Initially "posted" on May 29th

Of Electric Doors, Detention, and the Chaos that is Commerce in Juba
Dear All,

This week has, as the ones before it, been hectic. Lots of things going on, vehicles coming in, orders being confirmed, etc… Thankfully very few explosions this week, and only scheduled and “controlled” ones (to as great a degree as the term can be applied to several thousand pounds of military grade high explosives. The SAF (northern troops) are in the process of withdrawing from Juba, and as part of that process, are destroying their ammunition.

Anyway, my three stories this week, are on very divergent topics.

Firstly, I now have intimate knowledge of what the life of an electrical ground-connection is like, as I have auditioned for the part about 4 times since last week. Picture this: You’ve had a long day at the office and out driving around in the 45 degree heat. You just want to go to your room, lie down for a minute, read your. So you go to your room, but fate conspires against your desired and deserved rest – by zapping you with 230 volts through the lock, doorhandle and metal frame, of your little room… Not the best way of getting your rest, I am sure you agree. In fact, it wakes you the hell up. Real quick like. I know because it happened to me. 4 times. Each time I was promised it was fixed. This statement rang particularly hollow when I had the experience upon coming back from my evening shower, in my towel, and wasn’t able to get into my room. Finally, after 3 failed attempts at finding the reason for these unneeded jumpstarts of my cardiac system, the camp manager sent in 4 guys, who tore my room apart and redid the entire wiring in the unit.

The most scary (and at the same time indicative of Africa) statement there was when one of them yelled across the camp “what color are you using for the ground?” – this is not, I later learned, a good question for two electricians to be asking each other. However, I now have a fully grounded and, so far, de-electrified room. In other news, my hair is no longer standing on end…

Secondly, I have had my first run-in with the local authorities. On Sunday, I had agreed to meet up with the local representative of a large North American govt. specializing in the study of diseases and how they spread), an American doctor named Friend (that's not is name, but this stuff is now online, so I shall refrain from putting anyone's name here for the public to view) and go have a look at the local market. So I arrived at our rendezvous a little early, and decided to take a couple of pictures of an ancient Russian tank, parked under a tree and covered with laundry. I thought it a good illustration of how they run their armed forces down here. Well, no sooner had I taken the pictures than two civilian dresses members of SPLA military intelligence came along, and got quite excited. Apparently 25-year old tanks parked right out in the open are military secrets of vital importance to Sudanese national security… Thankfully my friend Tom showed up at the same time.

After much discussion, and back-pedaling on my part, we were made to ride with these two gentlemen into the local MI-offices. A truly run-down old building that hadn’t seen a maintenance crew, or even a paintbrush in probably 25 years. Not exactly confidence inspiring, when you’ve been hauled away by two men dressed in civilian garb, who haven’t shown you any ID. Thankfully we got to sit outside and wait, while someone was sent to fetch an officer. It being Sunday, there was no officer to be found. So, we were just about to be sent off with a stern talking to about the necessity of getting permission to take pictures, and how I should come by their office and get an escort next time I wanted to take pictures (no fee was mentioned, but I’m pretty sure it was a given. And not something that would show up on any receipts or ledgers anywhere), when a kid who can’t have been more than 19 came out, and started going off with the two officers whom we had now become fast friends with, thanks to Friend’s US Diplomatic Passport.

So, literally as I had my hand on the door of my car, we had to go into the dreaded building. So in we went, and witnessed a truly hilarious display of bureaucracy. The young guy was a clerk, and he had procedures he felt were incredibly important to follow. He seemed very set on having our information put into a big black book. The two officers, whom it now became apparent weren’t actually sure they had anything to hold us on, didn’t see the need for this registration as there had been no arrest made. This deteriorated, rapidly, into a fast paced argument in the local dialect, and ended in compromise: We were to write down our names, nationalities, professions, and residences in Juba. On a scrap of paper about 7cm by 15cm… Not the awe-inspiring display of systemized government one might have feared. I almost laughed, but realized this would be ill-advised, the situation taken into consideration.

The young clerk, obviously ecclesiastically inclined, explained to me that I had done something wrong, and did I understand this?

Yes, I answered.

Next question: Do you realize God will punish you?

Me:…I shall have to discuss that with the Lord himself when we get to that point.

Him: … (not quite sure how to handle anything but a yes or no answer) Go away now.

And, finally, we left. Not a pleasant experience for one such as myself, New in Juba, but nevertheless one that I will remember.

Thirdly: After this unpleasant little interlude, Friend and I decided to go to the local market, also called the Customs Market, to see what there was to see. The market is a collection of ramshackle stalls and huts, made mostly of branches, baling wire and corrugated tin. Not somewhere to store perishables when the sun is coming in at about 40 degrees… There are probably about 250-300 of these stalls, in varying sizes, arranged so that a network of little paths runs among them. Keep your head on straight, or you might get lost. All these stands sell something. From the stall that sells maize flour by the fly-infested cup, to the guy who sells cheap Chinese clothing fit to make any designer weep, to the ones selling VHS cassettes, Audio Cassettes and tv’s/boomboxes to play them on. They’re all there, and it’s great. You won’t find me doing much shopping there (mainly because I'm not in dire need of anything they're selling), but it’s great to see that goods are moving into Juba. For so long it has been impossible to get anything at all, let alone “luxury goods” which the radios/candy/clothes/shoes/cosmetics are to these people. Now it’s here. I wonder how long before McDonalds comes in?

Less than 30 days to go in Juba.

Much love, and read you soon.