Where electronics go to die

If you want to experience a place that seriously tests your tolerance and patience for things before 8am, I’d highly recommend the Juba International Airport. As far as African airports go, I’d rank this one pretty far down on the list. At least Mwanza had hot pink hot dogs, samosas, and cold beers while you wait…Juba basically has a wall of various and sundry types of glucose biscuits, Nescafe, and overpriced Pringles. I’m not even entirely convinced there’s a bathroom. Not yet residing in South Sudan for an extended period of time, it’s hard to guess why the Sudanese seem to have no concept of lines. Add to the equation that most people are carry make-shift, oversized luggage jerry-rigged with tape and ropes and are on average over 6’5” and you’ve got a lot going on.

So, the airport doesn’t actually open until 8am, yet airlines consistently give a reporting time of 7:30, so it’s a lot of tall people outside milling about on their cell phones, wondering which glucose biscuits they are going to purchase inside. Eventually, the door is unchained, and people start pushing and shoving their way to the one conveyor belt for security. Both Mwanza and Juba share the sad state of all antiquated electronic devices, including the security conveyor and x-ray machine. I’m beginning to wonder if airports around the world ponder, “Humphf. This 30 year old conveyor belt needs a new home. Let’s send it to East Africa!”

There’s basically not much room to move, and with before mentioned lack of lines, it’s kind of a melee of hilarity once you enter the “departures area”. You get laminated boarding cards that are not even for your destination, and the scale to weigh your luggage looks like it may have been the very apparatus to weigh suitcases at Ellis Island. What makes this airport international (besides the destinations) is the man behind the counter that looks at your work permit and makes you write your name down on a sheet of paper. He sits right next to the 20 year old photocopy machine in case anything hand written needs a duplicate.

Then there’s the security line. Lines are conveniently divided by gender, and there’s a very regimented man who stands in front of a room made of curtains that fits approximately 4 people at one time, housing a table in the center. You place your carry-ons on said table, and a female or male goes through every possible inch of your luggage. It would feel violating if it wasn’t so amusing. I mean, this woman goes through every sleeve of your wallet, looks through your notebooks, is basically trying on your chapstick and making phone calls on your cell. Her thoroughness is matched only by the other security woman who basically gives you a free full-body grope, and again, if it hadn’t been so long, I’d probably find this violating as well, but I find the human contact creepily comforting.

You get to the “other side” and it’s a large room with some cushioned chairs and a whole hell of a lot of white plastic ones. Whoever manufactures those things must be a kajillionaire. I was lucky enough this morning to score a cushioned seat next to one of the AC units-again frightfully old yet seemingly functional. Later on I will realize this assumption to be untrue, as I got up from my seat after almost 2 hours and found that my entire carry-on was soaking wet and realized that the AC was leaking. Sweet. I don’t mean for any of this to sound callous. South Sudan is trying. They are. They are facing some pretty serious constraints and doing their very best to make Juba International Airport comfortable and a pleasant experience for all. The staff are kind and good-natured (minus the cranky Russian UN pilots). But is it so much to ask to get a little wireless internet and macchiato action up in here?

Keep on Keepin' On

I learned a few things in the field this week. One: it’s fly season in the Sudan. I have never seen so many flies in my life. If Alfred Hitchcock were still alive and interested in making some sort of sequel to that bird movie, Sudan would be the place to do it. They are disgusting, pesky, and everywhere you don’t want them to be—in your latrine for instance, or at the breakfast table, or in the car buzzing around your face. Two: Sudan brings an entirely new appreciation to the word “inaccessible”. I feel like I’ve seen enough of Africa in the past few years to have a pretty accurate understanding of how remote villages can be, how difficult it is to access water, health care, education. Well, let me just say a thing or two about Southern Sudan. It’s large—enormously large. We spent the majority of the week visiting health facilities and attending meetings in Duk County, which consistently suffers from frequent insecurity between tribes, flooding and poor roads, making it virtually inaccessible for roughly six months out of the year. We made these site visits just on the tail end of dry season, often travelling three hours in one direction to reach our destination. It was a lot of time in the car. Calling the roads “bad” would be comparable to making a statement like, “Americans like reality television.” It’s comically understated and doesn’t come close to grasping the reality of the situation. Goats, cattle, the occasional acacia tree and tukuls dot the landscape as far as the eye can see, on some of the flattest, driest, unforgiving land I have ever seen…land that will be flooded in another month, and will remain this way until October or November. I simply can’t comprehend how the Sudanese live the way they do.

I’m continuously amazed at how incredibly hopeful and wonderful the Sudanese are, after decades of conflict and a completely devastated infrastructure. They greet us at community meetings with soft drinks and smiles, using utterly charming English phrases like “Yes, this is well and good” or in response to a statement, “Ah, correctly” or “What say you?” I really, really like the Sudanese. The frustrations bubble to the surface when you realize how little we as humanitarian organizations are capable of doing, how overwhelming vast the needs are, how we are barely scratching the surface. I sat at meetings this week where people are “footing” 5 hours to reach a health clinic that has one community health worker and one traditional birth attendant. No midwife, no clinical officer, no lab technician. They are sharing a stethoscope, have no access to sanitation facilities, receive medications months late due to impassable roads and lack of transportation.

And yet we sit, meeting after meeting, day after day, listening to dedicated staff at each facility list their challenges and requests calmly and without criticism, making requests for things as basic as soap or buckets for deliveries, kerosene for the vaccination fridge, uniforms for the staff. It’s heartbreaking and defeating, yet we do the best that we can. The meetings always start late and last way too long. The available food typically makes us sick. The heat leads to restless nights. The bumpy car ride gives us pounding headaches. Yet we’re still here. We write more proposals. We try to fill gaps. We work longer days. Somehow, this peek into the other side of the human condition—the struggle, the commitment, the resilience and capacity to keep going—to strive for better, to remain hopeful, is what we need to push on.