The beauty of a blog is it’s a one-off method of relaying what’s happening in one’s life. The curse is that it requires regular feeding. And at times there’s nothing in the cupboard, so to speak. Even in the wilds of South Sudan, there is routine, monotony, and even boredom – things that are not worthy of broadcasting. But, under the threat of being pummeled by rotting mangoes from one hungry reader, I hereby attempt to gather some thoughts and observations.
***
In a region swimming in oil, there is a fuel shortage – at least in Juba where I live. As a result, the city is rationing its electrical system. Blackouts are becoming routine, but last evening’s was not. The lights in the kitchen, the bathroom and one coworker’s room were functioning, while my room and my neighbor’s room were plunged into stifling darkness. In addition, our field sites in Yambio and Tambura are suffering from a drought. The rains have started, but they are infrequent. Wells are dry and people are being forced to walk farther to gather water.
***
Last week I had the pleasure of escaping Juba and spending seven glorious days in Yambio County, my home for nearly three months upon my arrival in South Sudan. The community is walking friendly and so we often take long, meandering walks on the dirt paths winding around the mud huts and through the mango trees. On one evening I strolled with Elizabeth, our Kenyan nurse, and Val, our Canadian gender based violence program manager. Our walk took us briefly down into a ravine of sorts, at the bottom of which is a watering hole.
Two days later our field coordinator was summoned by a representative of a certain county government department. The government official demanded to know why the two white ladies and the Kenyan were walking around and scouting out mineral sources. We are, he says, stealing minerals. Yes, that’s right, minerals. It’s a mystery to us how we are doing this, but I find that logic has no home here. He demanded to see our passports; our field coordinator refused to comply until the request comes in writing. It just so happened that the following day I flew back to Juba and the Canadian hit the road to return to her field base. So, from the standpoint of this government official, it probably appears we are running scared. On top of it, our field coordinator’s work permit has expired. So, what sounds like a ridiculous accusation that should otherwise go unregistered, could bring us some heartburn. All NGOs are here at the government’s invitation – an invitation that can be unceremoniously revoked at any moment, though to my knowledge this hasn’t happened.
It’s clear that this county department wants something from us – money, use of our vehicles, etc. Last week they came around to the NGOs looking for money in order to construct a building. Our field coordinator donated only about $25 in order to help them purchase nails. Perhaps this small amount was seen as an insult.
***
My first night back in sweet sweet Yambio I attended a small party our field coordinator threw for his expatriate and national staff. After feasting on roasted goat and other tasty dishes, we pulled our chairs into a circle under the mango tree and shared some beers. One among us asked everybody to share stories, jokes or riddles. “Do you know what love is? Can you spell it?” The answer: I-t. “Why is 6 afraid of 7?” The answer: Because 7 8 9. We were all a bit confused, however, when one person told the true tale of a father who routinely defiled his child under the unobservant eye of the child’s mother. The apparent moral of the story: communication with your coworkers is important. Really? Are you sure? Perhaps we shouldn’t buy so much beer at our staff parties.
***
Juba, the capital of South Sudan, is a city by most definitions, but in many ways it’s a village. As such, it’s not terribly uncommon to be offered a ride if you’re footing it, as they say. On Friday night the invitation came from a man in a pickup truck. We were about to hop into the bed of the truck when we realized that he was wearing a neck brace and had a huge bandage wrapped around his head. Something had fallen on him, he explained. “I have six titties,” he said. What? Come again? Titties, he said, pointing to his head. Oh, stitches! Six stitches! Why, yes you do. Thanks, but we’ll walk.
***
And then you find yourself in a restaurant where the New Orleans' theme song “Mardi Gras Mambo” comes on the stereo and you look around and wonder “Where exactly am I again?”
***
In the battle between house and office here in our Juba location, the house has won with a total knockout. We have temporarily rented an office space in order to alleviate the crowding, and to afford the much-needed separation of work and home. The air conditioned office looks out over one of my favorite places in town – the pizza restaurant. So now instead of being harassed by the smell of fried foods wafting from our kitchen, I am tantalized by the odor of doughy, cheesy pizza. Is there no end to the torture one must endure?
***
And then you find yourself at a party with guys named Go Go, Bongo and Qu. Our all-time favorite name to date, however, is Godsent Moses – which, as a friend points out, is the only name that in itself is a complete sentence.
***
In a region swimming in oil, there is a fuel shortage – at least in Juba where I live. As a result, the city is rationing its electrical system. Blackouts are becoming routine, but last evening’s was not. The lights in the kitchen, the bathroom and one coworker’s room were functioning, while my room and my neighbor’s room were plunged into stifling darkness. In addition, our field sites in Yambio and Tambura are suffering from a drought. The rains have started, but they are infrequent. Wells are dry and people are being forced to walk farther to gather water.
***
Last week I had the pleasure of escaping Juba and spending seven glorious days in Yambio County, my home for nearly three months upon my arrival in South Sudan. The community is walking friendly and so we often take long, meandering walks on the dirt paths winding around the mud huts and through the mango trees. On one evening I strolled with Elizabeth, our Kenyan nurse, and Val, our Canadian gender based violence program manager. Our walk took us briefly down into a ravine of sorts, at the bottom of which is a watering hole.
Two days later our field coordinator was summoned by a representative of a certain county government department. The government official demanded to know why the two white ladies and the Kenyan were walking around and scouting out mineral sources. We are, he says, stealing minerals. Yes, that’s right, minerals. It’s a mystery to us how we are doing this, but I find that logic has no home here. He demanded to see our passports; our field coordinator refused to comply until the request comes in writing. It just so happened that the following day I flew back to Juba and the Canadian hit the road to return to her field base. So, from the standpoint of this government official, it probably appears we are running scared. On top of it, our field coordinator’s work permit has expired. So, what sounds like a ridiculous accusation that should otherwise go unregistered, could bring us some heartburn. All NGOs are here at the government’s invitation – an invitation that can be unceremoniously revoked at any moment, though to my knowledge this hasn’t happened.
It’s clear that this county department wants something from us – money, use of our vehicles, etc. Last week they came around to the NGOs looking for money in order to construct a building. Our field coordinator donated only about $25 in order to help them purchase nails. Perhaps this small amount was seen as an insult.
***
My first night back in sweet sweet Yambio I attended a small party our field coordinator threw for his expatriate and national staff. After feasting on roasted goat and other tasty dishes, we pulled our chairs into a circle under the mango tree and shared some beers. One among us asked everybody to share stories, jokes or riddles. “Do you know what love is? Can you spell it?” The answer: I-t. “Why is 6 afraid of 7?” The answer: Because 7 8 9. We were all a bit confused, however, when one person told the true tale of a father who routinely defiled his child under the unobservant eye of the child’s mother. The apparent moral of the story: communication with your coworkers is important. Really? Are you sure? Perhaps we shouldn’t buy so much beer at our staff parties.
***
Juba, the capital of South Sudan, is a city by most definitions, but in many ways it’s a village. As such, it’s not terribly uncommon to be offered a ride if you’re footing it, as they say. On Friday night the invitation came from a man in a pickup truck. We were about to hop into the bed of the truck when we realized that he was wearing a neck brace and had a huge bandage wrapped around his head. Something had fallen on him, he explained. “I have six titties,” he said. What? Come again? Titties, he said, pointing to his head. Oh, stitches! Six stitches! Why, yes you do. Thanks, but we’ll walk.
***
And then you find yourself in a restaurant where the New Orleans' theme song “Mardi Gras Mambo” comes on the stereo and you look around and wonder “Where exactly am I again?”
***
In the battle between house and office here in our Juba location, the house has won with a total knockout. We have temporarily rented an office space in order to alleviate the crowding, and to afford the much-needed separation of work and home. The air conditioned office looks out over one of my favorite places in town – the pizza restaurant. So now instead of being harassed by the smell of fried foods wafting from our kitchen, I am tantalized by the odor of doughy, cheesy pizza. Is there no end to the torture one must endure?
***
And then you find yourself at a party with guys named Go Go, Bongo and Qu. Our all-time favorite name to date, however, is Godsent Moses – which, as a friend points out, is the only name that in itself is a complete sentence.
