miriam's travels

The most pleasant time of the day is before the sun rises. Just that moment, where it's dark enough to be night, but birdsong indicates daybreak. Where the glow over the east contrasts the darkness of the west. Where sound is so still, a branch cracking underfoot echoes through the mountains. It is these moments where the air is cool, there is a feeling of calm and any sign of the scorching hectic day ahead is still resting its weary head among the tukuls and bamboo of the camp. The early morning mist rises off the dirt road. A few women walk effortlessly with their wares atop their heads and as silhouettes move swiftly to their destination. Regardless of the time of the day, women are always busy, always with somewhere to go, always occupied.

The sun has not yet risen, but the streets are coming alive with movement and activity. Men squat with small transistors, news from Sudan, and the world, crackling its way through the speaker. While they listen to the indecipherable English and Arabic, one old man uses a shard of a mirror to check on the state of his teeth. He salivates and then spits while brushing his teeth with a small branch of the local remedial tree whose branches are so fibrous, they get into the hard-to-reach places.

Small children rub their sleepy eyes as they emerge from their tukuls and stretch as they step out to the crisp air. Some gather around a small fire made of burning plastic, rubbish and dried bamboo shoots. The smoke rises like a tall pole. The acrid smell doesn't seem to bother them. Those children who woke up earlier aim homemade slingshots at birds in the trees which are silhouetted like veins against the eastern sky.

Men walk to their place of work, with their tools resting on their shoulders, on the main street of the camp. Local residents share the road. It's a thoroughfare to the popular Orthodox Church which sits on the outskirts of the camp. These Ethiopians have been mingling with the refugees since they arrived, and the two live in harmony.

Small stores open, a barber too, tea houses are swept and their chairs dusted of the pervasive red dust which has settled over night. Soon these stores will be busy with people haggling over prices, and the tea houses noisy with chatter and the clink-clink of spoons stirring sticky, sugary tea. Patrons wait for their breakfast – the bread will arrive shortly from the small neighbouring town.

Women prepare small fires by their tukuls to cook the morning meal. This basic meal is made with meagre rations provided monthly, and will probably suffice for the whole family for the rest of the day. Wheat porridge with a simple okra or lentil stew is the norm. The dried okra is delivered regularly from Sudan to the camp and is sold in small heaps for 10 cents in the camp's market stores. Although tasteless, basic and repetitive, the children are hungry. They crowd around the one pot and expertly spoon the slimy goo into their mouth with their filthy fingers.

The mountains in the distance show the first sign of the morning. A red glow lights up the pale bamboo stalks. The sun's heat is felt for the first time as it rises in the distance. It will only intensify as it rises higher in the sky. The mist has cleared before anyone realises, the street is full of people and this camp, this village, really begins its day.