Sudans Story Time

They say "a picture is worth a thousand words." So how about I give you a thousand pictures and two thousand words--a bonus present! 

South Sudan and Sudan time for me is usually fun, and this trip is no exception. But it is stretching on a bit longer than I'd planned because of visa stuff (this time, surprisingly, not at all related to any Canadian interference), and I'm worried about the revenge that will be meted out upon me by the lonely Felix. I've been told that he has been amazingly mellow since I've been gone, but that makes me wonder if he is saving up all of his malice for me. Baby-sitting this cat has affirmed to me why I do not have pets: my travel life is spontaneous and frequent. Planning for someone to come and make sure the cat stays alive while I'm gone and does not tear the whole house to shreds is not easy. While I do want a pet (preferably a giant cuddly dog), I do not have a stable life. It's also why I cannot adopt any children at the current moment. Fortunately, as you will see, my friends have lots of cute kids that I can use to curb that maternal instinct. 

On to stories:

An Arabish pun. If you speak Arabic, you'll get it.
I thought it was kind of clever, but I am
someone who really appreciates car art and car slogans.

After figuring out a plan to counteract the visa issues caused by Canadians, I had to quickly change all my previous travel engagements, moving everything up a day. This had the unfortunate consequence of making it imperative for me to take public transport from Juba to Yei, a journey of about 5 hours over roads riddled with craters and fraught with armed bandits. For real. My boss called me nearly in tears begging me not to go. He reminded me that at this time last year I was running through the jungle because "I didn't listen to the voices inside my head telling me to leave." That is a paraphrase, not a direct quote. To be fair, I did listen to the voices, and I tried to leave, but MAF couldn't get there before the fighting started. Anyway, he never actually told me that I wasn't allowed to go by road and so we never found out if I would have obeyed his direct order. But I took necessary precautions: I left my expensive and important things in Juba with a friend (it's actually pretty entertaining to think through which of your possessions you would be ok with having robbed from you at gun point), and I wore a tan hat. I theorized that the beige color of the hat would match my skin, making it look like an outfit and not a rich khawaja. It must have worked because we were not hijacked.

The criss-cross of knees in the back of the car.

I climbed into the car, large mostly-empty bag clutched between my knees. I was on the edge, by the door. This is the worst spot for bouncing, but I like to be by the window, so I don't mind it too much. I like to look out and admire the scenery. But no one else seemed intrigued by the green green grass and pretty mud houses. Amazingly, several people actually slept on this ride, heads bobbing around. But I was most impressed by the man who stayed asleep even after we hit one more pronounced bump that sent my butt two feet up in the air. I was weightless for one moment before crashing back down. I looked across the car, and everyone was awake except for that one dude. I mean, seriously. He was that cool. Didn't even open an eye. I, on the other hand, ended up with bruises on my elbow and shoulder from crashing into the door and didn't enjoy the sensation of sitting down for several days after the journey. Did you know, your teeth really can rattle in your skull? I can testify.

And now prepare for photos of Repent's adorable kids because I like them so much. And they LOVE having their picture taken. And also playing with the Guitar Tuner app on my phone.

How cute is Halina? There is no answer.
But her head was covered in ringworm, which I fully
thought I would contract due to proximity and kissing her
all over her little face every day, but so far I'm good.
I got ringworm once from a little boy who
leaned his head on my arm and fell asleep on me
in the Mundri Express a couple years ago, but
this time I seem to come through OK.

Joy told me that the kids were running to every car that
passed by their house for 2 days looking for me. :)

Oliver is not sure he likes how he looks with khawaja hair.

Pulling on my skirt.

I spent too much money on this doll-more than
it was probably worth, anyway. It is all cloth and seems like
someone who knows how to sew (i.e. not me) could easily
make it. But last time I was in SSudan, I was searching for
a doll for Halina, who was rolling up clothes and pretending to
rock them in imitation of her mother with her baby brother.
I didn't even find one of those horrifying white-kid dolls,
but I didn't want to buy that for her anyway. I was happy
to find this doll, which I liked, in the airport in Ethiopia,
and I'm glad I got it. She LOVED it. She carried it
around everywhere and woke everyone up screaming when
she couldn't find it next to her in bed. A toy that one kid
loves that annoys the rest of the family=SUCCESS!

Laundry drying in South Sudan.
I'm going to post lots of photos like this on Neverthirst instagram.
I do not have my own instagram because my life cannot involve
too many social media platforms and I'm already used to Facebook
(I'm old).
But I like to look at the followers for our Neverthirst page, and
I get really competitive about it, so follow Neverthirst on instagram, OK?

Painting Halina's toenails. She is very serious about it.

Gadi and Oliver and the cheap plastic
car I bought the boys in the market in Yei.
I had to buy them something, since I got the doll.
I predicted it would break the first day, but it's still going strong!
Made in China.

Painting Tabu's toenails. I actually brought the
nail polish because I wanted to bond with her.
She works so much, I don't often see her play, and she's only 10!
But this time, she really relaxed around me and we had fun.
She is beautiful, just like her gorgeous mom.

That's the kitchen in the background.
I had some amazing food, cooked by the wonderful Joy.

And then the boys insisted on getting their toenails painted too.
So we did. Because why not?
I can't remember who took this photo, but it's too bad
you can't see that I'm painting Ruben's toes here.

Jungle-running friends!

And sometimes you got to put three people on a motorcycle,
and go to work. We took this motorcycle-selfie, so
you can't tell that we are on a motorcycle at all, but I can testify that
we were, and my butt still has a dent in it from the metal bar
on the back of the bike.

Yes, I took this photo of the chicken with her babies all lined up.
I took it for my nephews and nieces, but I haven't sent it to them.
Maybe my sisters will show their kids this photo on the blog.
Meanwhile, you all can enjoy this photographic masterpiece.

We happened by this flipped over car on the road.
No one was hurt, so I took the photo.
It is a good reminder of why you should always pray
for me when I'm traveling because this could easily happen
to anyone driving too fast over dirt roads.
And of course, everyone drives too fast over dirt roads,
even me.

New baby goat born just an hour before this photo!
(Also intended for the nephews and nieces)

I think Ruben took this beautifully centered photo.
I like it because Tabu and I are bonding while Halina tries
to rub her ring-worm head all over my face.
This is Repent and Joy's room behind me and behind their house,
is the tukel I stay in (mud painted green and blue with grass roof).

Of course Oliver is a happy baby--he's Repent's kid!

Oh I love these crazy boys. I want them to grow up in
a peaceful country, go to university and have happy successful
families--like their own happy family, but without having to
run to the jungle to get away from fighting.
I want them to have a future and a hope.
And I want to buy them lots of candy. I can't help it.

The open road! Isn't this a beautiful country?

I love riding miles into nowhere and suddenly you see some grass roofs
popping up behind the elephant grass, and you know that people are out here,
living and working the land. I want to see development come to South Sudan,
but I hope they don't lose all of their traditions. I don't really like calling these houses
"mud huts" (though I probably have done that before, even here on this blog). They
are beautiful houses, most of them made with care. And they are cool in the summer time,
and the rain falls softly on their grass roofs, not loud and angry like tin roofs (though I also like that),
obscuring conversations. Repent pointed out the rain thing to me--he likes grass roofs too.

I love this photo. Joy is a beautiful and wonderful mother.
I bought that outfit for Oliver. I searched every shop in the
market in Yei to find one selling clothes for babies that
were new and clean. Youngest babies spend most of their lives in hand-me-downs,
but Oliver has a new cute outfit just for him.
And he is too much cute.

Gassing up the motorcycle before our trip from Morobo to Yei
(about 2.5 hours). Just prior to this we were warned that
a motorcycle traveling the same route the previous day
had been hijacked. So we watched the road carefully ahead of us,
and we made it. I wasn't even wearing my hat!
(I learned the hard way that you don't wear hats on motorcycles.)

I got to see my good friend Mary and her new baby in Yei.
We went to church together in Mundri and she was one of the
few who actually came over to my house occasionally to hang out.
She is now living in a refugee camp in Yei. 

"Be at the airstrip at 8:00am" said Momentum Air ticket.
The plane arrived at 1pm. Even with the flight only taking 30 minutes,
I would have arrived in Juba earlier if I had just taken public transport again.
Oh well. Yei is scenic.

Got to hang with this guy in Juba! He is back in South Sudan after spending the last several years studying in
the US. He left behind the good life to go back and help build up his country. I'm proud of him,
but I know that it won't be easy. Once you live somewhere else, it enters your heart, and you change
and your home changes, and you will always miss somewhere you're not. But it's worth it to have a bigger heart.
I think so, anyway.  

After I got back to Juba, I went back to immigration and waited hours in line to finish a bunch of stupid paperwork. But I didn't wait as many hours as the other khawajas who do not know how to cut in line. Suckers. I overheard one guy standing in line quietly like a moron on the phone with someone, "I've been here for hours but I still haven't been able to pay. I can't get to the window and people keep going in front of me." Poor little American boy. He didn't want it enough, I guess.

In the end, a combination of Arabic and mostly non-existant Moru got me through. And many prayers and somehow Badr Airlines got me to Khartoum. Khartoum has been hot, dusty, and often without electricity. But I found gummy bears in the store, so who's complaining?

Also, I've realized that the Asian is strong in me these days. On my way to Morobo in a small taxi sedan, I was sitting up by the driver and I said something about how he must have gotten his car from Uganda because it has a British-side steering wheel, though South Sudan decided to go with the Sudan system, which is American-side. He looked over across the man whom he had sat down on the armrest in the center of the car, between whose legs he was calming shifting gears, and said, "Oh, what side of the road do they drive on in China?"

I was a bit startled because I didn't know that he was aware of the time I had spent in that country, and I didn't want to assume that he assumed I was from China. I said, "It's the same as South Sudan and America. Do you think I am from China?"

"Yes," he said. "How do they drive there?" We continued to have a conversation about China, and I never enlightened him as to my actual origins.

Fast-forward to the shop I was at the other day, talking to the man selling dates that I'm going to have to buy as presents for people in Chad. "So you're Japanese, right?" he said to me, after telling me the price of the dates.

"You think I'm Japanese?" I said, smiling.

"Yes, you look Japanese. You mean you're not?"

To be fair, though, all us Asians look alike. 

Shopping with Abdelrahim. Last time I went shopping  here it was with Abdelmukaram.
Once I went to this souq with Selma.
I don't want to gender-stereotype, but I'm going to.
I have to admit that here, I would much rather shop with men. Selma walked my legs off in this souq.
This is the Selma who collapsed on the floor after 5 minutes of yoga and laid there for 30 minutes.
I thought I'd killed her. But she killed me in the souq.
I am not a huge shopper. I like to know what I want, go in, and get it, and get out.
Shopping with Abdelrahim and Abdelmukaram was great. Once they knew what I wanted,
they helped me find it, helped me bargain down the price, and helped me find my way out because I was
completely lost in the maze of shops.
Look how nonchalantly he stands in this lingerie store where I was buying a jacket.
For real--I was buying a jacket! I don't know why there is also lingerie hanging around.

I have enjoyed screen-shotting the weather here. It's mostly impressive if you look at the time it was when it was 113/45, 106/41, 100/38.

I still managed to buy ice cream and walk home before it melted.
And then eat it for dinner.

And we had no electricity, so no AC or fans.
But it was NOT clear at all--it was a raging dust storm.
Stupid App.

Finally it updated, hours later, to show the dust storm.
It didn't do it justice.

Can you see my footprints?
I took photos once the electricity came back on.

The dust always blows in under the door.

Usually you go to the bathroom to get clean, but not this time.

Should have put a cover on my toothbrush

I told you that I appreciate car art.
This one says: Don't forget to remember God.
Such a grandiose slogan for such a non-descript car.

Zuhoor's beautiful new baby.
She is called Ashaq--starts with an ع ends with a ق,
two of the hardest letters to pronounce for an English speaker.
I was entertained by Paul and Almaz trying to say it.
But more by how patiently Zuhoor repeated and repeated it for them,
as if she expected them to be able to get it right. 

Me and precious Baby.

The beautiful Almaz and baby Ashaq, who is
enamored with Paul, not pictured.
On an unrelated note: Almaz makes amazing Ethiopian/Eritrean food.
Paul just admitted it is how she won his heart. But I mean, he's an Irish guy from
Boston, so it probably wasn't that hard.
In conclusion, I work with interesting people.

It takes a long time to write thousands of words and post thousands of pictures. I'm finally done and I'm going to go eat Cheezballz for dinner. The first day I got here, I was sitting in my room naked (because no electricity and it was 115/46 outside) also eating Cheezballz. The electricity came back on, and I thought, "Should I put on some clothes now? Nah. I'm eating Cheezballz." And the moral of the story is "Eat Cheezballz. Wear clothes if necessary."

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!

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.