The Crate Saga

Wednesday – 10/05

When my crate finally arrived in Juba,  I was so excited about it until I went to pick it up. I prepared myself in advance by washing and air drying my handkerchief just in case I needed it to cry and snot in. Since moving to South Sudan, I’ve taken to carrying a kerchief with me to wipe the sweat off my brow and in some cases to wipe where the sun doesn’t shine when there is no toilet tissue. The former happens on a daily basis but, the latter has only happened to me twice in the three months that I’ve been on the continent. I find it amazingly sad how women’s call of nature is not taken into consideration when establishing businesses. I miss the US the most on days I can’t get a good clean toilet to use but, that’s another story. Anyway, with handkerchief in hand, I thought I was prepared to go get my crate.

One can never know what to expect after sending all their belongings overseas with a company whose business was unheard of before finding them online and trusting them with all that is held dear. My crate carried all the letters my mother has ever written me, all of the journals I’ve written since the age of 17, and all of the pictures of my family and friends pre-iPhone days. Small love notes that I’ve shared with Michael throughout the years and special birthday cards from my best friend...the crate contained everything that I would try to remove from a burning home or an impending flood. And even though Michael tried his best to help me reduce the amount of whatnots being moved from Memphis to Juba, the crate was sent off with cast iron skillets, stainless steel pots & pans, handmade wine cork hot pads, all of my books and clothes and spices and jars. At the time I packed everything up, I wasn’t sure about what I would be able to find while in South Sudan so, I packed everything that was meaningful to me. My hope was that we would find everything in tact once it got to Juba.

I walked with Michael and cousin Ajing to the warehouse about a half mile from our hotel. The day was very warm and sunny and red dust swirled about as we made our way down the dirt road. The handkerchief was used on the way to keep me from inhaling the particles of dust as well as the burning plastic in the trash heaps along the way. As we walked, my prayer was, “Lord please let there be nothing missing and everything in tact.” We made it to the warehouse; one of about 10 in an area approximately the size of a 5-6 football fields. After passing the WFP’s (World Food Programme) warehouses – stocked full of rice and beans – I immediately spotted my house-in-a-box and let my two companions know that it was missing something. My heart dropped as the missing object was a second smaller crate full of all the artwork that once hung on the walls in my house and the collage of the three Madings’ baby pictures. I began to panic as I thought about the loss of my reason to pretend to be sophisticated and hip: art had become the one thing that helped me understand that I’d finally reached middle class status and the thought of it not being with me caused much distress.

We walked into the warehouse and like every other place in Juba, did not know where to start. The lack of systems in the capital city has caused me to feel so much frustration that I’ve coined a few new terms; the first being jubation. Some call it culture shock however, jubation goes far beyond shock. On a daily basis, the level of frustration can go from mild to moderate to extreme in a matter of just a few minutes. For example I can be walking down the street and see men, women and children spit indiscriminately and without warning only to turn my head and see a man standing on the side of the road taking a leak out in the open, and just when I turn my head (so as not to see his member being emptied), I see an old woman with white hair sitting in the middle of the street begging. So, I’ve been working at not being frustrated by what I see and decided to use a host of new words to help me…jubatated = frustrated, jubatating = frustrating, jubatized = baptized in the chaos of Juba, jubatization = the act of becoming more and more comfortable with the city of Juba, understanding and accepting snatches of the many languages spoken in Juba, and conforming to the ways of Juba. It’s a bit much but, it’s been helpful and has allowed me to find some humor in all that seems wrong and backwards.

When we finally got to the crate, the first thing that happened was that it was opened the wrong way. The men opened it from the top when it should have been opened from the front facing panel: jubation was quickly rising from within because instead of pulling things out and identifying them in the order of the list I worked so hard to put together, they had to get a ladder and reach in and pull things out in a way that did not match the order with which they’d been packed. And then my level of jubation rose a bit higher when people who were in the warehouse began to gather around to see what was going on and what the crated held inside. One of the things I’ve noticed since living in a place where so many people seem to be nosy is that they have nothing else to do so to break up the monotony of the day, any little event (the opening of a crate) can be special occasion. I didn’t like the fact that complete strangers were being allowed to see the contents of my house-in-a-box.

To make matters worse, the men began to open the one box I didn’t want them to open just to see if it contained what was on the packing list - brand new sporting equipment for the school/community center we would eventually operate. It was at that exact moment I decided that the crate would be leaving the warehouse no matter how much it cost. I had zero faith in it being untouched and in tact if we had to leave it. But where would we take it being that our tiny living space was not large enough to hold all the boxes inside the crate. And then my mind began to play tricks on me as I wrestled with thoughts of negativity:

“What were you thinking packing up all your stuff and sending it to South Sudan? You’re homeless and jobless!”

“You’re going to have to leave the crate in the warehouse and all your stuff will be stolen. Don’t you see all the vultures waiting for you to leave it?”

“How are you going to pay to have this big box moved? And where will you take it?”

After spending more than four hours at the warehouse talking to staff, negotiating the cost, and finding a driver to move the crate, we finally got things paid for at a discount. I went to the office of the warehouse manager with Ajing and listened to him tell the man who I was and why I was in South Sudan. As I looked around the office, I saw the man’s Bible on his desk along with some quotes of encouragement on the walls. Clearly he was a spiritual person and full of compassion. He signed and stamped the release paperwork and said that he was giving me the price of a South Sudanese; not an American. I was feeling a little better. However, next came the task of negotiating with the truck driver who would be responsible for lifting the crate by crane onto his truck and driving it about a mile away to cousin Deng’s property. Ajing was in charge of the negotiating.

By the sound of the conversation, the young man driving the truck was asking for too high a price from Ajing. I was getting jubatated because it was getting late, Deng was patiently waiting for us to show up and drop the crate, and because the release paperwork was discounted I now had enough money to pay the young man but, Ajing was not having me pay so much. I love having cousins here in Juba who look out for me!

The price of 6000ssp was agreed upon (about $33) for the young man to lift the crate onto the truck, drive it a mile away, and put the crate down in Deng’s yard. And of course I had no idea that we had to pay the security guard at the gate once we left the warehouse. No wonder Ajing was making such a fuss with the truck driver. It turned out that whatever I was “saving” on one end was being eaten up on the other. I was just happy to have my crate on a truck and out of the warehouse and on the way to a more safe space. And then the truck driver was stopped by the traffic police! And of course we paid them too – the struggle to fight corruption is so REAL!

Finally we got the crate to Deng’s place and paid the men to cover it and keep a watch on it. In all, we spent about $130 for everything and everybody. I was thankful that my things were all in tact, they had a place to reside while we continued to house-hunt, and that they were being protected from the elements as the crate remained outside but inside a secure compound.