Planning Ahead Life

For me, planning a day in advance is planning ahead—and technically, you see, I’m right about that. But when I wake up one morning and say, I am going to do x and y tomorrow, and then on Tomorrow I only do x or even 0.5x, I can say to myself, “Well, Self, you should have been a better planner and it is your fault that you didn’t accomplish everything, so think about that and do better next time.” And then after my inner Responsible Self nicely chastises my inner Regular Self, I feel better about it, and I can move on with my life. But there are some days when Responsible Self takes over my whole body for a brief moment and plans everything so fast. My Responsible Self is not so chill and laid back as Regular Self. Responsible Self gets really annoyed when her plans don’t work out. This is because she tried so hard and planned so well and still hit zero for three tasks on Monday and only one for three tasks on Wednesday. She feels like the world is falling into pieces around her. If she didn’t have Regular Self’s resilient sense of humor, she would never survive here in South Sudan. Life can be really stressful for her.

This week’s plan was brought to you by Responsible Self, but Regular Self is the one who is making it to the end. Responsible Self started to feel doubts on Monday morning when her scheduled morning run was interrupted by a phone call informing her that they needed to leave at 8 instead of 9 to complete the day’s tasks. Since it was already 7:30 and she was still a mile away from home, she agreed, but knew that the other colleagues would undoubtedly still arrive at 9:00am, as she had asked them specifically to arrive at 8:00am (isn’t she such a good planner? Ready for any and all contingencies!). Still, diligently, she kicked it that last mile and was home in record time and showered and ready by a little after 8.  But no one was there—not even those requesting an ETD of 8am. It was a bad omen.

I don’t have to continue down the path of that story. Basically, Responsible Self was let down hard. Regular Self mostly survived, though Responsible Self tried to take her down too.  So the moral of the story is, as usual, never ever plan ahead.

And here are a few other South Sudan moments, so that you can see that it’s basically worth it to live here even if planning doesn’t work in this climate:

Clockwise from top left: origami,shredded sugarcane,
happy mother with clean water from a new well,
fishing the soccer ball out of the trash pit, my once-blue sandals.

Since I’ve been back, my local urchin posse has been most excited to see me. I see their little heads pop up over my windowsill, expectant eyes wide and ready for adventure. Almost inevitably this happens just when I have finally sat down to eat something.  Sometimes I kick them out but usually I go out and play for a bit because they are the urchiest urchins and it is really hard to resist them—this pack of kids that lives with a handful of their mothers, a tough matriarch of a grandma and an adorable tiny old great grandma. Their grandfather sits under the tree all day long listening to BBC news on the radio and perfecting his refined English. The various and sundry mostly nonexistent fathers are almost never around to take any notice of anyone or provide any sort of noteworthy contribution towards their lives. There are plenty of fathers like that around here, but I’m choosing to put in a photo of Repent cuddling his boys, whom he has missed while they have been staying at their grandma’s house since Christmas because—she makes the best food. Of course.

Because they are the best, even if this photo is not.
And Repent loves his babies.

The urchins and I do lots of origami and make paper airplanes and also play a lot of soccer. Once we kicked the ball into the trash pit/bathroom hole and we dug it out with a long bamboo pole to which I duct-taped an old plastic bag. It took us 30 minutes of fishing, but we got it back. And we don't think about the festering germs it was soaking up down there because that's not fun. Our other activities include me fixing sandals with safety pins and me trading candy canes for sweet potatoes. I was also recently commissioned to make “Thank You” signs for our donors. I decided to delegate this task to my posse because they love coloring and also, if I made the signs by myself it would look like kids made them and so if I let them help me make them then kids actually DID make them, and it is more honest that way. But I did learn never EVER to leave them alone with the signs and the markers. I was baking a sweet potato cake and I popped out for 2 minutes. When I came back the sign looked like this:

Imagine it turned horizontally and held up by some cute kids.
Charming, right? Does spelling really matter? Letters are so pretty.

Of course, I didn’t notice anything until I handed the sign to the village to hold up for the donors and tried to read what I wrote. “That’s weird, “ I thought. “I don’t remember writing all the way to the edge of the paper. Also, why is there an ‘s’ at the end of ‘foundation’?” Then I figured it out and used the other sign which I didn’t like as much because Wani was a little too obsessed with the brown crayon but Oguna had used multiple colors on the other sign. Also—I had helped him color that sign, and I’m pretty sure I colored in the extra “H” that he added in there and had no idea because I am not the most observant of people.

But this week wasn’t a total bust. I got in some good hours on the back of the motorcycle which has given me the glow of someone who consistently goes to fry herself at the tanning salon without actually having to fry myself at the tanning salon. I even double suncreened and reapplied and everything (I put some on Ruben, Repent's youngest son, and he thought it was the most hilarious thing in the world). You know how all those magazines say that if you spend so much time in the sun, you will wrinkle up and look like you’re 50 by the time you’re 30? Well, I’m almost 31 and I currently have the complexion of a pubescent boy who hasn’t yet started shaving but will soon—that’s thanks to my pores constantly being clogged by sand, but anyway, maybe by the time I’m 50, I’ll actually look like I’m 50. I think that would be pretty cool. Looking one’s age is a very underrated quality, I think. Just look your age already, People—why not? It saves others lots of confusion. I would be glad to write a magazine article about that concept for anyone who is interested.

Many babies here scream in terror at my face (I get it, but it can be hurtful).
Baby Jenfer is one of the memorable ones who held our her arms and gave
the scary khawaja a big hug.  I will love her forever.

And that goes for the man who proposed marriage to me in the following conversation:

Potential Hubs: “Hey—where is your husband? Why don’t you marry me?”

Me: “I think you are too young for me. I’m old.”

P.H.: “No way—how old are you?”

Me: “31”

P.H.: “Well I’m 37!”

Me: “Or you’re a liar…”

P.H.’s friend: “Of course he is old enough—look at his beard!”

(Note: the little bit on fuzz on his chin might qualify him for Mundri’s premiere hipster club, but I don’t think it proves his manhood or advanced age.)

Me: “So how many wives do you already have?”

P.H.: “Just one. Come see how she lives. You will beg to marry me then.”

Me: “Um…no. I will be the only wife. I’m an American girl. It’s a thing with most of us [it was just not the time to talk about Mormons]. And also, it was the way God planned with Adam and Eve. There was none of this Adam and Eve and Ruta and Lusi and Mary. And also, you would not like the food that I cook.”

Note: that morning I had eaten nasi goreng for breakfast, which I made all by myself and ate straight out of the pan because if it’s OK for bachelors, it is also OK for bachelorettes, and I have no running water in my house right now so I’m cutting down on unnecessary luxury tasks like washing dishes and cleaning the bathroom floor. My nasi goreng involves lots of sheta/cabe/hot pepper and people here just can't take it usually.

Then I proceeded to successfully extricate myself from the conversation, telling them that if they wanted my phone number, they would have to ask Repent for it. And while he is a really nice guy who would probably just give it to them because why not? But he is also kind of a big dude, and he was farther away so they couldn’t see that he is always smiling. They didn’t follow me.

And so it goes. Another partially successful week concluded. And when one of the drillers tried to comfort me with a “This is Africa—nothing happens like you plan!” I got huffy and defensive for Asia and said, “It’s not ONLY Africa that messes up your plans, you know. Asia can do that too. It’s not always all about Africa. Africa ALWAYS tries to steal Asia’s thunder. And anyway Indonesians even have a saying for events not starting on time. It’s called jam karet, or rubber time. There aren’t any sayings like that here.” And he thought that was the greatest thing he ever heard and carefully wrote down “jam karet” into his little notebook so that he can remember it forever and have something important to talk about with all the Indonesian people he meets out here.  

And Responsible Self found herself cheered up by being able to teach some bahasa to a true lover of Asian culture and language.  And she has not developed an actual plan for next week beyond her usual stand-by—“Let’s wing it.”

And by the time I actually get internet good enough to post this on the blog, I will have been winging it for several weeks probably. Yeah…this is the life. Own it, Irresponsible Me.

One more because seriously--that face is too cute.(Ruben's face, not the dirt-covered white photo-bomber in the side). 

Home Sweet Home South Sudan

I’ve been back in South Sudan for a week and a half now. About 1/3 of that time has been spent in Juba and 1/3 in Mundri and 5/3 has been spent traveling between and around Mundri and Juba.

These thirds of my life have included the following events:

·      One (1) motorcycle wipe-out with Repent into the sand (plus several more close calls—riding in sand is hard).

·      Sustained one (1) small side of the knee scrape due to aforementioned wipe-out.

·      Had one (1) moment of thanks for lack of paved roads in South Sudan, which I later recanted on one (1) or more (++++) of the to/from Juba journeys.

·      One (1) giant black spider crawled up my leg while I was showering, carefully persevering water since our pump is broken. My eyes were closed and I thought gravity had started working backwards and sending water droplets up my leg instead of down. I looked to see if that was the case, and screamed and swore (I’m sorry, Mom, but I’m honest) and shook my leg and jumped around (dangerous in a slippery bathroom with buckets all over catching extra water).

·      Killed one (1) giant spider and washed it down the drain.

·      Attended one (1) funeral prayer time, which included more than 1 (++++) sermon and/or stand-up comedy routine.  It was not a typical funeral.

·      Rode to church on a four (4)-wheeler. How did YOU get to church last Sunday?

·      One (1) mouse ran across my face one (1) night. He had four (4) feet. I felt them on my cheek.

·      The drilling team killed one (1) mouse in my house, leaving one (1) more.  His days are numbered.

·      Got a new yellow fever card. I have only lost two (2) yellow fever cards in the last year. Current card is now officially stapled into the back of my passport. Try and steal it one more time, KENYA AIRPORT OFFICIALS!

·      Updated my visa.

·      Decided to learn how to cook with cassava/tapioca flour because Paleo recipes exist, whether or not anyone wants them to, and cassava flour is way cheaper here.

Juba Bus Station (aka Parking)

Other important things to note, Jackson loves to go get visas with me. I know, he told me. He said, “It’s so great that you can talk to people in Juba Arabic and Moru. They will always remember you now and they will want to help you.” It’s true. Languages open doors and also can get things done even when government officials put in a full two-hour (2) working day and then go home to recover from it, in spite of telling people to come back after lunch to finish paperwork. Jackson also loves that I can schmooze visa officials. It is a skill I have honed over the decades. I think my parents started us off on it, because I definitely remember being forced into stupid dresses to go to the immigration office in Indonesia for endless fingerprints and name-signing documents. That’s why my signature looks like a squiggle. Comfort and convenience over fear of my identity being stolen any time.

Visa stuff is not bad, but trips between Mundri and Juba always have the potential to be the worst ever.  I mean, you know this, all five (5) of you that read this blog: trips to Mundri/Juba are almost always noteworthy. If I have to suffer, I will make you read about it.

Stop thinking about passing me
and think about the children instead.
But maybe less thinking about the children
and more thinking about basic mechanics
would have made this a better van.

I have lucked out and been able to find people driving to and from that I can hitch rides with, but this time there wasn’t anyone left bring me back to Mundri. I tried to convince Jackson (a Moru) that he really wanted to drive me back to Mundri and say ‘hi’ to all the cool people, but he is not a government official and believes in the importance of actually working at his job. So I had to Mundri Express it. Repent T called the company on my behalf to reserve a front window seat in the Land Cruiser that was scheduled to head back to Mundri.

Once at the bus station in Juba, I sat and waited a bit until Mahmood (the head of the Mundri Express office), asked me to please PLEASE go in the van that was sitting in front of the office, as his land cruiser wouldn’t be ready to go for a while. I said, “That short-tired vehicle? I don’t think that can make it to Mundri.”

“No, no—it is a strong vehicle. It will make it! And it’s leaving now now.  If you don’t go, you will wait much later.”

Our broken van in the middle of what is a rushing
river during rainy season. Tipped over truck behind.

I thought—might as well go now as sit here in the Mundri Express shack and wait for the other bus. But that was not a smart thought.  We did leave the bus station a bit before 10am, but we went and sat at another station for another hour. When we finally got on the road, we broke down 15 minutes outside of Juba, but the guy fixed it really quickly, so I was only slightly worried. Also, I got to take a moment to go pee in the grass, so it wasn’t so bad. Then 15 minutes later we broke down one the Luri River. If it had been rainy season, we would have been swept away in the current. Also, I noted that the driver said, “Oh look at that tipped over truck!” And I was VERY WORRIED at that point because that tipped over truck has been there for a long time.  One (1) who travels that road a lot should definitely know that. At this point, I called Mahmood and said, “I told you so. Now send that other Land Cruiser to pick me up.” He promised to do so, but meanwhile, our car was up and putting along. I checked the speedometer and we didn’t break 20kmh ever. We stopped more than once. Mahmood called and said to the guy, “Just put that khawaja on any other land cruiser that comes by and I’ll pay for it.” I told him, “There are 10 other people in this van!” But he didn’t care about them because I don’t think they actually paid through Mundri Express, but direct to the driver. I don’t like being a diva khawaja, but I also didn’t want to spend the night on the road, and I’m pretty sure that is what happened to everyone who stayed in the van. As it turns out, I didn’t have to play the diva khawaja card. As we were standing out by the side of the road waiting for the car to be fixed again, a car saw my shining, burning white skin and swerved over.

We filled up with Pity Oil before we left. Should have been my first clue.

“Hey, you are from Mundri! You just drilled a well in our village! Get in the car—we’ll take you!” But I still looked like a diva khawaja getting into a better car, even though another guy in the van who also knew the driver also came along for the ride.

Driving the car!

And that’s how I ended up making it back to Mundri yesterday. I even helped out—I drove the car the last 40 miles. It was a right-hand side driver seat for a right-side of the road driving system, but really—I kept the steering wheel in the middle of the road plenty because the point of driving on roads here is not staying in your lane, but finding the least bumpy part of the road. I slid off the road once because of the sand, but was able to drive back onto the road to the great amusement of everyone else in the car. They also found it hilarious that I refused to drive over a crater that needed precariously accurate steering. You know about my hand-eye coordination. I helped drill a well for the guy, but that is not enough to smooth over wrecking his car. It was also really weird to drive a automatic car here. I kept smashing at the floorboards with my left foot, looking for the clutch. I also noticed that in spite of my best efforts, it was REALLY hard to get up over 20kmh. I maxed out at 50kmh on a particularly smoothish stretch, but then the car started fishtailing a bit in the sand, so I slowed down.

And that’s it! I’m back and I made an extensive schedule for next week, of which I hope to accomplish at least 50%. Someone who might be able to fix our pump will come on Monday. Diet Pepsi might still be available in the market here. My computer is almost fully charged. I ran six miles through sand pits this morning with a glorious sunrise in the background.   The market place “music” lovers played Justin Bieber last night and I contemplated committing felony destruction of property, but fortunately my ear plugs and white noise app and surround fan blocked out the11pm-4am music, allowing me to sleep mostly. And no (0) mice ran over my face last night.

American Domestic Travels--killing time in an airport (as usual)

Usually the Nashville airport is bristling with guitars and unrealistic dreams of singer-songwriter glory, but I actually saw my first guitar in Minneapolis.  Maybe it was because I was departing and not paying attention to the arriving flights—the TV was playing CNN and I was reading the subtitles, so maybe that was why I didn’t notice any. But I did notice an unnatural number of people in thin little short-sleeved t-shirts in the dead of winter. I think cohabitating with polar bears has made these people impervious to the cold. They also probably understand about things like slaloming and luging.

Now I’m in the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. When I arrived, I had to walk to the other side of the airport. I think this is because I’m flying to California, and they wanted to cut down on my flight time. Now, instead of a 16-hour flight that I probably would have had, I only have to fly for 4 hours to get there.  I walked in only the sunny spots of the airport to try to warm up because the dang Delta flight opened the door before the tunnel was connected to my plane. My pants froze to my legs. When the pilot said, “It’s 7 degrees outside!” I thought, “No problem. I can do 7 degrees because I’m wearing 2 long-sleeved shirts and a fleece-lined coat.” Then he added, “Fahrenheit.” And I wondered again how this part of the country ever became inhabited. There are places like Hawaii with perfect weather year-round...But still people live here and not there. I don’t understand it.

 

This is a photo of Minneapolis when I arrived.
Ignore that bit about "O Canada photos.com"--Canadians are always
 trying to take credit for everything.

Also, the US is too big. It is annoying to have to fly millions of miles to get to another state. I know that Manifest Destiny was a thing and all, but that’s done. Let’s chop down the US into more manageable chunks and also require my family to live in the same chunk, within an hour’s flight time from each other, because otherwise it’s just too complicated.

And now I will sit here for another 4 hours, waiting for my flight, wishing that I had brought my gloves because my fingers are freezing.  Build a giant fireplace at each gate or turn on your heat, MSP. Also, to the skinny blonde in a tank top walking across the F Concourse: You are an idiot. You deserve to die of frostbite.

Come Fly With Me -- if you have unlimited time and a high tolerance for pain and misery...

If I have internet access or in-flight magazines, I will always read the articles with travel tips or interviews with celebrities giving advice for their airplane must-haves. I was reading this article the other day by some fashion model/designer who name I had never heard before and already forgot, and I remember how she said that she NEVER eats while traveling. She doesn’t eat on the plane or in airports and she won’t bring food with her either. I remember thinking that she must not do too many international trips or else how could she make it that long without eating? And then I remembered that she was in the fashion industry, so she’s probably had a lot of practice abstaining from food. But for me and my most recent international travels, eating has been crucial to survival.

Traveling in SSudan
makes you look like this.

It started in mid-November. I was on my way to Khartoum, and, inspired by Leif, the reason behind most of my recent Sudan travels, I decided to wait until the last minute to buy my ticket to Khartoum from Juba. Unfortunately, this was a time-sensitive trip. I needed to arrive in time to get my passport to the immigration office before the weekend, which begins on Friday in Sudan. This left me with a very small window for traveling there. I called over the South Sudanese weekend (Saturday and Sunday) to buy the ticket for Tuesday or Wednesday, as I planned to leave Mundri for Juba on Monday or Tuesday. I ended up leaving on Tuesday, after assurances of easy ticket purchase for Wednesday. Monday we found out that tickets were not so easily purchased. I called in the big guns, i.e. Leif, to find tickets that got me in to Khartoum on Thursday morning. He obliged. My itinerary—Juba to Entebbe to Addis to Khartoum. Well, when you are desperate… But my dreams of an easy 1 hour trip were dashed into a million pieces and 14 hours and 4 airports. Bonus: I got Mohamed the immigration guy’s phone number because in my sleepless delirium I thought that my visa hadn’t been renewed in time and I flirted recklessly for what turned out to be no reason at all.

Getting off the plane in Juba last week--a self-portrait 

So I can blame Leif, his last-minute trip-planning philosophy and ticket-finding skillz on that trip, but fast forward 10 days, and I am the only one to blame for buying a ticket from Khartoum to Doha to Philly to Bham, with a 9.5 hour layover in Doha and a 10.5 hour layover in Philadelphia. But I did get to see friends and family, and I do remember that was part of my plan. But I think I was on some kind of mind-altering experimental drug when I bought the return ticket. My plan was to stop in Uganda for a day and rest before taking a nice MAF flight back into Mundri. I had some beautiful plans for that day too, involving sleeping and eating candy and charging all of my electrical devices. Instead, my flight schedule took me from Birmingham to Chicago to Frankfurt to Jeddah to Addis to Entebbe to Nairobi to Juba. Then the next day I traveled by car to Mundri—it only took 7.5 hours this time to drive 110 miles. Except for that part when we heard gunshots coming from the bush right next to us, it was a normal bumpy dusty ride. For the gunshots, we killed our headlights, popped into 5^th and hit the gas for about 10 minutes until we were sure that we weren’t the target of those bullets. We left too late and ended up driving a bit after dark—not the best idea, but when you’re desperate…

Then today I wake up early to call MAF at 8am for their ETA (estimated time of arrival) in Mundri. I had to use the sat phone because all of the cell phone networks were down. I called their caring customer service and heard “////////Icanhearyouclearly////” on the other line.

“Please speak slowly and loudly—I’m calling you from a satellite phone!” I yelled into the receiver, with my croaky hoarse cold-voice, while trying to keep the phone antenna pointing straight up into un-impeded sky at all times (not really that easy). In reply I heard “/////////callbacklater///////.” Well, after I got the girl to repeat herself 10 times, I was pretty sure I heard the “callbacklater.” Talking slowly and loudly seems pretty basic, but it is hard for some people. Still, they said they could hear me, so they must have known that I said I was calling from the sat phone and if you don’t know how to talk to people communicating by satellite phone, then you really shouldn’t be working with people in South Sudan.

I called back an hour later to a similar conversation. I said, “OK—I’LL CALL AGAIN IN AN HOUR!!” Then when I called again in an hour, the networks were finally working again and we had the following conversation:

MAF: Hello. Who is calling?

Me: Hi, I’m calling from Mundri again for the ETA.

MAF: From where?

Me: MUNDRI.

MAF: Right, I think that the ETA is 1pm, but if you had called at 10:30 like I told you to (emphasis NOT added by me), then I would be able to give you more accurate timing.

Me: I TOLD you that I couldn’t hear you. Is it more likely that the flight will arrive before or after 1pm?

MAF: *click*

Me: #$%^&@#%^@

Then the flight finally arrived at 1:30pm. I was paranoid at that point that it wasn’t going to come at all and I would be stuck. I hear we are flying straight to Arua (the point of entry in Uganda), and I was quite glad that this meant that we were not going through Juba. However, when we arrived in Juba, I found that MAF had decided to skip over landing at Entebbe International Airport (which was the destination that I had requested when I booked my ticket). No, we were landing in Kajjansi airstrip, about an hour away from the airport. I did not pretend to be happy about this, but my pilot was apologetic and arranged for a taxi to take me to the airport from Kajjansi. I would have been nicer about it, except that I had to pay $50 for a visa and then sit outside waiting to check in.  And there was the time that he turned to the plane and said, “OK-is there anyone else still trying to arrange transportation from Kajjansi?” Like I was some slacker who waited until the last minute to plan for travel arrangements to the airport. I think that he was actually trying to be nice (he was Canadian), but it did not hit me well. I spent the flight planning a speech that would be both apologetic for blaming him for not landing in Entebbe (it was not his fault) while at the same time managing to covertly insult Canadian pop culture (I’ve been oppressed by Bryan Adams music a lot recently and I want to blame SOMEONE for that). But I didn’t get a chance to talk to him after we landed. It is too bad. It was an epic speech.

Anyway, I’m in the Entebbe airport. My flight to Amsterdam is already delayed, but I think I still have time to get to my next flight. But now I’m mad at the stupid lady who checked me in and swore she gave me aisle seats because I’m pretty sure that only one is on an aisle. I was the first person to check in so it shouldn’t have been hard. And she was so smiley and nice and assuring about it. Jerk. I have to remember to double-check when people hand me the boarding passes. It’s just that I get so many of them…

Boarding passes from my last trip

Well, since our flight is delayed, I’m going to go get the complimentary cold beverage I earned. Then I’m going to get some ice cream because the AC is not working in here and I had to change into my “winter clothes” already and I don’t want to get sweaty.  Then I’m going to try to find a KLM representative…I ASKED FOR AN AISLE SEAT. DO NOT MESS WITH ME TODAY. Anymore. Please.