"Why Don't They Just Farm?"

“So, why don't they just farm?"
I get asked this question a lot concerning the people of Wadupe and Africa in general. It’s a very logical question and I certainly don’t blame anyone for asking it. It seems the solution to Wadupe’s poverty is simple—good soil, hard work, and a market economy. If we could only teach them that they would be better off, right? We Americans are very industrious people. We see a problem, we form a solution, and we get to work; as a result we succeed in this world. We know that farming was and still is a huge part of America’s success, so it’s logical to ask "why don't they just farm?" It makes perfect sense…
* * *
The soil in Wadupe is as black as the volcanic rock it covers. One could almost plant thoughts and dreams and see green shoots the next day. A few days ago(July) I plunged my hoe into the soft ground. I was barefoot and naive. I had never hoed a garden before but I figured it couldn't be too hard to scratch out a few lines and plant some Pineapples. After churning the ground like a crazed human plow a few gracious friends stopped me from killing myself. They quietly asked if they could try and took the hoe from my hands. I couldn’t imagine what they could do to improve on my fine rows of pineapple suckers, but I have learned this routine all too well—try hard, realize I failed miserably, and then watch how the locals do it. I rested the pinching muscles in my back and rubbed the new blisters on my hands while they dug. Apparently farming is different in Sudan.
Wadupe used to be covered with huge farms. Fields of coffee plants stretched for acres through the Mugwo Mountain valley. Then, years ago…bombs dropped on their families and soldiers crept through the grass. Bullets pulverized their infrastructure; fire consumed whole properties. Their world ended and the Wadupe people scattered to neighboring countries with literally nothing but their native language. Injustice, by the name of Government, let evil men destroy the green growth of Wadupe. Hate had killed their progress. Sudan’s 21 years of war (almost my entire life) left this community with nothing but scars—scars like plowed marks across their black land; scars on their skin, scars on their hearts and minds, scars that might answer many of our questions if we are willing to listen.
After the war people returned to their homelands the same way they went out—with nothing but a common language. Under the mountain they found a new Wadupe. Crops were stolen, fields were burned, and the people who had not fled were dead or dying. The soldiers of both armies had plundered the whole area for food and slaves. The black soil in Wadupe was indifferent through it all; it nourished crops and weeds alike. It fed enemy and ally. It was destroyed by fighting and destroyed by peace. For years after the fighting the land sat untouched and uncultivated. When the former refugees returned to their farmland they found the African bush had taken over what the war had left behind.
* * *
In a sense we are right, they should “just farm.” But as the once successful farmer stands and looks at the rubble of his life, he wonders if dying or killing would have been a better way. However right we may or may not be about what they should or could do we formed our solution standing on American soil; we must understand that our solutions don’t always work for other worlds. If we don’t fully know their problems we can’t fully know the solution. In my opinion we have no right to tell a Wadupe farmer that the solution to his problems is farming. We have never farmed there. We don’t know his challenges. We don’t know his history. We don’t even know his name. Americans have such a great approach to problem solving; it is one that I am trying to implement in Wadupe using the story of Nehemiah—Pray, Prioritize, Plan, Work. I don’t think we should change our industrious mindset. It is a powerful tool that could really help this world. However, we must change our perspective. We fail when we say, Pray this way, Plan this way, Work this way. We must remember that “they” live in a different world than we. It is difficult for anyone to farm when your own government drops bombs on you.
In Wadupe I wanted a plot of pineapples, but first I had to learn how to make things grow there. I thought little black rows, a foot deep and a foot wide would look beautiful next to my house. And they probably would have—until the first big rain. In fact, my American garden was of no use in Wadupe. I learned from my friends that only rows a yard wide, piled two-feet high, would withstand the rainy season. In Wadupe I have to daily check my pride and remind myself that I am like a baby in that culture--barely able to speak or feed myself, and certainly not able to make a proper Wadupe garden. When we come at the world from the top down, bringing our answers and solutions to those “below” us, we risk oppressing the people we are trying to help. Only through a humble approach can we deeply impact another culture. The Why The Woods approach to the world is to be like water—slowly seeping into the lives of the poor and hopeless in order to nourish and empower. I was elated when I found this quote by Lao-Tzu: "The best [man] is like water. Water is good; it benefits all things...It dwells in [lowly] places that all disdain." Like our GOD who came and walked amongst us, we must first become like babes. We must listen and learn; We must seep low and deep; We must empower and nurture.

Life In Wadupe

I wake up at around 6 AM to birds and soft rain drops. I walk outside and stand beneath a young acacia tree in my front yard. I circled it with big stones last summer, and planted small purple flowers in the circle this summer. The stones make a nice morning seat. The sun rises over the Wadupe mountain, through the mango and acacia trees, and into the few clouds left over from last night. I breath in and soak up the life that radiates from the new grass, the new trees, the new flowers, the breeze. Everything is waking. Everything is gentle. GOD is painting this morning; He wants us to be quiet for a little while.

When the sun gets just over the trees, and begins to turn up its volume, I wake up Allie and Abby for morning tea. My pet monkey rides on my shoulder, or in my arms depending on his mood, as we walk down the path to the churchyard where the cooks have prepared hot water. Juma John, my newly hired base manager greets us with his wide Sudanese smile. He is a blessing from GOD. Juma updates us on the World Cup results, I struggle like a young parent to keep baby Monkey's curious hands off the table, Allie and Abby savor every sip of their african tea.

The girls work on various projects such as tidying the house, slashing the grass(cutting the grass with short metal sickles), painting our porch poles to discourage termites, or playing with the children who wander down our path. Allie and Abby spend the day with them teaching them English words and learning Kakwa in exchange. We even taught a few girls how to make bracelets out of colored thread which we bought back from them to help with their school fees.

There is one nine year old girl that we especially enjoy named Ena Estella. Ena has sass, or as we like to call it, "ENAtude." She looks at us white people like we are crazy with her hands on her hips, her lips poked out and one eyebrow cocked. She refuses to be intimidated by some crazy white people in her village. She dances like she owns the place and no boy is brave enough to push her around. We can't get enough of her smile and her laugh. (See the link to "Allie's Blog" for a picture of ENA). But we noticed in the past few days that Ena hasn't been her normal spicy self. She has coughing spells that come from deep in her chest and a fever that comes and goes. So when we hitched our weekly ride to Yei on top of a passing dump truck, loaded with sacks of beans and people, Ena was with us. She had walked the three miles to the main road, fever and all, with a proud strut, not at all afraid that the white people were taking her to town for the night. When we got to Yei, we took her to the compound where we stay. She flicked the lights "on" and laughed, "off," and laughed again. She put her hands in and out of the freezer then pressed them to her face. She first thought the shower was a latrine, but when Abby turned on the overhead water to wash away Ena's mistake, her clothes went flying and we could hear her laughing as she splashed the water all over her. The actual latrine was weird for her at first. She fell completely into the porcelain toilet. She laughed like we were the dumb ones for having such a weird thing, but again Abby helped her figure it out. The clinic gave us several types of medicine to help with her fever, the cough, and a de-worming pill. Yesterday she taught us a card game and fussed at us when we made mistakes. It's hard not knowing each other's language yet, but Ena doesn't need words.

A few weeks ago we established the Wadupe Development Committee. I am leading them in a Bible study twice a week that focuses on the book of Nehemiah. Through this study the committee is learning how to assess a need, develop a plan, count the costs, and write a proposal. I am showing the community that even a slave to the enemy king can do an impossible project if GOD is behind it. We are also learning the value of praying and planning before acting or asking. We have had great turnouts (20-70 people depending on the weather) and the people are asking really thoughtful questions. My hope is that one day the community will have the knowledge and the confidence to do their own development projects.

During the week the community gathers to collect stones and river sand that will be used when we pour the foundation for the school. In two days they collected enough stones to build a small castle. Just when we were about to begin collecting river sand, we had a full day of floodwater rains and the wooden bridge that connects Wadupe to the main road was washed away. Only two timbers remain for us to walk across. Until that gets fixed no vehicles can pass.

Please pray that the bridge will be repaired soon and that we will get the foundation ready before I return to the States for the month of August.

On Graduating...By Request of Caesar

Three years ago I told my mom college could wait and I left for Africa. It was the best decision I ever made. I told her a degree is just following a system of rules and check boxes. The University says I must pass biology. Check. The University says I must pass math class. Check. The University says I must take a "humanities" class. Check. Do I learn anything? It doesn't matter. I do what "They" say, then I get a degree to show the world. Pat me on the back and give me a job, I must be smarter and more equipped than most.
I wasn't buying that.
"Where's the truth in it?" I said. "So what if I have a degree, does that make me a better man?"

"It's just something to you have to do if you want to get anywhere in America," mom said.
That argument didn't do much for a guy who writes emails from a hut in Africa.

"I don't care what America thinks of me. I only care what God thinks of me. And I don't see where He requires a degree."

"Billy, please."
I can push my mom to the edge sometimes, but dang if she doesn't hang on and eventually win me over. Like a good son stumbling into church on Mother's Day, I came back from Africa and followed the religion of University. I read the text books, I followed the major rules, I went to class about as often as I went to church, and it seemed to be enough.

On May 9th, 2010 I sat in the back of the Appalachian State Convocation Center waiting for my name to be called. It was the second Sunday in May. There were moms, dads, families, and friends all cheering us on. An uncontrollable energy exploded from beneath our bachelor's caps. I watched the celebration with a peaceful smile. Not because I now had a respectable degree. I still think a certificate of any kind is secondary to what is most important in life. I smiled not because my mom was proud of me on this Mother's Day. I knew she would've been regardless. I smiled because in those last few days of class I found truth in the college experience.
College was easy or hard. College was beneficial or a waste of time. College was valuable knowledge or useless information. College was dead religion or alive and renewing. College was all shallow and no truth or the deepest I have ever ventured. College existed as good and bad and then allowed me to choose how to experience each moment. Maybe that's what the almighty "They" had in mind when they told me to take those "irrelevant" classes. Maybe they knew it's more about how I approach a thing rather than the thing itself. Is college necessary? Some would say no; some would say yes. I say necessity is none of my concern. I found it good when I searched for good. I was blessed to have it in my life. College exists, just as church, just as sports, just as life, just as death. I can only choose the degree of it's impact. One thing is for sure, being in college was a great excuse for me to spend an entire day in a coffee shop thinking about all of this.

I am again in Africa writing emails from a hut. I look at the Dinka man here in Sudan with tribal scars on his forehead and I wonder, in the grand scheme of things was that necessary? Did that make him a real man? In the grand scheme of things was the D- I made in Biology really necessary for my life. I imagine the Dinka man and I would still be alive and well had we not gone through our ceremonial rituals. But for some reason, painful as they were, we did. He has scars on his skin; I have a degree on my wall. And here we are together in Sudan, alive and well. Our moms are proud of us. The world thinks we are men. We are glad we pushed through. But we both know it is not the marks we bear that make us men. It was our response to the moment when the man slid his blade into our scalps.

Thank you mom, family, Mrs Sherrill, Jay Sutton, Jane Graham, Dawn Ward, Coach Moore, and all of you who kept me searching for meaning.
And to Dr. McCaesar, consider it rendered with untold appreciation.

GOD is Greater

billy riddle jr

journal entries: my first trip (2007)

--May 5th--

“Oh Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder consider all the worlds they hands have made. I see the stars; I hear the rolling thunder, thy power throughout the universe displayed… How great thou art.” Who knew there was such beauty in a place the media portrays as impoverished. Poor? Sure, by materialistic standards, but so rich in culture and natural beauty. The flight into Sudan was dreamlike. From the air I could see nothing but massive grasslands spotted with grass hut villages. We landed the small plane on the dirt runway and after a short check-in the SP guys and I headed to Yei (Yay). The dirt roads are very rough and damaged from the rains. Along the roadsides there are little grass huts, some with, some without mud walls. People are everywhere. The women carry water, food, or firewood on their heads; men are walking or riding motor bikes; and the children are running around. One thing they all have in common--the will to survive. There is so much movement as everyone tries to sell something or do anything they can just to make a living.

The compound is nice. It's a lot nicer than I expected anyway. I have a tin roof over my head, concrete floors and a bed to sleep in. Most of the workers here on the compound are Kenyan, Ugandan, and Sudanese. They are all solid guys, very welcoming, and very funny. I am glad to get to share a bunkhouse with several of them. They have invited me to church tomorrow.

journal entries: my first trip (2007)

--May 4^th--

I woke up on my last day in Nairobi in slow serenity. Exotic birds were chirping; I got a cup of African coffee and stood on the back porch to soak up the morning. Some of the other SP workers and I had a Bible study about 8:00 and after that I retreated to my room to do some reading. Before long, jetlag set in and I knocked out. Just after I fell asleep, a loud knock woke me up and I was surprised to see that it was 1:00 in the afternoon. Mark, the guy who was showing me around and explaining my job to me, took me to a coffee shop for lunch. We talked about what to expect in Sudan and sipped our Kenyan tea. Afterwards we decided to stop by an outdoor market to get some cheap sunglasses and a quick Kenyan experience that I will never forget.

I have been on Canal Street in New York City a few times and experienced the street vendors bombarding me with counterfeit goods and trying to squeeze every tourist dollar I had to offer, but these guys in Nairobi put those guys in NYC to shame. When we got to the market we told a few people we just wanted sunglasses and within ten seconds a few men were there with racks full. People were crowded around us trying to shake our hands and direct us to their shops. They were so eager to sell or trade anything. It’s a good thing Mark was there to lead or those people would have gotten everything but my underwear. I tried to be polite and shake everyone’s hand and look at their stuff. But, I learned from Mark, they don’t really want to be your friend as much as they just want you to buy their stuff, so you just have to say NO. We stood and bartered for a while. It was fun at first but after about ten minutes I just wanted to go to Wal-mart where prices were set, and honest. Mark did most of the bartering and I only spoke a few times. That was dumb. I should have kept my mouth shut. If they sense any weakness, any amount of sympathy for them, or any amount of desire for the product, they’ve got you. You have to act like you don’t need it and start at a ridiculously low price. Mark told me I went up too fast on my price and showed how much I wanted them. I couldn’t help it they were nice, fake sunglasses. I’ll be ready for them next time, but I pity the next loving American who walks blindly into that ruthless world.

Later, we met some girls that Mark knows and when I told them of my trip they said, “Wow! Two months. You sure are jumping into the action for your first time in Africa.” That has been a typical response. Everyone looks at Mark and smiles like there’s some inside joke about Sudan. “You’re definitely in for an adventure,” they say. I hope they are right. I have learned that things can get messy very quickly in Sudan. It is important that I am patient with people, especially ones with guns. Needless to say, I’m doing a lot of praying tonight. I leave tomorrow at 8:00 in the morning. I am not afraid. After learning more about the Church Reconstruction Project, I am excited to have a major role. I am ready for the challenge of my job and the country of Sudan. But every now and then I get this feeling in my stomach; it’s the same feeling I get when I'm jumping off a waterfall in Boone; when I’ve leaned a little too far over the edge and there is no going back; the thought comes to my mind, “What are you doing, Billy?” And then I close my eyes, hold my breath, and jump.

journal entries: my first trip (2007)

--May 2^nd 2007--

I am here, not yet in Sudan, but here, walking through the straight hallways of Concourse-A of the Charlotte airport. I left goodbye tears on my family’s shoulders, went through the security checkpoint, and gave one final wave before turning towards Gate-6. I can’t help but smile as joy grows in my soul, replacing my teary eyes with fiery eyes. With each stride my grin widens and I think to myself, “This is it. Here I go!!!”

--May 3^rd 2007--

Long waits in the airports and even longer flights have worn me out. It’s 10:15 in the night here in my little guest room at the Samaritan’s Purse compound in Nairobi; I’m so tired I can hardly see straight to write.

Flying into Nairobi wasn’t exactly the African experience I was expecting. I don’t know really what I was expecting. I guess I thought that maybe there would be baboons in the trees, or men with spears walking around the airport. But, I soon realized I didn't need bug spray or even hiking boots. It was much like the airport I left in the states. I looked around and saw some other white people, who must have had the same expectancies of arriving in Africa, dressed head-to-toe in safari gear and equipped with every accessory needed for jungle survival. They lacked only a machete, which I can imagine they had packed in their underneath luggage, just in case. Nairobi was like any Big City U.S.A, but with a wild, lawless undertone. Though there were sky scrapers, highways and billboards, there appeared to be no traffic laws regarding speed, staying in your lane, or staying on the road for that matter. Note to self: when walking down the sidewalk in Nairobi, watch for oncoming taxis. Pedestrians don’t have the right of way so they seemed to be running for their lives rather than crossing the road. I remember riding in the taxi thinking, “I know I’m in Africa, the people speak in a funny Swahili accent, and I’m driving really fast on the wrong side of the road, but I feel like I’m driving through downtown Winston-Salem. Where are the monkeys!?! Where is the real Africa!?!” Then we passed a group of policemen strapped with AK-47s and straps of bullets...not quite Winston-Salem.

I am going to spend two months in Sudan serving as a right-hand man to an engineer named Peter. Peter is Kenyan, which is exciting for me because I want to practice my Swahili. So far all I know is “hakuna matata,” which means, “there are no problems,” and “asante sana squashed banana,” which means, “thank you very much squashed banana.” I learned those from the Lion King. But honestly, Swahili or no Swahili I am just excited to be working in Sudan. Everyone I have met so far, when told I am going to spend two months in Sudan, just chuckles and says, “Well you sure are in for an adventure.” I just smile and hope that they are right.

Adventure is here. It is in the African’s tongue that rolls the native language fast and rhythmic; it is in the coffee-table artifacts lying around my room that hold the history of Africa; it is in the pictures on the walls of the Masai warriors and Turkana chiefs. And if you look past the skyscrapers, out over the horizon, follow the sound of the tribal drums, and find a land that no man owns, you can see the beautiful wild revealing its dangerous romances; it is too much for any young man to resist. I can’t wait for the toughness of it all. Two more days and I’ll be there--witnessing the sweet love of Christ contrasted by the ruggedness of His creation.

MORE TO COME!!

journal entries: my first trip (2007)

i am going to periodically post journal entries from my first trip to sudan (2007). i hope you enjoy these stories.

INTRODUCTION

When I was a kid, though most would say I still am, a missionary came to my church to show some slides. Honestly, I was bored out of my mind. I sat and thought, “How do these people live, especially their kids, with no T.V.s and no Nintendos. These kids must hate their lives. They don't even have football at their foreign schools!!" Then I fell asleep on the pew...sorry mom. I had heard my preacher say once that when he was a kid he said that he would never be a preacher. I made sure that night God didn’t hear me say that I would never be a missionary, because I didn’t want Him asking me to be one. But deep down inside I said it, and i meant it..."never." That night I felt a gut fear come over me that God was smiling at my stubborn promise. What if I was asked to do the one job I never wanted to do? Naturally I pushed that fear out of mind and ran off in other directions hoping it would just go away. But as time went on I couldn’t ignore the calling—the burning passion I had for people of other colors, cultures, and languages. Now, looking back, I see that the directions I chose to run were God’s way of preparing me for the one job I now pursue with all my heart. Although I think we are all missionaries in our different fields, God has sent me to the uttermost. Now, I have slides and stories of my own, and I hope some kid will sit there saying, “There is no way I could do that,” because that’s just the humble, fearful heart God will mold.

There are many reasons to fear Sudan, but I have learned that fear is sometimes necessary to truly rely on God. Moses was afraid; Nehemiah was afraid; Ananias was afraid; fear is just a part of accepting and doing this work. But that majestic moment when God reveals a glimpse of His glory through a child smiling, a man helping his brother, a moment of true Jesus-love, all fear is hushed by God’s promise of joy and life abundant.

My first encounter with the wonderful Sudanese was filled with many moments of fear and joy. These are the recorded stories of two months spent in Southern Sudan. Though it was a short time spent, I believe it was just the beginning of something my mind cannot yet grasp.

MORE COMING SOON