My Kenyan colleague continues to nod his head and say 'total disarray.' We are in Juba airport, the capital city of the newly independent South Sudan.
An exacerbated man makes his
way through the front door (which is quite a feat within itself), scans the masses
in this dim room, catches my eye and says 'how does this work?' I reply simply with
a smile 'it doesn't.'
Floods of people are outside
the airport, loitering, selling, chatting, working, some traveling. You enter the airport
through a narrow door. In a situation like this I just plow my way through—no
eye contact, just move. A man wearing ray bans, a camouflage uniform holds his
arm out, says to me 'where is your ticket?' E ticket I say. You have to have a
bit of an attitude or they will identify you as a rookie, and you are stuffed.
My colleague from the
Ministry pulls me through the door.
The airport is one big
room, no lights, well, one here and there, and it is packed, no signs. Now, when I say packed, I
mean packed, wall to wall people trying to get tickets, visas, baggage checked,
stamps, approvals—chaos. I am grateful it rained the night before because the
air is cooler. The heat is severe in Juba, you just sweat.
Everyone is taller than I,
so I am seeing coats, shirts, and jackets. I see a man whose head is above the
crowd, one would think he is on a table, but no, he is one of the tall, lanky South
Sudanese. They are known for their height.
Remember the game you
played as a kid, peanut butter and jelly sandwich, where two of you would
squish someone in the middle, well, that’s what the airport is like, an adult
version. In these situations, you just roll with it, otherwise you will not
move. So my elbows come out, shoulder leaning into people to make my way
through and I wheel my suitcase like a lawn mower over people's toes and shoes
without any thought or concern.
I am aware of my
briefcase, filled with laptop, IPad, blackberry, wallet, and passport. I guard
it. I could be fleeced of anything in here, I would not even notice if someone
took my pants off, that is how sandwiched we are.
We make our way to the
Kenya Airway counter, a dirty cinder block slab. I shove my way to the front. A tall man wearing a white boubou (Islamic dress) tries to nudge me
out of the way, no way I think. I push my back against him, holding my firm
place at the counter.
We check in, and then go
to the passport line. The man behind the counter is shielded by glass that has
a small window. It is utterly impressive how many arms, hands, passports, cash
are making their way at once through the window. He sits back, sipping a soda,
and slowly processes the visas.
My colleague does not have
his yellow fever certificate. They tell him he must get a shot. He says ‘No
Way, I'd rather stay here.’ Discussions, money changes hand, a certificate, no
shot, we make our way to the line to enter the gate.
The line to enter the gate
is no different. You know when you play the game of human dominoes; press
everyone against each other in a line and then all sit down, and you are on
each others' knees...that's this line. Absolutely no personal space whatsoever.
The man behind me is a young South Sudanese. His elbows are in my back, his bag
pressed against my knees. He is tall, dark. He wears a nice black suit, fresh,
crisp white button-down shirt. His forehead tells me he is from the Dinka
tribe. He has five impeccable thin lines, scars, across his entire forehead.
Incredible scars which signify where you are from.
The line into the gate has
turned into anarchy. The man working at the entrance waves me over in a firm manner, I
am in the wrong line, I should be in the ladies line. I stand, wait. My
colleague from the Ministry continues to hold my arm; it is a very common
gesture here and throughout Africa. It's a sign of friendship, care. It is
common to see people holding hands, men. Friends. When you meet someone, you
do not shake and let go, you continue to hold hands as you greet each other.
South Sudan suffers from a
number of things—poverty, war, conflict and what we call the Big Man Syndrome.
You see it in the cars they drive, the people that they have supporting them.
Here in the airport we see it in the line. They head right to the door waving
their way through.
The man at the door now
pauses both lines. Nobody is moving into the gate area, nobody moving out. You
can picture him thinking ‘Now, all of you, reflect on my power.’ It’s
fantastic. You just have to smile and drink in the whole situation.
South Sudan is the
youngest country in Africa. Newly independent after decades of war, the worst
in Africa and that says a lot. In South Sudan 50% of the population is under
the age of 20. 80% illiteracy rate. Combine that with very easy access to
weapons, and you have a lethal cocktail. This was the strategy of the North,
oppress the masses, don't educate them and they will stay underneath you. Well,
after decades of war, they are now independent.
When you land in Juba you
notice the runway filled with UN, WFP (World Food Program), Red Cross and
other humanitarian aid planes. Juba, the capital of S. Sudan, has approximately
1.3 million people, but this is an estimate—nobody really knows. It sits on the
Nile, and yet there is no electricity, no running water. The Nile is lined with
diesel generators pumping waters into trucks to service the city.
We are working with the
government to help them develop policies, processes and frameworks that will
ensure the country can develop in a way that protects their natural resources
(water, forests, wildlife, parks) while simultaneously fostering a diverse and
robust economy. It’s a country with enormous potential which we hope to help
them fulfill.
