Juba Airport

Everything looks absolutely normal on the surface of Juba city: congregations of tall, lean men in business and casual attire lounge with their long legs crossed under the shade of an acacia tree or even under the open ground floor space of a building being constructed (as long as there is shade). They wait to be served tea by equally long limbed girls and women, with their colorful sarongs and glittery head scarves. Kids are running barefooted on dusty side streets playing with footballs made out of rubber bands. Sheep and goats graze along the side of the road sometimes darting into the middle of traffic congested with motorbikes and land-cruisers blazoned with organizational logos. But underneath it there is a pulsating tension because of the worsening economy, the rising crime rates, and increased skirmishes that are happening in the conflict affected areas. We are all waiting to see what will happen with the peace process over the next few days to weeks. But I can’t get into it today…I’m thinking about when I will have to make another dreaded trip through Juba airport.

Upon arrival to Juba airport, if you are lucky, a bus will meet you on the tarmac, as the actual terminal is from, maybe, the 1970s and cannot accommodate planes at the actual terminal. Ok, that is reasonable, many airports are still stuck in the pre-historic era---like LaGuardia airport in NYC. But even if there is a crazy African torrential downpour, you better have something to cover your head because you cannot count on the little bus to come and get you at the plane. But most of the time the sun is scorching hot to the point that you feel as if it is melting the skin off your bones.

By the time you trek across the tarmac and park yourself on line for the Ebola check, things are getting pretty steamy under the collar. As you stand on line you are most likely juggling your laptop, maybe your handbag, a folder with work related reading and most likely some other bag between your hands and armpits as you try to wash your hands with the Ebola-Killing-Soap at the small, small blue plastic water dispenser. At the same time, you are doing your darndest not to knock over said dispenser or step into the muddy, soapy water pooling around the basin underneath the dispenser. Then you walk a bit more to the big white tent to fill out a form saying you are not infected and have not traveled to an infected country in the last 21 days. Yes, we must be safe, because Ebola is one helluva virulent pathogen—and why the next paragraph actually terrifies me.

You are now standing on another line underneath this tarp, pretty much roasting and by the time you get to the white robed mask wearing temperature taker---you should have something simulating a raging fever and thus a good candidate to be pulled aside for Ebola Queries. I’m usually told to move to passport stamping and when I look at my stamped form I have a temperature approximating 4 degrees Celsius---pretty much the temperature of a corpse that has been sitting in a morgue—I should both be dead and very cold to the touch. Which of course I am far from either. SO. How well are these instruments at spotting infected persons? I try not to dwell on it, I have other things that make my hypochondriac behind toss and turn at night.

I’m now inside the terminal and waiting to be inspected—which I feel is happening every single time I perch up on my tippy toes to talk through the tiny hole in the plastic window. And on one occasion my suspicions were correct. “You cut your hair.” “Excuse me?” Passport Guard 1 shows me my own passport photo with a longer hairstyle. “Ah, yes, I cut my hair.” “You are pretty with long hair. You should have long hair” I ignore him and continue to fill out more paperwork. Passport Guard 2 “But she looks nice with short hair too.” “But women should have long hair,” Passport Control 1 states. “But if a woman wants to have short hair she can do so. It is her hair,” Passport Control 2 says smiling broadly at me. “But look at how nice she…” I cut them both off with a tap on the plastic window with index finger, “Hello, yes, well it is very hot in Africa and I sweat a lot so I cut if off. I don’t want pimples on my back. Are you done with my passport?” “Yes. Grow your hair back.” Thank you Passport Control 1 and 2. Happy day.

You are now ready to claim your baggage but first you must get by some men sitting up on some high stools, staring down on you very hot, tired and unsmiling. This man is usually flanked by two or three men who I can never tell what their job is exactly. The one perched on the stool is, most times, in some semblance of a uniform but the rest look like they came to chat and have a cup of tea, yet they all take a look at your passport “Keef (how are you?)?” I am asked. “Tamam (I’m fine.),” I say. “Something, something more in Arabic.” I stare blankly, and then I reply “Maafi arabe (I don’t speak Arabic).” “Why don’t you speak Arabic (pauses as he looks at my Arabic/Middle Eastern name again)” “Because I don’t want to.” I’m literally soaked through with sweat as two hundred people crowded into the space of a large elevator press behind me—because of course it is Africa and there is no such thing as personal space. Something shows the testiness in my face and he hands back my passport “You should learn Arabic” Juba airport is just full of folks who are specialists on what my behind should and should not be doing. From here it is pretty straight forward….you wait as your bags are taken from the plane, to the baggage claim area to a conveyor belt and a woman (I always get the same exact woman) sometimes in a uniform, sometimes in a dress, marks your bag with a piece of chalk after she peeks inside your bag—now you can leave, because that chalk marking is all very official that your bag has been properly inspected. But strangely enough, it is not arriving to Juba airport that is the bane of my existence but it is taking off from it that makes me cringe.

Leaving on a Monday morning is the worst because they have the commercial and the UN Humanitarian Airline Service (UNHAS) flights leaving from the same terminal. Oh yes, I forgot to mention THERE IS ONLY ONE freakin’ terminal. UNHAS services all domestic flights because there is a conflict and it is the only way we can travel safely around the country. Depending on what flight you are going on, there is some queueing, pretending to really check your e-ticket and ID and then a wave of a hand to pass through a door made for one person at a time, but of course we all try to smash through it like uncivilized beasts because we want to get to the UNHAS counter before everyone else to get our bag weighed and our plastic boarding card. But you can never get there early enough. There is always a herd of people crowded inside the small, small, small space that houses the airline counter, immigration windows, scales and conveyor belt: a space that should really accommodate 20-30 people has about 150. So we all push our way through like cattle going to the slaughter, eyes lolling to the back of our heads as we squeeze through people, bags just parked in the middle of everything, 5L water containers, food parcels, medical equipment and just about everything you will need to go to the field. If you can manage to get through check in, where we basically body slam each other to get to the scale first—because that is the most important part, making sure you have exactly 20kg.

And after all that hard work, I mean literally, I am drenched in sweat and any evidence of a morning shower are long gone by now: once a ray of sun hits my skin or I am in a tightly enclosed space for more than 10 seconds my pores are gushing sweat like a rotating sprinkler. Really. This tight hot space is my worst nightmare, I feel like my brain will explode out my eyes with the heat of the African sun and humans vacuumed into our tiny check-in area. You would think that all this pushing and defense football line-backing is because we are rushing to get a flight that will be leaving shortly. Nope. We are flying, most likely, a World Food Program (WFP) plane which I fondly call Waiting for the F@#$in’ Plane---because you could literally be there waiting for 3 hours for a flight that may take only 40 minutes. Once in the field and you are ready to return to Juba, you usually have to drive out to a dirt airstrip and wait up to 3 -6 hours for your flight with the WFP staff sometimes walkie-talkie-ing to say “Flight canceled.” What?!?!? Dear jeee--zuz. (deep sigh)….TIA (This is Africa) is now TIJ……This is Juba.