SOUTH SUDAN 5°26’28.7”N 31°44’10.0”E
“Moving with the Mundari is to move at their pace, in time and in tune with their world, their land.”
My initial stay with the Mundari was just four precious days. I camped beneath a flowering Kigelia that sheltered me from the burning African sunlight by day and scented my sleep at night. One night I remember feeling footsteps close to where I slept. One of the Mundari’s cows had broken free from its tether and wandered over to the Kigelia to feast on the fleshy flowers of the tree. From the camp, a lazy torchlight was shone in my direction. Once the cow’s owner realised that his cow was safe and grazing nearby, we all returned to sleep to the lullabies of cowbells and whirring nightjars. The stillness of life with the Mundari, far from the noise, air, and light pollution of the cities, allows a patient observer to gently walk in their world, pay attention, learn, ponder, laugh, and share. I noticed the trademark scarification of Mundari people, a series of five V-shaped cuts on their foreheads, that tell the world they have come of age and belong to these people of myth and legend. Watching the cows being prepared for grazing, you see their eyes half closed in rapture as the fire ash is massaged like talcum powder into their skin by caring hands. Children tasked with fetching milk will gently blow into the vagina of a non-lactating cow while massaging her udder to stimulate milk flow. Around my fire, at the edge of the camp, I was gifted a bowl of warm and sweetened cow’s milk to help me sleep, and in those moments, I lost myself in their world. Time stood still, and my eyes misted at the thought of leaving them and returning to my modernised world filled with rush, chaos, and confusion. As I watched the camp on my last day, I saw that some young men had remained while the rest went out with their cows. One by one, they brought out traditional drums and blessed each with the ashes from a tiny fire. Then came the giant musical instruments called “tung” fashioned out of the horns of their sacred cows. Slow and quiet singing began and built into a crescendo of instrumental music as young nomadic Mundari from nearby camps arrived. One of them approached me and invited me to dance. Unsure of traditional politeness, I joined the lines of singing and clapping Mundari women until one of the men took me aside. Suddenly, tall, strong Mundari men surrounded me, each of them jumping high into the air and singing. I later asked my Mundari translator what my dance meant. He said, “They were coveting you. You belong to us now.” The dance was called “Yanguera,” performed by Mundari men to attract a wife. I blushed in honour. The days I spent with the Mundari altered my perception of the world. They called me “Mama Mundari,” a source of great amusement for everyone. They made me feel calmer and happier. Moving with the Mundari is to move at their pace, in time and in tune with their world, their land. I found myself envying their freedoms, their will to live and roam the wilderness at the mercy of the rains and shadows. It made me wish there was some way to prolong their reign over this wildest corner of Africa, to harness their strength and beauty, ensuring it a place in the lives of their children and all they encounter.
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MOTHER VOLUME TWO
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