House-keeping

Recently I posted this photo on Facebook of laundry day:

It drew many likes and comments, which of course was my intent. People seemed very impressed by my house-keeping hardships, but would they still be impressed if they knew how haphazardly I actually do my laundry? I mean, if it looks like it is going to rain, I don’t even bother to rinse—just hang it on the line and wait for God to help me out. This has backfired on me before, though, when helpful people removed my laundry from the line and hung it up inside so that it wouldn’t be spoiled by the rain. Mostly, I don’t worry about wrecking my clothes. The good thing about working for an NGO is that you always get a bunch of free t-shirts.

In other domestic news, I now have a gas stove! It took a month to get the gas here from Juba.  The Mundri Express refused to take the cylinder, saying it was dangerous to the passengers, but I bet it would have been fine. The most dangerous part of the journey is crossing the Luri River outside of Juba (pictured in a previous post), and if we went down there, I doubt the gas would maintain its combustibility under the water. Anyway, the gas finally came via Mundri Express Cargo. I’d tried to send it that way previously and been persuaded not to because it would take too long. Then I asked the drilling team’s driver to pick it up for me when he went through Juba to get some more drilling supplies. That was supposed to have happened 2 weeks ago, but he’s still not here. That’s why we have a new hand pump on our compound—the rest of the team is stuck here and bored. We were planning to drill here before, as we want a solar-powered pump to be used for all our water needs to avoid having to carry water up by hand to the shower tank, pictured here:

Our borehole was never supposed to be a hand pump, but then our city water tap stopped working again (I think it is because the khawaja guy who fixed it last time is out of town again). So the guys decided to just put the head of the hand pump on anyway, temporarily, so we can get water. Consequently, our compound has become quite popular with all the neighbors.

Oh right, I was talking about the gas stove. So I finally got the gas yesterday, and today I cooked a typical lunch that would have needed an hour’s prep time with the coal stove in only 10 minutes—scrambled eggs with extra hot peppers from my neighbor Scott’s beautiful and perfect garden. It turns out, growing up on a farm in Ohio gives you some useful skills. I mean, growing up in Indonesia, I got some skills too—I can use a squat toilet without any trouble, and I speak Bahasa. But when it comes down to it, if we ever end up in a post-apocalyptic society without electricity or other modern conveniences (which TV, movies, and popular young adult literature all seem to be foretelling right now), his skills would be way more in demand than mine—he’s also a doctor or PA really, but whatever—they’re the same to me, and if we’re in said post-apocalyptic times, I doubt that anybody will be performing major surgeries in fancy operating rooms anyway, so he’ll probably be just as useful (unless it’s a Tower of Babel-type scenario—then my skills would trump). But I hooked up the gas to the stove ALL BY MYSELF. Even though Repent said, “Go ask Scott to help you.” I thought, “No. I can and will do it myself. I don’t always have to go running to Dr. Farming Genius for everything.” And I totally hooked it up, all by myself, with only one exploding fireball. I can be a genius too.

Here I was supposed to put a photo of my gas stove, but I forgot to take one and I'm in Juba now, so here is a photo of a meal I made on the coal stove--squash from my garden and garlic bread:

Sometimes I eat jellybeans for supper, sometimes I eat this. I like variety.

Also, if you are interested, or not or whatever, here is the before and after of my room, which I kept meaning to post on Facebook for my mom and sisters, but haven’t yet. For some reason, unknown to me, they always get really interested in my living quarters, even though they know that I am not really a decorator or skilled home maker by any means.

Before I moved rooms, but after Mark visited:

There are two beds in the room, and I put my clothes and things on top of one of them.

After:

I now have my things in the black trunks under the window--one is food and the other is clothes

The tent was only after Mark came. Before I had a mosquito net, which I actually preferred. It was cooler and not so crinkly-sounding whenever I toss and turn, which wakes me up even more. But I keep the tent because the mosquito net has a giant hole in it where a mouse chewed it. That same mouse ran across my hand and woke me up. I didn’t scream and jump around because I only do that when I have an audience. But I did gasp and sit straight up in bed and thrash around until I found the flashlight to make sure it was completely gone. I don’t mind mice as pets, but the rabid, scurrying wild ones worry me a bit, as I’m not 100% positive that my rabies shots are all up to date. No one will confirm that they last between 7-10 years. I need that confirmation for my peace of mind since I got bit by a monkey a few weeks ago.

So far no mice have made it in my tent, and now that I’m taking malaria medicine, I don’t mind if a mosquito or two pops in for a visit. I also appreciate the meds for the exciting dreams that I have now, an interesting side effect.

I’m mostly done. I just want to leave you with a photo of this blog written in a notebook because I write when the muse strikes me, and my computer was charging at Dr. Farming Genius’s fully-electrified house. Whatever—he is getting water from OUR hand pump.

Aren’t you so glad that computers allow me to write legibly? I mean, those of you who actually care about reading what I write (Thanks, Mom!). 

The War with the Chickens

As I write this (though I will have to post it later whenever I get access to the internet), the big white rooster is circling the building and crowing—he’s taunting me, but I’m going to ignore him. Ever since the brown hen laid her eggs in our kitchen (pictured here:)

She and her mangy chicken family have felt somehow entitled to our house as their crapping, molting grounds. I would like to point out that this whole thing could have been avoided if people had let me eat the dumb eggs in the first place…but no, we had to let them hatch because they belong to our neighbor…Now I think the chickens want to lay eggs again, and they are intent on laying eggs in our house. I am determined not to let them. Currently, all the doors in our house are tied together…why? Because none of the latches work, and tying is the only way to close them. If they aren’t tied, the chickens poke them open and cluck around the house, leaving behind trails of poo and feathers. I hate them so much.

Tied together with some wire

I went to take a photo of this door, which I tied together with a piece of string that I ripped off of the floor mat, and caught the Evil White Featherbag trying to peck through the glass. He ran off towards the fence when he saw me.

Truthfully, I started hating chickens at a young age. It started innocently when my dad shocked us all by bringing us 3 baby chicks—one for each of us—to raise in our yard in Indonesia. I’m still not sure why he did this—it is completely uncharacteristic of him to want pets of any kind, especially loud dirty ones like chickens.  I know he loves us, but there has to be more to the story. I never found out, but Dad: now is your chance to come clean.  Did someone give you those chickens in an impossible to refuse way? I understand this—after all, I did leave a lovely village with a live chicken tied on the back of our motorcycle.  Or maybe did you run over their mother on your Vespa and then feel responsible for taking on her children? Seriously, what were you thinking? The innocent joy in our little faces cannot have been worth it to you. Chicks are cute, but they grow up into ugly teenage birds and then mean, nasty chickens. Mine got eaten by a local dog, but we got a replacement chicken that we named Napoleon, as he loved to strut around the yard like he owned it. One day, completely unprovoked, he pecked me in the leg, and I, overcome with fury, chased him around the yard whacking him with a Mary-Poppins-style umbrella.  I won that battle…he never bit me again. Otherwise, there have only been one or two other episodes with farm animals and me…once when I chased some fainting goats around their pen to watch them collapse in hysterics and another time when my dad dared me to grab a nearby goose (see what I mean about him?). Aside from these incidents, I have been a model barnyard citizen.

These are the faces for whom my father bought the chickens.

Marian and I are the same height, but you can tell it's her
because she and Joanna are the ones smiling cheerfully,
while I opted for a more natural expression.

Here's the chicken-buying culprit with his girls--he still looks exactly like that.
I think he still has that outfit too.

I wasn't going to put this one, but this is the house where we lived when we had the chickens, and I'm dressed as an angel for Halloween, which clearly wasn't much of a stretch for such a naturally angelic child as I was.

Back to South Sudan chicken war--recently, I’ve been kicking them out of my house—literally and figuratively, but don’t worry: they haven’t sustained any lasting damage (yet). I have also chased them with a broom and a knife  (separate occasions). They always run for their lives, squawking loudly and shrilly and slipping and sliding across the cement floors. It would be amusing if I wasn’t so full of rage.

The other day, after I’d kicked them out 10 times, I went into the kitchen looking for some matches to light my anti-mosquito candle. The outside door was already shut tight, but there they were, planted in the corner. I’d have to untie the door and then spend the next 5 minutes chasing them around the house to get them to go out the door, and then it was too late and the light I had was too dim, so I just left them. Later that night I realized I was seething with an emotion. Whenever I have an emotion, I always have to stop and try to figure out what it is. In this case, I realized that I was furious that the damned chickens (I mean that literally—they are from the Devil) had won that round. But I am happy to report they have not won any since. Although they did leave a pile of crap outside of the kitchen door last night as an act of terrorism, which I had to clean. And to think that I felt a tiny bit sorry for them yesterday, huddled up under the truck during a driving rainstorm. True, I also laughed gleefully at their plight, but there was a spark of compassion—I analyzed that emotion too.

I try to make myself feel better by thinking of various culinary chicken delights, but still, I HATE those chickens. Someday, they are going to push me over the brink, and then that will be the day that I learn how to make fried chicken. Somebody send me a recipe, please.

BREAKING CHICKEN WAR NEWS FROM THE FRONT

This happened:

Startled by a noise in the CLOSED kitchen, I caught her RED-HANDED

Prisoner of War

Running away, flapping wildly

I swear I will eat that egg. Everyone here agrees it is within my rights according to the Geneva Convention on ethical warfare.

International Airport Epilogue

I knew I should have waited until re-entering Juba to write about the airport there. I sensed there would be more adventures. Actually, it was so horrible that there were several moments when I had to remind myself that it was funny. Maybe my sense of humor is still in bed in Khartoum, not wanting to get up at 4am with me…

 I left the guest house in Khartoum with the sound of the adhan (call to prayer). Leif dropped me at the airport, paying a nice porter to take the ginormous bag of stuff I accumulated to take back with me. Sorry family, none of it was for you. No Sudan presents for anyone, even the BORG (BORG=BOy and lRiG) twins, because it took Leif’s huge bag to transport all the presents, left behind stuff, newly imported office supplies, etc. As a general rule, I never use porters because I’m always afraid they’ll run off with my bag or I don’t have change and basically, I’m just a very thrifty person at heart, raised by the great and wonderfully frugal Peter Stillman, buyer of pretzels, not cheese puffs, because you get more grams for your money that way. As a matter of principle, I hate paying for things that I can do myself—luggage was made to be lugged. Today all of my principles were thrown out of the window and trampled on by crowds of people whose own principles dictate that they never wait patiently in designated lines. Leif paid the first porter, and I paid the second. I did a much better job selecting my porter, though, as Leif’s insisted I pay him more money, once he’d lugged the bag to the door of the airport. Knowing that Leif had already paid him too much, I scoffed, and he dropped the bag and left. Jerk.

I dragged the bag in and through security, and cheered myself up by impressing everyone with my Arabic. Really, it’s a great comfort to me that most foreigners here are so lazy about learning the language because it makes my life easier when people are impressed by me. I was checked in by a lovely, happy Marsland employee who thrilled to converse with me in her native tongue. Incidentally, Leif told me that UN employees are forbidden to ride in Marsland planes because they are considered dangerous. It turns out, I flew on an Alexandria Airlines plane, because I think that the Marsland plane (parked right beside the Alexandria one) must have needed some last minute maintenance. I’m just glad that they realized it before we were airborne.

I also want to note, regarding Khartoum International Airport, that they did have velvet ropes, and people waited in line. However, a loving white and brown cat did not feel the need to be restricted by ropes or lines, and he wandered freely, rubbing up against one unsuspecting passenger who jumped, gasped and knocked over his suitcase. No one but me was entertained by this, apparently. I made it through immigration without cat incident, impressing the officer with some casual Arabic greetings, before getting to the waiting room where a security guard insisted on knowing how much money I had in Sudanese pounds and US dollars. When he saw my wallet, currently stuffed with 4 international currencies from nearby countries, he realized he didn’t care, and he waved me through.

Before going through immigration in Khartoum,
you are required to get the "goodbye" stamp
on your boarding pass.

After this I still had another security check to go through before waiting to be ushered onto the bus that would take me to the airplane. It is at this point that I realized that you can take the people out of the Juba Airport, but you cannot take the Juba-Airport-style pushing out of those people. A tall girl walked calmly in front of me to push through security first and mobs of people tried to squeeze out the door, onto the bus, and up the stairs into the plane all at the same time.

Skip ahead two hours and a tasteless meal later, I climbed down the rickety stairs back onto South Sudanese wet, rainy tarmac. I ran to the arrivals hall, smack into a wall of people. I squeezed my way to the immigration window, filling in my entry card as I walked, dodging confused people who were trying to figure out how to do theirs. When I finally got up to the window, a stupid tall man carrying a kid, stuck his hand over my head into the window and handed his 3 passports to the guy. I probably would have let him go first, as he had a kid, but I admit to being seriously annoyed, especially as he didn’t have the right visa information in his passport added to the fact that he had 3 passports, and I only had one and could have been gone way faster. When that guy was finally done and I had, by sharp elbows and a well-placed backpack, pushed another long-armed gentleman out of the way, it was my turn, but the officer decided to switch computer keyboards at that moment, and another 10 minutes was lost in plugging, unplugging, restarting, etc. I took a moment to helpfully insert my entry card into the back of my passport where the visa was, but when the guy finally took my passport, he took out the card, never looking at it, and threw it to the side in the desk. Then he proceeded to ask me all of the information that I had just filled out on the card so that he could slowly type it into the computer. Then he thumbed through every single page in my passport (and I have extension pages) to the very back where the visa was. I did not speak Arabic with him. I did not want to prolong the experience of being squished into a sharp counter top with tall people breathing down my neck.

A blurry photo of baggage claim-
the baggage is on the floor

When I finally got finished with immigration, I was stuck in a very determined crowd. I tried to push out and nearly fell on my face tripping over luggage strewn about on the floor. It was then that I realized I had located the baggage claim. This distressed me a bit, as I had two sacks of roasted chickens (a Khartoum specialty) in that bag, which I’d brought back for the Juba people upon request. There were moments when my bag was visible between the long legs of the mingling crowd, but it was a long time before I could manage to squeeze myself back into the crowd I had just escaped to grab it. This was after I tried 3 times to call James, hoping he could use his charm to come in and give me a hand. He didn’t hear his phone because he was waiting in a similar crowd outside of the airport, I discovered later. Fortunately, a helpful porter saw my dilemma and grabbed the bag for me. He gently deposited it on the table for the security guard to check through. The guard opened the bag and noticed the sewing machine for James’s wife. I was happy he was going for this and not the bags of chicken because I really didn’t feel like explaining something that I had already thought was a bad idea to begin with (bringing chickens), but I’d done because I like to be liked.  But I was quickly concerned because he demanded an invoice for the sewing machine. Here is where I brought the Arabic back in, talking quickly and explaining the situation to him. Fortunately for me with no invoice, he was enchanted by my skills, amazed I’d lived here only 2 months, thrilled I learned Arabic in Jordan, and otherwise completely unconcerned about the other things in my bag. Mr. Porter graciously carved a path through the huddled masses to the exit, stopping considerately while another guard demanded to see my passport again. We met the perpetually cheerful Pastor James outside, who had been waiting in the rain for an hour but never stopped smiling for even one of those 60 minutes, I’m sure. He was then over the moon about the chicken and the sewing machine, and I forgave him for not answering the phone and was very pleased that I’d brought him chicken, because he is worth way more than 6 chickens and a sewing machine, and his winsome demeanor soothed my anguished soul from the antagonism of the Juba International Airport.  But I realized that I really need to make up with MAF soon because I want to avoid doing this in the future as much as possible. 

James wasn't inside to stand up for me,
so I took this photo quickly.
One smiling guy is on to me though.
You can see him just below my finger.

The International Airport

When I was first coming to South Sudan, a kind friend said something sarcastic about how I would love the Juba Airport. He didn’t know that at the time I was still on good terms with MAF, and I only had to touch down briefly there before flying right on to Mundri. I noted the smallness of the building from afar, but I couldn’t have possibly guessed as to the state of its interior. Also at that time, I neglected to get an entry stamp upon arrival in Juba and later when trying to get my work permit, the immigration officers asked me why I had no respect for their laws. I said, “Of course I have respect for your laws—that’s why I’m here trying to get my work permit. If I got in the country without a stamp, I could totally work without a work permit, but I’m not going to.” But it turned out OK—they made us write an apology letter about how sorry we were for our gross offence and how it would never happen again. Then we were all back on good terms again, and they were happy that a foreigner in their country can speak Arabic. I didn’t even get a fine…sometimes there are benefits to being in a new country that forgets it has the power to extract large fines from unsuspecting foreigners.

A few days ago, I got my first opportunity to fly from Juba International Airport. Here is that story (along with a few another random stories that also got stuck in this one because I just follow my train of thought whenever I type out important events for this blog):

After waiting in a haphazard line outside of the door of the airport for a few minutes, they finally let us inside. Naturally, as soon as the line started moving, people started casually stepping into the queue in front of others, as if they were going to move through, but then remember that they need to go into the airport for some reason, so don’t mind them, they were always waiting in front of you in line, don’t you remember?

Once inside I immediately wished for my superior height that I enjoyed so much in India. I realized a while ago that I have become short again in South Sudan.  After walking through the jungle for several hours one day, I noticed the ladies I was with laughing that the leaves and the dirt I collected on that excursion were all on my shoulders but on their stomachs. Growing up with Marian, my baby sister who grew taller than me when I was in the third grade and she was in first, I had always suspected I wasn’t exactly statuesque.  But then I’ve lived in Asia so long, I’d forgotten that I am technically one of those people who has to buy ‘ankle’ pants or wear heels to keep the hems from dragging on the ground. In India people were always marveling at my extraordinary height. Once walking down the street a man said to me, “Your earrings are very nice. You are very nice. You are very tall.” The other day a man in Juba walked by me and said, “Hello Schoolgirl!” Maybe it was my knee-length skirt and t-shirt? Maybe it was my diminutive stature? Anyway, in the airport, I grabbed onto James and let him lead me through the crowd of tall people to the appropriate counter for Marsland Aviation. Isn’t that a nice name for an airline? It evokes thoughts of interplanetary journeys and other such exotic adventures. I tried to find out the origin of the name on Wikipedia, source of all information necessary for satisfying curiosity of lazy researchers, but I’m not sure why a Sudanese Airline would be called that. Wikipedia mentions an Australian comedian, some town in Nebraska, and the S.S. Marsland. If anyone of my brilliant readers knows what significance ‘Marsland’ has for the Sudanese entrepreneurs who started this business, please let me know in the comments so that my mom is not the only one who has to comment on my blog. She feels very responsible for providing me with literary encouragement.

My Marsland ticket with all the dangerous information deleted out with the thing that fixes red-eye. Observe my new name: Mr. Kate Stillman Amanda--it's not as good as Mr. Amanda Stalin, but at least it kind of matches my passport.

After checking in, I proceeded to immigration, which is the next step in this particular airport. If you feel it is an important part of the immigration experience to have special lines designated by velvet ropes or even yellow tape on the floor, you will probably be a bit disappointed in the Juba Airport system. If, however, you like the freedom and exhilarating excitement of elbowing your way through the crowd up to the window, behind which a harried-looking immigration officer sits grabbing passports thrust under his nose, stamping hurriedly before holding it out for someone (hopefully its rightful owner) to grab, you will find all your dreams come true. You may also assume that it would be ok in such a system to take a photo of the immigration counters, something frowned upon in more rigid velvet rope-type societies, but you would be going too far. Fortunately, only one pompous rigid-society-wannabe noticed my quick iPhone shot, so you get to experience the magic of Juba International vicariously through my photography skills. And bless my sweet Pastor James who unknowingly perjured himself insisting to the anti-photo vigilante that I was not even thinking about taking a photo, I was merely looking at my phone from up in the air. I love Pastor James. It is impossible to find a more consistently cheerful man anywhere else in the world. If you are feeling any level of miserable, one moment with him will make you forget all your troubles.  I am bringing him back some stuff he had to leave behind here in the north when he was forcibly relocated to the south along with others descendants of southern tribes.  He now works and ministers happily in Juba while his wife and kids live in Uganda. Not an easy situation but a fairly typical one for people here, as Juba isn’t considered the easiest place to live or raise a family.

Immigration at Juba International Airport

Finally, I made it up to the counters--all my training in sharp elbows throughout the two-thirds of my lifetime spent in Asia was preparing me for that particular moment. I casually leaned against the counter, boxing out a pushy tall man from an attempt to slip by me. I rested my hand against the window, as if I were just stretching out my arm for a bit. Then *BAM* -- I struck fast like an Indian cobra and slapped my passport into the waiting hand of a surprised immigration officer who had never seen a Khawaja so skillfully maneuver through the masses of impatiently waiting people. We proceeded to have a lovely chat, to the annoyance of everyone else while he thumbed through my well-worn passport (it takes a while because you have to go through to the very end) to find my visa and work permit, took a photo of me after making a big show of pointing the camera down (he didn’t want me standing on tiptoes, though I was just trying to help because the NBA basketball player behind me was definitely going to be next and the camera was just going to have to be pointed up towards the ceiling again), and wished me a pleasant journey.

Moving on, slipping and ducking nimbly through the crowd, I made it to the security line, where suddenly order was enforced by a bossy security guard who even dared to separate the travelers into two lines—male and female. He then asked me politely to allow a woman with a baby to go before me, and I also accepted with great civility. When it was finally my turn to go into the waiting room, I quickly noticed that the x-ray machine was merely for decorative purposes only, placed in the room because its presence would be expected by the aforementioned velvet-rope-type people. Instead, grim-faced men and women checked carelessly through passengers’ bags, rummaging for suspicious objects by hand. I passed through the metal detector, but I’m not sure if it was turned on or not. I don’t usually set those things off, so I don’t know. If only I had a robot leg or something that could always keep me informed…maybe someday…I bet then they’d let me go before baby-carrying women at least.

In the very crowded waiting room, I found a seat and plopped down. Usually, when I can afford to be picky, I only choose seats on the end of a row, making sure to have an extra one for my bag. But I always feel righteously angry whenever someone takes up two seats in a crowded room, so I kept my bags on my lap this time. The unfortunate ACs were overworked in the crowded room and my extra-modest outfit was not exactly airy, but I’m always better with heat than cold, so I was able to wait patiently and listen very carefully to the fuzzy announcement a lady was making on a microphone for the flights that were about to depart. I gave up my seat too early, though, hearing “Khartoum” but not understanding anything else, and apparently Marsland wasn’t the only flight to K-town that day. But my flight was called shortly after, and I was able to amuse myself by eavesdropping on unsuspecting fellow travellers who didn’t know that I could understand them…fun times…

Well, you are probably aware that I made it safely to Khartoum, a two-hour flight with a full meal served (Take notice of this true customer service, all airlines in the US and some in India!), and tomorrow I head back to the south for a brief week before popping off back to my home-continent of Asia. I have at least two more times to try to navigate the beautiful Juba airport. I’m sure that every time will be more exciting than the next, and DANG IT MAF WHY WON’T YOU JUST FLY ME OUT OF MUNDRI? I’M ONE RELATIVELY SMALL PERSON WHO TRAVELS LIGHT! WHY ARE YOU SO SELFISH AND MEAN ?

This could have been me, but it won't be thanks to MAF.

Meanwhile, this could still happen next time I have to Mundri-Express it back to Juba. Again, thanks to MAF.