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.
Wow.
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