The Problem of Fifteen

     I was talking with my friend Rikki, before she moved to Kigali, just talking about things in general.  Juba, being a city of transients, always has a lively dating scene, couples constantly getting together and breaking-up.  It's almost a sport - a blood sport, really - keeping up with the ever changing landscape of shifting relationships.  Juba is a city overrun with twenty-somethings come here to "save the world" or at least a small part of it.  It's only natural in an environment like that - lots of young people, freedom from home constraints, lots of alcohol and a jaded, cynical culture that there will be a lot of people falling in and out of love, or if not love, at least lust in all its forms.
     Anyway, Rikki was updating me on her latest romances.  I won't go into any details, but Rikki - who's about 30- had certainly experienced much that was available in Juba before she left town.  I, on the other hand, same as at home, have experienced none.  Partly it's the demographics - they work against me.  Juba is a city crawling with twenty year olds who are all lovely but with whom I could not have a chance, nor should I.  The few thirty year olds are normally a bit more focused on their work, or are involved with people already, or half crazy.  Then there are the sixty year olds, retirees looking for the next big thing in their life or who missed out saving the world back when they were young and are catching-up while they still can.  Normal people in their thirties through fifties are home raising families and living normal lives.  The few people here in those age-brackets have usually been overseas for years and are are, frankly, a bit whack from the stress of living away for so long.  They are usually tye-dyed wearing bone thin people with little sense of humor. 
      Back in 2001 after my wife left me I suddenly and unexpectedly found myself single.  Having not dated much when I was younger I thought, "now will be my chance!"  I imagined I would become a world-class playboy surfing the ladies.  Geez, what a nut-brain.  I thought a forty-year old man with his own home and business, money in the bank, reasonably stable personality, would be an automatic draw and I would have plenty of dating opportunities.  The reality was that I attracted no interest whatsoever, though I cannot say that I tried very hard either.  I was about as knowledgeable about dating as a forty year old as I was as a teenager or twenty year old and that was unknowledgable completely.
      One thing I noticed, however, was that my mind instinctively found itself attracted to younger women.  Much as I really wanted a woman who was the same age as me, just scanning a crowd my eyes lingered on women that were a number of years younger.  It took a while to understand this.  I believe that life is much better when people in the same reasonable age bracket are together.  We change so much as we age, our attitudes and opinions and thoughts about things change with time and I think it is better to be with someone who is more or less experiencing things as you are rather than be dealing with someone who has already experienced them or who will be in the future.  Much as we appreciate the advice of people who older, or want to give advice to someone younger, no one really wants to the that guy who is always telling his younger partner, "oh yeah, this is what you are experiencing and this is what's happening..."  That would get old really quick.  And you don't want to hear it from someone older either.
     Anyway, I started to develop this theory that I call "The Problem of 15."  What is boils down to is that we are instinctively attracted to people who are 15-years younger than we are, while we are ourselves attractive to people who are 15-years older than we are.  I think this has to do with the idea that if you asked people to describe themselves we would probably all describe ourselves looking and feeling 15 years younger than we really are - that is, our image of ourselves is off by about 15-years.  This explains why we are attracted to people 15-years younger, or at least people in their 40's noticeably start to be attracted to younger people (twenty-year olds tend to date twenty years olds and I think the same is true for thirty-year olds, up to their late thirties.)
      In my case, as I said, much as in my mind I wanted someone the same age as me my instincts were to be attracted to younger women.  But I also found myself with two older female friends, both in their mid fifties, about 15-years older than me at the time, who intimated that our friendship could be more if I desired.  I resisted these offers for the same reason I never pursued anyone significantly younger, because I didn't think in the long-run it would be a good idea.  Apparently though, I was not the only person experiencing this because single women my own age had no interest in me whatsoever, they seemed always to be wanting younger guys or were being squired about by men 15-years older.  This just further convinced me that "the Problem of 15" was real.
      Back to the beginning: I was talking with Rikki about the Problem of 15 (and Rikki has been dating someone about 5 years younger, which at 30 is a bigger deal than at 50)  and she said if I write about it. it will probably be made into a romantic-comedy movie, probably staring John Cusack, to which we both got a good laugh.

 

Mutts

            I had a nightmare the other evening.  I was walking along a road, walking with a woman – I know her, though I cannot place her name, an older woman – we were in Spotsylvania County, back home.
            Early on as we were walking I saw what I thought was a cow which was pulling another, smaller cow, dragging it with its teeth though the smaller cow – or what I thought was a cow - was resisting, its front legs planted firmly in the ground though the larger cow was still succeeding in pulling it along.
            After a while we came to some bungalow houses where there was an old couple outside and I again saw the animals, but I realized now they were dogs.  One, a larger, older dog had a smaller, younger dog in its teeth and was dragging it forward, the puppy digging in its front legs but still it was being pulled forward.  A second, smaller dog stood next to the first puppy.
            I suddenly realized the older dog was rabid; I yelled out that the dog had rabies and the dog leg go and turned and looked at me, its eyes ugly red and its mouth frothing with greenish, gray foam.  I yelled, “We have to kill that dog!” and in the same moment the dog lunged at me.  I ducked and the dog went past and it lunged once more.  I ducked its attack again and grabbed the dog by the neck and held on to it, the beast snapping and snarling at me though I managed to hold onto it and keeps its mouth away from me.  The dog was about the size of a Beagle.
            I turned to the old man and told him we had to kill the dog and asked if he had a gun.  The old man seemed not to comprehend what I meant and only muttered a response.  Again I said we had to shoot the dog.  The old man said he didn’t have a gun, and I said, “what kind of person from Spotsylvania are you without a gun?!”  He only mumbled a response.
            There were other smallish homes nearby and I asked if one of his neighbors had a gun and again he merely mumbled a “no,” and said he didn’t really know the neighbors well.  I began to suspect that the old man and his wife might have already been bitten by the dog.  Maybe repeatedly.
            I asked the man if he knew anyone with a gun and he said he did.  “Great!” I replied.  “Where are they?”  The old man said his friend lived 32-miles away.  “Thirty-two miles!  Thirty-two fucking miles!  Are you shitting me?  Are you fucking shitting me?” I screamed.
            At this point I turned to my companion and said, “Get a bucket of water,” and within seconds there was a bucket full of water before me.  Still being careful to keep the dog’s mouth pointed away from me I plunged the animal’s head under the water and as the life ebbed out of it I simultaneously awoke, highly disturbed and agitated.
            It took a long time for me to fall back asleep, if in fact I did.  The dream was so vivid and upsetting, and I didn’t know what to make of it.  But you can be well assured that while on my morning run I kept a warier eye than usual on all the filthy dogs that roam Juba, suspecting every one of them of being rabid or at the very least wanting to bite me.  I was a dog lover before I came to Juba but since I’ve been here the only thing I want to do to the dogs is shoot them.  They are all horrible, wild dirty creatures, half crazed by parasites and beset with open bloody sores, fleas and mange.  I was commiserating with a friend about the awful dogs of Juba and she said something like, “maybe they need more love and discipline.”  Channeling Naipaul I said, “What the dogs here need is a good kick.”  It’s terrible to feel that way, but imagine if you can a city full of wild dogs that no one looks after, that just live off garbage and die after only a few years – if they are lucky to live that long – and you have an idea of the dogs of Juba.
            Most of the dogs of Juba fall into three breeds.  There are the orangey tan wild dogs, nearly all of which look similar and are by far the largest class.  They breed incessantly, though owing to cannibalism – the larger dogs can’t resist a meal of puppy, and the mothers simply cannot defend all their pups – not many from any litter survive into adulthood.  Then there are some that look like they descended from American-style bird-dogs, medium sized, longish haired, lithe and quick.  On the morning after my nightmare one of this breed came lunging at me having run silently across the foreyard of the Bari-parish church and I did not see it until it was nearly on me at which point I instinctively howled at it and raised my left arm like I was going to throw a rock.  All the dogs of Juba recognize this movement, they’ve had enough rocks thrown at them that merely cocking your arm and yelling is normally enough to scare them off.  The last breed is the least numerous but the most disgusting.  These are medium sized hairless dogs, silent – I’ve never heard one bark, nor even seen one run.  They just lope along, their pinkish bare flesh a mass of mange and discolorations, cracked, dry and diseased.  Their eyes are often small and beady and they walk with their heads hanging down, they seem like the spectral dogs of death.  I shudder whenever I see one.
            Most of the roads of Juba are dirt, deep gullies washed into them, rocky outcrops mixed in with the right of way.  The few tarmac roads are edged with broad swaths of inches deep dust.  For some reason a lot of dogs love lying either in the dust on the edge of the tarmac roads or in the gullies of the dirt roads.  I suppose – especially where the dust is pushed-up into a sizeable hill – the sand feels coolish in the mornings.  Sadly for the dogs though is the fact that since  nearly all people here have no regard for dogs – viewing them as little more than flea carriers – people make little effort to avoid running over dogs which are not clever enough to know better than to lie right in the roadways.  Hardly a week goes by while I am out running that I do not encounter one dog carcass.  Usually the heat and the scavengers make quick work of the bodies, though a couple of months ago I was thankful to see that someone had had enough sense to douse with kerosene and a light a match upon a particularly large dog that was stiffening along the roadside by Juba University.  It would have taken a couple of weeks to rot away otherwise and we were all spared that gruesome spectacle.
            There are a few westerners here with dogs, proper dogs, well cared for and loved.  It is such a treat to encounter one of these dogs, to again feel clean dog-fur in my hands as I pet them and to not have to worry about being bitten or attacked.  Friends in Mundri had succeeded – partly anyway – in taming one of the wild orange dogs.  They even went so far as to have her spayed by a visiting veterinarian in Juba.  Sadly, someone disturbed a wild bees nest just outside their home and the poor dog was stung so many times that it had to be put down to end its agony. My friend also suffered numerous stings and I am not certain his family didn’t look similarly at him.
            I’m sorry to have to talk like this about dogs.  I’m sorry to have to want to see nearly all the dogs poisoned like was done in the town of Bor recently after a rabies scare swept the town.  I’m told the townspeople just left the bodies to rot, the poison making its way through the ecosystem to anything which would then feed on the carcasses.  It’s really quite horrible to think about.  It’s just the reality of living in a poor country where there is barely survival enough for people, let alone animals.

 

Juba HASH

      There is so much I could say about the Juba HASH.  Soooooo much I could say about it, but I won't, other than to say it is great fun and a really wonderful way to meet people as well as getting in some good exercise as we run around the Juba area.
      For people unfamiliar with the HASH, the HASH was started by British ex-pats in Asia somewhere back in the 30's or so.  It has been described as "a drinking club with a running problem," and now spans the globe.  I was aware of their being a HASH in Juba but I resisted for nearly two years because I thought it was merely a drunken brawl.  My evidence for this possibility was the regular extremely hung-over condition of two friends, one a faithful HASHer, whom I would see at church early on Sunday mornings.  However, another very dear friend who arrived in Juba and participated in the HASH assured me that my fears were misplaced; the extreme inebriation of my friends was the result of post-HASH consumption rather than at the HASH.
      I started participating in the HASH around February of 2012 and have not looked back at all.  The hour or two I spend there each week is often the highlight of my week, such is the state of my social life in Juba.  But it really is a great way to meet people, to unwind and have some fun.
      A few weeks ago we ran just outside Juba at an area near Gormoruk Cemetary.  This is a really nice area, with some old volcanic hills which afford great views of the surrounding country.  Juba is surrounded by classical African savanna grasslands which you don't really appreciate at ground level, you have to get up a few meters and take in a grand vista to see the beauty.
      Here are some photos from that HASH:

Out on the trail.  On-on!

This was a small pool, outcrops of granite and basalt made a natural dam.  Anyone for a dip?

After the run, the challenge was to haul the "beverages" up on the rocks

Everyone post run enjoying drinks, songs and fellowship

The view from the mountain with yours truly showing his good side.  Hard to tell where the socks end and the white legs begin.  Nice hole in the shirt, d'oh!

A friend enjoying the view from the mountain

New Job

     I came to Sudan almost three years ago  now.  I originally only came for a four month project.  I sometimes don't know what has happened to the time.  But four months has stretched into three years, and now I have a new job and don't know when I will return to live stateside.
     I was a missionary working for the Episcopal Church of the Sudan.  I came just to help study the Church's finances and help to create some systems.  Not really your typical missionary posting.  Actually, keeping the line between overworked employee and missionary was very difficult.  I often found myself more caught up in the work than on building relationships or some of the other soft, fuzzy things people thought I was supposed to be doing.  It was hard to remember that when you are responsible for managing the finances of a three million member organization and there are huge pressures.  Vendors looking for their money or bishops howling for their stipends never asked whether or not I was a missionary, they just wanted their money.  It was a tough job, the conditions were hard.  Except for people who saw me in action here, it would be hard I think for people at home to ever really understand.  But I also always felt that I was where God wanted me, where I was supposed to be.  I never felt discouraged or that I made a mistake being at the ECS, not for one day no matter how bad it got.
     I left the ECS in March.  It seemed to me the right thing to do.  I felt like I could have stayed there for thirty more years and have still been doing the same thing.  I felt that so long as I remained with the Church they would not really grow, nor would I.  We would both be dependent upon each other - the ECS to avoid having to do on their own the things I had so often taught them, me hiding from challenging myself to learn new things, push myself.  I was getting stale and lazy.  It was time to go.  I miss the ECS, I miss the community, the emphasis upon living a life of faith.  And though I knew I was done working for the ECS, I did not feel that I was done with Sudan.
      The thing about South Sudan is that as a new country, it's future, it's direction has not been fully decided.  This country has all the assets to be one of the wealthiest, most wonderful countries.  It's that possibility that makes living here so enticing.  South Sudan has the history of 192 other countries to learn from to avoid making similar mistakes.  The future here could either be great or terrible - it hasn't been decided.  I think that like teenagers to whom no amount of advice really penetrates - they just have to experience things for themselves in order to learn, maybe the same is true for countries and they just have to go through bad times in order to learn and grow and emerge hopefully better.  But it is that uncertainty that makes it so exciting to live here.
      So I have traded a seven days a week, seventy hours of work position for a seven days a week, seventy hours of work position!  which is great because I left behind when I came Africa a seven days a week, seventy hours of work position.  At least now I am able to get a paycheck every two weeks, and my house and office has reasonable electricity - even air conditioning and hot water!  That's not just crazy talk! 
     I don't want to go into too many details, but I am now Director of Finance & Administration for a non-governmental organization (NGO) called IMA Worldhealth.  We support the development of primary health care by supporting health clinics and hospitals by giving them training, equipment, medicines, whatever we can do to help them to develop.  My job is to make sure we have all the resources we need to do the job and to account for how those resources were used.  I spend my days and nights worrying about wire transfers and receipts and audits and exchange rates, etc. etc.  I worry about everything, which suits my nature - I like to be involved with everything, I like to be in charge.  My ex-wife always said I was bossy.  I just like to think that if I'm not in charge, nothing gets done.
      I don't know what this is doing to my sense of identification.  People bring over magazines and newspapers from the US and I hardly recognize the country I left behind.  I feel alien from there.  But I will also always be an outsider here, though I am making a commitment to Africa which is the most astounding thing I could never have imagined.  This experience has exposed me to people I would never have met otherwise.  I have friends on four continents now.  I went to England for Christmas last year to be with friends.  This Christmas I am thinking of going to India and Sri Lanka to see friends.  I'll be going home in June to see family in America.  It's a whirlwind, and it's hard sometimes to know where it's heading.

Nimule Road

   Not long after I arrived in South Sudan in May 2010 I had the opportunity to visit the ECS farm in Panyikwara in Eastern Equitoria.  I went with a fellow American missonary named Robin whose assignment was helping the ECS to develop an agriculture program.  The farm in Panyikwara had been given by the community to serve as place where people could be educated in farming techniques.
   The drive to Panyikwara was miserable.  This was my first long distance trip in Sudan and I could not believe how bad the roads were.  It took us about four to five hours to drive a little more than 100-kilometers, barely an hour's drive in the US.  And like all drives here your body feels beaten by the time you reach your destination.  Last week we drove to Lainya and back in the same day, three hours each way of spine cracking, bone crushing, kidney bruising travel.  When you reach home you feel like you have been beaten by baseball bats.
    To reach Panyikwara we drove south on the main road towards Uganda.  This is the major means by which people and goods reach Sudan from Kenya and Uganda.  Because of its importance to transport USAID invested around $250-million dollars to upgrade the road all the way from Juba to the border with Uganda, about 185-kilometers.  For any American reading this, please know that these were tax-dollars extremely well spent!  Improving this road was a wonderful investment.
    I took a lot of pictures on that trip in 2010, when everything was still so new to me.  Even goats lounging in the road seemed at the time fascinating, whereas now I barely give them a second glance.  Last week I again traveled to Eastern Equitoria.  I went to Magwi which is near Panyikwara to attend the Synod of Torit Diocese.  I was there to conduct a financial management training such as I have done all over Sudan.  This time we drove down the now improved road and what an wonderful sensation it was!!  From the time we left Juba to the time we arrived in Magwi was barely two-hours, and I was not really pushing the drive - we could have made it more quickly.  Instead, I was luxuriating in the smoothness and comfort of the drive down a road anyone in a developed country would appreciate.  What a great improvement!!

A view of the old Nimule Road, travel was so slow goats could use it as a resting spot without worry.

 

Old Nimule Road.  Rain-water would collect and make travel a muddy mess.

 

 

New Nimule Road!!  As good a road as anywhere.  Speed limit 80-Kph!!

New Nimule Road.  Now you can appreciate the views of mountains, etc., because you don't have to be so incredibly focused looking for potholes and ditches to avoid.

New Nimule Road.  Money well spent.

 



Water Woes

     For most of the time I have been here the water we received in our house came from a well located on an adjacent property.  There really is not a central water system in Juba - and certainly not any kind of sewer system - people have big black plastic water storage tanks elevated on platforms or roofs, the water coming either from bore wells or delivered by tanker truck.  There are seemingly hundreds of tanker trucks operating in Juba, and like so many of the services offered in Juba, water delivery is the purvue of mainly Ethiopian or Eritrean drivers.  It is interesting how certain nationalities specialize in particular businesses.  All of the petrol stations in town are operated by Somalis, who also operate many of the money exchange bureaus.  Arabs operate so many of the general shops, several of the bigger hardware stores in town are run by Indians.  And it's also interesting how similar shops tend to congregate together; you will have in one block a half-dozen building supply traders or plumbing and electrical shops all huddled together.  There is a certain logic to this.  It makes comparison shopping easier, you can quickly go from shop to shop to compare wares and prices.  And also, since there is a certain comraderie amongst the traders, if one is out of stock of something they will obtain it from a competitor.  The other day I was doing my general household shopping and wanted a couple of packages of spaghetti.  My regular shopkeeper was out but he ran around the market until he found some for me.  Did it cost me an extra pound per package? yeah, but it spared me having to search around and ensured my continued patronage, so that quarter a package was worth it.
    The well which supplied our house was on the adjacent compound of an NGO.  This NGO used to rent some space from our Guest House where they housed their staff which is why they provided the water.  Our house and one other - where their staff lived - were both supplied by this particular well.  The other two houses in the Guest House compound are supplied by a different well.  The NGO moved their staff out of our compound in December 2010 and I have always been amazed - and thankful - that they continued to provide our houses with water.
     Evidently the NGO either was unaware they were still supplying us water or finally decided to end it because starting in January I noticed our household water was being supplied by tanker trucks.  The tanker trucks in Juba derive their water from one of two sources: one are USAID operated water treatment plants which draw water from the Nile River, treat it and filter it, and then sell it cheaply to tanker truck operators who then sell it to households and businesses.  The other source is when the tanker trucks just go to the banks of the murky Nile and pump water directly into their holds.  In theory these operators are supposed to throw some chemicals into the trucks to treat the water, but everyone in town suspects they do not.  This water is priced somewhat lower and appeals to those householders or businesses wishing to save a few pounds.  The Guest House operators are decidedly in the latter category since I have noticed since January how dirty and nasty our water has become.  I had also noticed how starting in January my stomach suddenly became distressed like I was suffering from some kind of internal bug.  At first this didn't make sense since I am generally careful but once I saw the poor quality of our water the source of my distress became obvious.
    We're still suffering from the crummy water.  It's just such a shame after two-and-a-half years of decent water to now suddenly being afflicted this way and having to waste money buying bottled water all the time for everything.  Below is a picture of the water that was delivered to our tank this morning.  Yum.

Manna from Nebraska

Recently some people came over to South Sudan from Nebraska.  They asked if they could bring something for me from there.  I think I made excellent choices.

Killing time in line

     I had to make two deposits at the bank this morning.  One deposit for our WFP account, which allows us to use UNHAS flight services, was at KCB Bank, while the other was depositing employee payrolls into an account at Equity Bank. 
     I dread going to the bank here, the lines are always awful, even early in the morning, the only time they are bearable.  No one appreciates the concept of customer service.
     I only had to wait an hour at KCB, pretty amazing.  I arrived just after 8:30am and was out around 9:30am.  I used local transport to the bank and had to walk a kilometer to another major road to take another matatu to the other bank.  I suppose I reached Equity around 9:45am.  The line was lengthy.  I finally got to the window around 11:30am and made the deposit.  Fortunately, I had one of my Adrian Mole books with me ("The Wilderness Years") which I actually finished not long before it was my turn.  If you are not familiar with the Mole, you are missing out.
     Three hours thrown away standing in line at the bank on a Saturday morning.  Ugh!  People back home don't appreciate how lucky they have it.

 

Muddy blues

      I recently drove from Juba to Maridi in Western Equitoria.  The distance is 185-miles.  It took us nine-hours to get there and about the same to return, maybe 9.5 coming back.  I drove one of our Toyota Landcruiser hardtop cars.  These are great cars for the bush roads, really sturdy and decent riding.  I've covered most of the same idistance in a Honda CRV wagon and a Toyota Hi-Ace van both of which were awful rides, the van - or matatu in the local language - being particularly bad.
     At a spot about 20-km east of Lui (pronounced "Louie") there were two muddy spots in the road which had swallowed vehicles.  In the first an entire tractor-trailer was abandoned buried in the mud while everyone else drove up to 100-meters or more off in the grass on the sides to get around the area.  In the second two trucks were buried about 8-feet down in the mud blocking the road.  Here because of trees and wet-conditions it wasn't really possible to drive around, though going we did manage to scoot around in the grass on one side.  On the way back the sides were so chewed-up we had to wait for the truck that was blocking the road to be pulled-out by this big steel cable before we could get by.  We only lost about a half-hour going and maybe an hour heading back.  Others in our party lost up to 3 hours waiting to get by this same area, so we counted ourselves lucky.  One thing in Africa, people just don't stop moving no matter the obstruction.  I'm always amazed at construction sites how people routinely just go around barricades and over impossible looking pathways, they just don't stop for anything.

This is the general view looking east. Ahead is where two trucks were blocking the road.  We scooted around on the left side.  Many people had been waiting for hours to get by.

 

 

A view of the two trucks blocking the way.

 

 

Another view of the blockage.  The guy was one of many young men that appeared from who knows where to move the vehicles out of the way.  While returning Sunday morning we reached this spot just after 7am there were already a couple of crates of Nile Special beer lying about and many empty bottles which I did not think bode well for our making progress but we did get by fairly quickly.

 

 

This truck was about 8-feet down in the mud.  I cannot believe they actually thought they were going to drive through this mess.

 

 

The other truck that was blocking the road.

 

Some people tried driving around on the south side but it quickly became a muddy mess.

 

Looking west at the que of trucks and cars waiting to get through

Looking east.  Our car is back there there somewhere.

 

 



 

The car I was driving.  What a great car for driving in the African bush.

 

 

Abyei, oh Abyei

     This week I accompanied the Archbishop of the Episcopal Church of the Sudan, Dr. Daniel Deng Bul, on an assessment visit to the Abyei area.  Abyei ("Ah-bee-ay") is a disputed area along the border between South Sudan and Sudan.  As part of the Comprehensive Peace Agreement of 2005 the people of Abyei were supposed to be given the chance to vote whether they wanted to remain a part of the north or become part of the south.  But disagreements over who should be allowed to vote - only year round residents or also nomadic tribespeople who pass through during the year - and general intransigence on the part of Sudan have prevented a vote from taking place.
     We had travelled to Abyei in January of 2011 because we were interested in seeing how the town of Abyei was returning to life after it was destroyed by soldiers of Sudan in 2008 & 2009.  Also, we wanted to see the plight of the thousands of people who had returned to South Sudan from the north and had resettled in the Abyei area.
     What we found in 2011 was a town that was rebuilding but which faced great difficulties in terms of security and resources.  The returnees in particular were struggling, people who were largely dumped in make-shift camps located miles from the town in places without clean water or food.  The returnees were trying to build shelters and re-establish their lives in a place to which they were tied by history and family but in many cases not by any experience.
     In May of 2011 northern soldiers again invaded Abyei.  The UN soldiers who promised to protect the civillians, part of their mandate, fled at the first shots leaving the civillians to the invaders according to refugees we interviewed.  According to UN figures, over 100,000 people fled Abyei.  Most of the people, Ngok Dinka tribespeople mostly, fled southwards towards the town of Agok.  Agok has been overrun with refugees who have struggled to build shelter and find a means to support themselves.  When we visited in 2011, the ECS primary school was hosting 1200-children with about 12-teachers.  Now, with the influx of refugees from Abyei, the school has around 4200+ students with 32-teachers.  Most children sit on the ground all day under trees to learn, while their families live four or five familes to a small makeshift shelter.
     After they captured Abyei the northern soldiers and their allies the Arab-Misseriya tribespeople who bring their cattle into the Abyei area to graze during the dry season went on a frenzy of looting and destruction of the town.
     What we saw of Abyei town on this visit reminded me of the photos of Hiroshima after the atomic blasts at the end of the second World War.  There were streets and a few straggling survivors, but everything else was destroyed.  Every shop, every tukel and school and office, even the churches - except for the mosque - was destroyed.  The buildings built of local materials were all burned, the permanent buildings had their doors and windows and roofing materials removed.  We visited the local power generating station and found the two large generators burned and destroyed.  Citizens who had fled southwards to the town of Agok told of how the northerners put rocks and debris down the bore wells so they could no longer be used, and especially cruel act.
      I found the experience particularly unsettling because I remember vividly the town we visited in 2011, and I could hardly believe the scope of the destruction I saw on this visit.  I have never visited a war zone before and was unprepared for the level of destruction I experienced.  Even the house we stayed at in 2011 was destroyed without a trace.
      I will be writing more of our visit to Abyei, but I wanted to share some photos from 2011 and now so people can see the destruction that has occurred.  I also ask for people to pray for the people of Abyei and for a peaceful resolution to the crisis there.



Archbishop Daniel Deng (L) and Bishop Abraham Nhial (R) meeting the Abyei County Commissioner in Jan 2011
 





The same office in October, 2012









Abyei town Dept of Social Services, Oct 2012 showing destruction

Abyei town, Jan 2011 showing residents rebuilding homes, note presence of power lines. 

Abyei Town, Jan 2011 showing rebuilding

Abyei Town, Oct 2012, homes abandoned or destroyed

 Abyei town, Oct 2012: Abandoned homes, even the electric wires removed from the poles.

ECS primary school, Abyei, Jan 2011. Note doors and windows in place

ECS Primary School, Abyei, Oct 2012. Doors, windows and roofing removed.

 Archbishop Deng (C) praising the rehabilitation of the ECS Primary School, Abyei, Jan 2011

The same location, October 2012
 

LR Duffee at ECS Primary School, Abyei, Jan 2011
 

LR Duffee at same ECS Primary school classroom, October 2012
 

Abyei Roman Catholic Church, Oct 2012: roof missing, fixtures removed

 

Abyei Roman Catholic church, Oct 2012, destruction of altar

 

 Archbishop Deng (R) decrying the destruction of the crucifix which adorned the top of Abyei Roman Catholic Church, Oct 2012

 ECS Church, Abyei, January 2011

ECS Church, Abyei, January 2011

Site of the ECS Church Abyei, Oct 2012. A small tukel has been built on the site.

 ECS Church, Abyei, October 2012

 

Zanzibar

            In December of 2010 I organized a trip which took me from Juba to Nairobi, then by overnight train to Mombasa (See “The Night Train to Mombasa”), thence by boat to Zanzibar Island off the coast of Tanzania.  I finished the trip by taking a ferry from Zanzibar to Dar es-Salaam in Tanzania and then flying back to Juba via Nairobi.
            I like making circular trips, traveling in a single direction.  I don’t like having to either backtrack or return over territory I’ve already covered.  It boarders on the maniacal I suppose, though I am willing to make tactical retreats where necessary.  Anyway, it was nice to get away in the days before Christmas and to have the opportunity to see some of Africa beyond South Sudan.
            It was important to me to arrive on Zanzibar by boat.  How else could you approach an island except by water, really?  Arriving by air seemed pointless.  However, finding a water route to Zanzibar proved quite difficult.  Ferries which used to operate between Mombasa and other points along the Tanzanian coast had ceased operating.  I figured I could travel by bus from Mombasa to Dar and then take the ferry over, but that went against my principles since I would have to ferry again from Zanzibar back to Dar when my trip was over.  And besides, long distance buses in Africa are nearly always miserable.
            Searching on-line for a water-borne option, and I did waste some work-time planning my trip, finally turned-up a cruise-ship that was making a five day journey out of Mombasa but which would, if requested, drop passengers off at Stone Town on Zanzibar the first morning out of port.  Perfect!  I made a reservation satisfied that I had found the final link in the chain of my adventure.  And just making reservations from South Sudan was difficult.  There are few on-line credit-card purchases in Africa, and you wouldn’t feel safe giving credit card information over a cell-phone.  I had to wire funds from Juba to Nairobi for my train ticket and hotel reservations on Zanzibar, and through the use of scanned forms was able to book my cruise-ship tickets via email.  People back home don’t appreciate the ease with which they can be parted from their money.
            I found Mombasa dreary, just a large commercial city, like Omaha but hotter and grimier.  The locals were pleasant enough, no one bothered me.  The city is overwhelmingly Muslim, and even the Anglican Cathedral was heavily influenced by Islamic architecture, though the interior bore traces of the British who occupied the country for so long.  There were innumerable brass plaques lining the walls giving testimony to the piety of past congregants.  “Sir Reginald Thomas Plash was a dedicated member for forty years,” “Edward Lukken Willoughby served on the vestry for twenty years, 1910-1930,” “Lady Davinia Swindle Ernst sang in the choir for many years,” etc.  It was all very charming and I was surprised in the middle of the day to have the cathedral to myself.
            I was so glad to be leaving Mombasa that I left for the cruise ship an hour earlier than necessary.  My scooter rickshaw driver had a hard time finding the dock; I had to keep giving him directions even though he was local.  I was the first passenger to arrive and the operators were not quite ready for me so I was left to cool in the company’s offices. 

"Ocean Mist"

            The ship was called the “Ocean Mist.”  It was Cambodian flagged and had just undergone extensive renovations to the tune of millions of dollars according to one of the crew.  The captain was an old Greek, looking perfectly cast in his role.  This was going to be its maiden voyage.  If that was the case I felt sorry for the investors.  The ship was nearly empty, probably no more than forty or fifty passengers for a ship that could carry over 200.  My impression was that most of the passengers were Iranian or some other type of middle-easterners who had come for the prospect of gambling in the ship’s casino.  Swarthy, secretive men trailed by numerous silent women clad in bhurkas.  Westerners whose only impression of people from Arab countries is from movies or television do not appreciate the individuality that bhurka clad women are able to exhibit.  Far from monolithic or dull they are highly expressive in their accents and details in addition to the henna tattooing with which married women adorn themselves.
            Because this was the ship’s maiden voyage the operators had gone to a lot of trouble to arrange for local musicians decked out in African garb beating drums and other percussion instruments to line the walkway to welcome the guests.  It was somewhat gruesome, like someone’s twisted version from an old Tarzan movie of what Africans should look and sound like.  Still, it was entertaining.  Since I had arrived so early I was able to retire to the upper open deck and sip a Coke and watch everyone else arrive.  It wasn’t cheap; my one night cost me $250 with everything included, but after nearly a year in Juba I was ready for some luxury and the ship was very, very nice.
            The operators had requested that passengers dress for dinner.  As I always travel in a suit, something I learned early on gets you far better service than dressing like a typical American in ragged jeans and a dirty t-shirt, I arrived in the dining room comfortably attired.  Given the low number of passengers the ratio between staff and customers was ridiculous.  Throughout my dinner I was never surrounded by fewer than four waitpersons who seemed to hang on my every mouthful and who whisked plates away and placed new ones before me with astonishing speed.  At the end I wanted to linger over my coffee but it felt so uncomfortable being stared at by so many staff I finally left.
            When I awoke the next morning I found that we were just arriving at Stone Town, the capital of Zanzibar.  I motored to shore and wound my way through the famous narrow streets and alleyways.  I was heading for the guest house located adjacent to the Anglican Cathedral.  I had studied a map of Stone Town in my “Lonely Planet” guide to Africa, but it was difficult to keep track of all the streets which were like walking through a maze.  I find it intimidating when I arrive in a strange place like Zanzibar.  Although you cannot help but be observed to be a tourist, still you do not want to appear to be a complete sap being easy prey for the touts and others who can cause trouble.  The one thing I knew was that the cathedral was located on one of the highest points in town and so I figured so long as I kept walking upwards I would find it which I eventually did.  Probably from the time I arrived on the island until the time I reached the guest house had only been about ten minutes but it felt like I had been walking for hours.  The air even in the morning was hot and humid.

            The Anglican Cathedral in Stone Town was built atop the site of the last slave market.  Arab traders had for centuries brought slaves captured all over the African interior to Zanzibar for sale.  One of the first Anglican missionaries decided to build the cathedral right on the site, the altar being built on the spot where the tree to which slaves were lashed was located.  There is a museum on the cathedral grounds describing the history of slavery on Zanzibar.

Anglican Guest House

            The guest house was a lovely two story structure located next door, nestled amongst palms and flame-trees and covered with bougainvillea.  My room was charming with cool tile floors and a four poster bed inset with decorative tiles.  Zanzibar is predominantly Muslim and two mosques were located close by the cathedral.  The muezzin sings out the first calls for prayers at 5:30am which made for early mornings.  Even in Juba I know it is a tough night’s sleep when I am awake early enough to hear the first call to prayer.  People at the cathedral with whom I spoke said that by and large Christians and Muslims got along well, though I heard a few months ago that in reaction to some perceived slight some Muslims had rampaged through Stone Town and destroyed a church.  I wonder if having to wake up so early every morning puts some Muslims in a perpetually bad mood.
   

   




      Stone Town is a walker’s delight.  The heart of the old central part of town consists of numerous narrow alleyways, wide enough only for pedestrians or scooters.  You can spend wonderful hours wandering through the alleyways admiring the architecture, much of it Arabic in character.  Doorways in particular feature extensive decorative carving and wrought-iron hardware.  I found the residents pleasant though non-committal, no one bothered me (other than touts) but no one really greeted me either.
         

        I arrived in Stone Town on a Saturday morning because I was keen to attend Sunday services at the cathedral.  I understood that the main service was in Kiswahili, of which I have a poor grasp, but that there was an English service as well.  Sadly, the English service was attended by only about a dozen parishioners and rather than being held in the cathedral proper was held in a small chapel next door.  Most of my fellow congregants were tourists like me, just passing through.  One thing that did annoy me though was that the service was at 8am.  The cathedral’s website said the English service was much later in the day the result of which I delayed my planned departure for the beach until Monday.  But once I arrived and learned of the early morning service I regretted that I would have to burn another day wandering around Stone Town – which honestly, you can get a good feel for in a couple of hours  – rather than head to the beach.
            On Sunday I purchased some plantains and locally made bread and bottles of water.  The beach resort I was heading to was located on an isolated stretch of beach and I was afraid supplies would either be difficult to find or terribly expensive.  I learned both the positives and negatives of human behavior that day.  In the main market in Stone Town I purchased plantains and bread but had to pay inflated “muzungu” prices.  I remember when I was buying the loaf of bread the price the seller quoted me was twice what the local lady before me had paid for the same item.  When I complained to the seller she merely shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “tough.”  I told her she should not engage in such practices, it was dishonest.
            But in the small Indian owned shop where I purchased bottles of water and some other small items, all I had were a few large Tanzanian notes and the owner said she could not make change.  This lady, who had never seen me before in her life, allowed me to take my bag of groceries with me with the promise that I would return later and pay her what I owed.  I was overwhelmed by her trust and kindness and I made a frantic effort to break my large bills so I could return and pay the shop what I owed.
            In the evenings vendor’s set-up grills all over the main square down near the harbor where you can wander the stalls until you find what looks good and then order your dinner.  Being an island there was all manner of seafood which would be made into kebabs and cooked over the flames.  I had some fish and chicken kebabs, it was great and watching the large crowds milling about the square was a pleasant way to spend the evening.
  

Buses in Zanzibar

         I opted to take the local bus to the beach.  If you want to get to know a place, take the local transport.  Lonely Planet said Bus 309 would take me to Jambiani Beach and sure enough it did.  The bus park was located near the guest house and I arrived on Monday morning after breakfast.  There were dozens of buses of all descriptions heading everywhere.  Decently enough, they line up in numerical order and although 309 hadn’t arrived yet, it was easy enough to find the place where I should wait.  I had to fend-off numerous touts offering taxis and many other items for sale.  At one point a young Masai male arrived, decked out as they always are in red plaid and equipped with his dagger and other accoutrements.  He looked so lost and terribly out of place I was compelled to ask him if he needed help but he said he was ok, just waiting for another bus.
            After about an hour bus 309 arrived.  The bus was a mid-sized truck in which the box-cab in the back had been removed and replaced with bench seats along both sides and covered with a canopy.  A handful of us climbed in, and I sat towards the front on the right side.  The schedule required about three hours which I found hard to believe for a trip of only around 30-miles.  But not long after we started we stopped in a commercial district along the main road where for over an hour dozens of sacks of flour and sugar and other commodities were loaded onto the canopy roof.  Another stop a few doors away added more freight to our roof and I realized that it was the freight and not the passengers which really paid for this trip down to the far coast of the island.  Once we got going we also stopped frequently to pick-up passengers who waved down the bus and by the time we got deep into the countryside around two dozen people were squeezed into the seats along with a pile of luggage.  The seat next to me was the last to be occupied, no one wanting to sit next to the “muzungu,” until there was no where else left to sit.  So often in Africa I have been the only white person and it is an interesting experience, one that teaches you about vulnerability and humility and kindness.
            After almost exactly three hours we arrived at my hotel.  The cost for the bus ride was 1500-shillings, or a little over a dollar.  By comparison, when I returned to Stone Town a couple of days later opting to use the hotel’s car it cost around $60.  I actually overpaid on the bus, giving the young boy who collected the money 2000-shillings, and he returned my change.

Jambiani Beach, Zanzibar

            I stayed at the Blue Oyster Hotel, a fantastic hotel located directly upon Jambiani Beach on the southeast coast of Zanzibar.  I was attracted to Jambiani from Lonely Planet’s description of it as quiet and it was that.  Pristine white sand, turquoise colored bathtub warm gentle water, swaying palm trees – it was the closest to paradise I have ever been.  The Blue Oyster was a German owned hotel run with great efficiency.  My room was sumptuous located on the ground floor of a two story cottage just off the beach.  When I arrived my bed was strewn with flowers and I felt immediately at ease.  I really appreciated the opportunity to relax and unwind.

View out my door

            The hotel offered entertainments such as visiting a nearby nature park or going out on a small boat to the coral reef offshore to go snorkeling, but I opted to stay put and relax, taking occasional walks along the beach.  At low tide the water recedes about a half mile from shore and locals, mainly women, arrive to tend seaweed which they grow in beds on the sea floor.  Stakes are driven into the ground about ten feet apart and string stretched between the stakes.  Seaweed is planted at one end and follows the string to create rectangular patches.  The water is so clear the plants would receive sunlight all day.  The women come out at low tide to collect the day’s harvest into large sacks.  Who buys it I don’t know, I couldn’t communicate with any of the women to learn much.
            Nearly all the other guests were Germans.  I met one chubby German who was there with his family.  He had lived in Dar for a couple of years working for a company.  He said he loved it and would keep signing up since it was much more pleasant than living in Germany and it allowed him to indulge his hobby of scuba diving.  The only awkward social moment was when they had this special moonlight dinner on the beach.  It was a great dinner sitting on the beach on a warm pleasant evening under a full moon rising out of the Indian Ocean.  But I was the only person eating alone and they had stuck my table right in the middle of the place.  It was hard not to be self-conscious of eating alone.

Dar es-Salaam ferry dock, Zanzibar

            The ferry-ride to Dar was uneventful.  I had intended to save $5 by buying a second-class ticket but the ticket seller insisted I buy first-class.  I was thankful I did since first class was air-conditioned which in the great heat and humidity was merciful.  Getting onto the ferry, I began to really feel more like an African.  In Africa there are no ques, you simply have to push and shove your way through the crowd, and it’s everyone for themselves.  When I first arrived I found this intimidating but I remember smiling to myself as I maneuvered my way through the crowd thinking that I was really starting to fit in.
            Like most African cities Dar was a hole, a dirty, stinking hot sweaty place.  Coming off the boat you are immediately assaulted by touts offering taxis and hotels.  I had already picked-out one or two hotels to try.  I had to be at the airport early the next morning so I only needed a room for a few hours, long enough to catch a nap and explore Dar some.  But it was a few days before Christmas and all the hotels I checked were full.  After the third hotel said they were full I instead just took a taxi to the airport, difficult in the late afternoon traffic heading out of town.  It meant about a ten hour wait at the airport but I didn’t care.   I was just glad to be heading back to Juba, back home as it were.