I got back to Sudan well rested, well fed and to good news. My employer offered to bring me on as a real employee. No more un-benefitted, un-insured consultancy status. Now the need to go to DC to attend orientation. A little silly, given that I’d been working for them for 6 moths already, but who am I to refuse a free flight?
Over the next couple of weeks we had training in Juba for our community workers so the decadence of a real abode continued, although for the same price of $200 in Sanaa I stayed in the beautiful 5* Movenpick. In Juba this gets you a Chinese pre-fab room that smelt like the open drain that was the shower. At least there was air conditioning. The UN royally messed up our flights, so I ended up having to send vehicles on the 26 hour trip to collect all the people we needed to Juba and take them back a few days later. The journey back was particularly eventful.
A bad spot on the road where trucks had got stuck had started to flood: construction of a nearby bridge having been halted because of political wrangling. The Government of South Sudan (GOSS) had contracted a Chinese company to dam the river in the dry season and construct a bridge across it. The Chinese had then sub-contracted to a North Sudanese company. The North Sudanese company had halted work on its government’s instruction because it feared the completion of the bridge and road would allow the south to transport arms (tanks from a Ukranian ship, perhaps) northwards to the border. Given that this is the only road in the country that connects the north with the south, a few things other than weapons travel that route: like me and my radios. On the way north we managed to squeeze by a bad spot after a few hours of delay, a lot of mud and the digging out of one stuck car.
Three days later we returned to the same town (called Wunrock) to find the road closed. The rising water had washed away sections of the road and flooded all the surrounding villages. Hundreds had been flooded out of their homes that now stood under 2-3ft of water. The temporary dam that has been put in place (that was also the road across a section of the river) was just about holding up under the of water that was collecting from rain miles away, but to the detriment of everything around it. We met there another group who had been waiting for 2 days – a mine clearance NGO headed up by a middle-aged, ex-military Canadian and a similar South African. Helen Fielding, the author of Bridget Jones, once wrote that development workers can fall into one of 4 categories: missionary, mercenary, misfit or broken heart. These guys were definitely number 3, and perhaps the most racist, bigoted and arrogant people I’ve ever met. Does it take one to know one?
They told us that work was ongoing and they hoped that the road would open within the next few hours. We parked and brought out our camping gear: we knew not to be optimistic.
We waited 3 days next to the rising water. Some army guys had arrived and felt it their responsibility to take over the management of the road reconstruction. They seriously delayed matters because the workers downed tools (or rather parked bulldozers) in the face of the military’s physical threats. The issue was quickly resolved (I think because the commander’s car had had been blocked by the heavy machinery), but work continued at a slow pace. We were held far away from the work by a roadblock, but snuck through occasionally (very difficult in big white cars) to see what was happening. Each time the soldiers berated us, but even that was better than the mind-numbing boredom of knowing and doing nothing.
I had a flight to Nairobi on Friday morning. It was Tuesday and there was no end to the repairs in site. The workers were building up mud on the water’s side of the road. As you looked down it, you saw now a 5ft high wall of mud on the right (and an equally high wall of water held behind it) and open space on the left. If that wall gave, everything along its 3 or 4km stretch would be washed away. As pressure built up along this lower-lying section, other sections of the road gave as the rising water undercut it. The construction team had been going back and forth between sections of the road and adding to the wall for days and getting nowhere.
This is what I find most terrifying about life here. In the UK or US we trust the structures on which we rely: the bridge has been tested, it will hold your vehicle’s weight and it will tell you clearly before you’re on it by way of a sign if it can’t. The roads are well constructed, won’t wash away and (excepting black cabs) are generally safe to travel on. If anything happens, there will be a price to pay by those responsible. This, reputation and a general respect for life ensures these standards are met. Of course there are exceptions, but those make headlines. I pondered travelling that road in our cars. The thought of getting stuck on that stretch scared me. It would have been impossible anyway with huge trenches of water cut across the path ahead.
Plan B: foot it. Early the next morning Samuel took one car back north to the safety and comfort of Leer. The Catholic priests there would put him up and could make use of the vehicle. Victor in the other car bedded in with the racist deminers (their team of Sudanese staff were actually very friendly and welcoming), and waited for the construction team to finish work. I and two others hoisted our bags onto our heads and walked through the water, waist high in some places. In others I don’t think it was just water I was wading through. It was about 10km to the next town. I regretted packing so many pairs of shoes – I’m kidding, I left them in the car. We hitched a ride back to Wau and took public transport from there, arriving back in Rumbek on Thursday.
Although only 4 weeks since my last break, I felt like I’d earned that hot shower and comfortable bed in Nairobi. A day later I was in the bright lights and big city of DC -- gripped by election fever. Poor Victor was stuck at the roadblock for another 5 days. But like all around me I forgot about all else in the world, was sucked in by CNN (who also seemed to forget about all else in the world), and watched America do the right thing.
DC was a great experience. I liked the city and had the chance to catch up with a friend. We had fun on election night. I also had a blessing in the form of an overnight visitor. I didn’t realize how much I had missed human contact. We just clicked in the way that allows an instant social and physical attraction. It was the easiest, most enjoyable and most satisfying night I’ve had in a long time. Maybe because I was desperate. Maybe because we knew we couldn’t see each other again. As has happened before, circumstance pushed me along and I started to really regret losing my US residency.
I then went to Florida for a week to visit my mother and promptly remembered why I’d left. I don’t miss Florida, but it has its advantages: cheap shopping and good medical services. The day before I left I managed to squeeze in a visit to the same dentist I’d convinced to take out my wisdom teeth during the 2 days I last had dental insurance just before I left for Ghana in 2002. I went in just for a cleaning, but given that it had been 4 years since I’d last had anything done I was expecting the worst. He suggested I have 4 small fillings and was amused by the repeated urgency as I was leaving the next morning. He kindly did them for me over his lunch break….and charged $900.
I stopped in London on the way back long enough to see a couple of friends, my uncle and family, and to apologize to my brother for the fact that my boxes will be staying with him for more than the previously agreed 6 months. It wasn’t enough time, but having been gone for as long as I’d been at work in the last 2 months, I needed to get back to Rumbek.
I’ve come back to what looks like a different country. Dry season is officially here and what was vividly green, verdant and overgrown the last time I saw it is now beige, dusty and wilting. The place seems generally calmer. It’s a bit like being at the beach. In all honesty, I’m a bit relieved to be back. I feel relieved to know the world I left in both the US and UK is still there and still just how I left it. When here I have this persistent nagging feeling like I’m missing something important. While I do miss all that goes on with friends and family, I am missing little else. Everyone is still consumed by their daily routine. Everyone is still hung up on appearances and impressions and money. I am too, but being outside it for a while is what brings me the relief. That’s one of the things I was looking for by coming. For the last 6 months I’ve not worked out, not eaten well and not flossed. My time in the US reaffirmed the importance of these things – and I’ll admit this – it’s the social reasons that have resold me on them. And also for my well-being. Maybe I’ve not come too far after all. And that might be a good thing – lest you relegate me to the category of misfit, too.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
A khutba in pidgin, a wudu in heels
I’ve not been keeping up with this. I think that’s a sign of contentment in that there’s not been enough to whinge about. I’ve also observed that my happiness seemed to be inversely proportional to the amount of time I spend in any one place.
This was probably the oddest Ramadan I’ve completed with some serious challenges and some easy rides. In terms of ease I had someone cooking me dinner every night. I never underestimate the value of not having to cook dinner for myself when I’m tired, cranky and incredibly impatient with innocent things like tomatoes. It was a quiet couple of weeks and we were nearing the end of the distribution. By now we were all doing this with our eyes closed and 2000 radios a day was the norm. I fulfilled my role of big man and dispatched the team to the distributions while I busied myself less easily defined program management tasks. The fact that I can’t remember what I was doing for the month shouldn’t suggest that they were unimportant…ok, maybe they were…but there was always enough of engaging stuff to do to ensure that the hours of the day to melted quickly away.
And the melting was the biggest challenge: 30+ degrees in the shade with no air conditioning meant I sweat persistently. There aren’t that may Muslims in the South and I’m the only one in my team, so like London, it was again quite a lonely experience. Especially the morning meals before sunrise. I’d bought a paraffin stove so was able to cook breakfast for myself, but it was still raining in September so I either had to cook inside (despite manufacturers claims those little Chinese stoves are not smokeless, fumeless and odourless), or outside in the rain. No electricity meant doing it by candlelight. I’m still not sure what the crunchy things in the eggs were. I stepped on a wasp. I knocked over a candle and burnt a hole in my bed. While it was nice to be able to make as much noise as I liked, the lack of conveniences such as light and running water to wash plates and myself just took a lot of time and effort. In some ways it was nice to be so far away from the developed world: my thoughts were oriented in the direction they should have been – upwards.
But the lack of good food began to take its toll. My diarrhoea was persistent and the cook’s evening meals not particularly balanced. Come the end of the month I’d lost about 8 kilos, and had sores on my tongue that had taken on a deep red colour: symptoms of vit B deficiency.
I found another mosque on the UN camp. On most occasions all visitors to the UN compound are searched, ID’d and questioned. Tell the guards you’re a Muslim going to the mosque, tough, and you’re waved straight through – an oddly backwards experience. In the mosque (a corrugated iron-roofed, mosquito net-walled shack that is leagues above and beyond the construction site that passes for a mosque in the town), I found a bizarre mix of worshippers every shade of human: black, dark brown, beige and white, from all the nations represented in UNMIS. The Imam was Nigerian and the Khutba given in pidgin:
“you have to ask for forgiveness, O! Behind the forgiveness is giving, O! Ramadan is about what? Forgiveness and Giving!.” No one really seemed to be following the very circular argmet and the small Banglaeshis to my right seemed delighted to have a new member of the community joining them.
My Somali friend Hassan, was a good source of company and evening meals throughout the month. One night he suggested a change from the Somali shack/restaurant and invited me to the house of a friend. I expected to meet the host and eat his wife’s food. The host wasn’t in his one-roomed house when we arrived, but Hassan welcomed me in and sat me next to a small, but impressive, set of wigs. Our host was a woman. She cooked for us a delicious meal from the outdoor kitchen and kept herself secluded from the strange men she was hosting. . I shouted my greetings and thanks across the rain smacked and muddy courtyard. She shouted back an invitation to use some sandals she had outside the door to go and wash for prayers. I jumped down into a small pair of women’s kittly-slipers. It felt very odd performing a wudu in heels, and the rakahs in front of a makeup stand, but I hope my prayers were nonetheless accepted.
I was looking forward to the end of Ramadan mostly because it marked the start of my next vacation. I got to Sanaa two days before Eid. Yemen was stunningly beautiful in every respect: the scenery, the architecture and the warmth of the people. I’m not sure how tourists are able to be kidnapped here: as well as being generous, respectful and friendly, most people were no taller than 5’7” and perpetually strung out on Qat. Now that is an impressive national habit. Every afternoon most men start chewing the leaf. By early evening they’re all acting like space cadets and not face passes without the huge bulge of the Qat in the cheek.
The beds, the hot running water, the beauty of the city and the warmth of the people that made it a nice break. What made it particularly good was that I was understood when I spoke. My efforts to learn Arabic in Amman some years ago appeared to be really quite fruitless as any conversation I tried to start in Arabic would only yield strange looks. Unable to speak, I’ve always felt a little fake. I tended to crumble under simple questioning by Syrian border guards as they try to understand why the individual in front of them looks like the one in the Jordanian passport they’re holding, but doesn’t seem to be ale to do more than stumble over a few words. There, I am an illiterate Arab.
In Yemen, though, I was a Briton who spoke some Arabic. Their hospitality meant that they tried to understand what I was saying, or at least they pretended to. It was an easy and relaxing week, despite very little English being spoken. That would have been a hard trip in the past. And I think that’s why I enjoyed this trip so much. As well as beautiful scenery, this was the first objective measure for me that I’m better off after my time in Sudan. My Arabic hasn’t gotten any better, I’m just a bit more confident. And it’s all relative: after the self-flagellation of a month of Ramadan in Rumbek, any break would have felt good. Why keep beating myself? Because it feels so good when I stop.
This was probably the oddest Ramadan I’ve completed with some serious challenges and some easy rides. In terms of ease I had someone cooking me dinner every night. I never underestimate the value of not having to cook dinner for myself when I’m tired, cranky and incredibly impatient with innocent things like tomatoes. It was a quiet couple of weeks and we were nearing the end of the distribution. By now we were all doing this with our eyes closed and 2000 radios a day was the norm. I fulfilled my role of big man and dispatched the team to the distributions while I busied myself less easily defined program management tasks. The fact that I can’t remember what I was doing for the month shouldn’t suggest that they were unimportant…ok, maybe they were…but there was always enough of engaging stuff to do to ensure that the hours of the day to melted quickly away.
And the melting was the biggest challenge: 30+ degrees in the shade with no air conditioning meant I sweat persistently. There aren’t that may Muslims in the South and I’m the only one in my team, so like London, it was again quite a lonely experience. Especially the morning meals before sunrise. I’d bought a paraffin stove so was able to cook breakfast for myself, but it was still raining in September so I either had to cook inside (despite manufacturers claims those little Chinese stoves are not smokeless, fumeless and odourless), or outside in the rain. No electricity meant doing it by candlelight. I’m still not sure what the crunchy things in the eggs were. I stepped on a wasp. I knocked over a candle and burnt a hole in my bed. While it was nice to be able to make as much noise as I liked, the lack of conveniences such as light and running water to wash plates and myself just took a lot of time and effort. In some ways it was nice to be so far away from the developed world: my thoughts were oriented in the direction they should have been – upwards.
But the lack of good food began to take its toll. My diarrhoea was persistent and the cook’s evening meals not particularly balanced. Come the end of the month I’d lost about 8 kilos, and had sores on my tongue that had taken on a deep red colour: symptoms of vit B deficiency.
I found another mosque on the UN camp. On most occasions all visitors to the UN compound are searched, ID’d and questioned. Tell the guards you’re a Muslim going to the mosque, tough, and you’re waved straight through – an oddly backwards experience. In the mosque (a corrugated iron-roofed, mosquito net-walled shack that is leagues above and beyond the construction site that passes for a mosque in the town), I found a bizarre mix of worshippers every shade of human: black, dark brown, beige and white, from all the nations represented in UNMIS. The Imam was Nigerian and the Khutba given in pidgin:
“you have to ask for forgiveness, O! Behind the forgiveness is giving, O! Ramadan is about what? Forgiveness and Giving!.” No one really seemed to be following the very circular argmet and the small Banglaeshis to my right seemed delighted to have a new member of the community joining them.
My Somali friend Hassan, was a good source of company and evening meals throughout the month. One night he suggested a change from the Somali shack/restaurant and invited me to the house of a friend. I expected to meet the host and eat his wife’s food. The host wasn’t in his one-roomed house when we arrived, but Hassan welcomed me in and sat me next to a small, but impressive, set of wigs. Our host was a woman. She cooked for us a delicious meal from the outdoor kitchen and kept herself secluded from the strange men she was hosting. . I shouted my greetings and thanks across the rain smacked and muddy courtyard. She shouted back an invitation to use some sandals she had outside the door to go and wash for prayers. I jumped down into a small pair of women’s kittly-slipers. It felt very odd performing a wudu in heels, and the rakahs in front of a makeup stand, but I hope my prayers were nonetheless accepted.
I was looking forward to the end of Ramadan mostly because it marked the start of my next vacation. I got to Sanaa two days before Eid. Yemen was stunningly beautiful in every respect: the scenery, the architecture and the warmth of the people. I’m not sure how tourists are able to be kidnapped here: as well as being generous, respectful and friendly, most people were no taller than 5’7” and perpetually strung out on Qat. Now that is an impressive national habit. Every afternoon most men start chewing the leaf. By early evening they’re all acting like space cadets and not face passes without the huge bulge of the Qat in the cheek.
The beds, the hot running water, the beauty of the city and the warmth of the people that made it a nice break. What made it particularly good was that I was understood when I spoke. My efforts to learn Arabic in Amman some years ago appeared to be really quite fruitless as any conversation I tried to start in Arabic would only yield strange looks. Unable to speak, I’ve always felt a little fake. I tended to crumble under simple questioning by Syrian border guards as they try to understand why the individual in front of them looks like the one in the Jordanian passport they’re holding, but doesn’t seem to be ale to do more than stumble over a few words. There, I am an illiterate Arab.
In Yemen, though, I was a Briton who spoke some Arabic. Their hospitality meant that they tried to understand what I was saying, or at least they pretended to. It was an easy and relaxing week, despite very little English being spoken. That would have been a hard trip in the past. And I think that’s why I enjoyed this trip so much. As well as beautiful scenery, this was the first objective measure for me that I’m better off after my time in Sudan. My Arabic hasn’t gotten any better, I’m just a bit more confident. And it’s all relative: after the self-flagellation of a month of Ramadan in Rumbek, any break would have felt good. Why keep beating myself? Because it feels so good when I stop.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)