On arrival at Juba International airport I was reminded of old black and white photos from the 1950’s with family arriving at
Nairobi, greeted by relatives and friends on the tarmac. The resultant chaos of the small room that served as immigration and baggage reclaim, seemed to stem from the single security scanner, through which everything was dutifully passed, and a chalk mark placed on each item of luggage before being relayed across the throng to anyone who managed to catch the eye of a handler. About an hour later my bags hadn’t surfaced and looking around I spotted the three of them piled neatly by the main entrance where a constant stream of people came and went, any one of whom could have easily made off with everything I possessed. Nothing was missing.
After 20 years of relative tedium running a small manufacturing business in the midlands, I was taking up a position with a security company owned by an on old Sandhurst friend, who by chance was looking for a replacement operations manager in the newly independent
Republic of South Sudan.
North and South Sudan have been at war with each other for between 25 and 53 years depending on your source, and a Comprehensive Peace Agreement signed in 2005 led to relative stability which culminated in the formal declaration of
Independence on 9
th July. Naturally I was excited at the opportunity to experience the birth of a new country, but although I arrived three days before the event, I was to see very little of the festivities.
The new capital of Juba is no larger than a provincial English town, sitting beside the
White Nile, but there the similarity ends. Most of the accommodation consists of portable buildings squeezed into walled compounds topped with razor wire, and guarded in the main by my new employees. There is no reliable source of electricity so the drone of generators is all pervasive. Water is delivered by ancient trucks from outlets provided by USAID and signs by the pumps declare ‘A gift from the American people.’ The exorbitant cost of living, driven by the unabashed exploitation of NGO’s and aid organisations working here, means that a night in a portacabin at the Hamza Inn (…think down market Camp Bastion) costs more than a superior room at the Sheraton Belgravia. A laminated sign adorns the dining room door rather like a No Entry road sign, with the image of the ubiquitous Kalashnikov struck through.
But there is an underlying air of optimism that you can’t fail to notice, and as I was driven around, the roads were being washed with water and brooms, strategic curb stones painted white, and a few flower pots distributed at road junctions which uniquely complimented lounging soldiers in camouflage fatigues cradling AK 47s and rocket propelled grenades. Earlier in the week the local mayor of our area had visited each property and insisted that the front gate was painted blue, on risk of imprisonment. All in preparation for the big day and the presidential entourage.
My first task was to inspect the guards parading in the compound, something I hadn’t done since a young infantry subaltern, and now touching 50 I felt rather like Captain Mainwaring as I was treated to a display of drill which would have made my old colour sergeant swallow his pace stick, but with a commitment which would have raised an approving smile, and having taken a salute actually heard myself saying “Good turnout men!” Only Corporal Jones was missing…
Several African Heads of State and diplomats from all over the world were flown in for the ceremony, and we could only imagine the chaos at the airport, although later learnt that the air traffic operation was taken over by the Kenyans who sent in controllers to organise the constant stream of aircraft that flew in low over our office. The resourceful Kenyans are a force majeur here in
Southern Sudan and whilst they provide well needed expertise, some internal grumbling has been directed towards international development groups for not employing enough local Sudanese, and my company Warrior Security has made a priority of recruiting and training local guards, in all over a thousand.
Sadly my view of the festivities was restricted to the operational base, the old hands advising it would be a fruitless exercise to venture up town as the roads would be a heaving mass of humanity. But that night the residents and staff of Hamza Inn were treated to a barbeque laid on by a long term Sudanese resident and duel Canadian citizen who we thanked and wished Happy Independence.
And we meant it.
Independence has come at a price. Prolific poverty, rudimentary education and high infant mortality are only a few of the challenges that need to be addressed, along with the underlying resentments that will have evolved from years of fighting, deep tribal divisions, and on-going disputes up in the border areas that produce the country’s only major commodity, oil.
Having had a poem published in The Spectator last year I was encouraged, rashly, to write a new piece every day and post it on a blog, and managed to keep it up for 6 months. It has been a hard slog, and harder still knowing that the necessity of writing to order undoubtedly dilutes the quality of the offering. It was my intention to continue the discipline in my new environment, but the activities of the past few days have been all consuming, and I have lapsed. To my tiny band of loyal followers I say thank you, and I am certain my new surroundings will provide a refreshing fountain of inspiration. Watch this space http://dailybreadpoetry.blogspot.com/
