South SudanMap
March Let’s visit a rock quarry.  Quarries are usually situated in locations where there are nice, big, suitable rocks.  First, a bonfire must be made under the boulder. This makes the rock more brittle. Old tires will do just fine as firewood.  Then a wedge is driven into the rock using a sledgehammer.  The chunks that break loose are carried down to the road by an uninterrupted chain of workers.  They bring the rocks down, dump them in a heap, and head back for a new portion.  Different calibers of rock are utilized for different purposes. One for building fences, another for houses, a third for roads. The rocks are sorted according to size.  Men carry the larger chunks.  Medium-sized rocks are a woman’s job.  And children are given the easiest task—turning small stones into gravel.  Buyers welcome!  JubaMapThe state of South Sudan only appeared on the political map of the world in 2011. The capital’s main square already has a monument to the nation’s founding father, holding a whip in his hand.  Blossoming gardens and beautiful buildings only exist on advertising posters thus far.  The entire country has only 30 kilometers of paved road.  There are no garbage dumps in the country. Who needs dumps when it’s so nice to feel garbage crunching underfoot?  Discarded waste exhibits a miraculous ability to organize itself into piles.  The few rare trash cans that exist don’t enjoy much popularity.  Because water is sold in bottles here (and not in plastic bags), the streets are mainly littered with bottles. Passing cars reduce them to a perfectly flat state.  Across the street from the presidential residence.  A fallen utility pole? Perfect! Now there’s something to hang laundry on.  Juba street.  A license plate.  Roundabout ahead.  No trucks allowed.  Student crossing.  A mother and child.  Motorcycle taxis wait for customers on street corners. There are no helmets to speak of, naturally.  The country has too many other problems to be overly concerned with safety. Stepping over a meter-wide irrigation ditch between the bus stop and the bus won’t kill you.  There’s no water supply system, so tank trucks deliver water to various points around the city.  And from there, everyone carries their water home in the traditional African yellow canisters, either on their heads or on wheelbarrows.  Street signs.  The South Sudanese are no strangers to niceties.  Special stands for hot coals, on which everyone cooks their food, are sold at the market.  Wood for fences for sale.  An unliftable safe door on the sidewalk signifies the presence of currency exchanges nearby. There was a bank here once.  New buildings are constructed out of steel beams, like in Iran.  President George W. Bush once presented president Salva Kiir with a cowboy hat. Ever since then, Kiir always looks like he’s attending a reception in Texas.  Schoolgirls.  A local crazy woman.  A tree full of marabous.  A soldier training a monkey.  We fly onward.  * * *
By sheer miracle, I was able to find some postcards at a bookshop. I then went to the post office for stamps, despite the locals’ unanimous assurances that there was no post office or that it was closed. There is one and it was open. I spent a long time explaining what postcards I wanted to mail and where, followed by a lengthy discussion about the postage price. At last, I was sold a set of stamps. Jubilant, I stuck them onto my postcards, filled in the text, and handed the postcards to the clerk. |
