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.