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.