Finding My Motivation

A few weeks ago, I found out that I was selected for a fellowship with Catholic Relief Services, meaning that my time with my current organization will be coming to end at the end of June. It makes being here challenging, knowing I have something much better coming down the line.

Earlier this week I learned a bit more detail about the position with CRS, and it looks like I'll be moving to Yaoundé, the capital of Cameroon, beginning in August. After working in Chad, northern Uganda, Niger, and southern Sudan, the thought of being based in a big green city, with mountains, nice restaurants and more is pretty exciting.

For the moment though I'm here, and I'm trying not to let the challenges weigh me down too much. It's mostly little stuff, but when it's all lumped together, the frustration builds. The heat is truly oppressive, for one- it feels completely unfair that it's already 100º F (38ºC) at 11AM, and thermometer regularly hits 112º or more (44º) at the height of the day. The hours between 1 and 4PM are the worst- the fan I have pointed at my face just serves to redirect the hot air more forcefully.

I think the thing I've had the hardest time with though, is food. When the only green things in sight are the canvas tents that serve as our bedrooms, plastic tarps, and acacia trees sporting massive thorns, it makes the thought of a salad feel like a distant, happy memory. Meals around here tend to be basically white rice and meat, with the meat basically looking like it was prepared by forcing a grenade down the unlucky cow's throat.

It isn't the conditions though, as much as just a feeling that I'm ready to move on professionally, and the idea of continuing to work in communications, which is interesting, but not what I want to be doing, is tough. Also, the second-class status that comes with being 'the volunteer' is always there, even if it's unintentional.

I don't meant to turn this into a bitch session though- I knew what I was getting into when I came to Sudan, and if I couldn't hack it, I wouldn't be here. Still, given that I know something better is coming along, it isn't the easiest thing to put up with life in a tent, crappy food, and oppressive heat as daily facts of life.

Whenever I feel like this though, it's hard not to feel a little guilty though, knowing just how I good I have it. Every walk I take down the road, through the market, or even around the compound reinforces the fact that I won the geographic and socio-economic lottery in so many ways, and that being able to leave Sudan in just a couple months is a luxury few people around here, if any, will ever have.

I find myself thinking more and more about what life will be like in Cameroon though, and how strange it'll be to finally be living more of a standard 'expat' life. I wonder if I'll miss some of the challenge that comes along with a place like southern Sudan. The previous places I've worked have all allowed me to claim a certain amount of 'hard-core' credibility, and I wonder how it'll feel to be in a place people go on vacation to, instead of from.

I guess the key is not letting Sudan get to me over the next eight weeks. Yes, things aren't ideal, but it's a temporary thing, and if I can manage to stay busy, I'm sure it'll fly by.

I hope so, at least.


***

On a different note, since I've learned that I'll be going to Cameroon, I've had another thought on my mind. How and when I can get back to Chad? It's just northeast of Cameroon, and I feel like I need to see the people I left behind so abruptly when Peace Corps pulled out. I keep thinking about what it might feel like to show up in Gounou-Gaya; how would people react? How many would remember me? Would it be different, now that I'd be 'the expat' living the big city? Those sorts of things concern me.

Then I think about what it'll be like to see my friend and 'host father' Marc again, to see his four daughters, the youngest of which used to chant 'Nyah-na-nehl' and clutch my leg as she waddled along in the way that only toddlers can. What about Hophyra, who I remember as a mischevious four-year old who loved to wrestle her big sisters at any and every opportunity. Will Ka-Idi and Tanga, the oldest, still be in school?

I'm sure it'll be wonderful to see them, but probably a little weird at the same time. Hard to say though; I guess I'll only know when it happens.

A Few New Developments

Sorry for the delay in posting anything here- it's been a busy couple weeks, and blogging has taken a backseat to work and moving around. To attempt to make up for it- here's a three-part post.

About a week and half ago, I had a chance to visit a refugee camp for about 6,000 Congolese who fled to southern Sudan following an attack by the Lord's Resistance Army in the area. Founded in 1986 under the leadership of former altar-boy Joseph Kony, the LRA has become infamous for widespread atrocities in Northern Uganda, the Central African Republic, Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC), and southern Sudan, notably the kidnapping of children to use as soldiers. According to the Swiss NGO Trial Watch, more than 85 percent of LRA fighters are children between the ages of 11 and 15, 40 percent of them young women.

Nyori camp, where I visited, is only about 10km from the DRC border. It's run by NGOs, and coordinated by the United Nations’ organization for refugee affairs, the UNHCR. It straddles a small creek. At the bottom of the steep ravine, a newly painted red-and-white wooden bridge connects the two sides of the camp. On either side, the refugees live in small rectangular grass huts, most of which have been reinforced with UNHCR-issued white plastic sheeting.

(By the way, I have photos from the camp, which I'll post as soon as I get the chance.)

I certainly wrote about this plenty while I was in Chad, but seeing the camp made me realize yet again just how incredibly lucky we all are in the developed world. We never think about what would happen if a militia suddenly attacked our community, what we might do if we had a parent, sibling, or child dying from a completely treatable disease, or how we'd manage go half the places we do if we had to use roads that were more crater than gravel, spending four hours to go 30 kilometers. This is southern Sudan, and this is the situation the Congolese refugees are fleeing to. I don't have anything particularly pithy of profound to offer on this, but it's just something to think about the next time you might feel like complaining about your flight being delayed 20 minutes.

***

Speaking of flights, the travel from Juba to Agok was...exciting, as usual. Flying out of Juba is always a challenge- the airport has one entrance, guarded by SPLM (the southern Sudan military) troops, and always surrounded by a mob of people, every one of whom is trying to get in the same doorway, waving passports and southern Sudan travel permits. I did make it through the door, however, but quickly found myself in the midst of another mob- it so happened that my World Food Program (WFP) flight happens to be checking in at almost the exact same time as one of the regular flights to Nairobi, leading to a huge crush of people trying to check in at the single counter next to me. I'm able to push my way through, however, and hand my agency identity card to a man in a fluorescent green vest at the counter so that he can check my name on the manifest, the only ticket needed for UN travel.

In Juba, you walk behind the counter to deal with your baggage, causing a huge crush as people try to squeeze through. On WFP flights, you can carry a maximum of 15 kilograms, officially- in practice, the number seems to be higher, if you're friendly enough. My bag seems to always be a few kilos over the limit, and again I'm lucky that after throwing it onto the scale, the baggage handler shrugs, and hands it off to me. The next step is security- I lug my bag to another countertop, where an SPLM soldier and airport security officer wait. They gesture for me to open the bag, which they ruffle through, setting aside clothing, multivitamins, and a jar of peanut butter I picked up at the Sri Lankan-owned supermarket in town. Airport security. Over to the side, a new X-ray machine waits, turned off.

Checking my big bag, I squeeze through to the other side of the counter, and make my way to the other half of airport security, the waiting room before the terminal. In another logic-defying move, the entrance to the waiting room is only accessible through a single tiny door, where other security agents wait to search your carry-on bag. A huge line divided in two is parked in front of the door- one for men, one for women- in a huge blow for equality, I guess, the women's line is about 1/8th the length of the men's. Making it to the front, the agent searches through my bag by hand, removing the batteries from my alarm clock- almost as logical as airport security back home. I duck under the fake leather curtain separating the security checkpoint from the waiting room, am quickly frisked by another agent, and waved through. Mission accomplished, much pushing and shoving later.

To get to Agok we fly first to the town of Wau, via another town, Rumbek. We take a small turboprop exactly like the ones you might take in the US between San Francisco and LA, or Miami and Tampa. We arrive in Renk just under an hour later, hitting the dirt runway with a cloud of red dust behind us. After picking up a few passengers, we're on the way again, off to Wau. 30 minutes later we touch down at the airstrip- as we flash past, I can't help but notice the broken fuselages of two large jets. Each is tilted crazily up on their wing and in several pieces- whether it was a poor landing or artillery that brought them down, it's hard to say.

After a two-hour delay that was supposed to be 30 minutes, I head to Agok. We fly on a tiny plane called a Twin Otter, which bounces through the clouds as I hold on, trying not to think about it. On a rational level, I know everything is fine- a pilot friend of mine explained to me recently how they look at turbulence in the air in the same way that the captain of a ship sees waves. Still. I'm close enough to the controls that I can see a GPS unit ticking away the distance- that helps, plus the fact that I see the pilots joking with each other over the headphones. If they were concerned, I'm sure they'd look serious.

We fly past the runway first, in a wide circle. No air-traffic control around here, so this is the only way to make sure that the landing strip is free of children, goats, or anything else that might get in the way. Doubling back, we hit the gravel and bounce along, coming to a stop next to a few parked Land Cruisers. I've arrived- 400 kilometers and six hours later.

***

So, the village is called Agok, but I think 'surface of the sun' might be a better name. Holy crap, it's hot.

Agok is dry and brown, with a few tough acacia trees hanging on to provide a bit of shade here and there. It reminds me a lot of Chad- same heat, same dust, same goats, same seko grass mats, same women in bright headscarves.

I'll be in Agok and the surrounding towns for about a month, looking at the organization's work in Economic Recovery and Development, writing stories, and taking photos. It's interesting stuff, but still not exactly what I want to do- fortunately it looks like I won't be doing it for much longer... Details to follow.

Shalom From Juba?

Shalom, Hello and Salaam from the Shalom Hotel in southern Sudan's hot, dry, dusty, and very expensive capital. Seriously, $150 a night, per person in a room that looks as though it was made from a pre-fabricated trailer, and is missing a shower curtain? Fortunately the organization is picking up the tab...

I'm back in Juba for a few days, while we attempt to sort things out, and figure out what happens next. As you may have already read, the organization was among the 13 NGOs kicked out by the Sudanese government from the country. What this effectively has meant is that they're banned from the north and Darfur, as the south is basically independent from the Khartoum government. The southern government, based here in Juba, has made it clear that they want the organization (along with the others that were kicked out of the north but have programs in the south) to stay, and keep working.

It seems as though the dust is beginning to settle, in a sense. It looks as though I'll be staying here as planned, but not necessarily going where I originally thought I'd be. Originally, I was scheduled to be going a little farther north, into what are called (depending on whom you ask) the 'transitional areas,' '3 areas,' or 'provisional areas,' where the north and south collide. Now, it looks like that won't be happening, at least not right away.

I left Yei yesterday morning, taking my first flight on the World Food Program's Humanitarian Air Service. When we arrived at the dirt airstrip on the edge of Yei, I couldn't help but notice a big banner on the side of the 'terminal' (a two room building with a large hanging scale, a few official-looking pieces of paper on the door, and a guy sweeping the floor with a grass broom) for the Delta Connection Frequent Flyer program. Seriously. Not the commuter airline based in Atlanta you might be thinking of though, but Delta as in 'Nile Delta,' and 'Connection' as in a Kenyan airline flying between Nairobi, Entebbe, Juba, and a handful of other places, including Yei. The thought of earning frequent-flyer miles seemed a bit ridiculous, but hey, why not?

Shortly after we arrived, a large group of large Americans arrived, complete with heavy bags, strong Tennessee accents, and some serious Jesus-y fervor. I saw a church nametag, and although they seemed friendly, I was glad they were getting on another flight (yes, more than one airline flies to Yei). While they waited for Eagle Air to take them back to Entebbe, the tiny WFP-HAS plane arrived. Stopping in the dirt maybe 50 meters in front of us, we hauled our bags over and stuffed them into the small luggage bins underneath the single-engine compartment, but only after verifying that our names were on the passenger manifest. Climbing on board, the pilots asked us to move as far to the front as possible, meaning that I was sitting directly behind the pilot, close enough to read the altimeter on his instrument panel. After buckling in and bouncing over a few smallish puddles, the pilot revved the engine, and we raced down the dirt strip, taking off over the trees and grass.

I've been on countless planes over the years, but this was a very different experience- there was a small window almost directly at my feet, a little disconcerting. Flying in planes even smaller than your average regional jet or turboprop in the States feels odd, as you get a much clearer sense of motion, including the side-to-side and rolling sensations that a bigger jet might mask. Fortunately the flight was very smooth, and as a bonus, offered a pilot's-eye (or perhaps pilot's shoulder) view as we touched down in Juba.

Juba is hot. Much hotter than Yei. It's also dirtier, with plastic bottles and cans everywhere, barbed-wire compounds, and the occasional enormous villa, or modern-looking gas station. Supposedly it's one of the world's most expensive cities, which seems crazy until you consider the fact that it's landlocked, full of 'rich' foreigners, and has been until recently the center for any number of battles. Can't say I blame people for wanting to an extra Sudanese pound or two (or a few hundred), but wow.

To get to the Shalom Hotel, just a few minutes from our office, you clatter along a rutted, dusty road, lined with a constant stream of bottles and cans, the odd piece of livestock, and hand-painted signs screaming things like "TRADITIONAL DOCTOR HE CURES OVER 70 DISEASE! HIV/AIDS, MALARIA, DEMENTIA, WOMEN WHO CANNOT PRODUCE, MAN WHO CANNOT PLEASE HIS WIFE" and more. The hotel is basic, as I mentioned, run by a family of Ethiopians, one of whom has perhaps the most perfect gheri-curl I've seen- I think his head might explode from all the product in it if someone lit a cigarette within a few meters. On the plus side, the rooms have blessedly cool air-conditioning, WiFi access (very slow, but functional), and surprisingly good food in the restaurant, including very authentic Ethiopian dishes with freshly-baked injera bread. Given the name of the place, I can't help but wonder if the family has some sort of connection to Ethiopian Jewry, although this seems unlikely, as Sudan isn't the most hospitable to Jews. I guess the south is different, but still. As always, I have to wonder about why anyone would want to leave a more developed, nicer place like Ethiopia to come here and open a restaurant and hotel, but one needs only look at the room rates and the prices on the menu to understand; I'm sure they're making money hand-over-fist around here.

It looks like I'll be in Juba through Tuesday, and then.... back to Yei. Apparently a large group of refugees has just crossed the border from the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), and the UN is setting up a camp very close to Yei. The plan is to go there and speak with some of them, writing stories (which I'll hope to publish on this page). Things could change again, of course, but for now, that's the plan. I'll try to get some photos posted soon, and as always, welcome your thoughts in the comment section below...