Waiting & Listening: Sunday mid-morning

Shortly after settling in to our hiding place, we began to hear gunshots all the way to 4 km down the road (distance is measured from Epulu village eastwards along the road towards villages Eboyo @ 1-4km and Bapukeli @ 5-7km). Our tiny maize field was positioned just below the crest of a hill which sloped gently down towards the river. This would protect us from being heard by anyone who was closer to the road, but also would prevent us from hearing anything very well, except for gunshots. The morning air grew slightly thicker, though the temperature stayed cool as it was overcast. This prevented us from hearing very well but I won’t forget the sound of emptiness.

On hot weekend afternoons, I have often noted an empty silence, which is only accompanied by the white noise of the rushing rapids on Epulu River. Sometimes I am alone in my concession, reading, enjoying the quiet. Few people mill about because of the heat and all I can hear is this rushing. This makes me feel like time has stopped and I start to think about how far away I am…from anything. I cannot call anyone, I don’t see anyone, all I can see is a huge blue sky, and endless green jungle. And all I hear is the rushing river because even the birds find it to be a bit too hot to be chirping or singing. This rushing sound even lives with me when I am not in Epulu. A few days after returning home to Massachusetts one summer, I asked my dad why the creek behind our neighbors’ yard was rushing so much. He corrected me and reminded me that the local highway was the source of the white noise.

However this silence with a rushing river sound is typically broken by signs of life which interrupt my day-dreaming. Huge trucks cross over the Epulu River bridge and the loose planks loudly clang together or loud vehicles drive past. But being so far from the bridge, we could now hear nothing. Sometimes we would imagine sounds. Was that a vehicle crossing the bridge? Or a distant gunshot? Or we’d hear a tapping and strain to hear its source, and then realize that Crispin was unconsciously tapping his shoes together. I’d lie down, close my eyes, and hear some unknown sounds, only to rouse myself and realize they were coming from Baraka’s groaning stomach. We’d laugh and then go back to thinking, chatting or resting.

Similarly to my day-dream filled weekend afternoons, the silence was frequently interrupted and the source was easy to determine. Gunshots pierced the silence at random, with varying distances between them in time and space. We knew that we were not just under attack, but under siege. My thoughts turned to my coworkers…my assistant Martinique, my good friend Tony…what had they experienced up in town? Were they ok? I had no way of knowing. Then my thoughts jumped to maman Asumpta. Had she run and hidden somewhere? Where were her kids and my homonym, her 2-year old daughter, Joelle? Were they ok? I prayed for God to protect them from the gunshots. In my head, I started to count the guards who I decided must be dead. I hoped that if it wasn’t all of them, then that it wasn’t some of the ones who I knew well. But I knew it would be bad, the frequency in which silence was pierced by gunshots, told me that it would be bad.