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| The MLTR days |
I’m back at the Amsterdam Hotel in Juba, a fine
international establishment run by Eritreans whose boss lives in the
Netherlands, with a bar tender/DJ who I suspect somehow got ahold of all the
mixed tapes my best friend who lived in Singapore used to make from her radio
and send to me in Indonesia when we were in middle school (yes, cassette tapes,
I’m old). A bit of Michael Learns to Rock, a smattering of Savage Garden, that
one song about “as I lay me down to sleep, this I pray—that you will hold me
near, though you’re far away,” plus an annoying boy band or two that I had to
fast forward through (Chesi and I don’t always share the same musical taste).
If Lea Salonga comes on next, though, I’m going over there to demand they give
me back those tapes they stole because I will be for sure that they’re mine.
Even if I have nothing on which to play cassette tapes, sentimental nostalgia
is a thing. But the good news is: as long as they’re playing Danish,
Australian, and Filipino classics like those, they’re staying away from the inexplicably
popular Canadians like Celine, Justin Bieber, and Bryan Adams. I would say that I’m looking forward to
different music blaring from the Mundri market tomorrow, but dang it if those
guys didn’t snag a copy of a Middle School Chesi mixed tape too. At least at
night it’s all African stylz jams from South Sudan, Somalia, DRC, and Bob
Marley (anyone in the world is allowed to claim Bob—Jamaica is too small to hold
him).
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| Flying out of Juba sucks, flying into Entebbe is nice. |
The truth is, I have way more options for marriage here, and
people tell me all the time that I need to get married, and probably to someone
from here. Here are some of the reasons that I have been told for why I should
stop this single life and settle down with a man (preferably one from here):
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| I did get a beautiful leaf ring on Orthodox Palm Sunday from my Ethiopian shopkeeper. |
1.
You’re not getting any younger.
2.
Everyone needs to get married.
3.
You need to have children.
4.
I have a house for you.
5.
You live here, so you should marry a Moru/South
Sudanese person.
6.
You should marry a Moru/South Sudanese so you
can have dark skinned babies.
7.
You should marry a South Sudanese so you don’t
forget how to speak Juba Arabic when you’re not South Sudan.
8.
Because I will treat you so well—just ask my
wife.
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| I was invited to marry this guy and live in this house when he's finished building. |
Many of those comments I’ve heard more than once in multiple
locations, often at unexpected times. That is the beauty of South Sudan. You
never know when you will get an offer of marriage. You could be in the market
just trying to buy bread or picking up your bike from the shop or trying to
plant a garden with a friend.
A week ago I was flying back into Juba on AIM air (a MAF
alternative that rarely cancels flights on you at the last minute and often
offers you a ride if you are willing to pay for it) with a group of khawajas
who had been hanging with me in Mundri for a week. We landed in Yei to do exit
immigration from South Sudan. I was pretty excited about this because it meant
that we didn’t have to go through Juba. And still, while it was better than
going through Juba, South Sudan doesn’t want you to think that immigration—exit
or entry—is just some easy breezy walk in the park. No.
We walked into the little house where the police sit to gaze
at passports and stamp away, and there was no one there. Did they know we were
coming? Why yes. Did they know when
we were coming? Absolutely. Did they know that they were the sole reason for us
even stopping over there? Possibly they had some vague idea. But they didn’t
think it was worth it to be there when we arrived. No worries. We settled down
to wait, as a helpful airport worker called them to ask them to come back from
lunch. Thirty minutes later they sauntered in.
“Great!” we said. “Let’s do this stamp thing.”
“Oh the exit stamp?” they said.
“Right. The reason we are here.”
“Um… yeah, about that…”
It turns out the lady responsible for bringing that stamp,
that beautiful reason for our presence in that blessed airstrip, had forgotten
it back in town. (Insert your: YOU HAD ONE JOB jokes here…or, I guess, that was
it…)
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| This is all we needed. |
She huffed in annoyance at us, the people she came to stamp
through immigration, such an inconvenience to her, and she slowly climbed into
her car and drove back to town (about 30 minutes away) to get the stamps.
Meanwhile, we waited. And we waited. And while we were
waiting, a nice airstrip worker/police guy meandered over to where I was
sitting on the steps outside of the building. After some mundane conversation
about why I was sitting on the steps instead of a nearby plastic chair, he got
right to the point:
“You should marry me. I want you. Let’s get married.”
“Umm…well…interesting…do you have the exit stamp so that we
can finish immigration and carry on with our journey?”
“No.”
“Well, I guess I can’t marry you then. If you’d had it, I
probably would have said yes. But since you don’t, I won’t marry you.”
“But I want to marry you. You know I don’t have the stamp.
You should marry me, Really. I am a great husband.”
“Oh yeah? How do you know that? How many wives do you
already have?”
“I have some. It’s no big deal. I also want to marry you.
You can have kids. Every woman should have children. You’re getting old. You really
should marry me while you can.”
Eyebrows raised by me. “I’m old, huh? How old are you? And
how many kids do you already have?” (He must have know about the cassette
tapes.)
“Yes. You are old. But I will marry you. I only have 10
kids.”
“Only 10? You can take care of that many children?”
“Sure. They are all going to school. It’s no problem.”
“Yeah? And how old are you?”
“22.”
“You’re a liar. You really want me to marry you if you are
lying to me?”
“I am 22. And I’m Ugandan.” (I think he was Dinka, though,
because they have a specific accent when they speak Arabic, which I know from
one of my friends who thinks it is hilarious to mimic that accent. Note: it
kind of is…)
“How many cows does your father want for you? Or would he
prefer goats?”
“Well, he lives in Indonesia. Can you get there to deliver
them?”
“No problem. How many does he want?”
“At least 300 cows and 1 elephant and 5 monkeys.”
“WHAT?! That is crazy. I can give 3 cows and some goats.”
“He wants 300 cows. And no goats. One elephant. Five
monkeys. I’m a foreigner. I’m imported. You know imported things are always
more expensive.”
So basically this conversation went on way too long, but
eventually, by the time it was becoming less funny to me because I was really
hungry and tired and worried about all the plans I had for our short time in
Uganda not being able to happen, the lady got back with the stamp. Immigration
was completed in 10 minutes and we were on our way, and I’m still single and in
danger of being a childless old maid. But, you know, I have options-for now. I
am getting old…But then the DJ plays a classic Danish pop song, and I’m 11
again…like a “sleeping child…the world so wild…but I’ll build my own paradise…”
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| They built their own paradise. |
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| Happy birthday, Iren and panjang umurnya! Thank you for reading my blog. I love you and your family and I know you listened to Michael Learns to Rock as a child too because it always played in BIP. Hope I get to see you soon! |
