Second Chances

The welcome back was incredible. I’ve never felt so appreciated. It was amazing how quickly I felt unimportant in London. I thoroughly enjoyed that month and a half off and highly recommend it to anyone working. The break was so good because I was clear of my previous obligation and certain of the next that was coming. I landed on my feet, but not in the position I’d expected. The job in Afghanistan didn’t come through – so much for certainty. After 8 weeks and 3 interviews they decided that they couldn’t hire non-Americans. I think it was for the better as it seemed to be a little on the fly: definitely not the ideal situation when in a war zone. I found this out only a day after turning down CHF’s offer of return so Sudan for slightly more money. Arse.

I called CHF back (NB: I did not grovel) and said that I would be available to help get the new project started and could come back short-term (if they were lucky). An HR bod called me back after a day or two to offer me $300 a day as a consultant for a 3 month contract. I figured it would take her a day or two to realize how much money that was and to call me back. They did so with a new offer - revised downward, but still favourable. In the absence of better offers, I accepted a start date of the following week.

That was a good week. I would look up at flights crossing London thinking that I would soon be joining them to jet off and do something useful. I love having a sense of purpose and quickly forgot the frustrations of working in Sudan for my organization -- besides, it would only be short term. While the break was good I quickly missed feeling important, wanted, valued and unique. I quickly got tired of London life. Conversation is complaint, people incessantly whinge and only talk to share their “nightmares” from the previous day: no hot water, having to wait all evening for the internet repair guy to come…

So back to Sudan for 12 weeks. Too much luggage again. It was a little surreal coming back and the first fortnight felt much like a dream. I was confident I could run this project in my sleep having written the proposal and worked in the same place and capacity for the last year. It’s not complex, and although getting through the very long to do list would require a frenetic pace, at least the tasks were clear.

The frustrations started before arrival. It was unclear whether or not I was booked on the flight until 10pm the night before to fly at 10am the next morning. They hadn’t arranged a visa, a hotel or transport in Nairobi. These frustrations I can manage, though, as long as I expect them and their approximate proportion.

I slipped into the routine of work relatively quickly, allowing myself a week of adjustment. The greatest effort was learning to care again: that unpaid tax, the yet to do final report.... I bounced between thoughts of how happy I was to be back and how thankful I was that I would only have to put up with these frustrations for 12 weeks. I predicted that this was actually going to be a little mechanical… someone had warned me that nothing’s quite as good the second time around.



6 weeks later Isaac Bol died. At that point I just didn’t have the emotional resources to mount a response. I didn’t act soon enough by sending him in a car to take him to the hospital. For that I felt extreme guilt. So much had not happened that was supposed to while I was gone and in the absence of leadership petty fighting a bickering had broken out in the team. It had taken me this long to wrest back control on the project and make any kind of dent in the new project I was supposed to be implementing. I uncovered incidents of fraud, theft and outright incompetence that had led to the loss of a lot of money, and the potential for a lot more.

Security outside the compound seemed to be falling to shit. 140 were killed in a single week in Jonglei. What was disturbing was that this wasn’t for the usual purpose of cattle or child raiding, it was just internecine violence. The attackers had very new Kalashnikovs. I was stuck in Juba for a week as the town underwent surprise disarmament. 2 MPs were caught fleeing the city with cars full of anti-aircraft guns.

There’s a common practice of referring to the boss as ‘father’. Any head is generally seen as the provider, benefactor and caregiver. And while this position is served, serviced and respected, it is also the point of call for assistance in times of need. Although I love all the attention and respect I’ve earned by my large and growing team, the fairly constant stream of visitors to announce births, marriages, sicknesses, emergencies, needs, requests for loans on top of the day job can get a bit overwhelming.

I got back to Rumbek after 3 weeks on the road. That week, one staff was stung by a scorpion, another ambushed and lost one of our motorbikes, and Bol fell seriously ill. I was the port of call for all cases. The local government hospital is appalling – I learnt this on having to retrieve Makuac the previous year from an appendix surgery from which he went septic twice. The nearest reasonable care is in Mapurtit, 2.5 hours away by car. At 4pm, it was too late to send a car. I didn’t want to have the driver out that late and he’d racked up much too much overtime. In an off-handed manner I told them to wait until the morning and if Bol was still unwell, to go to the hospital then.

Did I kill a man just because I wanted to avoid having to shell out 5 hours of overtime pay? By the time they reached the hospital he was in worse shape. They radioed 2 days later to tell us he died – acute cerebral malaria and syphilis.
I think there was nothing more I could have reasonably done – I tell myself. No matter what I do, it’s never enough. This place will consume me if I let it. While waiting too long to send a car to save him was an error, I did well to send one immediately to retrieve the body. This, I later found out, allowed him to be buried at home and for his family and to hold a service for him. I attended the funeral that weekend that lasted a 11 hours and I was a star guest. His widow, family and pastor made constant references to my presence as further evidence of my respectfulness, generosity and uprightness… all the while me thinking that actually, I contributed to his death. I took and made best use of my second chance without knowing it. Sadly there wasn’t a second chance for Bol.

They slaughtered a cow on his grave. It was a colourful day: fluorescent red blood, spilling on the ochre red soil and the feet of the liquorice-black pastor with the bright purple shirt next to the pale white guy who was trying not to look awkward. I wanted a photo.

Ramadan came and went. This time was easier than last year. No real illness, but I lost 8kgs. I looked forward to my leave in 2 weeks.