By Douglas Merrill
In May, 2007, Silvestro Akara Bakhiet came to St. Anselm’s Church and talked about conditions in his homeland of Sudan, specifically South Sudan. After church I introduced myself to Silvestro. We talked about this and that until he suddenly asked me if I knew anyone in the parish who knew something about water. I do. I am an environmental engineer and have participated in hundreds of water and wastewater projects over my long professional life. Silvestro asked me if I would help him and his non-profit organization, New Sudan Generation, to bring water projects to South Sudan. I said that I would like to try and have been engaged in that effort ever since.
The conflict in Darfur in Western Sudan has grabbed the headlines for several years now, but the unknown war (unknown to most of us) of 1983-2005 in Southern Sudan was more devastating. In this war between the Muslim north and Christian and animist south approximately two million people died. Four million escaped the devastation by fleeing to other areas in Sudan and to neighboring countries such as Uganda, Ethiopia, and Kenya.
The signing of the Comprehensive Peace Agreement in January 2005 officially ended the war. It created a so-called Government of National Unity (GNU) between the southern-based Sudanese People’s Liberation Movement (SPLM) and the ruling government in the north, the National Congress Party (NCP). It also authorized the SPLM to be the lead party in the new autonomous Government of South Sudan and the minority party in the GNU. The SPLM and the NCP will try to work together for an interim period of six years. Then there will be referendum on whether the two shall remain joined or whether South Sudan will become an independent country.
The peace is imperfect, but it appears to be holding well enough that those displaced by the fighting are beginning to return to their homes. They are desperate to rebuild their communities, but they have to start almost from scratch. The economy has reverted to subsistence levels. Basic services such as education, health care, water and sanitation exist minimally if at all.
In February, 2008 Silvestro
(left) asked me if I would
accompany him on his next trip to Sudan. The purpose of the trip would
be to observe conditions on the ground and to try to get funding for
several projects we had in mind. These projects included (1)
implementing an exploration technology designed to locate underground
water without digging, (2) purchasing and operating a drilling rig to
tap into that underground water, and (3) developing a community resource
center to teach vocational skills, raise socio-economic standards, and
provide health education to internally displaced people and returnees. I agreed to go.
Because of scheduling conflicts I left for Sudan a week later than
Silvestro, on March 27.
This is the story of my trip.
March 27, 2008
It begins with a 3:30 AM wakeup. After breakfast, Carolyn drives me to the train station and an hour later I am at San Francisco International Airport. I stumble groggily through security and at 8:20 we take off for Detroit, the first leg on this arduous journey. I, Doug the tall, find myself in the middle seat of a completely full plane. My knee hurts already. I’ll try to negotiate aisle seats for the rest of the trip. I also find that my rather large laptop computer barely fits on my lap and I can’t open the monitor far enough to see it unless I tilt the whole computer up on a 30- degree angle. But enough complaining. This is pretty small potatoes. In Detroit, I manage to make a wireless connection to the internet and sent Carolyn a message. One small triumph!
March 28
A long (seven hour) and uneventful flight to Amsterdam on a completely full Airbus (330 passengers). Didn’t sleep much. Sat next to a nice lady from Michigan and her two teen-age daughters, all going to London. A long-awaited trip for the girls. The flight crew is exceptionally nice. We land at Schiphol Airport, which is huge. The taxi to the terminal seems to take almost as long as the flight to Amsterdam. The Amsterdam-Kampala (Uganda) leg seems just as long but the plane is less full and the flight more relaxing. At the airport I meet a group of Americans from southern California (Thousand Oaks, I think) who are placing water wells in northern Uganda. They are members of a huge megachurch down there.
Silvestro meets me at the airport, thank God for that. I would have never been able to make it to our resting place on my own. He gets into an argument with a cab driver about the fare the driver wants to charge us. Silvestro is very forceful. We end up taking another cab.
The trip from the airport is slow, with many traffic jams. The street life is intense, with wide spots in the road holding shops, markets, and street vendors. People stream across the highway with no apparent regard for traffic. We are staying at the Cardinal Nsubuga Leadership Training Center. It is a Catholic resource center, with lodging and at least breakfast. It is clean but spartan. I don’t sleep too well because of the jet lag.
March 29
Silvestro has declared this day to be a day of rest. So we walk into town with Silvestro’s brother, Clement, and a friend, James, to do a few errands. I get my first look at Kampala. Utter chaos. There are way too many motor vehicles for the streets available. There are no traffic lights or crosswalks. It’s every man (or vehicle) for itself. The streets are full of potholes, covered in mud, and choked with exhaust. And this is the capital of Uganda! I am getting to see the real Africa.
We have lunch at a small café. Silvestro knows a lot of people there, including an uncle he hadn’t seen in 20 years. So they have a high old time talking over what they’ve been doing since they’ve last met. Most of this conversation is not in English. So now I know how Erika (my deaf grand-daughter) feels when no sign language is available.
Later we do our errands, shopping for overshoes (not found) and an alarm clock (found after much tramping around). We also purchase bus tickets for tomorrow’s trip to Nimule, South Sudan. We will get the last bus, which leaves at 4 AM! Hence the need for an alarm clock. Then we all get into a jitney taxi and come back to the Cardinal Nsubuga Center. I am totally exhausted, and fall asleep as soon as I hit the bed, getting a two-hr nap. This was the first sound sleep I’ve had in 48 hours, and I feel much better afterwards. Jet lag is real.
March 30
Up at 2:20 AM to catch a 4:00 AM bus to Nimule. This bus trip might well be called “Hell’s Passage” because it is by far the most difficult trip I have ever made. It is the quintessential third-world bus trip, with passengers and their luggage (including chickens) crammed into every imaginable nook and cranny. No one can get up and walk around, because the aisles are full of stuff. However, the closeness of the journey and the length of it (10 hours) are not what I’ll remember. What my mind will remember (long after my body has forgotten) is the bumps and potholes, and the effect they have on the trip. Every time we pass over one or the other, a terrific shock passes through the bus. The effect is particularly pronounced over the rear wheels, where we are unfortunately sitting. Several times I feel that I might throw my back out, so I continuously brace to forestall such an event. So the trip is long even though the distance is relatively short, because we are grinding away in first gear most of the time to avoid the obstacles. My companions, unlike me, feel the trip is no big deal (not unusually difficult) as it sometimes takes them as much as a day and a half to complete (during the rainy season).
Up until now, this journal must seem like a litany of complaints about my various discomforts. Time to switch gears. There have been many positive things too. I am able to have a close-up view of the countryside that can never be had from an airplane and an experience with the people that can never be duplicated on a guided tour.
This land is lush, not a desert at all, although the Sahara does begin a few hundred miles north of here. The road is dotted with small communities, many of whom appear to make their living off travelers passing through. Whenever our bus stops, vendors are immediately at its side offering to sell whatever we might need. In some ways, it’s like traveling through rural Mexico. But it’s different. For one thing, there are many refugee and internally displaced person (IDP) camps along the way, holding people in limbo until the political situation wherever they are from clears up.
Through Silvestro and his young friends, Jerome and James (who will apparently accompany us for most of my stay) I have been able to meet many African people, who have treated me with unfailing kindness, sharing what they have. This is beyond price and what I’ll remember long after my discomforts have faded. I have never felt that people were staring at me even though I may own the only white face for miles around.
For the next several days we’ll be staying at the compound of the Catholic Diocese of Torit, near Nimule, South Sudan. The compound is spartan by western standards. The Cardinal Nsubuga House in Kampal was luxurious in comparison. For example, I’m glad I brought my own toilet paper. As another example, Silvestro suggests that a shower might be refreshing, but when I go to take one I have difficulty figuring out how that can happen because there’s no running water. He then explains to me with cheerful good humor, that I can create a shower by cupping my hands and splashing cold water from a basin over my head. No hot water and no towel, but he is right, it is refreshing.
I have a reasonably good sleep and awake refreshed. Jet lag is diminishing.
March 31
First
thing we visit a secondary school. Silvestro has a package of letters
from his children’s school and he wants to get a letter exchange going
with students from Sudan. He walks in and talks to Henry, the deputy
headmaster (in the grey suit), and five minutes later we are up in front of a class doing
show and tell. Such is Silvestro’s persuasive power. We talk to two
more classes that morning. Silvestro manages to slide in a lecture
about being respectful to the teachers, working hard, and you are the
future while pushing the letter exchange. He is one of the few people
who can lecture you while still allowing you to feel good about
yourself. He is amazing. The children, of course, are totally
charming. There is a great respect for their elders and an appreciation
for what they (the children) have, even though it is often very little.
In the afternoon we meet with Tombe Steve Benson, acting administrator for Norwegian Church Aid (NCA). NCA was one of the first relief organizations in Sudan, starting in the 1980’s, and it is one most respected. We find much common ground with Steve. We talk about the needs of the returning refugees, the politics of repatriation, problem areas, and projects that we might work together on. He will provide us with a car and driver so that tomorrow we can visit Mugali, an area of intensive repatriation.
We also met with Christopher Hamm, the administrator for the UN High Command for Refugees (UNHCR). This meeting leads to a better understanding of the UN system in Sudan, but is unlikely to lead to engagement with UNHCR. UNHCR's mission is limited to getting the refugees back home and settled. Further development work is the province of other agencies (UNICEF, WHO, USAID, and so forth).
I am astounded at the great number of people here who speak English. Some you would expect it of (administrators, the clergy, and students). But it seems almost everyone I speak to knows what I’m talking about. This will probably not be true in rural areas.
April 1
Happy April Fools! My sleeping is improving! I have a good rest until 5 AM. Then I get up and type up some of my meeting notes.
This morning we go to another school, a primary school. The children (all 550 of them) are lined up to go to class. But the headmaster asks them to stop and Silvestro gives them his standard “be good” lecture which is received with modest applause. I then tell them what a privilege it is for me to be with them and how much I am learning about their country. This information is received with blank looks. Apparently I have a bad accent.
We drive out to Mugali in the ubiquitous Toyota Land Cruiser over jolting roads. I am braced the whole time to prevent my back from going out. Mugali is a place where repatriation is starting in earnest. The normal population is 37,000 but it is expected to swell to 50,000 shortly. Repatriation is being handled by UNHCR. Its mandate is to bring the returnees back and provide subsistence materials to get them through their first few months. However, no buildings or farming tools have been provided, nor have seeds. Therefore their chances for sustainability are very slim. They are also short of mosquito netting and some of the tents provided have rotted out. Silvestro admonishes the administrator to complain to UNHCR and to follow up later. It’s the squeaky wheel that gets greased,
We
stop at an open-air primary school (left). It’s open air because there is no
building for it. Classes are held under a shade tree. When it rains,
the kids go home. School equipment is rudimentary, at best. The kids are intensely curious about the tall pale
guy (me), needing little encouragement to shake my hand.
I get a close look at typical country housing, a round hut with mud or brick walls walls and a thatched roof (right. Later, I see such housing is common even in large cities. Water comes from wells. I don't ask how sanitation is accomplished. I see a few latrines here and there, but not enough to handle the entire village.
The administrator takes us out to visit a small village. It is a woman-dominated village. The chief is Elizabeth. She describes all the problems the village is facing when dealing with the returnees, including shortages of water, transport, and schooling for the children. She and the other women sing us a song of welcome. It’s quite touching.
On the way back to Nimule we stop at
a refugee tent site.
There a widow with seven children shows us one of the rotted tents that
she has to try to live in. She lives in the rotted tent. Her
children live in the relatively good tent behind. It's heart breaking. Life for the refugees
is incredibly hard.
In the evening Silvestro and James go to a meeting of elders from Nimule, basically to hear how people in NImule are coping with the returnees. He kindly leaves me at the compound, knowing that there will be no English spoken at the meeting and I will be at sea. So Jerome and I hang out and talk about his life and aspirations. He is a neat guy, 27 years old. He would like to visit America, have a nice laptop computer like I do, and not be so poor. I really like him and James our other traveling companion. They are so friendly and do their best to protect me from the elements and myself. They marvel that I can still do things at my advanced age (70) and seem quite aware of my relative fragility.
I also have a nice chat with Gloria (right), the young
receptionist, who is recovering from typhoid. She too would like to
visit America. I don't know if she is serious when she asks If she
can go home to America with me. I don't think she is. She's
just having some fun with me. Maybe.
People here are fascinated by America. They love the dream while not liking the current administration. I feel no hostility. On the contrary, I’ve experienced nothing but good will. Perhaps it’s because I’m traveling with a local hero. No, I don’t think so. There is a natural graciousness here and curiosity about America and Americans.
I am doing well health wise. I am eating well but cautiously and take all my usual pills (vitamins, baby aspirin, etc.) plus my anti-malarials. I use DEET to keep the mosquitoes off. My cautious approach to food plus the fact that we are not eating gourmet meals and sweating heavily means I will probably lose weight this trip, not a bad thing.
April 2
I am up early, 4 AM. My progress on jet lag seems to have slowed down. I don’t know what we’ll be doing today. The bridge to the area we had hoped to visit is under repair and little traffic is being allowed across it.
Perhaps now is a good time to talk about the animals I see in my travels. We are certainly in rural Africa. Cattle wander across the roads and through people’s yards. Pigs (below) wallow in the potholes in the roads . Goats sprint about. There is a family of turkeys in the compound where we are living. I’ve already mentioned the chicken on the bus. Jerome tells me there are cobras, black mambas, and puff adders around. Hopefully I won’t see any. No lions or elephants yet. Plenty of insects. Four-inch long cockroaches hang out in the latrines, disappearing down the holes when you enter the stall. Makes me think sometimes about whether I really want to sit there.
I am happy to report a huge fully loaded mango tree
right outside my back door. The mangos are ripening. I have been
sampling.
As it turns out, we have had a slow day. We are unable to arrange transport to anyplace we want to go. I take a nap. I get to chatting with a young man named Jalon Okat. He is a well driller and works for the Diocese of Torit. When he is not off drilling he stays at the Diocese's compound and that's how I happen to bump into him. We talk about his work and he educates me a bit about drilling. Integrity shines forth from Jalon like a beacon. If we ever get a drilling project funded, I want someone like Jalon working with us. When he offers to take me out to see a local borehole (wells are called boreholes over here) I readily accept. Before we go I do a little reading about how to drill boreholes, because I don’t want to appear too ignorant when I talk to someone who knows something about the subject.
Later in the afternoon I go with Jerome to
see him play volleyball with some of the local lads. They are not
very good but are hugely enthusiastic and having a great time, which is
the important thing. In the evening, James tells me he is returning to
Kampala because of urgent business. I suspect he won’t be rejoining
us. It looks like it will be me, Jerome, and Silvestro from now on, the
Three Musketeers.
April 3
It starts off to be a slow day again, lack of transport being the problem. But at 3:30 PM, a pickup truck is procured and off we go to Pageri, Silvestro’s village, three of us in the cab (including me, probably because of my age or perhaps status) and six perched on bags of peanuts stored in the truck bed. It’s the usual jolting ride, but bearable because it is only 25 miles.
While we wait for the bridge over the Aswa River to open (it is being repaired and opens only three times a day) I talk to Christopher, a young man with a wife and child (below, right). He is a subsistence farmer, raising crops to feed his family. He stopped his education at 8th grade because he had to work to support his family. It is a common story here, unfulfilled potential.
Our visit to Pageri has more than social
implications. There is a huge land dispute. Somehow someone in the
village has annexed land belonging to Silvestro’s extended family (by
extended, I mean as many as 500 people. Everyone is an uncle or aunt,
it seems). The purpose of the visit is to develop a strategy for
getting the land back and to bring the problem to the attention of the
authorities. Thus there are endless open-air meetings, generally
attended by 50 to 100 people, all conducted in their native tongue,
which of course, I don’t understand. So the meetings are not
interesting to me. I attend because I have nothing else to do. As I
sit there zoning out that evening, I happen to look up at the sky.
With no light pollution to fade the stars, the sky puts on a big show.
As it turns out, we spent the night in Pageri because business is far from done. I sleep in a thatched-roof hut on a very good bed, but because the meeting is so long (these folks love to talk), there isn’t much time to sleep and I arise tired.
April 4, 2008
In
the morning we walk around to the various nearby villages greeting
friends and relatives. We stop by the primary school and talk to the
teachers and headmaster. Part of the school is in a permanent building
but most classrooms are in thatched huts with no sides (left). There is a
school lunch and breakfast program, but no food items have been
delivered for over a month. There are 11 teachers for more than 900
students and more students are coming all the time. The teachers are
paid the equivalent of $100-200 per month, grossly underpaid even by
Sudan standards. The needs are great.
In the morning, more meetings to develop strategies for the land issues then at 11 AM we troop over to the administrator’s office to air our complaints. Unfortunately, or typically, the other side isn’t there, so we wait until 2 PM for it to show up (waiting is one of the things you do in Africa). When it does, it is only one of the assistants, but the meeting starts anyway. It groans on until 5 PM, becoming very heated at times. This is really an important issue. At 5 PM, as the meeting breaks up, the person with authority from the other side shows up. That’s the last straw. He’s not admitted to the meeting for to do so would force a continuance until tomorrow. Recriminations all around.
I hang around outside most of the meeting because seating is limited and I have no idea of what is going on. Time hangs heavily. I have run out of reading matter and am very tired. Finally it is over. As expected, not a lot is resolved. It’s only the beginning of the fight. More to come.
We go back to the village, have dinner (which by the way is delicious and very nutritious—the bread is the heaviest bread I have ever eaten), and drive (bumpily) back to Nimule. I am exhausted and smell very bad. My spirits revive after having a hand shower.
I
want to say a bit about the lot of women here. It’s about what I
thought before I came to Sudan. Women appear to do most of what you might call
drudge work (pumping and carrying water, field work, looking after the
children, cooking, and cleaning up). There is deference to the male,
even some genuflecting upon greeting. When I begin to carry some water
in the compound, the women protest, but eventually they let me. Women
did not attend the big meeting described above as participants; instead
they sat outside the building with me. However, in meetings that led up
the big meeting, they had plenty to say, and I hope their opinions were
heard. One of the current government’s objectives is to bring women
into full equality and participation. The process may have begun, but
still has a long way to go.
April 5
I sit outside my room as the sun rises. It will be hot today but now it is cool. A brood of turkeys parades in the courtyard. They have made a home here. An old man sweeps the court yard (it is dirt) of the debris that has fallen from the trees overnight. He does this morning and evening. It’s his job. It’s one of the ways the Diocese supports its people.
It will be a slow day here. The car that we will be using the rest of the trip has arrived but needs some repairs and they will take up the rest of the day. In the meantime I wash my clothes, take a nap, and generally kill time.
Later. Actually some things get accomplished. Silvestro and I go over to Catholic Relief Services (CRS) and meet Peter Briggs, Area Coordinator for CRS. We ask Peter about the cutoff of food items to the primary school in Pageri (CRS’s responsibility). He says that food has temporarily been diverted for the returnees, a more urgent need, but will be resumed shortly. We tell him about our programs, wondering if there is a way CRS can help us. The short answer is “not very much.” CRS's mission is relief and ours is development. Different worlds. Peter lets us use his internet connection and we look at messages from home (I have 106 and Silvestro 800). We read the apparently most urgent ones. We can’t read them all without using up our welcome. I send my trip log home. We tell Peter we are going to Torit on Sunday. He asks if he can go along. The car is filling up. Such is business in Sudan. Very informal.
As mentioned before, I have run out of reading matter and am now reduced to reading a John Lescroarte novel for the second time. Fortunately, he is an excellent writer. The alternative is TV. The compound’s TV is on all day. That appears to be the main entertainment here. The choices are news, sports, quiz shows, and soap operas. The news programs are quite good (CNN and Al Jazeera ). Al Jazeera seems to me to be quite unbiased. It just reports the news and doesn’t seem to have any ax to grind. I am impressed and pleasantly surprised. The big news now is the election in Zimbabwe. Was it fair? Will it turn out to be like Kenya’s? Stay tuned. The sports channels are mainly about soccer. The quiz shows and soap operas originate from Nigeria and they are horrible, just like quiz shows and soap operas all over the world (in my opinion).
Names are handled differently here than in the US. Most people have three names, like us. But we use a person’s first name when we are trying to be friendly, and if we call them by their last names we always precede them with Mr. or Ms. or Dr. But if someone calls me by my last name only (Merrill) I consider them to be rude or unfriendly. Not here. People answer cheerfully to any one of their three (or four) names. No problem!
April 6
We undertake a long, jolting road trip to Torit.
The road is the worst I’ve seen. Pot holes like tank traps! In fact we
see a burned-out Russian tank besides the road, a victim of the long
war. A photo op if there ever was one.
Our car continues to disintegrate, losing a brake shoe along the road. When Jerome tries to jack up the car the jack sinks into the ground. Luckily we have stopped to see the administrator of Torit when he attempts the repairs. The administrator has a jack, so we use it to recover.
We reach Torit at about 7 PM and pull into the mission of the Diocese of Torit. There is no room in the inn, but we are given mattresses that we stretch out on a construction site. Our accommodations are getting cruder and cruder. However, we are treated to a good meal. One of the priests, Father Martin Vuni, develops a good strategy for funding a drilling operation. Later I discover a shower with running water. Heavenly!
Meals are little different in Sudan, at least in the countryside. There are few utensils. The ones that are available are used for general serving. Putting food in one’s mouth is a matter of using one’s fingers. Alternatively, if it is available, a stiff piece of bread can serve as a spoon until it sops up enough gravy to lose tensile strength. Clean hands are a priority before meals and a luxury afterwards.
We are in luck. Tomorrow there is a three-day conference down the road concerning the recovery process in South Sudan. We can learn what the government and other NGOs plan for the next few years. All the major players will be there. Perhaps we can make some good contacts.
April 7
Even though the cement is hard, I get a decent night’s sleep. Next morning, we troop over to the conference. It’s in a big auditorium. About 150 people attend. English is the language, although sometimes it’s hard to understand. There is no air conditioning, and before too long heads begin to nod, including mine. Nevertheless I am able to learn a few interesting things. Best of all, I copy the presentations and reports on my flash drive so I can peruse them at my leisure. We meet many people. One of them arranges an invitation for us to the Minister of Agriculture’s house for dinner. Many key players will attend (including the Governor, Minister of Finance, etc.) so it’s an opportunity.
The dinner is very nice. The feature is “anneri” (also called “bush rodent”), considered a delicacy here. It is very good, cooked in a flavorful sauce. We enjoy a good salad and vegetables. Silvestro is invited to talk about the projects we hope to bring to Sudan. People are interested in the projects, but less interested in paying for them. The next day we find out why.
April 8
The budget for the state of Torit is discussed on the second day of the conference. The projected budget shortfall is 11 million Sudanese pounds, about $5.5 million US. The shortfall is about 20% of the budget. The state hopes that non-profit agencies (like ours) can cut away at this deficit by providing capital expenditures the state would otherwise need to make. So I suspect that New Sudan Generation will be able to attract little in the way of funding from state organizations (although deficits don’t seem to hamper the US in funding its projects). I ask how the state raises revenues. There are various taxes for border crossings. I’m not sure there is a sales tax. There is an income tax, but it doesn’t help much because incomes are so low. Nevertheless I’m impressed with the young government’s planning process and zeal. They have a long way to go but are headed in a good direction.
I meet an interesting expatriate during the lunch hour, a young woman from Cincinnati named Maureen Murphy. She has worked in Liberia, Kazakhstan , and now South Sudan. I ask her why she does it and the answer is “for the experience.” She is going back to the US next year to attend Columbia University in New York.
The day turns brutally hot and we break away from the conference and return to the compound. A horrifying thing happens on the way back. A young man on a bicycle is weaving erratically in the road in front of us. Our driver doesn’t see him and hits him. The young man is bruised and bloody, his bike is ruined, and he is pissed. He is able to stanch the bleeding and wash his wounds. A long argument follows about who was responsible (it’s clear to me that we were). We finally pay the young man the equivalent of $50 US to get his bike fixed. We all were lucky. It could have been much worse.
Today I have reached the half-way point of my journey. It’s been interesting to say the least. The people have been very kind. One can’t help but respond to that kindness. However, I miss my family, our (relatively) cool California climate, and some (most) of my creature comforts.
April 9
We head off for Juba, South Sudan’s capital, over
relatively smooth dirt roads. The trip takes three hours. On the way we
are momentarily stopped because work crews are de-mining the side of the
road where it is to be widened. The de-mining unit is a bulldozer
equipped with flails. The flails beat the earth in front of the
bulldozer and detonate mines that remain. While the road is
relatively smooth, it's very dusty. Whenever a big truck and its
accompanying dust cloud approach from the opposite direction, we roll up
our windows and hold our breaths until it passes.
We are worried about accommodations in Juba. It is one of the fastest-growing cities in the world and one of the most expensive. You get to pay a lot, but what you get for your money isn’t very much. We hear rumors of $250/night for a basic hovel. But we are in luck, finding good accommodations for $30/night at Camboni House, run by the Catholic Church.
Juba itself is a big sprawling village (of 1 million + souls) on the west Bank of the Nile River. There are a few paved roads in the center of town, but all other roads are dirt. The combination of dirt roads and heavy traffic creates a permanent dust haze over the city. The heat, dust, and humidity are intense. The city is covered with litter and burning trash heaps (all too common in Africa). I wonder how people can bear to live like this. The answer, of course, is that they have no choice. Hopefully this will change. Silvestro says that Juba is looking much better now than a few years ago. So progress is being made.
I meet Martin Abucha, one of Silvestro’s close friends. Martin has a Ph. D. in aviation science from the University of Arizona, but has come back to Sudan to work on the census, which will be conducted momentarily. A census is a precursor to elections. Elections will be held over the next several years to determine South Sudan’s political fate. The census is thus very important. Martin is a delightful guy. We go out to dinner and have an enjoyable evening. The conversation is nonstop.
April 10
Today is an unmitigated disaster. We don’t have a phone that works in Juba, and one can’t conduct business in Juba (or anyplace else in Africa) without a cell phone. That’s not the worst of it though. Jerome has taken the car off to a mechanic to get its brakes fixed. But the repairs are faulty and the brakes fail. He swerves to avoid pedestrians and ends up ramming a house, causing some damage. The police arrive and take the car and Jerome to the police station. We go there. The house owner arrives. The situation is complex. The house owner doesn’t own the property, the University of Juba does. We go to the president of the university (whom Silvestro fortunately knows) and explain the situation. We offer to work out some compensation with the man living in the house if the university agrees to not take the case to court, which could result in long delays in releasing Jerome and the car from custody. The president agrees to this solution. We go back to the police station and spring Jerome. The car is to be fixed tomorrow.
It’s been a totally non-productive day. I am exhausted and my sprits are low. Silvestro drops me back at the Camboni house. I take a shower and go to bed without supper.
April 11
In the morning I discover all is not well with my digestive system. I swallow some Immodium and make the decision that I am not doing anything today. So I go back to bed and sleep and generally take it easy the rest of the day. Silvestro goes off to take the car to the repair shop. He will give them an earful. He is not shy.
I have the chance to read several newspapers and periodicals. What is bothering people in Sudan and Africa in general is corruption (rigged elections, phantom employees on public payrolls, ministers getting wealthy at the people’s expense). There are complaints that the leaders never get down and listen to the people but remain in their big houses. People are really angry. There is also the problem of who (beside the fat cats) get the money. I am told that the military gets 60% of the national budget. This is wrong. The needs are so great elsewhere.
In the morning we call Zakaria Aygula in Dallas. He is the brains behind our water exploration project. I have e-mailed him with some questions about the exploration equipment’s capabilities. But e-mail with Zakaria is often not productive. Either he does not answer my questions or provides answers that I can’t interpret. Phone is best. We awaken him (there is a 10-hour time difference between Sudan and Dallas) but get the information we need.
In the evening the church hosts a conference at the Camboni House. There is a choir that I can hear from my veranda. Quite beautiful. Afterwards, I am invited to an excellent buffet dinner in the compound. There I meet Ken, an American priest who works for Mary Knoll, an outfit from New York City. He has been working in Africa since 1976. I eventually ask him what draws him to Africa. For Ken, it was the opportunity to start up the Catholic Church in places it had never been. He says Juba is the most civilized place (in terms of amenities such as 24/7 electricity) he has been in Africa. I can only imagine what some of the other places were like.
I think of some of the other Americans and Sudanese-Americans I have met here. They all have their own reasons for being here. A common denominator, I think, is to be of service. I think of Silvestro and Martin, who take leave of their families for long periods of time to aid in South Sudan’s recovery. For others, there may be a fascination with a different culture.
April 12
I awake at 6 AM already sweating. It’s going to be
hot today. I take a couple swallows of water to relieve the parched
feeling in my mouth. This small act reminds me how important water is
to Africa. In fact, clean water is the Number 1 priority in Africa
right now and for the foreseeable future. Water-borne diseases kill and
sicken more people in Africa then any other factor, including HIV/AIDS.
In the countryside, people (mostly women and children) often walk
miles to a clean water source, hand pump the water, then carry 40- to
50- pound filled jerry cans back to their homes. This is necessary
for survival, but think of the other things that could be done with this
time if the water source was located close to their homes. That's why we're here, to help get
this accomplished.
Because local clean water is in such short supply, bottled water is a big seller here. Most if not all of bottled water comes from Uganda, and the profits return there as well. A local entrepreneur could do quite well if he or she started a Sudanese bottled-water water business.
In fact, Sudan imports most all of its food as well, from Uganda and Kenya. The agricultural sector has not recovered from the war. I expect that to happen as the land is very fertile. What a difference a few tractors would make here! Cultivation is done almost entirely by hand.
Litter is also associated with bottled water sales, as the plastic containers in which the water is sold are usually tossed on the ground. Trash cans are noticeably absent. I suspect there is no systematic trash collection system. Hence the prevalence of burning open dumps.
I meet Sisto Ridi. Sisto will be the director of a Community Resources Center we are proposing for Pageri. He is experienced and well qualified for the work. He wrote a very good proposal that we have been showing around. I like him very much.
This afternoon we take a trip to the Nile, the longest river in the world. It’s pretty wide too. I’m disappointed not to see any crocodiles. The boys insist on showing me the market place. I go along but wish I hadn’t. It’s filthy and overwhelming.
Sleep comes slowly. There’s a night club down the block that is playing music at a mega-decibel level. Eventually I remember I brought earplugs for just such an event and get up and put them on. They help.
April 13
Sunday morning dawns bright and hot, but there is a
refreshing breeze. I appear to have worked through my digestion
problems with the help of antibiotics (CIPRO). I stop at the chapel and
sit for awhile. Others are sitting there reading or praying. The
chapel is quite beautiful, small and shaped like an ellipse, with an
aisle running along the ellipse’s long axis. The altar is on one side
of the aisle, the congregation sits on the other side. The roof is
wood. The walls are whitewashed. Paintings and statues adorn the
walls. It is very simple, peaceful, and quiet building.
Afterwards I walk up and down the road outside the compound. Because it’s Sunday, there’s not much going on. At one end of the road I can see the airport. Jetliners are taking off over a sea of thatched huts. Quite a sight.
At breakfast I am told the census has been postponed. Silvestro says that’s because repatriation of the refugees and IDPs has not gotten far enough along. This means that many would be absent from the places of residence when the census began. Also, there seemed to be other factors, including a continuing dispute with the Khartoum regime about sharing of oil revenues.
A goat bleats somewhere in the distance (but not
too distant). It may be running around the compound. Animals (goats,
chickens, sheep, cattle, cats, dogs, what have you) are enmeshed in the
city scene. They are in the streets, even in the restaurants (well, maybe not
the larger animals). Animals are omnipresent.
We have internet here, wireless yet. So I am now able to keep current with my e-mail and what’s going on in the rest of the world. I am glad for that, having been reduced to reading church tracts to break the boredom.
A tremendous rainstorm comes in the evening, complete with thunder and lightning. Here they call it a drizzle. In the US we would call it a gully-washer. The humidity is not relieved. This storm reminds me the rainy season is approaching. The rainy season lasts for several months. Crops must be seeded before the rainy season begins. Much outdoor work ceases during the rainy season. Not that folks are scared of the rain. They just can’t get to work because many dirt roads become impassible when heavy trucks roll through potholes, making the potholes even deeper.
The population of this compound is truly international. Camboni House is an Italian-run organization, but most people communicate in English, leading me to believe they’re not Italians. Or else they’ve been here so long they’ve forgotten Italian.
April 14
We are here to meet the folks and press our cause. Monday is devoted to meetings and trying to arrange meetings later in the week. We drive to the Jimmy Carter Center at the edge of town to meet Samuel Mackoi (sp?). He is an engaging man with a quick smile who has many contacts in the Government of South Sudan (GOSS). He and Silvestro have met before and appear to see many things the same way. They are both forward looking and impatient with bureaucracy. We promise to write up a concept paper for our water exploration project so that he can deliver copies to his colleagues.
Then we begin driving around town to different agencies making cold calls, something I would never do in the states. Silvestro assures me that’s the way business is done in Africa and it appears he’s right (it helps to have brass balls). We have several good meetings and develop leads for the next few days. We get stood up for lunch by his uncle, who is a water analyst for Norwegian Church Aid, but ignore the slight and will try to make another appointment later.
We do a walk-in to the Joint Donor Office. It’s an office that coordinates the donations of Canada, the UK, Netherlands, Norway, Denmark, and Sweden. It’s very modern and European with an excellent air conditioning system. Silvestro comments that one could hardly tell that he wasn’t in Europe. I tell him that all he has to do is look out the window to realize he’s not.
Our travels through town are impeded by soldiers and police blocking off many roads. The President is about to arrive! Trouble is, he doesn’t get there until about six hours later. Meanwhile the town is tied up and the airport shut down completely. All flights in and out are cancelled. If you have to get somewhere by air, too bad for you. I hope this doesn’t happen on the day I am to leave.
I call KLM in Uganda and see if it’s possible for me to leave for home a few days early. My business in Africa will be finished Friday. My original plan called for me to leave the following Tuesday, but I don’t want to spend the weekend here if I can avoid it. There’s nothing to do and little more I want to see. Better I be gone. But no luck, no seats available.
April 15
I am up early today, can’t sleep any more. I send
a few e-mails, then join the community in the chapel for morning
prayers. There’s a complete mass and it takes awhile. I’m not sure as
to whether the Church wants non-Catholics to take communion, so I
abstain. I look around the Chapel. The people are all nuns or
priests. They have spent their lives serving Christ in every corner of
the globe. Many have been in Africa for decades, far from their
homeland leading what many of us (but not them) would call meager
existences. Many are elderly. Such incredible devotion. As
always, we have breakfast in the dining room. There I learn what
people are doing and thinking. It's our social hour!
More meetings today and more leads. We are telling our story and there seems to be some real interest in our water exploration technology. We are hoping to talk with larger groups of key people over the next few days. Samuel drives us around and smooths our way. We seem to be making some progress. The strategy here is to get GOSS to say it supports our projects and even write a letter to that effect. This support should have an impact on donors that actually provide the funds.
Now a little bit about peoples’ possessions. It appears the Japanese have cornered the car market in Sudan, especially Toyota. Two models prevail, the Land Cruiser, a bush car equivalent to the British Land Rover, but much cheaper, and the HiLux, a cab pickup that is used more around town. All of the agencies have bought fleets of these cars, all painted white. The land cruiser is a brutish thing with ultra-heavy shock absorbers and characteristically sports a huge radio antenna on its front fender. It costs about $50,000 US. Martin Abucha tells me the census bureau will be selling many of them at auction after the census is over for $5,000-6,000. These cars will be about six months old at sale time.
Motorbikes are extremely popular probably because of their relatively low costs. Everyone seems to have one and Juba seems to be positioning itself to be over-run by them. Personally I hate them. They’re noisy and polluting. A pox on them!
The other thing I want to comment on is the ubiquitous cell phone. Every man and his dog has one (or two or three). There is no such thing as a land line in Sudan, or probably Africa for that matter. There are many competing providers and what works in Juba may not work in the next county. It seems people spend half their lives scanning the horizon to pick up a signal that will work on one of their phones.
April 16.
More meetings! Silvestro pushes and pushes. We see still more interest in the exploration technology. We have a productive lunch meeting with one of Silvestro’s relatives, Aloysius Thudu, who is also a water and sanitation specialist. We get good hard information about drilling and exploration technology and costs. We also have a positive meeting with the Undersecretary for the Ministry of Health.
A horrifying accident happens as we are leaving one meeting. A lorry (truck) with a defective handbrake has been parked on a grade unattended. It slips loose from its perch, rolls down a grade into a family seated beneath a tree. A baby is killed. Huge wailing ensues.
This observation leads me to ruminate on vehicle safety in Africa. Before I came here, my travel physician, John Knowles, told me the greatest danger I would face would not be sickness or terrorists but vehicles. Was he ever right! Many of Africa’s vehicles are beyond dilapidation. They shouldn’t be on the road. Beyond that, the mindset of many drivers is to be Number 1 getting to wherever they are going no matter what is in the way. This mindset results in epic games of chicken to see who will give way first. In California, the pedestrian has the right of way. In Africa, the largest vehicle has the right of way. Motorbikes are particularly subject to danger, being small and less visible, and also being driven mainly by kids who look to be under 10 years old and just experiencing their first flush of testosterone. A visit to the police junkyard showed an inventory of 500 smashed motorbikes, with a much larger lot to the west completely full of the same.
We see Martin Abucha at the restaurant. Martin, who works with the census, tells us that the census, cancelled last Tuesday, is on for next Tuesday, April 22. The relevance of this to me is (1) that Tuesday is the day I am to fly to Uganda and later that day to Amsterdam and home and (2) the borders and all airports in Sudan will be closed for the census. This means that I will have to leave before Tuesday. We rush down to the travel agency and change my flight from Juba to Kampala from Tuesday to Sunday. This means that I will have to hang out in Kampala Sunday through Tuesday instead of Juba. Oh well, hanging out is hanging out, wherever you do it.
April 17, 2008
One of our contacts has arranged a meeting with the Ministry of Cooperatives and Rural Development. All the players in the water game are there. I give a small Power Point presentation about our water exploration techniques, but Silvestro does much of the talking, as usual. But that’s fine because he’s good at it. I have worn my hearing aids so that I can hear every word, and I do, but even though the meeting is in English I don’t get much of it because of the heavy and varied accents. Most of the time I'm at sea. Afterwards, Jerome, our driver, who has come to the meeting to take pictures, clues me in. The meeting has apparently been a great success. Silvestro asks the undersecretary to write a letter saying the government of South Sudan supports our water exploration project and will work with us as partners, and the undersecretary agrees to. What exactly this means is to be determined. However, I think the letter, if it happens, will smooth our way with potential donors as it will show them we have the government’s support.
At the end of the day, we go to the US embassy and talk our way into visiting USAID, probably the largest donor agency in the world. The technical people are all out of town, but we talk to Allen Reid, a member of the management team. When we say we are from San Francisco, his eyes light up. He has a home there, his wife and kids are there, and he is retiring there in just five months. I immediately think that here’s a guy just putting in his time who can hardly wait to leave. But not so. He is in fact sad to leave. He has spent 42 years in and around Sudan and, he says, that’s really where his heart is. I find these more-or-less permanent expatriates all over. The expatriate way of life gets in their blood and they never want to leave.
A word about the way money is handled here. As far as I can see almost everything except large business transactions are handled on a cash basis. I see no credit cards or travelers cheques. One of the priests at the Camboni House says that he was able to establish a checking account at a local bank, but that it took several months for him to do so. He said he never worried about cash being stolen, at least in the countryside. People are just honest. He says you have to be more careful in the cities. Silvestro had warned me that everything was on a cash basis before I came and that I was to bring only crisp new $100 bills. Only these would be accepted by money changers. If they were only slightly damaged they would be exchanged at low rates at best and refused altogether at worst.
April 18
More meetings! Our meeting at the UN Development Program is for me like the one yesterday. I don’t get the accent and my notes are sparse. A meeting in the afternoon with Norwegian Church Aid, a major player in Sudan for 36 years, is much more productive. The senior manager, Tore Torstad, has read our proposal for a community resource center and likes it. We are on the same wavelength on a number of issues, a good sign. There seem to be some real possibilities here. No accent problems here and I fill up two pages of notes.
Another good development! We get the letter we requested from the Undersecretary of Cooperatives and Rural Development. The letter says we are considered partners with the government in South Sudan’s recovery. Buoyed by this success, we request a similar letter from the Undersecretary of the Ministry for Health. However, we are stood up by the Director of HIV/AIDS programs. Win some, lose some.
Repairs to the house damaged on April 10 by our runaway car have not yet begun. The mechanic who did the faulty brake job had agreed to help pay for the home repairs, but he is stalling. It’s already past the deadline set for repair. Silvestro asks a contractor to provide a cost estimate for the repair job. He quotes labor, but says we will have to provide the materials (bricks, sand, cement, mud). What kind of contractor is that? We will have to find someone else.
April 19
It’s Saturday, but many people in the government work on Saturday, so we hang around the Ministry of Health for a few hours, hoping to catch the Undersecretary and get a letter of recommendation from him. No luck, he doesn’t come in. Neither does the director of HIV/AIDS programs. Doesn’t look like it will be our day.
But in the afternoon, we find Joseph Iyo at home and visit with him a while. We hope that Joseph will be our Sudan country director if we get some projects going. He is an impressive man. Although he is working for someone else now, he is favorably disposed towards NSG. He gives us a lot of useful information about how business is done in Sudan. He agrees to join us for our meeting with the Louis Berger Group at 5 PM.
The Louis Berger Group has a $700 million contract to build a 190 km road from Juba to Nimule. They will need water points along the way and are interested in our water exploration technology. Construction is due to start after the rainy season, perhaps September, so they want to do things “right now!” They are enthusiastic about our presentation and ask for a proposal as quickly as we can get one to them. I’ll draw one up as soon as I get back to the US.
Silvestro, Joseph, and I go out to celebrate our successful meeting. We go to dinner at a resort by the Nile and have a few beers while watching it flow by. It’s a sluggish river at this location, over a mile wide. Further south there are rapids. We order dinner. I watch thunderheads build up to the east, and lightning begins to flash. The clouds are spectacular, black, orange, and red. As our dinner arrives, so does the storm. We scurry to a tented area carrying our plates, but the rain and wind is so intense that the tent doesn’t protect us much. Somehow we get through dinner. Afterwards we drive through a sea of mud to get back to Camboni House.
April 20
I am leaving Juba and Sudan today (I hope). I’ll fly to Kampala, Uganda, and hope there have been some cancellations so I can get on a US-bound flight earlier than my scheduled flight on Tuesday. If not, I’ll have to hang around Kampala until Tuesday.
At breakfast I say goodbye to the fathers and
brothers and take some photos. Here's one of me and Father Hector,
a man of infinite good cheer. I’ll remember everyone's kindness and warmth
long after this journey is over. They have done their best to make me
feel at home. The Camboni house has been an oasis of peace and calm in
turbulent surroundings and I am grateful for it. As I write this piece,
the strains of “Alleluia, Allelulla, give thanks to the risen Lord” waft
from the chapel. This I’ll remember long after the memories of the
hardships have faded.
Silvestro drives me to the airport and shepherds me through the ticket lines and baggage system. The airlines people try to charge me $65 for some unspecified service (I suspect a scam here), but Silvestro talks them out of it. He has been my good shepherd throughout this trip, protecting me.
The flight to Kampala is uneventful. At the airport I wait around until the KLM offices open to see if there have been any cancellations in the flights I intend to take home. But no luck, the planes are full. It’s Tuesday for sure.
I get a cab to Kampala, a long drive. The cab driver wants too much, but he is the only one around so I capitulate and pay. I know my destination, the Cardinal Nsubuga Leadership Training Center, is near the American Embassy, but exactly where I don’t know. I have visions of driving around all night and not finding it. Fortunately, we locate it quickly. It looks like Heaven to me.
April 21
When I first came to Africa, I stayed at the
Cardinal Nsubuga Center and described it as “clean but spartan”. After
my experiences in Sudan , I call it “clean but luxurious”. I have a hot
shower for the first time in a month and sleep between clean sheets.
The graceful building is old but spotless. The food is good
and the garden (left) beautiful. The staff is warm and gracious. Kampala looks lush
and green after Sudan (because it rains all the time).
The Center is in a very upscale neighborhood. Imposing buildings housing major organizations are spread throughout. The US Embassy is right next door, surrounded by high concrete walls, security guards carrying automatic weapons, and signs saying "no photos, no parking, no loitering". Very unfriendly. From a second-floor window of the Center I can see acres of the embassy's well-tended grass and what appears to be a stadium or radar facility.
From the Center's second floor I can also see across the street to the
Social Gains Hotel (below, right). The hotel is a one-room wooden building that
stands in stark contrast to the rest of the neighborhood.
One man sits in front of it all day reading a newspaper. I wonder
if it really is a hotel. Immediately adjacent is a mom and pop
market set up in an steel shipping container. Customers don't
enter the container. Rather money is handed
in goods are handed out through a large wall-size grill. Custom
comes from the imposing buildings. Business is brisk.
Silvestro sends a relative, a young man named Izaru Benson (Ben) to see that I am all right. He’s an interesting chap, about 22 years old, and we have a good conversation. He is in school now, but finding it hard financially. His parents have no money to send him to school. He has had to drop out for several years, but has now begun again and would like to continue his education, which he values highly. I ask him how much a term costs. It’s about $500, including boarding. Jerome, our driver, is in the same situation. He wants to continue his education but can’t afford to. We must find ways to help these young people.
Ben and I take a taxi into town so I can buy Carolyn a present from Africa. We settle on a bolt of cloth sufficiently large for a dress. I hope she likes it. The taxi ride home is terrifying. The driver speeds through the crowded streets heedless of pedestrians. I ask him to slow down but to no avail.
April 22
I get a ride to the airport with father Joseph Rumanyika, a priest from the Cardinal Nsubua Center. I have an eight-hour wait, but am hopeful of purchasing some English-language novels to pass the time. I get some, but they are horrible. I read them anyway. Just before I board the plane I find I am eligible to go to the duty free shop. There I pick up Out of Africa by Karen Blixen. It’s the story of a Danish woman’s attempt to make a go on a coffee plantation in Kenya during the period 1914-1934, when things were much different than they are today. It is a wonderful book. She loves the native Africans, but feels she never really understands them. The book was made into a movie a few years ago.
My first leg home is a red-eye to Amsterdam. Then there’s a six-hour wait, followed by a 10-hour flight on a completely full Boeing 747 to San Francisco, followed by a one-hour train ride to Lafayette. I am beside myself with fatigue, but very, very happy to see Carolyn, our dog Prince, and our wonderful home. I am a lucky man.
A Month Later
My journey to Sudan was intense and hard. If I said I didn’t think a few times about coming home early, I would be lying. But as I look back now with some perspective, I am glad I did it this way with the people I did it with. I saw and experienced Africa in a way no tourist ever can. I met many wonderful people along the way. We worked hard for things we think are important.
I felt quite safe, perhaps naively so, since I was protected by my fellow travelers. Bad things still happen, however. Just last week I read about attacks in Western Equatoria by a murderous renegade group, the Lord's Resistance Army. But the present pales in comparison with the violence of the past two decades. Then mass murders, beatings, abductions and subsequent slavery, rapes, torture, and village burnings were commonplace. Whole populations fled to escape the carnage. Visions of these atrocities must lurk behind the veils that survivors draw across their memories so they can go on with everyday life. But these visions can never be entirely erased. For survivors, the trauma lingers. My experiences were not of this order. Burned-out military equipment and truckloads of returnees reminded me of what had gone on before, but a distance greatly removed. I don’t kid myself. My experiences were relatively benign.
Where do we (I, you, Southern Sudan) go from here? What can be done? What does Southern Sudan need? It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say Southern Sudan needs almost everything. Water, food security, education, transportation, political stability, health care, trauma healing, you name it, it’s in short supply. But Southern Sudan is blessed with immense natural resources and an energetic and hard- working population with a vision of what can be. The nation is moving from relief to reconstruction. I am hopeful about its future.
Ways to Help
Funds to support New Sudan Generation’s efforts in Southern Sudan can be sent to:
New Sudan Generation
548 Carter Street
Suite 404C
San Francisco, California 94134
Funds may also be contributed through New Sudan
Generation’s website,
www.newsudangeneration.org.
New Sudan Generation operates as a 501(c)3 non-profit organization in California, so that donations are tax-deductible to the full extent allowed by law.