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!

Brain Gaps

I am TO Sudanese

The other day I was wearing a thobe and enjoying the smell of my bakhour (Sudanese incense that melts over coals and fills the room with fragrant smoke—don’t try this in places with fire alarms), and I was congratulating myself for my Sudanese-ness. My friends had been joking with me about how I’m not a khawaja anymore, I’m now Sudanese, and it went to my head. I know because I was hanging out with our West Darfur team, telling them that if wouldn’t matter if I broke curfew if I were wearing my thobe, because if I were, no one would know that I wasn’t Sudanese. I was helpfully informed by one of our staff, “Amanda, even if you are wearing a thobe, you are still white. And people will see your white hands.” This was really surprising and disappointing to me.  I mean, just the other day I took one of those online quizzes called “How White are You?” and I got 8 out of 100, which classified me as ‘not white at all.’ This is the same website whose informative quizzes helped to determine that I am Harry Potter (something I’ve suspected for some time now) and that I should be a red-head (which is going to be less possible since I’ve run out of henna I brought from India). Now it seems like these quizzes may not be entirely reflective of reality, and it has shaken the very foundations of my world. But the good news is, my wrists are no longer white because I got sunburnt in the car-ride on the way to Sirba, and even though we did break curfew (it’s the curfew for people who are obviously foreigners--7:00pm, i.e. the time that fun is just starting for all non-foreigner Sudanese), I was not abducted by any angry tribesmen, nor did I crash the car into a donkey or get stuck in the sand.

I had to leave when these
guys were just coming 

So I’m not white, if the characteristics of being white are directly related to being a 6^th grade girl in the 90’s (dancing to the Macarena and debating which boy-band is better, according to the quiz), but I am white if we are trying to hide from local police who enforce curfew and/or hostage-takers.  Wearing a thobe and knowing how to light coals for bakhour doesn’t make me Sudanese anymore than eating rice for breakfast makes me Indonesian or always bringing presents to people who invite me over for dinner makes me Syrian.

What I am is an American who has spent a cumulative two-thirds of her life in Asia and now lives in Africa, and with that comes many strange idiosyncrasies.

Eighth Grade at Deaf School graduation. Hey--Where's Waldo? 

I get annoyed when people tell me the weight of something in kilos and then remember that I’m American and try to translate that into pounds—like I didn’t have Canadian teachers all throughout my elementary school career, EY. But I do measure my morning running distances in miles, though I can tell people the distance I covered in kilometers, just in case they don’t understand. And I’m not the only one who mixes the English and the metric systems—in India everything is in kilos in the stores, but you measure well depth in feet.  So there, World.

Our rainy season family vacations were great!

But the truth is that there is a lot of American common knowledge out there that I’m not aware of (much of it having to do with ways of measuring), just as there is other international common knowledge that I missed out on, probably while I was flying over the international date line losing brain cells or something like that. I’ve been sorting through my brain, trying to find things that I don’t think are normal (which is hard since they ARE normal for me), and I’m pretty sure other third culture kids will relate to this, but even in our little group of identity-confused kids of multi-cultural upbringings, we have different brain gaps, which my bro-in-law likes to call affectionately the “third culture delay.”

Here are some of my brain gaps:

If we’re talking about the weather, I’ll give you the temperature in Fahrenheit if it’s hot and Celsius if it’s cold. (But I did just have to spell check ‘Fahrenheit’ because not only it is less practical when trying to remember the boiling or freezing points, it’s also harder to spell.)

I’ll tell you the length of something in centimeters and use the word ‘gallons’ with misguided confidence. I will admit to having no idea what a ‘quart’ is, but it is a fun word to say. Quart. Quart. Quart.

Wearing the right clothes is the best way to fit in--you can't tell I'm not Yemeni!

I can never remember if I’m supposed to put the day or the month first when writing dates numerically, so I usually just write the whole thing out: 19 February 1984 or February 19^th, 1984 (it’s my birthday—you should also remember this important date. And Hackers: take note that I never use it as my password anywhere because of my confusion with numerical dates. Also, I don’t have that much money, so it wouldn’t be worth your while anyway.).

When riding in cars, I prefer just to go sit in the back so I don’t have to worry about which side of the car the steering wheel is on.  I CAN drive—automatic and manual, but I sometimes forget which side of the road to be on and whether or not traffic rules are enforced. So it’s better just not to let me…

First camel ride a long time ago-my skills were acquired young

I could tell you almost as much about the Danish royal family as I could about the Obamas.

I find cricket and baseball equally boring.

Age 29, wearing a sari I bought at age 15 in Little India in Singapore.
My life came full circle once I finally fulfilled my destiny of living in India.

I can tell you as much about Premier League Football as I can about American Pro Football, which is to say, I know enough not to sound like an idiot in a brief conversation about favorite teams, but that’s about it.  Definitely do not ask me about names of any players who are not married to famous beautiful women.

The longer I stay out of the US, the less I know about famous musicians or the names of anyone who won a Grammy, and if you scroll through my iTunes account you will find that a significant portion of my music has been designated as “Unknown Artist” or “002 ÇáÍÇáÉ Çíå” because my taste in music is broader than my computer's ability to guess what the name of the singer is.

Crashing an Ethiopian wedding in Somaliland
with Kenyan and Sudanese friends.
This is my normal.

I can tell you the capital city of Burkina Faso, but I really don’t know what part of the US Iowa is in, much less if it even has any cities, one of which may have been designated as a capital. I'm only about 80% sure that it is a state. Iowa is a thing, right? It's not just a mispronunciation of Ohio, is it? (I know that the way to pronounce 'Ohio' varies from country to country. In India I heard it called "OH-HEE-Oh.")

A Somali friend in Yemen with more patriotism for my country
than I'll ever be able to muster. She deserves my passport more than I do.

I could fill in these gaps in my knowledge, and sometimes I’ve even tried to do that, but usually I just embrace the imbalance in my life or I try to balance out the imbalance by taking on as many characteristics as possible from countries where I’ve had the privilege to live. It’s OK. Make fun of me at will—people all over the world have been doing it for years. But don’t expect me to listen to boy-bands or dance to the Macarena or join your fantasy football league—whether it’s American-style football or The Rest of the World-style football.

High-school me demonstrating how to balance on the imbalance in one's life
OR
just climbing on a weird totem pole at Pangadaran because climbing things is fun.
(I always climb in flip-flops.)

Night Safari Travels

I remember when I was a kid seeing advertisements for visiting the Singapore Zoo at night…I think they called it a night-time safari or something else designed to pique the interest of the general public. I remember it, so it must have worked—although I never went to visit, so maybe not. Anyway, I recently had my own unplanned night-time safari, which is mostly the subject of this particular piece of rambling…

Eating mandaazi with McKenzie

After a week of hanging with my boss and his daughter, visiting projects and meeting with important people, we dropped them off in Yei (another town nearer to Uganda) where we wanted to visit a few projects and meet with a few important people before they left. On the way to Yei, we started to break down in a very scenic spot full of tall grass and no mechanics. Everyone sitting in the car heard the horrible screeching noises from the front right tire. The car was pulling over that way when the wheel stopped working. We creaked and slid our way into a more populated area where a man on a motorcycle offered to help (for a small fee). He and the driver proceeded to insist on opening up the rear right wheel to try to fix the brakes there. They were sure it was that wheel because we’d just had the rear brakes fixed, even though everyone in the car, from Mark (who knows about things like brakes and filters and spark plugs) to me (who knows that cars should probably have brakes and filters and spark plugs attached to them somehow), tried to tell them it was the front wheel. They opened up the back wheel anyway, making horrible noises clanging things on the metal casing as they tried to pry it off to get to the brakes. They did succeed in cutting the brake line (I think that is a thing) and losing all our brake fluid (I also think that is a thing). We started driving again, to make the mechanic feel like his hard work was a success, and broke down completely a few miles down the road, conveniently in front of a lady who was making mandaazi (a local donut-type thing). I called the man we were going to see in Yei, and he sent us his Land Cruiser to pick us up. He got a special deal on the Land Cruiser because he was a child soldier for the LRA and someone, maybe the Land Cruiser company or some government trying to make good, was selling them cheaply to former child soldiers. But we were still about 40 miles outside of Yei, so we had to wait about 2 hours. Yes, it takes 2 hours to go 40 miles here. It takes time to decide whether or not to dodge potholes the size of Jacuzzis or just plunge right through them. And 2 hours is the amount of time it took a Land Cruiser at its fastest possible speed of 70km/hr (If you want that in miles, you do the math. Don’t be lazy.). It would never have been possible to go that fast in our old car, even if we had it in peak position. But I will say: it’s just as painful going slowly over a bumpy road as it is going fast.

You can't go over this bridge, so you ford the river.

Anyway, we made it to Yei, visited our places and people, and tried our hardest to get me a seat on an airplane going to Mundri to no avail.  I was a tiny bit disappointed, because while I really like long road trips as a general rule, I was feeling a bit sore and I was concerned that our car wasn’t going to ever be ready for the return drive. But it did get ready—just not until 3:00pm the day we planned to leave. Knowing that the drive was 6 hours at best (and our car was still very far from best), there was no possible way to make it before dark. But we didn’t want to wait because Jeffreys wanted to be back for his youngest son’s birthday (the next day), and that was important since he’d missed his son’s birth (see, Josh Frizzell: it doesn’t just happen to militarians—sometimes it happens to humanitarians too) while traveling to the US to help bring some more work to South Sudan (that visit helped solidify his relationship with Neverthirst).

We hopped in the car at 3:00pmish and off we went. We made it to where we broke down about 3.5 hours later, and I knew it was going to be a long night. There had been some rain in the area, so several streams we’d passed over relatively easily on the way to Yei were much higher. The driver had to go test the depth and current before we could cross. He never drove faster than 40km/hr the whole trip (really, just do the math yourself if you care at all: clearly 40km/hr is really slow).

This photo was on the way there-on the way back this was a river.

About half-way through the trip, we stopped to pee (one of the many times I always wish I’d been born a boy), but I couldn’t go into the bushes because it was dark and muddy and possibly dangerous. So I just had to squat down behind the car and hope no other passing motorists came by (they didn’t). Back in the car and on the road again, I was getting tired of the trip until the driver started flashing his lights and swerving. Clearly illuminated in the light, I saw a spotted animal with gleaming yellow eyes. I started screaming, “Oh my gosh, it’s a leopard! It’s a leopard!!” And Jeffreys and the driver started laughing at me for being so excited. When I calmed down enough to see that I had phone signal so I could update my Facebook status accordingly for people who would be impressed and not laugh at me, I realized that the animal we saw was too small for a leopard, so I asked Jeffreys what it was. He said, “It’s a fox.” I scoffed at that because foxes are not spotted, so he conceded that it was a jackal. I decided to name it the Spotted Jackal, and it is probably a new species, which no one has ever seen before, so that will be its official name now. Since my phone doesn’t take good photos at night, and I don’t take good photos in swerving, bumping cars while screaming excitedly, I didn’t get a photo, but I’ve take the time to draw you a picture, which I have posted for your benefit:

Notice the large glowing eyes. They should be yellow, but I don't have any colored pens or markers.

For the rest of the trip, I kept my eyes carefully scanning the road, to make sure that our driver didn’t squish some other probably endangered, possibly never before discovered creature. I was rewarded by seeing some wildcats, a small alligator, and a large puff adder stretched out in the middle of the road (we even avoided squishing that because we care about all God’s creatures—and because it might have punctured our tires). Every time I got excited about seeing something and yelled, “Look, look, what is that?!” The driver laughed hysterically (he was tired to the point of laughing at anything, I think) and Jeffreys patiently said whatever he wanted to, knowing that I would believe him unconditionally.

Clearly that is a wildcat--see how ferocious it looks hiding in the grass?

So the moral of the story is DEFINITELY travel at night to see all the cool animals. Also, be more careful in the future when peeing by the side of the road, knowing that all the cool animals come out at night and might try to take a bite out of your bare butt. And just because your dad is an artist, does not mean you automatically inherit his talent for drawing. 

We did not see the alligator and the snake at the same time, but I didn't want to waste paper.  Notice the driver looks slightly insane. Also, the status of my hair is accurate. When you drive with the windows open, that is what your hair looks like. And I am screaming and pointing and standing up in my seat. It's a pretty good likeness of our car too: some  lines and circles haphazardly strung together.