Airplanes and Marriage and Cows

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).

Flying out of Juba sucks,
flying into Entebbe is nice.

 Tomorrow I will suffer for an hour in the hellhole that is the Juba Airport, but one hour in the Juba Airport equals about 4 hours of misery in a car on the Juba-Mundri road, and a typical trip on that road would take a total of 9 hours, giving me a 5 hour of misery deficit thanks to MAF South Sudan.  And if they can hook me up with more flights like this in the future, I might just marry Charles from the front desk. I mean, he did ask me.  He is convinced that I could easily learn how to make aseeda (aka the Blob) and he really doesn’t mind spicy food. He is concerned about how to make the necessary payment of cows and goats to my father in Indonesia, though.

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):

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.

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…)

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…”

They built their own paradise.

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!