Completely Preventable Adventures

 

This post is once again about the road over-traveled and under-maintained. Juba to Mundri is never a fun trip unless you can go by private car. I could have. But I decided not to call my drilling friends because I thought, “Really, what are the odds that they would be driving through Mundri on the same day as I will be?” It turns out that the odds were really high for that, and I could have traveled in luxury, and remembering this fact—that a simple phone call could have saved me a lot of pain and discomfort.—was not an encouragement to my soul. Truthfully, I will do almost anything to get out of having to make a phone call to someone, and I always procrastinate calling people, which often has a detrimental effect on my work. Sorry, People I Work For.  Currently, there are at least 2 important phone calls I was supposed to make last week that I have found brilliant reasons to put off until this week. Now that it’s this week, it has suddenly come to my attention that next week might actually be a more appropriate time for these calls. I keep trying to remind myself of the lesson I should have learned from my Juba-Mundri trip, but I’ve had so much practice ignoring my inner Responsible voice. Anyway, as always, the trip had some very entertaining moments, which I will share with you. However, if you really want to be able to truly understand what I went through on this trip, you need to go roll around in the dirt until you have grit in the creases of your ears, and then, still fully-clothed in dirt, go sit in a sauna for 12+ hours. If you can somehow arrange for that sauna to be situated next to a construction site that is busy using dynamite for whatever construction sites use dynamite for, so that you are consistently being bounced around, that would help with the accuracy of the simulation. And make sure you are squeezed between the door and a large man. If the Pringles you spent way too much money on in the store happen to spill out all over the muddy floor—DO NOT PANIC. Eat them anyway because, for real, Pringles.  You probably might not get some horrible floor to foot to Pringle to mouth disease and die.

Note: I have no photos of this trip, but please enjoy some photos from my recent time in Khartoum, sprinkled throughout.

Can you tell me what the English on this says? I can't read it, but I remember it being really funny to me somehow. The Arabic part isn't funny, so it must have been the English.

So I was already trying to get on the Land Cruiser I had arranged the day before when I found out that the drilling team was going to Mundri and I could have hitched a ride, if they had known and weren’t already half-way there when I called. This put me in a supremely bad mood.  That mood was not helped when the Land Cruiser I’d arranged to travel with decided to foist me off on a different Land Cruiser because the President was coming to town and the shop it needed to buy stuff from was closed for security reasons. I agreed reluctantly to change to the other Land Cruiser. The driver proceeded to have a very loud argument with the lady sitting in the front seat with her child to kick her into the back because of me. This made me mad because the lady was there first, and also I became the opposite of Rosa Parks, which is not ever what I ever wanted to be, but the guy insisted that I had arranged the ticket first (probably true since I called the afternoon before), and Rules Must Be Observed. Then he showed me my ticket, which had been purchased previously. In the spot for the traveler’s name, he’d just written, “Khawaja.” My mood lifted slightly because—that IS funny. It dropped again later when I had to go re-register with the police because they wanted to check my passport and visas and yell at the driver for his unprofessionalism—“You MUST write the passenger’s name. What is this ‘khawaja’? This is not a good way to do Business.” Though, to be fair, there were no other khawajas anywhere on the premises of the Bus Station.

Finally we were on the road. But we were stopped at the last check point out of Juba by a couple of power-hungry soldiers. “You must all get out and take all of the luggage off the top of your car.” This is not a welcome statement. It takes a long time to get everything tied up nicely on the car. It was already getting late. Untying the luggage, taking it down, inspecting it, packing it up again, heaving it up to the roof, re-tying it—this is a process that takes time. Our driver patiently climbed to the roof anyway. I huffed and rolled my eyes at the soldiers, who took that as an invitation to conversation.

This Sudanese cereal tasted horrible but--GMO free! (Is there a connection?) And yes, I ate it anyway. Anything tastes better with added sugar (also GMO free).

Soldier: “So. Where are you from?”

Me: “America.” (I am pretty good at shutting down unwanted conversations with one-word answers, but this guy was persistent.)

Soldier: “Right. So where in America?”

Me: “Yeah. America.” (Because even when having pointless conversations with soldiers, I really don’t know how to answer that question, and it’s easier to play dumb.)

Soldier: “Yeah, I know, but like where in America? Which state? Canada?”

(In South Sudan, people will make Canada jokes FOR you. Saves so much time.)

Me: “No. Just America.”

The soldier decided to try a new tactic.

“So. Why are you traveling alone? You work with an NGO? You should have a bodyguard.”

Me: “What? Why would I need a bodyguard? I’m totally fine. I always travel this road.”

Soldier, “You might need one. For your children.”

Me: “I don’t have any children.”

Soldier: “Why not? Where is your husband? Are you married?”

Me: “No.”

Soldier: “Why not?!”

And then, inspired by those Oscar-red-carpet female movie stars who are fighting for feminists everywhere by pointing out that there are better questions to ask women than “What are you wearing” and “who did you hair” and “why aren’t you married,” I decided to turn the question back on him.

Me: “Why aren’t YOU married?”

Soldier: “I am. I have 4 wives.”

Me: “Oh.”

(It turns out feminism is only for movie stars.)

Soldier: “You should really get married.”

Me: “Oh yeah? Why?”

Soldier: “Because you’re running out of time.”

(And feminism is dead.)

By this time we were halfway done unloading. The soldier, having made all his important points about the need to travel with a body guard (for the children) and the need to get married (you’re not getting any younger), glanced up at the driver and said, “Ahh. Don’t worry about the rest of the stuff. It’s getting hot now, and you have a Khawaja with you.”

We packed up everything so fast before he could change his mind. Meanwhile the other car with no khawaja and 3x as much stuff secured to its roof, including a wheel barrow, several shovels, 45 jerrycans, tents, pillows, mattresses, and more, was still unloading everything. 

I love it when I can use my Khawaja privilege for the benefit of others. The guy sitting next to me grinned and secretly high-fived me for my white burning skin.

The bottom of this tissue box kept me entertained during a long meeting. Please enjoy! Note: even if you think you've noticed all the funny things about it, read it again, and you will notice even more. But only when you have unlimited time to observe it, like I did, will you really be able to appreciate it.

The first half of our journey was uneventful. We made it to the lunch-time-break town where cars and busses and trucks MUST always stop (I always hold on to a vague hope that just once we can make it through without having to have a 30-45 minute break, but it’s never happened). While there, another soldier decided to ask me where I was headed. “Mundri,” I said laconically. “Ah,” he said, “You’re almost there. You’ll be there in another hour.”

It’s about 40 or so miles to Mundri from Janbo, but this is South Sudan roads, and 40 miles on South Sudan roads is like 200 miles on paved roads elsewhere.  So I said, “It will take AT LEAST another two hours.” Little did either of us know that it would actually take another 7 and a half hours.

Shooting guns in celebration at crowded weddings is not a bad idea because gravity only applies to apples.

A little ways down from Janbo, there was a horrible crunching noise and we fishtailed through the sand to an abrupt stop in the middle of the road. The men piled out with all the tools and got busy. We were back on the road for a little while before there was a repeat of the situation. This time I got out to see what was happening (Note: I now had nothing else to do since I had finished my book that the Frizzes kindly gave to me for my birthday—Ungifted, by Gordon Korman, Canadian genius, so I had nothing else to do.) I helped the guys unscrew the bolts on the tire (they were really impressed) and then watched as they chopped off a bit of rope and used it to tie the tire tightly to the bar connecting it with the other tire, which also secured a spinning thing in the middle that must have some important role in making a car move forward.

The guy turned to me and said, “See? This will totally work. The car won’t break down again.”

I said, “Uh-huh. You really expect me to believe that you actually fixed this car with a bit of rope?” Truthfully, there was much hope in my heart because I love a good “fixed the car with rope” story, but there is something in me that has to be cynical, and I gave him the “raised eyebrow look of skepticism.”

He said, “No really. Believe me. This is Africa. We Africans know these things. These are things that Khawajas don’t know, but we know them.”

And of course, when the car broke down again 15 minutes later, I couldn’t resist. “Tell me again about what Africans know about fixing cars with rope?” I said, because I am a horrible person of minimal self-control. In the Book of Three, Eilonwy tells Taran that “Saying ‘I told you so’ is like putting worms on someone’s head,” and she was my childhood hero, but I couldn’t resist.  Fortunately, my traveling companion had a good sense of humor and we laughed together before we both got out again to re-tie the car. I mean, it DID work for 30 minutes, and there was nothing else for it.

Look at the shoes my friend made me wear with her thobe to  the wedding!

Meanwhile, we stopped passing trucks and cars asking for tools, water, various items we needed. It was a party. Guess who else stopped to check on us? The wheelbarrow car that had been detained unnecessarily in Juba, not having a sun-sensitive khawaja to illicit sympathy in the hearts of inspecting soldiers. The driver said, “Hey—I remember you! We’ve totally traveled to and from Juba together before in the past.” Me: “Yeah, I remember. Want to squeeze all of us into your car and take us on to Mundri?” Sorry, Khawaja (Remind me someday to tell you the story of “Sorry, Khawaja.” The drilling team told me the story originally, and it made me laugh for 20 minutes. And then for the rest of the day, if I happened to think about it, I would start laughing again, which meant that throughout the long trip we were making, periodically I would burst into laughter for seemingly no reason at all. But there was a reason—Sorry Khawaja.)

Finally, it was dark. Our driver had given up hope and was just sitting by the side of the road. I was trying to call Repent to tell him to hire a car to come pick us all up, and I would pay, but the phone network was really bad. I would get a tiny bit of signal, call, hear his voice, and then lose the connection. And then, along comes a rickety old short-tired van.

“Hello, friends!” said the driver. “Are you going to Mundri? I’ve just been in Janbo picking up some bamboo. Hop in, and I’ll take you with me.”

We hopped. We piled everything in the van, waved goodbye to our exhausted driver and the man who offered to stay back with him, and left.

“Make yourself comfortable, my guests! I’ll have you home soon,” said the driver, our new best friend. And he would have, but he also stopped another time to check on another stranded car and offer his mechanical assistance. We finally made it home by 10:30pm. Repent greeted me, smiling, “I cleaned your whole house for you. Here’s some food and water too.”

South Sudanese people really are the best.

Roger slept in my pillow while I was gone. He missed me. He also resented it when I kicked him out, but I don't think either of us would be very comfortable with this continued arrangement.

Post script to the story:

I went for a run the next morning, on the Mundri-Maridi road. Several of the trucks that I passed by waved and smiled at me, “Ah—you made it to Mundri!” They recognized me from passing me the day before on the Juba-Mundri road. Most truck drivers will spend the night in Mundri, stock up on food and then head on to Maridi or Yambio or wherever. It was so fun for them to see a friend from the day before, and let’s just be honest—you don’t see many white women squatted down by a car, screwing in bolts and yelling at passing trucks to stop and let us borrow a wrench. They knew it was me.

This truck is from a while back on a field visit with Repent. It was broken down by the side of the road, but I read the mudflap, so as we passed by I yelled helpfully to the guys working on it, "Just be determined! That's all it's about!" They were a bit confused, but it worked because I saw them on our way back, putting along, and I stopped to get this photo. That is the wisdom of Mudflaps.