Then the Rains Came

Malakal, South Sudan

When the prop jet descended out of the clouds, a broad, flat, barren land spread out in every direction as far as the eye could see. Only dirt roads and round tukols and brown river channels gave distinction to the endless scrubland.

Later we drove along the pitted road that diverges from the airport towards the United Nations base where we attended a meeting with the refugee agency. During the jolting ride, I gazed out the Land Cruiser's window and I thought, ‘Fuck - it looks like Iraq.’

Then the rains came. The barren skies became full and stiff gusts broke, rushing through the trees and rattling the window panes. At first a few drops came and then the sunshine returned. Some days later a few more came and again the threat passed. Then, finally and late in the season, the first downpour arrived.

The skies emptied in slanting sheets while the greedy earth drank until it was sick from the gorging. Where it could seep it seeped and where it could not seep it saturated and where it could not saturate it became a swampland. Weeds and tall grasses sprouted from the sides of the newly deepened trenches and from the spreading pools and the dead fields. Frogs, rats, flies, and mosquitos grew into a pestilence. At night after a rain, ten thousand nameless flying things would come out and swarm around a light source. The next morning, the light burned out, ten thousand nameless things lay dead on the ground.

Here they call rubber boots ‘gum boots’ and if you don't wear them then you walk barefoot. After a rain there is nowhere that is dry and everywhere is sticky or slippery or somehow both simultaneously. The black cotton soil - chewing gum-like after a rain - will tear a rubber sole from an old boot or snap the strap of a leather sandal, or thoroughly disfigure a fine new sneaker.

The roads muddy and then wash out. Along those stretches where there is broken tarmac, giant pools collect. You drive carefully through the soup and you keep to first gear but at the slightest acceleration the tire treads kick up a splatter that soils the pedestrians that walk single file in bare feet and rolled trousers.

Where the ground is elevated and the water cannot pool, the road becomes slick and takes the character of an ice sheet. More than occasionally you encounter a vehicle that has slid into trench or skidded until grounding itself axle-deep in a mud patch.

These, the stuck ones, always make a tragic scene. A bewildered driver, one hand on his hip and another scratching his head. He ponders over his fine machine - a champion among all-terrain vehicles. How could she be defeated by so modest a ditch or so shallow a morass?


And for these, the sadly defeated ones, often there is only the tractor.

Welcome to South Sudan

Malakal, South Sudan

I came to South Sudan at the end of April. I came with a nongovernmental aid organization and when I arrived it was still Southern Sudan, an autonomous region in the largest and one of the poorest countries in Africa.

After 17 years of civil war and then 11 years of fragile peace and then another 21 years of civil war, a so-called Comprehensive Peace Agreement was signed in Nairobi in January 2005. The CPA called for a referendum to decide the south’s fate and after six years of strained coexistence, the voting was held in January 2011. The decision was, as expected, almost unanimous. Only Abyei, an oil-rich region along the border, was prevented from voting over a dispute concerning the eligibility of a certain north-leaning nomadic tribe that comes to graze its cattle for about half the year.

Border clashes with the north followed the referendum. Also, rebel militia groups went on the offensive. There was a new country coming and the rebel commanders - mostly disgruntled ex-generals - knew that this was the time to get before all was gotten. The RMGs - there were nine of them in the Malakal region - were an uncoordinated menace, often supported by the north to destabilize the south. They would appear suddenly, well armed, drive the army out, plunder what they could, and then disappear into the bush when the counterattack was made.

On 9 July, independence was declared. Salva Kiir Mayardit was declared President. What's more, he is also Chief-of-Staff of the Sudanese People’s Liberation Army and Secretary General of the Sudanese People’s Liberation Movement. Soon after independence the north closed the trade routes to the south as leverage to secure more favorable oil concessions. Also, with fighting going on in South Kordofan, the smuggling routes have also been squeezed.

In Malakal, prices have risen and shelves have emptied. Rarely can you find canned meat or processed cheese, corn flakes and cocoa powder. Other basic commodities are scarce or have disappeared entirely: potatoes, oranges, apples, flour, and cooking fuel. With production infrastructure but no refinery capacity, diesel has more than doubled in price and petrol is now so scarce that many boats and vehicles are grounded and so expensive that it might be cheaper to cross town by Land Cruiser than by motorbike.

This has made the aid work harder but also more necessary. The organization I work for is called the American Refugee Committee International. It’s a moderate size NGO, headquartered in Minneapolis of all places, and works in nine countries mostly in Africa. My title is Field Coordinator, which is suitably modest but less accurate than ‘Head of Field Office’.

As a Field Coordinator you supervise the programs, logistics, HR, security, and the accounting. You manage the project managers; approve or reject the expenditures; procure, warehouse, and deploy equipment and materials; and coordinate these activities with donors, government agencies, and other INGOs. You hire and promote and discipline and when necessary fire. You’re the IT (non)expert, the instructor, the counselor, and the bearer of good and bad news. When you need help you request, then cajole, then finally plead to you country office and sometimes you get it but mostly it comes late or too little or not at all and still you manage. Also, when it is needed and if it is not entirely disagreeable to you, you dig trenches, install light fixtures, service the generator, and repair the motorbikes.

Don't Go Chasing Butterflies

Toluca, Mexico

6,116 km

The morning after the car accident the sky was mostly clear but sharply cold. I left around midmorning as Male and her sister and their parents left for work. Male apologized profusely and I sarcastically thanked her for the excitement. Soon I was out of the city and heading west on the free highway. The first danger came when I arrived at a patch of highway construction where deep grooves were cut into the lane parallel with the direction of traffic. The grooves are to hold the new tarmac when it is poured but they are a terrible hazard to a motorcycle because the front tire can get caught in the groove and loose all traction. This was made worse because here the highway twisted through hill country and I had to make leaning turns amidst the grooves in the tarmac.

Soon it grew very cold. It started to rain, then it rained hard, then the rain became hail. It pelted my helmet and the gas tank and I could feel the staccato sting through long johns, trousers, and rain pants. I pressed on and the downpour continued sometimes as rain and sometimes as icy pellets. It pooled in the center of the highway and then broke into rippling mudflows. Occasionally the rain stopped and the skies cleared but then the wind rose and I had to lean against it and the leaning means less tire touching the we tarmac and so less traction. Finally, I passed Zitácuaro and then I turned north on a secondary highway towards Angangueo. Before there, at Ocampo, I saw the signs for the El Rosario butterfly sanctuary.

The road meandered for 15 kilometers up the hillside in two lanes paved in rough, bone-jolting stones around two narrow tracks of smooth stone. Water flowed downhill as I climbed, soaked and shivering, trying to stay on the smooth tracks and trying to stay perfectly vertical to lose no traction to a lean. The rain turned to hail and struck hard and the downhill flows grew heavier and cut the road crossways rushing at times perpendicularly against the tires.

At the entrance to the butterfly there was a small open-air hut where old men and women bundled up and huddled against the stinging cold and did not come forward to greet me. I parked the bike and approached. The said there would be no butterflies today, which of course I knew. I said I wanted to get something hot to eat and drink in one of the structures a half kilometer ahead. They wanted to collect 20 pesos as a toll and I – cold, wet, and exhausted – became somewhat indignant and replied there was no way I would pay if there are no butterflies. The shrugged their shoulders and said that I could pass but now, bizarrely there was a principle to stand on, so I remounted, made a U-turn and returned the way I had come.

The descent was more harrowing than the ascent. To climb you apply throttle: you exert force against contrary force – you turn wheels against gravity, push water between treads, heat cold rubber, and this creates traction. But descending, gravity is no longer against you; you no longer create traction by exerting force against contrary force. Worse now was that the hail had frozen in sheets across the smooth paving stones and it was a virtual slalom for 15 kilometers until I arrived, shaken but not beaten, at Ocampo, where I took shelter in an open-air taquería and drank a hot coffee to settle my nerves.

A Road Accident in Toluca

Toluca, Mexico
5,843 km

The motorcycle appeared to be running well again so I spent a few more days in Mexico City before I shoved off again. I made other small repairs and had a new rack built for the saddlebags because the high speed vibration was causing wear on the vinyl. I spent a very fine day visiting the Plaza de la Constitución and the Catedral Metropolitana. Inside, standing before an enormous backdrop of carved saints and martyrs brilliantly leafed in gold, the priest sermonized of the “enfermidad del sexo, alcohol y oro” (“sickness of sex, alcohol, and gold) and I appreciated the irony of the latter. In the afternoon I visited the Museo Nacional de Antropología where a casual visitor could fill several days and an aficionado could lose himself for weeks. The museum is a marvel and the exhibits dispelled any prejudicial doubts I had that Mexico is poor in cultural heritage.

In the evening Memo and I had dinner and a few drinks. He told me of the terrible Mexico City earthquake of ’85. He was very young but he and friends obtained a truck and drove water and food into those in the affected area. He spoke of the poverty of his country, of his family members in the Oaxaca region that still go without shoes. There was great sadness in his eyes and his voice and I saw the soul of a good man.

The evening of the next day – the 14th of January – I left Mexico City for Toluca, which is on the way to Ocampo in the state of Morelia where I wanted to visit the monarch butterfly sanctuary the following day. In Toluca I stayed with a young lady, Male, that I had met through couchsurfing.org. In the afternoon we went to the Cosmovitral, which is like a cathedral to this natural and beautiful. Stone paths meander among lush flower gardens and bubbling fountains and streaming tinted sunlight pours through enormous stained glass images of cosmic creation that decorate the simple gray stone walls.

In the evening, Male, her sister, Erica, and I took the car to go out of dinner. It drizzled and the night was dark but for the rushing headlights along the freeway. Male drove in the fastest of the three traffic lanes. Rising on an overpass she noticed an approaching car traveling fast. She moved to the center lane to let it pass but quickly found that she was approaching too quickly upon the car ahead of her. She swerved left too hard and then back again right to compensate. The sedan hydroplaned and went into a uncontrolled spin as though the wheels were skies and the rain slicked tarmac icy snow. We made a turn and a half as we barreled to the right, clipped the car that Male had tried to avoid, and careened backwards into a concrete-reinforced rail post at the top of the overpass. I saw the whole thing happen in slow motion, aware of everything – of the spinning, of the crashing, of the broken glass shattering inward upon me from the rear window – fearless, strangely, but also impotent, powerless to control an uncontrollable situation.

The reinforced post halted us and prevented us from breaking through the railing and falling the dozen or so meters to the pavement below. There was a moment of shock before the three of us reacted. Male launched into hysterics but her sister, Erica, was cool and levelheaded; I was impressed by her. After we calmed Male into a stunned silence, I said that we needed to call the police. Instead the girls called their parents and then the insurance agent. Eventually, but only eventually, the police arrived, although they had not been summoned. A woman in the other car had severe whiplash and I thought it a terrible thing that the police were barely an afterthought. The police regulated traffic, which had mostly ground to a standstill and much later I head the approach of an ambulance but it was ages in arriving because in Mexico nobody yields the roadway for emergency vehicles.

The injured woman was finally taken to the hospital and Male was reviewed and released by the paramedics. Male and Erica’s parents came and the insurance adjuster came and began the paperwork. It was wet and very cold and the middle of the night now, the rain still falling in a light sprinkle. Eventually we were taken to the police processing station and there was more waiting while we waited for word to come from the hospital regarding the severity of the woman’s injuries. Eventually the terms of the restitution were agreed upon and we left. At the house, cold and exhausted, we had hot tea and quesadillas and talked little before we went to bed.

The Best and Worst Ride of My Life

Mexico City, Mexico
5,728 km

My way took me next to Metepec, which is a large city high in the hills to the west of the capital. Here I met some people through couchsurfing.org and ended up drunk and somewhat stranded at a house party until after 4 in the morning. It was a good time and a fine, unexpected experience but the next day I was riding back to Mexico City and back to the motorcycle shop because the old problem had come back riding up into the thin air of the mountain around Metepec.

At the motorcycle shop I was greeted with friendly surprise by the mechanics. I said that I had come back because I missed them and Tocayo, after listening to my explanation that the mechanical problem had come back and borrowing my favorite Spanish expression, said, ‘Hostias, man! Find another excuse for visiting us.’ Memo was very upset because he takes much pride in his work but also he was intrigued because he likes nothing more than to take on a good mechanical challenge. He did some more tinkering and again the problem appeared to be solved.

In the afternoon Memo had to go to a Sam’s Club on the far outskirts at the other end of the city to activate a newly purchased motorbike. He rode the small shop bike and another mechanic rode passenger and I followed on my bike to see the city and test the repairs. No traffic can possibly be so bad as how Mexico City commuters describe the traffic of their city; however, if any traffic can even come close to the horrors of gridlock that they describe, then it is the traffic of Mexico City – and this was the first day back to school! Also, Memo is a devil on a motorbike. He rides as hard as I’ve ever seen someone ride and doesn’t let a cc of potential go un-exerted towards propelling the bike forward. He rode a small bike with a passenger and tore through the traffic, weaving among cars and cutting lanes with a hair’s breadth of clearance.

We did more than 100 kilometers within the city and it was the most challenging motorcycle ride of my life. At lunch, after the work was done at the Sam’s Club and we knew that we would be returning through the city during rush hour, I said to Memo, ‘Si muero, dile a mi mamá que morí como un valiente – if I die, tell my mother that I died valiantly.’ But coming back was not so hard because the bottleneck traffic brought the motorcycles as well as the cars to an almost complete standstill. The cars were packed so tightly that frequently there was no room to cut between lanes and, when we could, there was often a bottleneck of motorcycles backed up along the dividers. Downtown we stopped at a wholesaler and Memo purchased cleaning supplies in bulk for the shop and the mechanic that was his passenger whom everyone called ‘Jim’ rode with boxes under his arms and bags in hands so that the vehicle now looked twice the size as it had. I also strapped what I could to my bike, which was already fully loaded with my gear. Like this we drove through the historic center and stopped as long as we could in the Plaza de la Consitución so that I could take it in and snap a picture before a police officer hurried us along.

We arrived back at the shop at dusk, alive and well and with no trace of the sickness that had been plaguing my motorcycle. It was a great ride, one of the finest I’ll ever have, and one that I hope never to do again. That evening we went for dinner and finished my first beer in two long pulls.