Traveling However/Wherever I Want

Hippos on the Nile from the MAF plane

In February, the shortest month of the year in case you forgot, I was in 9 countries—if you count staying overnight in a hotel in Cairo for transit as being there (I do because they stamped one of my last dang passport pages, the jerks!) and if you count Gibraltar as a country (they didn’t stamp my passport, charming people that they are, but I did have to sit for a cumulative several hours at border crossings getting in and out, so I count it) and if you count a month as a 30 day period, since technically February was over the day before I got to Sudan, the 9^th country which has most definitely finished off the last 2 pages of my passport. I’m in the process of getting a new one (meaning, I scheduled an appointment at the US Embassy and they’ll pencil me in for March 20), and it’s about time. I’ve started gasping when immigration officials pick up their stamps and have begged a few people to please, PLEASE not stamp on an empty page. I am looking forward to the new passport with hopefully a better photo of my face and many empty pages for stamps and visas and whatnot that should make my immigration stops less stressful. Still, I’ll miss my chubby, threadbare little blue book of adventures. It was a great conversation starter. I had fun watching eyebrows raise and thinking up different responses to “It looks like you travel a lot” and other such astute observations. But it is time. For real, it is.

Say what you like about the Entebbe Airport
(It is small, you have to carry your luggage up
 two flights of stairs to Check-in,
no out-lets to plug in a laptop, etc.),
 but you can't beat the view when you take off--
AND most of the time their wifi works
AND sometimes they turn the AC on.

This month in my travels, I’ve taken a variety of transportation means: airplanes, trains, busses, private cars, ferries, and motorcycles.  In fact, my large green backpack that I may have gained through dishonest means (Spencer, was I supposed to give that back?) got even uglier when it dropped off the back of the motorcycle on the way to the airstrip in Mundri and rolled around in the red dirt for a while. It worked out, though, because it was always easy to recognize on those pristine conveyor belts in European airports as the grungy backpack that had been around the world a few times.

Being in real airports (not airstrips) always feels normal and home-like to me. Still, I am glad I’m not good enough at math or remembering details of my life to calculate how much of said life has been spent waiting in various airports in various states of cleanliness around the world, but it’s probably more than I’d like to admit. Fortunately, there is usually lots of candy available at airports. Though I was bummed that there was no ice cream to be found in the dang Entebbe airport. It would have been the least they could do since my original flight to Spain was canceled due to “fog.” Now I’m no flying expert, but I really thought that they had instruments and other important gadgets to help them fly when they can’t see that well. Otherwise, wouldn’t we get stuck in a cloud up there and not know how to get out? What’s the difference when the cloud is on the ground?

New EgyptAir friends

Egypt Air, well known for being an airline based in Egypt, kindly put the entire flight in a hotel in Entebbe for “until probably sometime later.” This was organized by Chaos himself who chose this moment to take on human form. But that worked out too, because I made friends with a Syria lady and an Egyptian man, and we made our own group and had fun. We had breakfast together and found bus rides to and from the venue together, and Haytham even helped me by calling and telling me that we were leaving for the airport in half an hour (information that was crucial to me making it on the plane, and also something that Chaos & co. had neglected to mention to me via the hotel front desk). Anyway, we all made it, got on the plane and found that we were all sitting in the same row, where we would have sat and probably never talked had our plans gone the way we all intended. Once we arrived in Egypt, they were able to go on to their final destinations, while I was lumped in with a Spanish tour group going on to Madrid at a swanky Cairo hotel. Fortunately, their tour guide was a Syrian guy, so we were able to communicate in Arabic since my Spanish is "not awesome," to quote a friend of mine from India.

Upon arriving in Spain, I was impressed by the efficiency of Europe. I was able to navigate a never-before-seen subway system and hop on a train that felt like some sort of futuristic transportation, it was so shiny and swanky. The best part is that as it was leaving the station and I was thinking about trains that I love (the Hogwarts Express) and comparing that to trains that I don’t love (any train in India), they played the theme from Harry Potter over the loud speaker in the train! I was so excited that I looked around for the lady with the trolley selling cauldron cakes and chocolate frogs, but I guess I was still too far south for her.  From the train station, I hopped a bus (also super-easy and self-explanatory, probably run by personified Efficiency herself) to my final destination, which I missed because I was sleeping and had no idea where to get off. Ma3lish. I got to Torrox eventually.

My private car trips were mostly run by Carolyn (see the post about my 30^th birthday, which may come before or after this one, I don’t know yet) to Nerja and Granada and Gibraltar and cool places like that. I almost got to ride in a cable car, but they were renovating for my bday in Gibraltar, so we hiked the mountain instead. I must say, it is super-fun to be driven around and not have to worry about sleeping through your stop.

My sweet Moroccan mommy

Boat immigration-still easier than
Juba Intl Airport Immigration

And finally, my ferry adventure was probably my real adventure since I took the road less travelled (by tourists) and left from Algeciras to the new Tangier port. Here again, Arabic saved me (Note this important information, dear readers: knowing Arabic saves lives. Maybe. Or anyway it’s really useful at least). A sweet  old lady took me under her hospitable Arab wing and even stopped the bus so it would wait for me to get through immigration in Tangiers where the very charming immigration official and I were charming each other with our charming Arabic conversational skills. “You can stay even 3 months—it is wonderful that you speak Arabic so well. You MUST be Lebanese. Come back anytime.” So charming. But long-winded. But my lady did not let that bus move without me.

My taxi-man

Once we arrived in the actual city of Tangiers, 45 minutes of traffic later, I had no where to go, and again, Arabic saved my life (probably). I changed money, got directions to a hotel, and caught a cab to the hotel. The cab driver kindly informed me that he is not really a local cab, but would make an exception for me. When I told him that I wanted to see the town the next day before hopping on a ferry back to Spain, he obligingly offered to show me around. He refused payment that night, so I knew he’d be back the next day, and then gave me a great tour. He even took me out to breakfast, proving what I’ve suspected for a long time: I am destined to be the wife of an Arab taxi driver. Seriously, they are the only men who ever ask me out.

And after Morocco, all the rest of my trips were going back, which is always easier, since you already know the way.

And now, I’ll leave you with a bunch of photos from my recent travels around beautiful places. . I will include photos here because I took lots of photos and I should use them for some purpose. Remember, I am not one of those fancy photographer people. I take photos on my iPhone and I take a lot in hopes that one or two will not have part of my finger in the shot. Fortunately, there is not too much that I can do to mess up the natural beauty of the places where I was.  Still, I think it is important that you remember that these terrible photos I took and posted here do not do these places justice, so save up your money and/or get an international job and/or make friends with an awesome English sea captain, and go see them yourselves.

Nerja, southern Spain

The lighthouse in Torrox

Aqueduct in Nerja

The view from the Alhambra

Alhambra

Note the crazed look in my eyes and red wind-chapped skin.
Cold make me look like this.

Roy and Carolyn in the gardens

The famous Lion Pavilion
(OK, I can't really remember the name, but it is a famous part of the Alhambra).

The first photo the guard obligingly took for us

The second photo in the pose directed
by the guard--not sure it's really better...

When you go to the Alhambra:
don't forget to look up.

Alhambra window

Still looking crazy

I like windows and arch-ways and blurry photos

Granada from the Alhambra

Orange tree in the garden

Roy and Carolyn walking towards the church

Wearing Carolyn's gloves and clutching the
hand-dryer in the bathroom to try to warm up.

Algeciras Port

New Tangier Port

Tangiers alleyway in the old city

I like alleyways

Hey--it's the door to Ibn Batuta's grave on the left!
More on him later...

Buying breakfast

Breakfast view

Breakfast--ragheef and mint tea

Breakfast place

Chasing his camel down the beach

With Spain in the background

Tangiers from the ferry back to Spain

Seen soon, Africa! (Two days later on the Eastern side)

Tarifa port

Fort by the port

Views from the bus back to Malaga

You can still see Africa

Gibraltar! It's pretty distinctive-looking

Sunset on road to Malaga

And now I'm here.

IDPs and Rock Climbing and Consequences

This week I learned that it is possible to make unwise decisions even if one is almost 30 years old.  (Who knew, right?) What started as an innocent trip to an IDP camp to see if we would dig some wells there, ended with me hobbling around for a day—only a day though. I was back out running the day after that. Blistered feet can’t slow me down. Well maybe a little. Temporarily.

Bushrat for dinner anyone? We met this intrepid hunter in the camp.

So we were supposed to go to this IDP camp outside of Juba, where apparently 2000+ internally displaced people (IDPs—for my slower readers) were supposed to be living. We were supposed to go there with the commissioner for Mundri East County and his armed guard (probably the only reason the Boss agreed to go that close to Juba anyway), but at the last minute the Commissioner bailed, meaning his armed guard did too. We were on the road already, though, so we went on to the next town where we were supposed to meet one of the Commish’s deputies who also bailed. Then we went on to yet another town, meeting with the local administrator of that area who had not been informed of our coming and also could not accompany us, but he sent a pastor with us, so it was OK. God was on our side that way, I guess. He also (the administrator, not God) updated us on the situation in the camp, which is currently housing approximately 500 people since the other 1500 had gone on to stay with friends, relatives, or returned to Juba.

I drank this water, and I'm still OK.

We began to seriously re-think our plans to work in the area, but we did hang out with some Dinka SPLA guys and let them show us the river where the current IDPs and soldiers are getting their water. They bathe and wash clothes directly in the river, but they dig small holes beside the water and drink from those holes. I’m not sure of their reasoning on that one, but I took a swig, and I didn’t die or get sick, so I think they’re fine. But they are worried that the river will dry up soon (it’s dry season now and very possible), so we are still looking into helping out.  The thing about South Sudan is that often you can put a pump in what seems to be the middle of no-where, but when you go back a while later, a small town has grown up around the well. That’s the power of water.

The Gunfire Bridge

Anyway, we made it back to Mundri with only one scare, which was when a truck went over a nearby metal bridge and the Boss thought it was gunfire, but other that that, no issues.  Still, since we were traveling with a camera man, it took a while, as he kept wanting to stop and get this or that shot. He was talking about wanting a landscape shot, and I knew just the rock I had been wanting to climb up for a while. Since it’s dry season, most of the elephant grass has burned off and you can see up to the base of the rock and not worry about accidentally stepping on a black mamba and dying a horrible painful death. I find snakes and all reptiles fascinating, but there are other ways I’d prefer to go. But now would be the perfect time to climb up, so I suggested we go. And we did—well, the camera man and I did.  He followed me to the rock (he is definitely more afraid of black mambas than me, and probably willing to sacrifice my life, hoping to get my death scene on film for his Pulitzer. I know it’s not personal—he’s a camera man…) and started up behind me, but since he was wearing shoes and I was wearing some chunky flipflops, he went faster. I decided to ditch the shoes and go up barefoot. I got up really quickly, and didn’t notice any problems until all of a sudden I felt the skin separate from my feet—not because I cut it, but because large blisters had bubbled up under the front of my feet where I’d been climbing. Then I realized that getting down was going to be very painful.  It was.

I backwards-spider-man crawled down the mountain, using my heels and the palms of my hands—there’s really not a modest way to do that in a skirt. The Boss was concerned, and he even came out of the car to ask if I was OK. I think he thought I didn’t know how to get down the mountain. I did, but I was already testing the limits of my pain tolerance, and speeding down wasn’t an option for me. Anyway, I made it down and to the car, and spent the rest of the day and the next hobbling around. Before I doctored it up, I took photos. I’m warning you now because I’m nice, and I know some of you (my sisters) are a bit squeamish. But if your curiosity is stronger than your stomach, scroll down and down for the gruesome photos.  I’ll also include the photos of my doctor skills because the medical profession is seriously missing my bandaging creativity.  Scroll down if you dare.

Keep going.

A bit more.

You know you’re curious.

It’s not too late to go back up now.

Last chance.

NOW it’s too late to back.

Congratulations, Brave Reader. You have arrived.

 

This was the first attempt. I had to stick a bandage on because I was planning to go make some brownies in our oven which already had coals ready, and so I was in a hurry. Later I cut off all the extra skin and put on medicines and stuff. And now it's totally fine because I am a genius doctor.

Lesson learned:

Barefoot rock climbing after a day of 100+ degree weather is not a good idea. Even if the rock feels ok to your feet, there are certain temperatures that the sole of the foot is not designed to withstand. Yes, I could have let Camera Man go it alone, but he did seem to need my expert advice on where to go because he decided to climb up a big jutting rock with trees around it and couldn’t get a shot. I showed him a better place and he handed his camera down to me while he jumped down to get the view he needed. Also -- like I was going to let Camera Man get up the rock without me… It was MY rock in the first place! Anyway, I climbed my rock even if I paid for it all by myself with a little bit of pain and backwards-spider-man crawling humiliation, and next time I go up, I’ll bring my camera (phone not fancy video one) and I’ll wear flip-flops with better grip. Climbing in shoes is for sissy foreigners.

One more bonus photo from near where I work where someone just put up mine warning signs while I was gone. Who knew?  Good thing I didn't see a monkey or a shiny rock or something else irresistible over there before those signs went up.

Back in South Sudan…for a week...

If you are doing a study of my blogging habits, you may have noticed a correlation between lack of blogging and me being in the US with family. If so, it is likely that you have ascertained that I have been in the US for the past 2.5 months-ish. It’s not that my life is less interesting there—I have plenty of great stories about my nieces and nephews, but I have people to share my stories with there who appreciate them on the same level that I do. For example, if I talk with Lexon about the time when Repent and I got lost in a jungle full of hyena footprints and had to ask a nearby Dinka for help getting out, he might not acknowledge what a significant event that was….or wait, he did laugh loudly at that story when we told it yesterday…I guess that was just an epic story that crosses cultural boundaries. OK, fine. The truth is that when I don’t have to spend some of my time responsibly for work or school or whatever, then I don’t usually spend any of it in any manner that might be viewed by others as responsible. And clearly, writing this blog is the definition of spending my time responsibly. Thus, I don’t blog while in the US with my family. Now that THAT has been explained…

See how cute they are? Of course I miss them!

After scraping off layers of dirt and sweat from walking up and down dusty paths to and from water sources, carrying snotty children or muddy puppies, I thought I might have enough fodder for a blog post. I’m back in South Sudan for a week, filming in villages for a promotional video on our projects here that we are working on. I have to say, it’s not usually my favorite thing to do. I mean, I do think it’s important to have visual aids when talking about our work because it shows the outside world what it’s like to live here, and it helps us raise money to do what we do, which I think is pretty important. The guy who does our video stuff is really good at what he does, but I still sometimes feel a bit rude telling people to smile at the camera while drinking from their hand pump or stopping the car in the middle of the road to get footage of women carrying jerry-cans of water on their heads (though that is pretty impressive, and I’ve taken plenty of those photos myself). I do like attaching the Go-Pro camera to the front of the car to see what these crazy roads look like from the front of our poor brutalized vehicle, and I find it interesting to interview people we work with and hear their opinions and stories.

With baby Avwa

So we’ve been visiting villages, and God must know that I’m missing my nieces and nephews, because I’ve gotten to hold and cuddle lots of cute, similarly aged kids, none of whom were put off by my weird newly-sunburnt skin. Kids in South Sudan are different from kids I knew in other places I’ve lived. I don’t want to lump all Asian kids together, but in my experience, it usually takes them a while to warm up to foreigners they don’t know. Many times there is screaming and hysterical crying the first time they come in contact with someone with creepy white skin. I experienced this in all regions of Asia where I have lived and traveled (so basically, almost all of the regions of Asia—I have a pretty good research base for my generalization). In South Sudan we have some children inclined towards screaming hysterics when they see odd-looking strangers. I’ve been on the back of a motorcycle with Repent, riding through a jungle village while children scattered in all directions yelling at the top of their lungs and crying. But really, the screamers are only about 30% of the kids I’ve seen. Compare this to Asia, where approximately 60% of all children are likely to scream, cry and/or run away as fast as possible, and it is amazing. In South Sudan 60% of the kids will chase after your car, motorcycle, bike waving and yelling greetings (Disclaimer: none of these statistics are based on Math or any principles that may have been derived from or associated in any way with Math). My favorite local greeting is the little poem composed by Moru children and recited with great enthusiasm over and over whenever a foreigner happens by their general vicinity (forgive the spelling, I haven’t officially studied Moru yet, this is my own transliteration. I know that all of you reading this blog are proficient in Moru and this will be really distracting, but try to bear with me):

            “Ombonje keneesa ya…Ombonje keneesa ya…Ombonje keneseesa ya.”

            Translation: the foreigner is going to church.

            Note: it does not matter if the foreigner is not, in fact, going to church. Poetic             license, I guess.

            Proper method of declaiming the poem: 3 times in a sing-song voice

            Optional ending: How are YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUU?!!!

            Non-Morus don’t have a poem, but yelling “Kawaja, kawaja” seems to work    fine for them.

But the last 10% of kids in South Sudan are the real shockers. They are the ones who don’t care about my creepy white skin or my weird hair. They just want to love me. They’ll run up and give me hug, having no idea who I am. They’ll slip their little hands in mine and look up at me and smile and melt my heart. And only sometimes to they follow that up with, “Give me money” or “give me ball.” That does tend to kill the moment for me, but it also makes me wonder how the heck all white people here got the reputation for handing out money and toys to children here who learned how to ask for it in English. I totally blame us because that had to have come from somewhere. I     mean, your average suburban American kid isn’t going to walk up to, say, a Chinese guy and ask him for money or presents or whatever because there really is no precedent for that. They do stand in line for hours to sit on Santa’s lap at tell him what they want (at least according to movies I’ve seen), and precedent has told them that this pays off. I can only imagine that South Sudanese children have some reason to expect a payoff for using their hard-earned English phrases.

I carried Abouk home

These last two days I’ve had a few from the last 10% that have been the melt-your-heart kind. Baby Avwa fell asleep in my arms and baby Shamsul let me pick him up and cuddle him with no visible signs of displeasure.  This afternoon while trekking back from the local water source, little Abouk (one of the little kids in our entourage) tripped and fell. She started crying, and I went back to see if I could help. She rejected her brothers’ help and reached up her arms to me. So I carried her the last mile. Even though she got a tiny bit heavy by the end of the walk, it was great. Also, Repent told me that last week that his five year old Gadi kept asking, "Ombonje maro miteen rejaa?" That's Arabic and Moru for, "When is my foreigner coming back?" I'm pretty OK with being Gadi's foreigner.

So that’s life—for the next week anyway before I head off to Spain, Morocco, maybe/probably not Kenya, definitely at some point Sudan, possibly some other place after that. Oh yeah—I almost got a puppy! It was cute and chubby and we loved each other deeply for a moment…until Lexon and Repent talked me out of getting it now since I’m leaving on Thursday and they don’t want to take care of it while I’m gone. I was sad, but at least now I’m sure that Mark will let me get a puppy and I’ll get one when I’m back for longer and I can make sure that it loves me the most of anyone.

And there you have it—between a puppy and cuddly children, I’m satisfying my almost-30 maternal instincts here in South Sudan.