Zacharia threw his pen down on the desk in anger and grabbed his head in despair. Mr. Bol, the old watchman, placed his hands on his hips and slowly shook his head “no, no, no. Not good.” Keat sent me an email, expressing that he’d put his plans to go to university that year on hold in order to keep working for me, and that I should therefore reconsider. In an extremely inexpressive culture, I found these responses to the news of my departure very touching.
Respite from the onslaught of running the program came in an unexpected form: notice of separation from my employer effective 30 June. Because I am paid by the budget/project that I manage, when that project ends, so too, in theory, does my employment. My employer is obligated to give me 30 days notice of this (never mind that it came on 11 June). The project is officially supposed to conclude on 30 June and no new project has yet been signed, despite 4 months of negotiation on the proposal we submitted. So, come 30 June, I’m officially out of a job.
Now I knew that I didn’t have to take that letter seriously. I’d got one before, back in April.
That time I played pragmatist, kept on working, found a new project, almost singlehandedly prepared a bid and won it, kept myself and my team in employment, kept an office open and won my employer $89k. You see, I’m not entirely sure why we call ourselves a non-profit organization. We are entitled to take 17% of each grant we manage as a Negotiated Indirect Cost Recovery (NICRA) to cover things like plush offices in DC and the occasional regional meeting in Zanzibar.
I asked for raise. Declined. I asked to cash in on my unaccompanied baggage allowance and bring back with me a mountain bike from my leave. Declined – I’m only allowed to take that at the beginning of my placement apparently. They seemed oblivious to the fact that I was doing them a favor by not packing my bags and taking them up on the offer to fly me home – and then back again once an extension was agreed. When I suggested this I got an icy response from a particular HR person (let’s call her “M”), whom I’ve always sparred with. It read something to the effect of:
“While we appreciate your desire to save CHF costs, that is not the primary motivating factor for what we do. We must all, first and foremost, adhere to staff policy.”
I should have told them to piss of then – partly because such snooty tones are mine alone to use in correspondence, and partly because of the ridiculousness. I remember my predecessor saying “do they have any clue what I’ve gone through for them?” But I didn’t tell them to piss off, I got on with the work, they rescinded the separation letter 2 days before the separation date and I just continued in the job. It’s not that I had that much faith in them, rather I like the idea of having a job in an economic downturn.
This time it was different. After a grueling 6 weeks (loss: 320,000 mosquito nets, profit: 2 goats and a chicken), ugly and infected bites on my arse, complete failure of my organization’s local HR/administrative/financial functions (I’d been acting as finance officer for the last 2 months), the notice of separation letter was a welcome invitation to take a break. My response on the 12th read something to the effect of:
“Dear M, Thank you for the notice of separation letter and in accordance with staff policy I’d like to start preparing for my flight back to the UK. I have 9.5 annual leave days and 4.5 sick leave day remaining. My last day to work was therefore yesterday. Would you like to start making the travel arrangements or should I?”
My blissfully oblivious line manger who’d been copied on all these messages finally acted, but only by going into a panic and arranging to fly in. Really, I should not have received that letter. My line manager should have been aware of where I was with my projects, known that we’d have worked out a one month extension and known that there was no way for me to wrap up and get out by the end of the month. But if he didn’t know by that point, I wasn’t about to volunteer it nor make a sacrifice for it. I was dreaming about getting on a flight out and getting someone competent to look at my arse (in a medical (clinical) capacity, that is).
But no one moved to stop me so I went about my last week saying goodbye to people in a very low-key way. I wasn’t entirely certain that I could get out, and a week is a long time for things to go wrong here. As word spread through the team every person came to confirm individually and express regrets. I’m not sure if it’s just expressing what the boss expects to hear, almost all of them owing me money, or if there was genuine sadness at the prospect of me leaving. An expat colleague in Nairobi said that her experience was that if they’re happy to see you go they make no effort to hide it.
I wasn’t filled with any significant feeling that week as it felt right to be leaving. I was excited over the fact that I’d had one phone interview and a second arranged after a few days for another job that seemed like a very good possibility. I was certain that I didn’t like being in South Sudan, but I knew that I’d miss my team. We’d become effective colleagues and good friends, but I felt that the balance was shifting to the latter and I wasn’t sure how much longer my authority over them would last. Time to go.
On the Monday I left the office was a hive of activity. 4 cars were going in 4 different directions with just about everyone in them. Each came to say goodbye before he left. Victor is the youngest driver, illiterate, incredibly hard working and good-natured. He’s playful, mischievous and is fun to be around. I’d hired him about 7 months ago on a whim – one of the best decisions I’ve made, and we’d worked a lot together since. I helped him when his son had died, tried to teach him some writing, and had loaned him some cash. He repaid this by his complete dedication to anything I asked him to do. I felt very protective of him and think that if I had a younger brother, this is what the relationship would be like. That morning I had to reprimand him for not showing up to work on Saturday, but I followed it by giving him my iPod and FM transmitter so as not to end on a bad note.
I stood in the driveway to wave goodbye and he walked up with his hand outstretched. We held hands for a moment and he dropped his head as if thinking about what to say. He then suddenly dropped my hand and threw his arms around me, resting his head on my chest. He squeezed, then quickly let go and ran back to his car and drove away. He was crying. I was too.
I’m not going to miss Rumbek or Sudan much but I will miss these characters. The playful and athletic Victor, the hulking prima donna Acuil and the little big man Zacharia. I think they really don’t want me to go, partly because of he friendships we’d developed but also because its become clear that I held a significant amount of their well-being in my hands. There’s a lot to worry about in times of uncertainty here – it’s not just the inconvenience of having to look for work, it’s a complete livelihood. Responsible for hiring, firing and fixing salaries, I had a lot of clout. Schmooze and personal favour go along way and for someone like Victor who can only prove his professional skills in person on and over time, having an in is everything. He’d have no in if he had to move jobs and knew that my hiring him was pure chance. Despite the occasional arrogance that my employees would sometimes display the overall desperation for work was indicated by the flood of applicants that arrived the moment a job notice was posted.
It was, by no means, a great escape. The plane left on time, almost without me. I got to Nairobi and enjoyed hot water, a good meal and a conformable bed. A beautiful and flirtatious Somali doctor told me that my ass was in good shape, the bites noting to worry about and then asked “shall I deworm you?” For a moment I thought it was going to involve more than just some tablets.
I’d planned on being stuck in Nairobi for a week of treatment, but now with an all clear I had time on my hands. Qatar airways had an offer to Kuala Lumpur for less than a grand, so I bought a ticket. The city, beaches, fruits and food were a great break from what I came from, and indeed where I might be going to. I got a verbal offer on a job in Afghanistan. CHF has also asked me to come back to run the next project, but the agreement’s not been signed (still), and I’m not sure if I’ve the wherewithal to go back. That didn’t stop me from asking for a hefty raise and saying I could only go back if they met this and some other conditions. Good to keep my options open. I kind of feel like I said goodbye to Sudan though, and as much as I care about the individuals I worked with I doubt my being there Is going to make their, or anyone else’s lives better. The country is sliding down the tubes (http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/jun/21/sudan-humanitarian-disaster) and it seems almost certain that when the upcoming elections and referendum don’t yield the desired results for the South, they’ll just go to war again. Save for erecting a steel fence round the compound and keeping everyone inside, I can’t save them.
I might go back on a short-term contract just to close up and hand over the project. If not I’ll probably just keep in contact with a couple of them whichever way I can. I feel like I’m already being swept away and didn’t even get to say a proper goodbye to Africa in Nairobi (whatever that might look like) because I missed my flight in KL and only had 4 hours to make my connection to London.
Ah well, chapter over. I think I left Sudan a little better off, even if there is little objective measure of the fact and hardly anyone said it. I’ve sure as hell earned my stripes – in people management, off road driving, car repairs, budget design, language and overall self-confidence I feel I’ve come a long way. I need to work out a way to retain these lessons. I’ve learned before that after gaining skills in a foreign land my memory alone of them is neither objective nor conveyable. Most job interviewers thought I was lying when I recounted my management of a volunteer program in Ghana. Maybe I just sounded too arrogant. Maybe I’ve not come a long way in that respect, but I’m kicking myself for not getting more people to visit me in Rumbek. I managed a good operation there and was pretty fabulous. You’ll just have to take my word for it. Sudan made me so. I am grateful to it for that.
I’m in London for a few weeks to see what’s next. I’ll reflect on the last year, so while I’m no longer in Sudan (mooting the title for this blog), I might make one more entry. That makes it very much like the whole experience: ups & downs, goods & bads, semi-conclusive, somewhat interesting, and very self-indulgent.
Thanks for coming.
xx
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