Saturday’s highlights:
Clara, the SIL Guesthouse Manager, guided me to Jebel Market so
that I could buy some African cloth. We visited all twenty-some shops where
cloth is sold in units of 6 yards each, then returned to two of them to make my
purchases (photos below). The trips there and back were more “adventurous” than
the time in the market, with the entire outing taking about two hours of our
time. I had the South Sudanese version of a shawarma for lunch (photo below).
Read on for more details.
Jackie, the SIL Director here in South Sudan, suggested that
Clara would be the one to ask about where to find African cloth, so I arranged
with her earlier in the week to go to Jebel Market today. The agreed-upon time
was 10:00, so I had a few hours of free time before we left. Some of that time
I used to begin to get the conference room ready for our workshop on Monday; some of it I
spent reading a book I found here about Idi Amin. I also said farewell to Tim
Stirtz, as he was leaving to return to his family in Kenya.
I had no idea where Jebel Market was—I had only been told
that it was too far away to walk to—nor how we would get there. So I just
followed my guide, trusting that she knew both where and how we were going. It
turned out that the first stretch was a 5-10-minute walk to the “bus” stop.
There, we waited for a few minutes for a “matatu” with Jebel Market as its
destination. The “matatu”—here in Juba, at least—is a Toyota minivan with seats
for 12 people, including the driver. Some of those seats are “jumpseats” which
fold up to allow passengers into and out of the back seats and then fold back
down to allow someone to sit in them. The “matatu” that we took was not marked
in any way that I could decipher as being bound for Jebel Market, but Clara
recognized whatever cues were there that I missed. It didn’t take me long to
confirm that she was right, as there was soon someone walking back and forth by
the side of the vehicle, calling “Jebel Souk; Jebel, Jebel, Jebel Souk.” I’d
have figured it out without Clara’s help at that point.
Our “matatu” seemed to be in good shape mechanically, not
making the questionable noises that I have come to associate with public
transportation in Africa. The seats were also quite comfortable, with no
springs or other pieces of metal seeking to poke holes in the seat of my
trousers. As our ride progressed and we transitioned from the main road (paved)
to the secondary road where the market is located (not paved), I was both glad
for and doubly surprised at the fact that our vehicle was in good shape. That
secondary road was in very bad shape, so that vehicles crept along, drifting
first right, then left, then sharply right again, maintaining only a semblance
of two lanes of traffic—one in each direction—as each driver sought the least
rutted path toward his destination. Rain had apparently washed deep gullies across
the road at frequent intervals, so that vehicles were forced to descend into them,
then climb back up the other side. A couple of the deepest ones were two feet
deep and only a few feet wide—good reason for drivers to insist on leaving
their “lane” to find the point of easiest passage. As the vehicle swayed rather
violently from side to side, I considered myself fortunate to have only banged
my head on the frame of the vehicle above the window by my seat a couple of
times.
Clara explained to me that we could have elected to take a “rickshaw”
instead of the “matatu,” but we would have had to pay five times as much for
the ride. A “rickshaw” here in Juba is a motorized three-wheeled vehicle with
an enclosed seating area for two people (or three if you squeeze a bit). If you
remember the “bajaj” from my time in Ethiopia last year, it’s the same sort of
vehicle. The ones here in Juba are reportedly manufactured in India. I had the
impression that the ones in Ethiopia came from the Middle East.
Having arrived at Jebel Market, Clara was able to quickly
direct me to the aisle where cloth is sold. (I was surprised at
how no one tried to steer me off of our course to see something in another shop
somewhere else. In Burkina Faso, that would have been something we’d have been
dealing with constantly.) I think there must have been about 20 or 30 shops in a
row which all sold more or less the same sort of thing: a combination of 6-yard
pieces of cloth in a variety of designs and qualities, and ready-made shirts,
dresses, and blouses. We visited all of the shops that we saw, asking prices
along the way. (They varied quite a lot, even for the same type of cloth—probably
indicative of how recently the shopkeeper had bought his stock, because as I
mentioned yesterday, prices are inflating rapidly here, with goods purchased outside
the country increasing in terms of the local currency each time the inventory
is restocked.)
There were many patterns that I liked, but I finally decided
on three color varieties of my favorite pattern, plus a fourth one whose color and design I liked. When I had the cloth I had come for, Clara
took some time to get a few things for herself, and I bought some bananas. After
getting those items, we headed back out to catch a ride back to SIL.
This time it was a full-sized bus that we boarded. Again,
Clara somehow knew that it would take us on the route we needed to travel to
get back to SIL, and again, for the most economical fare. The seats were
comfortable, with each row consisting of four seats—three on the side behind
the driver and one across the aisle. We stopped at frequent intervals to allow
people off and others to get on, and for two or three of the segments, there
were people standing in the aisle, with all of the seats taken.
I was a bit surprised to note that, during the 15-minute
ride, three young men each gave up his seat so that a woman could sit there. The
first woman was in her late thirties or early forties, I would guess, and carrying
a small child; the other two were women who appeared to be quite a bit older
than me. I don’t know if that happens in Burkina Faso or not, since I rarely
use the public transportation when I’m there. I just didn’t expect it in such a
male-dominant society, I guess.
When we were about half a mile from where I would get out
(and Clara would continue on to her home), we encountered a traffic jam that
made that last little piece of the trip quite memorable. Traffic was creeping
along on our side of the four-lane boulevard, and we soon noticed that the
vehicles in the right lane of our side of the road were merging into our lane.
Then we saw why—a graduation procession! The university graduates were marching
down the right side of the road three abreast, with a small marching band
leading the way ahead of them. When we reached our stop, the procession was
immediately to our right, so the bus driver was unable to stop there. Instead,
he proceeded 100 yards further on (much to the consternation of some of the
passengers, who thought he wasn’t intending to stop at all) and then pulled
over.
After getting off of the bus, I had to walk back to find the
road that would take me to the SIL compound. I had not been paying a great deal
of attention as we had walked from SIL to the bus stop, so I was a little
concerned that I might not be able to find my way. (Anita can vouch for how
poor my sense of direction is at times!) However, I made my way back without
incident, happy to see the familiar walls of the compound again and know that I
was back in familiar territory.
I deposited my purchases in my room, then made my way to a
local eatery, where I ordered a “shawarma” for lunch. I had been told by one of
my SIL colleagues that this was one of the items on the menu at that particular
restaurant, The Orange Café, so had made up my mind to try it sometime before
leaving. Today, the opportunity presented itself. The “shawarma” was good—tasty
and filling—but the bread was different from what I am used to getting when I
order that item from a menu. Usually, it comes in the form of an open-ended wrap,
the bread being something like a tortilla. This one, as you can see in the
picture, was served in more of a roll or French-style bread.
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| shawarma - South Sudanese style |
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