a Word-for-Food road-building project. That makes him pretty inaccessible usually, and as such, i have been thwarted by my previous efforts to meet him. i don’t feel like it’s likely that i’ll be able to track him down this time, either, and that makes me feel like spending a whole additional day traveling to and from Lobalangit is a waste of time. i have access to speakers of Mening and Katibong here in Karenga—if Nyang’i is a lost cause, then it would be a shame to spend all of my efforts hopelessly chasing nonexistent speakers when i could be doing work on Mening (for which i have access to an English-Mening bilingual) and Katibong (which is only a few years behind Nyang’i, i fear). Both Mening and Katibong are almost completely undocumented. More documentation exists for Nyang’i than for either of them, in fact.

12:05 pm. The kids stare at me more. One girl in particular is beginning to annoy me. Her shirt features a picture of Mickey Mouse kissing Minnie (in a place where, reportedly, kissing isn’t even done—it is just for children!), and she has a necklace with a key on it. She mocks everything we do. i’m over it.

12:05 pm. i’m over going to Lobalangit. i’m over being stared at by children. i’m over strangers walking up to me on the street and beginning conversation with ‘You bring me 500 [shillings]’. i’m over being dirty. i’m over posho and beans. i know that my time here is limited, i know that i’m almost certainly the last person who will try to describe any of the Nyang’i language, and i know that this might be one of the most extraordinary opportunities i ever have, but i’m tired. First world problems, sure, and probably not really appropriate for Karenga Subcounty, but as i sit on the concrete block waiting for a truck to go by, the only thing i really think is ‘i hope that nothing comes. If nothing comes by 12:15 (just ten minutes more!), then i’m walking back to the mission to relax, straighten up my room, and maybe eventually track down one of my Katibong speakers. And i’m going to stop by a shop on my way and buy a coke.’

12:05 pm. My modes of transportation to and from Lobalangit have been various. i rode in the back of an ambulance, which had a flat halfway there. i rode in the back of a telephone company pickup. i rode on a tractor. i walked. i rode in a World Food semi, and then in its police escort. i rode with my legs hanging out of the bed of a pickup loaded with merchandise for the local shops. Staying clean and energetic had not been an easy task.



12:05 pm. The children.

My mind goes back to Saturday afternoon. Stephen and i are just outside of a village about a mile from Lobalangit Junction. Lokwang lives in this village. We stop to collect ourselves under a massive tree before walking into the overwhelming swarm of humanity and flies that awaits us. A drop of rain splashes on my arm. Clouds keep rolling over the mountain. We take refuge under the tree, and thereby make the acquaintance of a local man and a few local women.

‘You help us.’ He says.

‘You help us.’

‘You help us.’

‘You help us.’

‘You help us.’

‘You help us.’

‘You help us.’

i don’t know what i’m supposed to do. i have more money than a lot of people in this area do, admittedly. But i certainly don’t have enough to give even a single meal to each of them. i can help the person in front of me, but i would probably be neglecting to help people in far greater need who are not able to make appeals for themselves, thereby creating an even more imbalanced dynamic between the poor and the destitute, the ill and the healthy, than already exists. Is it even my responsibility to help anybody here? And if it is, how thoroughly should i help them?

‘You help us.’

‘You help us.’

‘You help us.’

Every 20-30 seconds for half an hour.

‘You help us.’

‘You help us.’

i’ve grown accustomed to speaking of the offensive nature of The White Man’s Burden. The notion that the poor miserable foreigners are in desperate need of a nice little white savior to come and give them lots of stuff and food and peace and civilization and the internet is a little bit repulsive to me. Granted, it’s good to do nice things for people, and to mind their needs and desires, but the arrogance and condescension and simple-mindedness of dismissing anything that doesn’t originate in America (or the west, at least) is not something that i can get behind. i’m clearly not alone in the university setting.

But i never asked for The White Man’s Burden. i didn’t come here out of some narcissistic desire to re-create Africa (or Uganda, or Karamoja, or Karenga Subcounty) in my image. i never had delusions that i could solve all of the problems of the people here. i wanted to come offer a small positive contribution to the language ideologies of the local people. And every day i see 6 or 8 Land Cruisers drive by, conducted by African employees of the countless NGOs operating in Karenga. Each of them has a significantly larger operating budget than i do, and their budgets are specifically designed to improve specific aspects of the quality of life of the people. i’m not choosing to pick up The White Man’s Burden. Every person i meet on the street who begins conversation with ‘You help us’ or ‘Give me 500’ puts something on my back, and it’s because i’m white. i don’t feel like it’s my responsibility to singlehandedly change the culture of a subcounty or a region or a country or a continent, but i feel like there are many here who would have it be so, who would gladly be a white man’s burden.

It is 12:06 pm. My mind has finished its little rant. Rumbling and a cloud of dust.

12:06 pm. It’s the same Land Cruiser that has driven through the intersection five times already today, alternately going south and east. i turn to Stephen. ‘There’s no way it heads toward Lobalangit now.’ Of course it heads toward Lobalangit. i feel no relief. i feel oppressed by the prospect of another trip west.

12:06 pm. i do feel relieved, though, when the Land Cruiser drives on by.

12:06 pm. But then a local man named Simon yells to us from 50 yards down the road ‘Is it ok if they drop you at the junction!?’ We get in the Land Cruiser. We comment that there’s no way that Komol is going to be there.

By 3:00 pm we were 10 miles past Lobalangit at a road construction site. Komol climbed into the Land Cruiser that had given us a lift in Lobalangit.

By 4:30 pm, we were on the back porch of the mission. Komol was translating sentence after sentence fluently. Sometimes i couldn’t hear him over the downpour that pounded against the steel roof. The rain began to slacken. I pulled out my recording equipment and asked if he could tell a story that the fathers of the Nyang’i used to tell. He looked at me, chuckled, and within seconds had begun. Two breathless minutes later, he smiled. ‘Etimokin?’ i asked. ‘Etimokin,’ he smiled.

Komol Isaach then walked through the gate into Karenga, to stay with relatives for the night. A rainbow marked the end of the rain and the return of the sun. It was good to leave 12:05 pm behind.

the long road to Lobalangit

As you leave Karenga on the Karenga-Kitgum highway, you pass a sign that says ‘Kidepo National Park: 24 kilometers’. After some time of deep ruts and steep hills, the road winds around a small hill. The first intersection in some time is identified as the way to Lobalangit. At the intersection of Karenga-Kitgum and Lobalangit, there is a sign that says ‘Kidepo National Park: 42 kilometers’. Lobalangit is about 4 miles farther down Lobalangit Road.

On Thursday, i sat by the Kidepo sign (24 kilometers!) on the outskirts of Karenga until an ambulance offered me a ride to Lobalangit. Mind you, it wasn’t being used as an ambulance at the time—it was occupied by two doctors and two nurses conducting a survey of participation in a recent vaccination drive. i was seeking two men: Lokwang Chilla and Komol Isaach. They are the last two speakers of the Nyang’i language that i had not made contact with.

i quickly learned that Komol was working several miles away, and would not be immediately accessible. Lokwang, however, had moved to a village just off the Karenga-Kitgum highway. i set off for the village.

Naked kids, filthy animals, a neglect of public sanitation. Flies. Lokwang was sitting on a goat skin under a tree in the middle of the village. i greeted him, and he looked at me suspiciously.

Quickly, one of the villagers brought me a stool. i sat by Lokwang, who began telling me of his poor health. Infections, back problems, tooth decay. He can’t stand up anymore. He said ‘This illness is the one that will kill me.’

Then he began naming things in Nyang’i. Body parts, animals, activities. He waited patiently for one of the local boys to translate each word into Mzungui (English).

Filthy children pressed against me as i wrote. The crowd eight people who had walked into the village with me had swollen to twelve, then twenty, then thirty. Flies. So many flies. And everybody wants money, and everybody is hungry.

The village is surrounded by miles and miles of the most fertile fields i’ve ever seen, and the area is saturated with NGOs. i don’t know if the people really lack food, if they really are hungry, or whose fault it is if they are hungry. But i feel pretty ridiculous sitting in the middle of the begging horde, asking how to say ‘I’m going to Karenga’ in Nyang’i.

i guess that every time i talk to any ethnic Nyang’i in town, they all say ‘our language is dying—even I, my mother spoke, but she has died, and I do not know.’ That has to count for something, right? People in the village just want 500 shillings. i don’t know what they want to spend it on—at least, i hope i don’t know.

Filthy children and flies. i don’t know why they’re filthy—it doesn’t seem like they have no choice in the matter. If they don’t have a choice in the matter, i don’t know what i’m supposed to do about it. i’m not sure that i’m just supposed to ignore it either, though.

It’s a long road to Lobalangit. i went back to the village today with Stephen. We caught a ride on a tractor.



i was more prepared this time to leave the relaxed life of a comfortable enough town to return to a miserable village at the foot of a mountain. Lush mountainsides and cloud-capped mountains drifted by. We walked the last quarter mile or so.



Lokwang was there, as always, and talked with us more, as we huddled claustrophobic under the overhang of his hut, under the eyes of the entire village, under the oppressive swarming of so much need, want, or something else that i can’t satisfy.

It’s a long road to Lobalangit. i thought it was going to be 10 or 11 miles—just less than 18 kilometers. i tracked the distance on my GPS. It was more like 6 miles. We were exhausted when it was time to return to Karenga.

We decided just to walk back.

karenga: a town for all seasons

i hiked up the little trail to the next property over--a convent or something. i hadn't been gone for long, but already Stephen had snuck off. i would find him.

a convent. of course a convent. where else could he possibly have gone? i stepped through the gate and rounded the last corner. he sat with two young men and a bottle of wine. of course.

yesterday we went to Mening Quarter in order to look for anybody willing to chat with us about the Mening language, whatever that is. on our way home, a man stopped us and said 'I am Augustine, that one you are looking for!' We were, in fact, looking for Augustine, so we followed him to his orchard, where we did a little bit of work. Caught in the rain, he led us to his hut.





the border with South Sudan is about 15 miles north of us. sometimes we walk 25% of the way to South Sudan. this place is beautiful, and you can see that here, in this very post.

all of the happy children

It didn’t seem like it at the time, but my previous experience in Uganda was (from a research standpoint, at least), pretty idyllic. i was studying a moribund language (Soo) with just a small number of elderly speakers remaining. i lived in a village on the side of a mountain, miles from the nearest road. Soo speakers were scattered throughout villages 1-2 hours away from my own—and, for that matter, a Soo-English bilingual lived in my village. every day i could wake up, drink some tea, and spend a few hours working with this man.

And the whole summer behaved politely as a snapshot. the day i arrived in my village in early June, Korobe (the oldest man on the mountain) looked feeble and rickety and like he surely wouldn’t live much longer. by the middle of July, Korobe looked exactly the same. at both timepoints, Longok was a drunk jokester, and Kosma was a dignified teacher with a gravelly voice and a wry sense of humor.

Nothing appeared to change the whole time i was there, and it gave the experience a timeless feel. as long as mountains had been, Korobe had hobbled across Nadipo Kakole with multiple wives supporting his frail body and conducting ritual greetings on his behalf. as long as mountains would be, i surely believed the same would be true. Longok had always been and always would be sitting on an ekicolong, naked except for a dirty sport coat, smiling behind his prominent cheekbones. and Kosma, more than anybody, would never change, unless it was to become president of Uganda.

Korobe died two years ago. Kosma died three weeks ago. as of last week, Longok was still alive (according to word of mouth).

It was shocking to be told on a Wednesday morning near the bridge at Lower Singilla Town that Kosma had died, and so recently. i was suddenly disabused of the fantastic notion that the Soo language—that Mount Moroto itself—was some static entity that would always be as it always had been.

i’m in Karenga now—the historical homeland of the Nyang’i. i came to Karenga with the name of a single Nyang’i speaker in town, with a few more living in a complex of villages 12 or so miles to the west. i went to visit this man yesterday at around 11am. upon arriving at his home, i learned that he had been admitted to the local hospital/clinic just a few hours before. who knows if he will ever come home.

Karenga is an extraordinarily beautiful place. it’s hugged on the west by a line of mountains—not particularly high, but rugged, with soaring domes of dense granite and intimidating forest. to both the south and the east, however, the view is open seemingly forever across the Kidepo Valley.

Most of the speakers of three nearly completely undocumented languages live within 15 miles of where i’m currently staying.