Across the Country and Back in 55 Hours: a Leif and Amanda Travel Story

Leif was here, so together we came up with a brilliant plan to fly across the country to Iriba where we are drilling some bore holes. Then we would spend the night there and then drive to Abeche (about 8 hours drive on unpaved roads) the next day. During the drive we would have meetings with the other passengers, innoncent people who we coerced into driving us around, as all our cars were in use in the field. Then upon arrival in Abeche, we would have more meetings with local staff there before getting up at 4am to take the bus back to Ndjamena. If this seems like a crazy schedule to you, note that this was over the weekend after we’d been working all week, and Leif had a flight out the night we arrived back in N’djamena to attend a conference in Ethiopia the next day. Also, yes, it was my idea, but I would never have pitched it to anyone but Leif because anyone else would have laughed in my face.  But I know Leif, and I knew he would be just crazy enough to be up for it.

A Leif and Amanda planned trip where we end up wandering
the desert on camels just in time to attend a meeting
before rushing off across the country the next day to attend
an important conference that Leif organized.
Note: I'm the one wrapped in all the blankets
because Leif is from Sweden and therefore impervious to cold.

Overall, the trip was fun. We hung out with some cool people, road in the car with a live goat given to us by a grateful community, visited our drilling team, had successful meetings that actually were productive, and made it home alive. Of course, we had to take the bus back, and that wasn’t ideal, though not as bad as it could have been, had we broken down half-way or run into a herd of cows or had to sit in the floor.

A great name for a menstrual product

A few hours into our 900km bus trip from Abeche to N’Djamena, I started thinking about how all the missionaries act like riding the bus is such a good time. “I just sleep the whole way. It’s so relaxing!” or “I can get so much work done. It’s great!” Our bus ride started before 5am with Arabic sermons blared through the speakers to help everyone think about their mortality while journeying together, probably. Being the hard-hearted heathen that I am (comparatively), I remained unmoved and tried to stick my earphones all the way into my head so I could hear my music instead. I was not very comfortable in a slippery seat with a bulge that should fit behind an average-sized adult’s head, like a pillow, but which fits just low enough so that my head couldn’t fit over or under it. I started to think that most missionaries just say they like it because either they want to see if they can convince other people that it’s great by the power of a positive attitude or maybe, once they get off, they are so happy, their happiness blurs over the pain of their recent past, so that they forget their sufferings and remember it as actually being a good time (It’s not Stockholm Syndrome, but it is some kind of official delusion, I’m pretty sure). I was happy to admit to myself that I’d prefer to go in our own little Toyota corolla, stopping anywhere there is a convenient bush if I need to pee and skipping the obligatory hour long lunch break in Mongo while everyone eats a pile of greasy roasted goat meat. Though, to be honest, we rarely skip that stop and that meat is actually pretty good, as is anything you can cover in hot pepper.

A candy dispensing toy, naturally sold in an area where
there are still refugee camps because of excessive violence in the
area. Chosen by a cool TCK living in the area. I brought her
and her sisters some candy to make them like me. It
must have worked because one of the sisters said:
"We like you because you are nice and you brought us
candy but also because you are strong."
I appreciated the feminist compliment, though I'm
not sure how I earned it. I don't remember
doing anything particularly strenuous on the trip.
I guess I just exude strength.

But the second half of the trip they started playing the customary violent Thai movies. Last time I saw a movie about Thai gymnasts who save their village from evil gangsters, using back flips and uneven bamboo bars. Many people died horrible deaths, but we all learned the importance of gymnastics in combat. This trip the movie was about a young boy raised with elephants. His best elephant friend carried him to school every morning and let him practice Thai martial arts while jumping all over her back and doing pull ups on her horns. How do I know that she is a girl elephant? Spoiler alert: She has a baby. Actually, this whole paragraph is going to be a spoiler alert so stop reading now if you don’t want to know the entire plot of this movie, whose title I can’t remember because I don’t speak Thai. Also, if you recognize this movie as one of your favorites and I’ve gotten things wrong, I’m sorry. I was still listening to my own music and not trying to hear the dialogue, though I did hear a few of the French dubbed lines including: “Où est mon éléphant?!” Because, sadly, the mother elephant is killed by poachers and then later in the movie the baby elephant that the main guy raises from childhood is stolen by these same evil poachers who take him to Australia (because they are evil Australian poachers, of course). It actually took me a while to get that it was in Australia because I stopped watching for a bit in the middle. I was wondering why there were so many white people involved in this movie, and especially intrigued that the chief of police in Thailand was white. But when he finally frees his elephant and they walk past the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge, I figured it out. I would have figured it out sooner if there had been more kangaroos. That’s a tip for setting the stage next time, Thai movie makers. Anyway, the main guy DOES defeat all the evil Australian poachers, using the power of martial arts and also elephant bones. He frequently uses this move where he traps someone’s arm under his crotch, twists his hips and the crunching sound effect signals a broken appendage. Since the guy himself doesn’t make the traditional high pitched scream indicating pain to his favorite body part, I’m assuming that is what the crunching sound meant anyway. At any rate, it always vanquished the enemy.

My new toilet paper. Probably made by an Alanis Morissette fan.

While tracking down his elephant he also comes upon a Chinese establishment (in Sydney’s Chinatown) where they are selling illegal animal meat. There is a very sad part that Sarah McLaughlin should never find out about where the audience is shown many miserable endangered animals in cages. The Main Guy also thinks his baby elephant has been eaten, but of course, he is wrong. Additionally, it seems there is a sex slave trafficking ring happening out of this place too. He uncovers that, but seems less concerned. The audience is left to assume that the police guy who is with him handled the situation while he went off to go save his baby elephant. Baby Elephant, meanwhile, has been kidnapped by a Chinese witch who has a decorative skeleton of an elephant in her office/lair. Main Guy immediately recognizes it as the skeleton of his friend and calls on her elephant powers to help him beat 3 extra-large evil Australian wrestler-type guys. I’m think if you’re too big for a surf board in Australia, you probably just become a thug because what else can you do? These guys are beating him until he is thrown into the skeleton of his old friend and he remembers the power of elephant bones. He then grabs some bones and starts beating on people with the bones. They cannot withstand the power of elephant bones no matter how many steroids they have taken during the course of their Australian Wresting Careers so the Main Guy wins. He stands over them triumphantly yelling “Où est mon éléphant!!!” Anyway, he is ultimately reunited with the elephant baby, the evil Australian poachers are dead and his original elephant friend is avenged. The only loose end left for us to wonder about is why weren’t there any scenes of Australians eating endangered animals dipped in vegemite? I mean, how about a little realism, Thai movie industry, ok?

My new neighbor. Can you see him?
I am feeding him whenever I'm home.
Eventually we will be best friends.
It worked with the TCKs. I'm nice and I'm strong.

After the Thai movie, they showed a few Jackie Chan movies (he speaks great French, did you know?) And we ended up arriving before 3pm. And NOW I understand why the missionaries like the bus. Because I’ve never made that trip so fast. Corollas have to slow down for the potholes and buses don’t (or they don’t have to, but unofficial studies have shown that you still lose time changing punctured tires). So we made it in record time, and now, looking back, bathed in happiness as I’m no longer on the bus, I think it was such a great time. I didn’t sleep and I didn’t get any work done, but I watched some epic films and I got home early. That is a WIN in my book.

So Urbain and I check our mailbox after several months,
and I find this letter with my driver's license and ID badge
that were in my stolen wallet. It seems the thief who got my
wallet, crushed by guilt, and maybe also concerned for me (there
was not much in that wallet and he saw my groceries), spent 250CFA to mail me back my ID
cards, which he could do as our P.O. Box info was on my
business cards, which were also in the wallet.
I take this as a positive sign of his rehabilitation.
Also, if you were worried that I didn't black out the info
on my driver's license, don't be. It's all old or invalid information,
except for my birthday, which you should all know anyway. 

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."

The Road Less Travelled--spelled with 2 'l's because it's still correct, Ms. Searcy who marked off for that when I memorized that dumb poem in 9th grade (I hold grudges to the GRAVE.)

Hyena tracks

I was trying to figure out what it is about traveling anywhere, near or far, in South Sudan that pretty much guarantees a good story. Is it the potential for seeing interesting animals? We have a lot of squirrels here and as someone who grew up in a squirrel-less country, I think they’re cool. We also followed hyena footprints a couple of times, but I still haven’t seen one for sure yet. But I don't think it's the animals. Is it the possibility of being in a vehicle that breaks down in the middle of the jungle? Maybe, but that happens so much it’s less memorable. I think it’s the thrill of the road conditions-slippery-sandy and dusty in the dry season, and sticky-slippy muddy in the rainy season. If you are on a motorcycle, you will fall over lots of time. I am going to blame the road and not Repent, even though he does love to look around for people he knows so that he can wave at them, occasionally failing to notice a pot-hole. We’ve yet to fall over because of that, though. Usually it’s because the front tire gets stuck in the mud and the back tire keeps trying to go forward and it’s not as easy as you think to pop a wheelie on a motorcycle with two people balancing on the brink of a pot-hole the size of a bathtub in a fancy hotel.  

Scratched-up legs

Our record of falls in one trip is 4 (or maybe 5?). The first two falls happened in real-life slow motion, giving me enough time to fling myself ungracefully off the back of the bike, stumbling to my feet without landing on my face in the mud.  The third time trying to do that, my boot got caught on the kick-stand and I ended up hanging there while Repent tried to pull the bike back up and I screamed at him to wait a minute before I did fall on my face in the mud. But the time that I burnt my leg on the knalpot (isn’t that such a better word that ‘muffler’?) was when I was squatting down digging mud out of the front tire guard (is that what the metal thing over the wheel that keeps it attached to the bike is called? It is now.) with my bare hands and a stick I found on the ground. It took about 20 minutes to get enough mud out so that the wheel would turn again. The fourth time we fell, Repent said, “Well, we’re here!” And I said, “Yup. This looks like a good place for a hand-pump. Let’s GPS.” And we really were basically at our destination, but since we still had to turn around and go back, we weren’t so crazy about perfect accuracy at this point. Especially since the drillers just need to get in the basic vicinity and choose the specific location later. 

After an hour of digging

 Even in cars, one is not safe from the perils of the road. We borrowed a car from a friend to go out to a village that was a bit farther away than we wanted to travel by bike. Just as we finished our work and were turning around to go home, torrential rains began to pour out of the sky. We decided that dropping off the village leader at his nearby home would be the kind thing to do, since he and several friends had come with us to show us the exact preferred hand pump location of the community. As we turned down the lane into his home, we sank down in the mud and stuck. The driver helpfully spun the wheels several times, trying to force our way out, but as I learned that time I got stuck in the snow in Philly, that doesn’t actually work and it might actually make things worse. Our passengers immediately jumped out of the car, completely defeating the purpose of driving them to their homes so that they wouldn’t get wet, grabbed their shovels and began to dig us out. It cost us 2 hours and it cost them 2 fully-grown cornstalks. Eventually, after digging a hole nearly half the size of the Grand Canyon and stuffing rocks and tree trunks under the back wheels, with the help of all the men pushing from the back and a burst of Earth-polluting black smoke from over-worked tires, we got out. And I would like to mention, that it only took me one extra-helpful young mailman to get me out of my snow bank. Clearly snow is not as powerful as mud.

Push!

 My most recent road-trip was much longer and also one that I’m not sure is worth the story I got out of it. Traveling from Mundri to Juba by car is never a luxurious experience, but it does not have to be physically painful—it usually is, but it does not have to be. This time I was hopeful that it wouldn’t be, but I hadn’t even left Parking (which is what bus stations are called here—maybe because all the broken down busses are parked there waiting to be fixed never?) before I realized that was not going to be the case. I squished into my corner by the window (permanently closed one, sadly), and then the bus owner came over to insist that I pay for my bag. He said, “This isn’t an airplane! You have to pay!” I didn’t want to feed his idea that one must pay for one’s bag, so I didn’t point out the fact that airplanes are the original pay-for-your-bag transportation. I was ready to fight, so I started yelling and gesturing and being dramatic (that's how you do it here), and the people in the car were all supporting me. But then I also texted a foreign friend who’d previously traveled all over in these little car-busses if she’d had to pay for her backpack when traveling, and she said that she did. I STILL think that I shouldn’t have to pay, especially when there was NOTHING ELSE in the back of the car, but I agreed to pay 5 pounds (they were asking for 10) so that we could just go. The guy agreed because I think he realized that he was about to lose the fight otherwise. Then, as we were about to drive away, he stopped the car again to try to stuff a 4^th guy in the back seat (made for 2.5 people maximum and the new passenger was not a small man). The guy sitting directly behind me was told to move over, but he was also squished against the door, and said, “Where?” Then he dramatically stuck his butt up on the window sill and said, “Do you want me to sit here?!!” (I told you that being dramatic is an important part of arguments in South Sudan.) And after more yelling and screaming about how we ALWAYS fit 4 people in the back, the owner gave up. I was so proud of Window Butt for sticking to his guns and winning the argument. It didn’t help because later down the road they managed to fit another skinny guy in there with them and another not-skinny lady in our seat with us (she kindly dropped her bags on my feet), but they did allow them to put other larger bags in the back FOR FREE! Jerks.  Also, they squeezed one more man (not small) on a little fold down table in between the driver and passenger seats in the front. They whipped the little fringey dashboard cover off, folded it a few times, and voila! instant seat. I spent the trip waiting for it to break, but it was surprisingly strong. The guy sitting there said to me, “To get to Juba you must be willing for suffering!” He was not wrong. As we pulled out of Mundri, the car radio blasted a song with the refrain, “Maasaalaama ya duniya!!” (Goodbye, World!), which I found a bit ominous.

Comfy seat

 I won’t bore you with many more details (thought I SHOULD because I was bored by them), but the rest of the trip passed, with one small detour to fix the shocks, in relative monotony—the Ethiopian guy in the back kept having to stop and throw up. Everyone else in the car gave him various remedies to help suppress his gag reflex. Then they all blamed him for not taking their advice (eating lemons, smelling lemons, going back in time and taking medicine before the trip, which he SHOULD have done), and deciding his misery was not worth their compassion because it was so clearly preventable—LEMONS ALWAYS WORK!

Additionally there were some amusing khawaja moments:

Mom and adorable son Sammy were sitting by me (before leaving Parking). Mom had to rearrange her bags, so she plopped Sammy on the seat by me and said, “Just sit here and look at the foreigner while I fix this.” (Khawaja=instant entertainment for children of all ages) Sammy obliged her, and continued to spend the majority of the trip just looking at me. By the end of the 8+ hours, he was used to my creepiness and allowed himself to be placed in my lap so I could play with him and protect his head from being bashed into the wall as we bumped along.

Sammy!

Also, front-middle-seat-guy who incorrectly estimated my weight to be 75 kilos (seriously? I must have succeeded in becoming fat—that’s almost 170 pounds, and I’m only about 5’4’’ and don't ask why he was estimating my weight because it's a long not-interesting story) informed me about how he used to be so terrified of  ‘people like me’ when he was a kid. “Whenever they would come to give vaccinations, I would run and hide in the bush. Nobody could find me.” While I actually think most children have this reaction to people who come to give vaccinations, he went on, “You know the people that have those kind of eyes – like yours! Bluuuuuue ones---they were scariest! You know, if you’ve only seen people like us and then you see someone like you—it is really terrifying!” Noted. Let’s all move on now because it's starting to hurt my feelings when cute kids scream and cry when I smile at them.

And when I arrived at Parking in Juba and told the driver that it was not fair of him to charge me money and no one else and that he should stop discriminating against foreigners, I was immediately surrounded by a curious flock of young Juban men, shocked at a foreigner speaking Arabic (it’s really rare in Juba) who said, “Wow! You are not a khawaja! You are a South Sudanese. You speak Arabic like us!” Take THAT, front-middle-seat guy…though I will cut him some slack because his seat had to have been the WORST and that would make anyone overestimate someone’s weight and insult her eyes.

The other travel moment of interest was my contingency planning in the event of being hijacked and/or swept down the Luri River in an attempt to cross over into Juba. Recently, some children were found murdered in that area, a crime blamed on Dinka (as everyone here blames them for everything). Additionally, a friend of mine had been hijacked at the Luri River, just a few months before. At gunpoint the men demanded 25,000 South Sudanese Pounds (about 6,500USD) from my friend who only had 50. They also took his laptop, phone, bag, and two books on sanitation, which he had been using to teach from in Amadi for us that week. I hope those guys make use of that information.

Right now, for me, one of the worst things would be to lose my computer and/or phone. So I put the phone and some money and credit cards in a small wallet and hid them on my person. The plan was that IF we got hijacked, I could find a way to keep that hidden while they took all the rest of my stuff. Also, I left my South Sudanese money in the bag, but put my north Sudanese money in the hidden wallet to avoid suspicions that I didn’t have any money with me (Side note: to me, traveling means sorting through all your currencies to choose the ones that you will most likely use. This trip they are Sudanese, Ugandan, Euros, US Dollars and South Sudanese pounds). We were not hijacked and I got to keep all my money and stuff. Yay!

Repent crossing not-the-Luri River

Then there was the issue of the Luri River. It’s rainy season. That river has a current and it can get too high to drive through and the bridge is broken. A guy in Lui (where we stopped to get the shocks fixed on our car—absolutely pointless, as I’m sure they were broken again during the trip) told me, “I bet the Luri River is so full that you’ll have to spend the night there and wait for it to go down.” I really didn’t want this to happen because there is no place there to spend the night, it’s in a rather dangerous area, and I already had a headache (only 15 miles into the trip), and I just wanted to be in Juba with semi-regular electricity and semi-present internet and mostly-edible pizza.  I also decided to plan for if our car was swept down the river or started to sink when we got to the middle of the river (this happened to Leif once in Kenya—they climbed out the window and swam across). Since our windows were closed, I planned to hoist myself out through the sun roof, grab baby Sammy, jump down to open the car door (which only opened from the outside) and help swim everyone to safety (totally did that once in Yemen at the beach). It would have worked, but fortunately I put my best prayer warriors on the job (Mom and Dad via text message), making sure they were properly motivated by all the possible danger to their daughter, and they did their job and the river wasn’t too bad. I later returned their favor by Facebook messaging the guy they were supposed to pick up from the airport when they were stuck in traffic in Jakarta while I was sitting in my hotel room in South Sudan—that is the world that we live in. It’s NBD to text someone in South Sudan to post on someone’s Facebook who is currently in Jakarta Internatonal Airport to tell him to wait at KFC because his ride is stuck in Ramadan traffic.

In conclusion, the trip was long, bumpy, painful, very bumpy, and slow. How long does it take YOU to drive 110 miles? I bet it would take you 8+ hours too if you had to dodge potholes the size of houses and bob down water-rippled roads without breaking all the windows in your car. And I do not recommend it as a fun pastime, but hey—stories…they can sometimes be worth the pain…though in this case, maybe not…

I love this hilarious photo of Repent's way
to dump water out of his boots
(see above photo of the moment before the bike slipped into the river).
I think it would win awards if my finger hadn't gotten in the frame.