One more day in Juba

May 31, the morning after the storm

So it’s the end of my fourth week, and it feels like four months, but in a good way. There is just so much to do to make this project look like the one that was proposed to the donor, and the one they signed off on, and there’s just me doing it. 

I wrote most of this blog a week ago, while I was sitting in a restaurant, waiting for the friend of a friend with whom I was having a working brunch. That’s how we roll here! A short pause, as ever, as there are still a hundred things I need to do to get my project ready. The last few weeks I have spoken to dozens of people to try to understand the context in which we are trying to make this project happen a bit better. I am to broadcast in a local language that is reflective of that state, but there are nearly 60 languages in a country of 10 states and the animosity between tribes means that each decision will be political. I have spent many a happy hour with the head of the Department of National Languages, a government department, listening to the history of how the languages came about. I have spoken to educationalists, to ICT specialists, to the stability and conflict advisors, to gender and child rights experts and to our other partners. 

As ever, finances are always on my mind. Juba is ridiculously expensive. To rent a venue to hold a workshop will cost me £150/day, and that’s before we add on rental of laptops and lunch. The last week, I’ve been organising what we call a recruitment workshop. The response to the advertisement for the 10 state producers was phenomenal, over 130 applications. I whittled the list down, made a final decision on 2 from each state (in consultation with my boss) and then phoned each one to ask them if they would be able to come to Juba for the final stage of the recruitment process. 

The workshop enables us to see what skills the applicants have. Most have already participated in dozens of three-day workshops and training, everything from reporting in conflict situations to first aid to gender-based development and child rights. It’s what development organisations do in the name of capacity building, hold workshops and provide certificates. So almost every applicant sent a multitude of attachments, certificates from every workshop they had ever attended. Some of the mails had to be sent several times, with explanatory notes that the internet in their part of the country was intermittent, or non existent, so they had to rely on dongles, and moving into better mobile coverage. Some sent photographs. One sent a photo of his stomach.

In any case, CVs can tell you only so much about a person, and for this job, we need to know they have the skills, or at least the potential. And that’s where the recruitment workshop really comes into its own, as you can see whether people really can do what they said on their CV they can, how they act under pressure and whether they work well as part of a team.  

So I am bringing 18 people down to Juba, over two weeks. Which means organising their flights, accommodation, and pick ups. Like all good development organisations, ours has strict procurement policies; anything over £1,000 and you need three quotes. So I’d already got one from the venue we usually use, and Henry, the logistics guy and I went off one morning to look at a couple of others. We walk in to the “reception” of the Government Accounting and Training Centre and enquire about renting the venue. I still think that we need to pretend we are thinking about using their venue. We’re directed to the director’s office; but when we look inside, through a glass pane, the man sitting at an empty desk in an empty room seems fast asleep. Henry who is South Sudanese, doesn’t see anything wrong with this picture and walks into the room. “Hello Sir”, he says, and stretches out his arm, as the director shakes himself awake. He grunts at Henry, shakes his hand, and I follow suit, making sure to look him in the eye as we shake hands, and smile. He grins back. Henry, soft spoken Henry, says more direct that I would have the courage to do that we want a written quote. The director grunts, opens a drawer and pulls out a note book and flips it open to a blank page. He doesn’t appear to have a pen, so I  am wondering what he’s going to do with the notebook. “600 pounds (south sudanese that is) a day,” he says. “Do you have a projector?” Henry asks. The director grunts, rubs his nose and opens the drawer again. He shuts it and motions to a sheeted pile in the corner, “You can use that one”. Another man enters the room, the director waves at him. “Get them a written quote. 600 pounds a day.” the director says, then looks at me, smiles, and says, please sit down. Henry and I dutifully sit down on one of the many empty leather chairs around the room. Henry pulls out his mobile phone and starts texting. The director gets up and walks out. Henry and I sit there, for 10 minutes or so. Henry on his phone, me, just soaking up the aircon. Just when we thought they had forgotten about us, the man with the quote returns, hands us the stamped piece of paper and off we go. Hotels next. 

The first hotel is run by Eritreans. The rooms are clean, with fans and a small bathroom. I battle the owner down to 230 pounds with breakfast and dinner, and he gives us a written quote. The next hotel is just a drive down the road, rutted so bad we can’t go more than a couple miles an hour, past small stalls selling tea and food and cigarettes. It’s a  Chinese hotel, the Huaren, and Henry knows the South Sudanese man who is the manager, a short round and smiling guy. They show us one of the self-contained rooms. It’s sweltering inside, and the bathroom is a squat toilet. It feels shabby, although there is a large breezy compound where we sit to haggle with the manager. A South Sudanese woman sits to negotiate with us, her eyes never meeting any one else’s. They are very accommodating, offering us a super deal for 200 pounds for the room, breakfast and dinner. But I’m not convinced. As we sit there, a group of young men, tall, strong, commanding walk in .. they are dressed in tatty t-shirts and long shorts or jeans, and they walk in as if they own the place. They approach our table and say to the manager, “Give me your phone”. He tries to ignore him, there are a few hushed words exchanged, but in the end, the phone is handed over. The group hang around, the Chinese woman in the kitchen is watching them as I am.  The woman talking to us about prices ignores them, continuing to talk about the dinner options in a sort of daze. I have no idea what goes on here, but I tell Henry that I feel more comfortable putting our applicants in the first hotel.  He agrees. 

We head back to the office and I ask Henry to start booking the flights. I have given him a list of the names, their national IDs (although some people are still applying for theirs) and local airports for all the recruits. Because we are using UNHAS, the UN airline, we are bound by their schedules, which means no flights on a weekend. Not only that, but some of the applicants are coming from areas where there are just two flights a week, Tuesday and Thursday. So my neat plan for a Monday to Friday workshop needs some reorganisation. I opt for Tuesday to Saturday; my first thought, Sunday to Thursday, was vetoed due to Sunday being the day everyone goes to church. So Tuesday to Thursday it is, it means I now have to call the trainer and ask if he would be willing to spend one more day in Juba. 

Sounds like the name of a blog; one more day in Juba.