[Juba, Southern Sudan 33ºC] Flight 565 from Nairobi touches down onto one of the rarest commodities in all of Southern Sudan: a paved surface. The only tarmac in the entire southern region of Sudan—which is about the size of France—is in Juba and about 1/4 of it makes up the airport’s runway. But that is changing. “Slowly, slowly,” I’ve been told repeatedly about the development of Southern Sudan.
The Canadair Regional Jet (!) taxis to a full stop, the doors swing open and passengers mill out onto the tarmac. Two jet-black men beam a smile to Juba then to each other and back again, as though in disbelief of the good fortune that returns them to their homeland after such a long absence. Once on the ground, one man raises his arms to absent cheers and revels in the potential of a new state. He is on top of the world, come back to do his part in rebuilding the Southern Sudan, stating, “It is our time to eat!”
Juba Airport (February 2009)
Juba Airport is unlike any other. It is the international airport for the capital of Southern Sudan, yet the size of the entire building (arrival and departure areas, cafeteria, baggage claim, etc.) is no larger that an average secondary school gymnasium but with lower ceilings. The construction of a larger terminal has started adjacent to this one.
We passengers walk into the terminal to reclaim our bags. Once inside the building, we follow protocol and head toward a small counter where two unsmiling men sit and stamp our passports. We have arrived. Next, we make our way through the crowd of unarmed soldiers, airport officials, passengers and the people who have come to pick us up. We walk no more than five metres to where a handler unloads our luggage from the back of a pickup truck. He passes the baggage through a trap door in the wall to another handler who places them on the dusty floor.
Three metres further along is a long counter where customs officials search baggage before marking their acceptance with a chalk circle. Entrance to the country is granted. The communications officer from UNICEF greats me, is happy I’ve made it. He gives my passport and visa to a UNICEF driver who whisks them away to register my passport with the authorities. I retrieve them days later.
I am driven ‘home’ to the United Nations Office for Project Services (UNOPS) residences, where I was generously offered a place to stay in a friend-of-a-friend’s room while she is on leave. I meet the others living in the house who accept me into their fold without hesitation. I install my mosquito net, take a short nap and revel in the fact that I have arrived in Southern Sudan. This is where I want to be. I am here.
