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.