Backlog 4: Nearly Home Again

We reached the Sudan/Ethiopian border by late afternoon. That particular border crossing is really little more than a dirt trail and a collapsed bridge. I quickly hopped up on the roof of the LandCruiser to unload all of the baggage and produce that we had carried from Gambella.

I had finished dropping down most of the bags up top, when I started to disentangle this big bastard of a woven plastic sack full of tiny red onions from the roof rack. Likely its many repeated uses and numerous days in the sun meant that any time I pulled at it to lug it upright, it developed a new tear somewhere and at one point the entire top section I had grabbed, simply tore off sending a few off the roof. As I got it over the edge, my lower back quickly send a signal that all was not well. I called Odongo to replace me up top and hobbled my way across the short metal bridge. The bridge itself is only about forty feet long, and seemed to be about ten too short. It had slipped down from one of the banks of the creek and had to be connected by a small four-foot wide concrete slab just large enough to fit a quad-bike across.

By the time I got to the other side, the shooting pain prevented me from moving much further and I went to chill out for a few minutes on another concrete block off to the side next to some maize and a tangle of brush growing on the Sudan side of the creek. The minutes turned to an hour and I laid back closed my eyes, and tried not to move. A bit later the quad-bike arrived, and Judith and Laura loaded up some bags and headed back to the compound with David.

I heard them drive off, the gearbox grinding and yowling as David quickly discovered the need to engage the clutch before the bike would go anywhere. Duncan walked back over the bridge and chatted with some local boys and again I closed my eyes and just zoned out. Although Duncan was not more than 60 feet away, being tucked away a few feet into the brush I felt very alone.

It’s strange. I didn’t feel alone in a panicky way nor one that made me wish for company. Despite the pain and the heat, I felt an incredible sense of serene calm. I started to listen, and look at everything around me. Lying back, I watched the stalks of maize bow gracefully to an approaching breeze. I counted one, two, then three giant grasshoppers clinging forcefully to the underside of the long broad leaves. A sharp gust of wind would trap and entangle the leaves. A few seconds later, “pop” the leaves would suddenly free themselves and the maize would return to its rhythmic swaying, one or two grasshoppers fewer.

I closed my eyes and listened to the insects, birds, and the kids swimming in the creek somewhere to my left on the other side of the maize and brush. To the other side, some kids and a few men gathered around a friendly SPLA soldier who had brought out a cassette player and started playing music that I could only assume was Sudanese or Ethiopian. Beyond the tattered flag flying above the small SPLA border outpost on the other side of the dirt path, a bunch of hawks were riding a hot air column in a lazy circle and slowly circled their way upward. A group of four boys, perhaps around six years old came and sat on the slab right next to me, not really caring that I was there but also making sure not to disturb me. They chattered away in clip bits of Nuer punctuated by quiet laughter. I watched them as they were talking and wondered what it must be like to grow up in the bush in a place like Pagak. They were so happy, like a couple of school kids just hanging out on a lazy afternoon. Yet their skinny arms and large bowl-shaped distended bellies belied the mood, quietly telling of severe malnourishment. The summer months mark an anxious patience, as the few crops that are planted must mature for a few more weeks before they can be harvested.

As suddenly as they came, the four kids ran off into the brush, and quickly disappeared after only a second, leaving only the sound of rustling plants and increasingly muted child’s conversation.

While I was laid out, entirely unmoving, birds, small butterflies, and a few other odd animals scuttled out of the bush. A small yellow bird landed sideways on one of the stalks of maize. As he hopped his way to the tip, the stalk gradually bent under his weight until I thought he might continue his dip all the way to the ground. He sat perched on one of the many grain stems, its stalk bowed in an upside down “J”, and pecked at the precious grain, sending small green husks off towards the ground.

The world looks very different lying down. There’s a strange sense of detachment, watching everything perpendicular to what the brain is accustomed to. A young man crossed the bridge with a reluctant cow and had to put all his weight into coaxing the animal to walk up the concrete connecting slab. Behind him, an old wild-eyed man quickly strode up with a limp yelling something angrily in Nuer at the man as both went over to the smiling but entirely disinterested SPLA soldier who was sitting and tapping his feet to the Sudanese pop. Occasionally, an old Nuer woman would cross the bridge, usually carrying supplies or a baby basket atop her head, look to the left and be somewhat surprised to find a laid out foreigner lazing about in the bushes. They would stare, offer a quick “Maale” (Hello) and continue on, singing or simply muttering to nobody in particular.

Eventually, I heard the mechanical “brrrrrrrrrr” of an approaching quad-bike and the moment was broken. David had returned and it was time for me to finish the last 15-minute leg of my journey home. For a moment, maybe an hour, I simply just was—existing with a heightened sense of the small details of life around me. For that moment in time, I felt like one of the grasshoppers in the maize, watching and listening until a gust of wind finally dragged me away.

Cargo Drop

From Juba, I took a mid-day cargo flight to Pagak.  In the morning I rushed around town to get my exit visa from the Immigration office before we head to Ethiopia.  I returned just in time to catch a ride to the airport in one of our Land Cruisers.  Thursday is the day the Buffalo flies.  The Buffalo is an older two prop workhorse of a plane that can haul up to six tons of anything across the country.  The rear of the plane has a cargo ramp.  You load/drive your cargo up and away you go.

We followed a huge truck filled with supplies, drugs, and other medical equipment to the airport, nodded to security, and drove on out to the runway to the plane.  On the far side of the runway, a huge white UN C5-type cargo plane was unloading supplies into canvas covered trucks.  The truck in front of us mistakenly raced off to the other plane and had to be called back.  As it pulled up to the Buffalo (a white Buffalo at that), six guys jumped off and we began to unload several hundred boxes and pack them into our plane.  First though, we took off t

he radio antenna from the Land Cruiser, deflated the tires, and drove it into the cargo bay of the Buffalo.  Once fastened down with straps, we started transferring the boxes to behind the Land Cruiser and anywhere else there was room.  It took a long time to move all those damnable yet lifesaving boxes by had.  I had stupidly packed my empty water bottle away earlier that morning and the runway was radiating the full fury of the midday Juba heat.

About an hour later, as we were finishing up, the three-man flight crew wedged their way from the tiny door in the fuselage past all of the boxes and the Land Cruiser and took up positions in the cockpit.  Some other guy I had never met before and I got into the car and the rest of the boxes were placed around the side of the Land Cruiser pinning us snugly in place.

As the Buffalo cranked up its engines and slowly, but powerfully, made its way airborne, the inside of the car started to hit at least a roasting 50 degrees C with full humidity.  Since I couldn't turn on the air conditioner, I thought that I would be a smart ass and  roll down the window, put one hand on the wheel, lean my arm out the window, and pretend that the roar of the engine was actually that of the six-piston Toyota and that I was cruisin' down the street.  "That's right, ladies.  What up?"  I thought, staring at the boxes tapping against the back window trying to get in.  The guy sitting in the passenger seat ignored me and pretended to sleep.  As my two backpacks vibrated their way off of the hood, the effect was thusly ruined and my short-lived fantasy came to an end.

The flight itself took about an hour and a half.  Once we had been airborne for a while and the plane started to cool off, I dug into my bag and found the German Capri-Sun that I had stowed away in Nairobi.  Now 30% weniger Zuker!" it informed in on the front.  We passed the enormous Nile River, a lot of green pastoral land, sparse forest, and I knew we were far away from Juba.

We touched down somewhere.  Maybe we were already at Pagak, but I couldn't really see out the windows with all of the boxes in the way.  As I exited the vehicle and sidled past the boxes, I followed the crew out the passenger hatch on the side, jumped down, and fought the blinding light to see where I had ended up.

The second I jumped off the plane and looked around, I was instantly taken aback for a second.  Standing in front of me were about 50 people just kind of curiously looking at the plane and the sort of Asian-white guy that it had produced.  About a hundred other people came running towards the plane as a guy started to shoe the kids away with a big stick.  Fo

r about a minute, I found myself completely alone wondering what to do.  The sleepy guy wandered off somewhere and was nowhere to be seen.  Do I find somebody?  Do I continue to stand there like an idiot?  I chose the latter.  A second later, a Save the Children Land Cruiser came driving from the village and the local program manager welcomed me to Nasir.

We enlisted the help of some of those standing around, and unloaded all of the boxes from the back of the plane and stacked them up on the dirt runway.  It only took about a half an hour and a gracious medical staff thanked us for the supplies.  The Public Health Community Center in Nasir had been absent drugs and basic medical supplies for quite some time.  I jumped back into the cargo hold, found a seat this time, and we took off again for Pagak.

The Pagak airstrip is literally right next to the compound and the rest of the town.  You could toss your stuff over the wooden fence and it would probably end up next to one of the brick rooms we stay in.  A bunch of smiling people greeted me and I finally met Judith, Laura, Jimmy, and the rest of the Pagak SC staff.  They gave me a warm welcome and helped to settle me down in what will be my new home for the next two and a half months.

On Abyei

For the past few days, I've set myself up in the Operations office where there was a free bit of desk.  Its not usually too busy except for the guy in the radio room calling whoever needs to be called and the static he usually gets as an answer.  The other guys in this particular office are pretty easy going and someone is either playing some hip-hop or Ethiopian music on their computer.

Today, John, a staff guy from Abyei came into the office urgently needing to send an e-mail to someone in Khartoum to clear up a finance issue.  I loaned him my computer and we started talking about how things have been going up his way recently since last months fighting.

In the middle of May, BBC and the other major newswires had reported a major three-day clash in the contested area around Abyei town.  Abyei is a currently a special administrative area whose territorial status was to be determined by the Abyei Boundary Commission and a future referendum.  At the micro-level, there has been conflict between the local Dinka, nomadic Messeriya herdsem who claim grazing rights, and Khartoum backed Messeriya militias.  Political elites on all sides have mobilized and armed followers using ethnic appeals.  Abyei holds immense economic importance to both the Northern and Southern governments, with 2005-2007 oil revenues of USD 1.8 billion.  There are also elements within the National Congress Party and the Messeriya who may see violence as a tool to re-negotiate the Abyei Boundary Agreement or even scuttle the CPA.  Consequently, Abyei in recent months has threatened to become a national flash point for the return to war as the Sudanese Armed Forces, SPLA, and local militias were deployed to the area in increasing numbers.  Last month, things began breaking down in a big way.

John, it turns out, works for a Save the Children program in Abyei town and was there when the violence broke out.  It was my first time to hear from someone what actually had gone on during those days when the fighting was worst.  He heard gunfire late one night as SAF units and the local police had a skirmish.  The next day the SAF moved in with more troops and clashed with units of the SPLA who increasingly deployed more heavy weaponry.  On the 20th, SPLA forces attacked the SAF camp in Abyei town and began setting up checkpoints in the areas under their control.  The SPLA began checking people's ID's and whether they could speak the local language.  If a person was found to be Arab, he was in a world of deep shit.

A month later, the town is much quieter.  The governments of Khartoum and Southern Sudan agreed to deploy Joint Integrated Units to maintain peace in the area.  Both also reached an agreement to use international arbitration to settle the boundary dispute.  NGO's immediately resumed their services and projects.

Yet the town is nearly entirely destroyed.  Most buildings had been either shelled or burned to the ground, as were any vehicles and motorcycles left on the road.  Vacated NGO compounds were torched in the fighting or, more likely, by looters.  John told me that one of the few things left at the SC compound was the enormous safe with their cash.  It was too big to haul away and crude attempts to open it would have destroyed the cash inside.

The human cost though is staggering.  No one is really sure how many were killed during the fighting, but as a result, over 50,000 were displaced and the town still faces and emergency situation.  John tells me that their most pressing need is potable water.  A river runs near the town, but the water is unusable.  Many more bore-holes are needed. Fast.  Although the fighting has ended, a major disaster clearly remains.  Those worst affected now are sadly those who have the least to do with the conflict.

Juba Marketplace

Lately, I’ve been trying to get away from the compound to walk around Juba. Yesterday, I managed to find my way to the Juba marketplace, which was only about a 15 or 20-minute walk away. I really miss the throng and frenzied activity of markets in Cambodia and Malaysia. The one in Juba is a bit smaller, but certainly does not disappoint.

The market itself is divided into ethnic enclaves—Sudanese, Kenyan, Ugandan, and others. Over the random music blaring from many of the stalls, you can hear a chattering of Swahili, Juba Arabic, and many other local languages.

Along the main road that cuts through the market separating the upper third from the rest, there are kiosks hawking sodas, fruit, and used clothing called Mutambo. There were a lot of people stopping into small stalls, “saloons,” to have their hair cut or braided. If you duck off of the main road and into the narrow maze of stalls, you have to push your way through a bustling vegetable market where you can buy leafy greens, several types of bananas, as well as relatively fresh meat. A loaf of bread costs about 10 Sudanese pounds (about 5 dollars). Juba really is one of the most expensive cities in Africa with a rapidly growing civil service and heavy NGO presence that causes the demand for most goods to skyrocket. Given the Southern Sudanese economy’s post-conflict lack of industry and poor infrastructure, a lot of the goods, and particularly produce must be imported from Uganda.

Pushing deeper into the market, there are larger buildings where old gas powered machines crush grains and seeds into a fine powder. There were also several shops where five or six men stripped were sitting and stripping old used tires and sewing them into black rubber sandals.

People of all types were crowding the narrow passageways between stalls, although Westerners were conspicuously absent. Juba, in general does not have much of a visible military presence. However, at the market, there were Toyota trucks with the backs filled with heavily armed SPLA soldiers patrolling the main street. In greater number however, were the soldiers perusing through stalls, buying goods, and chatting with women who eagerly tried to hawk them whatever it was that they had to sell.

I didn’t take any pictures so as to avoid being a jerk to everyone there, but I did enjoy just walking around and chatting with people. Juba Arabic is not so similar to Egyptian. Combined with a lack of English, communication is quite a challenge.

I did manage to take a short video from inside the vegetable market, but given that the shared satellite Internet is usually far slower than dail-up, I doubt that I can get it uploaded anytime soon.