Week VI - Day 6

Too Much Partying – Somalian Sule

The day started out fairly quiet until Bai began barking orders to the hotel staffers. As usual, he was getting ready to cook for the UN people who would come by later. I can always tell when he’s feeling a bit stressed our anxious because he begins to speak at a volume meant for the deaf but the staffers aren’t deaf, they just don’t understand Chinese.

While sitting out on the patio watching the sun begin to burn across the Juba sky, I watched the ladies begin to bring the whiskey, wine and beer glasses up the stairs in preparation for the party later. Up above the patio, there’s obviously a dining hall and I've heard them singing karaoke each weekend but, I've never been up there. I fought the urge to be nosy and see what it looked like up there and instead went to take care of business at the market. 

I've made it my routine to go out and buy fresh fruit every weekend; avocados, oranges, limes, mangoes, and bananas. I was not going to let curiosity keep me from my "good African wife" duties. I called Taban to come pick me up and he took me to a part of Konyokonyo that Achut had missed - the fruit and vegetable alley!!

He parked his dusty mini-van on the side of the road and was immediately accosted by a young boy who wanted to wash his car. The persistent kid almost caught a kick in the pants had he continued to pester Taban. He finally told the boy no in a very harsh manner and the kid left him alone. Finally, he could escort me into what looked like the forbidden tunnel.

Muddy rocks covered by pieces of tarp and cardboard kept me from losing my footing. I walked past mounds and mounds of avocados, cabbage, carrots, beets (YES RED BEETS), bell pepper, opinion, cucumber, greens!!! "Oh my God! I need my own place with a kitchen. I can't wait to shop here! I can't wait to cook!" That's all I could think while going from stall to stall. And I realized for the second time why some shop women are more successful than others.

The woman who called to me, "Sister! You come buy here." instantly had my money in her hands and I had her pineapples and oranges. Her warm smile, her reaching to pick the best fruit before I could, and her twinkling eye all screamed "I'VE GOT CUSTOMER SERVICE DOWN!" She was Ugandan and they are know in South Sudan to be the friendliest people as well as the most successful people in chaotic Juba. 

By the time I'd finished, I had paid about $5 for

• 1 pineapple

• 5 oranges

• 20 limes

• 2 avocados

• 1 piece of ginger

• 10 bananas

$52 for this!

We may be on our way to becoming vegetarians based on how much I spent on the other items at the Chinese market: bread, juice, lunch meat, cheese, peanut butter, jelly, soap, lotion, Vaseline, mixed nuts, pepper, mustard, and rice snacks cost me an arm and a leg. 

Y'all pray that I get my own place soon so I can start cooking and whipping up something that South Sudan has never experienced. 

Back at the hotel the ladies, Mary, Sarah, and Fatima, all carried trays and trays of food and drink up stairs for the upcoming get together. They seemed to be repulsed by the various dishes that Bai had put together: garlic steamed mussels, roasted crab, glazed pork tenderloin. All I know is that I wanted to go up there and chow down with everyone but, I was not invited...I'll get up there one day. 

As the karaoke began, I could hear the level of excitement go from something akin to Celine Deon to music like Nelly's "It's Getting Hot In Here". I was trying to focus on my writing when the first person came down to get some air. He was staggering a bit and needed assistance from Sarah. I laughed to myself and decided that I was not going to be able to focus on writing so, I decided to swim: 1) because it was really hot and 2) because I wanted to see how the party was going to turn out.

I quickly changed into my swim gear and headed back to see what was going on with the party upstairs. One man, in the first 15 minute of my being in the pool, had come downstairs three times to relieve himself. Another man, one I've seen before and who seems to be sort of friendly, began talking to the Kenyan and Somali men sitting at the pool. This guy was talking loud, slurring his speech, and having a blast with the strangers. The third man I saw walk down the stairs promptly took a seat on the patio and fell asleep in the breeze. The Africans did not know what to think, they just shook their heads and I simply and literally laughed out loud. I needed to take a break from swimming because I was laughing so hard at the spectacle of the Chinese men getting crunk, turnt-up, and drunk. It was truly hilarious. 

While taking my break, a Somalian man introduced himself as Sule. He asked if I was married and I quickly replied, "Yes! Happily." to which he smiled and informed me of his love of chatting with women and how he did not want to get me in trouble. I let him know that he was fine. And the conversation of began...

He asked how I liked Juba and I told him that it was okay so far. I asked him the same question and he gave me a rather detailed response:

"It's difficult here for us. I'm born in Kenya but when I arrived to South Sudan, the immigration people asked me how I got my passport. They think we're all terrorists and it's really frustrating. 

I'm sure your husband wouldn't have to go through the things that we do especially if he's South Sudanese. We have to work so hard and struggle.

In fact, I've been struggling since I was a young child. I was chased out of my home and had to start working very early. Do Americans struggle like us?"

I was not completely sure how to answer his question. I've not experienced the level of struggle he spoke of and neither have my children. However, I have worked with families that have had a rough life but, when I thought about it, it was still nowhere near what he'd described to me. Talking to Sule made me think back on the conversation that I had with Shang regarding struggle. Eventually, I changed the subject because I could not answer the question in a way that satisfied me.

We sat in silence for a while and watched the party goers continue to find their way down stairs for air. They'd truly been overdoing it upstairs and I felt as though I was also in over my head in conversation so, I excused myself. I couldn't help but continue to ponder the meaning of struggle. 

It means something different to everyone. No one knows the experiences of others and it is up to us to do our best to convey our experiences as well as walk in compassion when we learn of other people's struggles. It was very difficult to have compassion for the drunken party goers soon to come struggle - the hangover they'd face the next day. I walked back to be with Michael and laughed at all of it.