You know, I’m not a cream puff.
I’ve worked in newsrooms so aggressive, I figuratively donned armour every morning before going to work. As an independent producer, I hustled stories to national broadcasters and chased them for payment. I’ve lived in bed-bug and mould-ridden apartments, keeping costs low, so I could make a documentary.
But I have a feeling Juba is going to test my limits and I’ve only been here a day.
At the airport – a crowded chaotic place smelling suspiciously of uncovered toilets – I was told my mission letter from my employers was not enough and I’d have to pay $100USD for a visa. Needless to say, I had very little cash on me and there’s no ATM at the airport, nor in the whole of Juba.
My protests –expressed with a smiling face and with many protestations of the admitting official’s comeliness and efficiency – a technique learnt after years of dealing with Italian bureaucracy – were met with a stony glare.
Other more savvy travellers were waving passports, with crisp $100 US notes pressed inside. I could see that the lure of the greenback was strong and he wanted to move on.
My mobile phone, so efficient in Italy, didn’t work, so I couldn’t call the office. The driver was nowhere to be found.
Sweating, carrying my padded overcoat and woollen jumper, I began questioning other people in admissions, to see whether they worked for my agency.
I finally spotted a blue-clad gentleman with a sign saying ‘Mr Di Marino’. I pressed the driver, ‘Wilson’, into action. Half an hour later, there was a miraculous conversion. The official was apologising and letting me through.
But my time of travail had not ended.
In the baggage claim area, there was no sign of my luggage. I had no make-up, toiletries or clothes, let alone anti-malaria treatment, mosquito repellant or antibiotics.
Wilson took me to my hotel. The receptionist took one look at me, and said my booking had been cancelled.
At a loss, we moved onto work. I walked into a management meeting full of suit-clad colleagues. I’d travelled in the jeans and shirt I was wearing and they were markedly worse for wear. I had what looked like a tide mark on my neck from the roll neck of the shirt. My hair was screwed up into a knot on the top of my head.
A promising first impression! And a tough introduction to a town. Let’s hope it gets better or I may develop the coping mechanisms of a camel.
©Jean Di Marino 2012
