The Journey Home

By: John Jefferson

The Journey Home

It takes a couple of days to get to Sudan, but it only takes a minute to return.  Though what I experience there bears little resemblance to what I experience on a day to day basis here in the States, everything, even in the negative, reminds of Sudan.  Something as simple as going to the sink and having water come out of the faucet makes me think of what women have to do to get water, sometimes walking  miles.   Then the idea that I’m letting drinkable water go down the drain conjures up memories of a place where there is no water we would call potable without first boiling it for 15 minutes.  More crazy is the fact that I jump in the shower and let gallons of drinkable water run over me to cleanse myself.  And I won’t even get into what their alternative to the flush toilet is, but suffice to say most places don’t have one.  The low hum of my refrigerator, light switches, and air/heating controls remind me that gas generators roar into the night to provide enough energy for a few hours of dim light for compounds fortunate enough to have them.  Cars and paved roads to drive them on make me think of the roads choked with people, animals, cars and trucks creating large clouds of diesel smoke and dust rising to the heavens.  Waste bins remind me of piles of garbage in the street, lots or fields waiting to be burned, and recycle bins remind me that nothing that is of use goes to waste.  Costco, Safeway, RiteAid, REI, Target, Wal Mart, etc., all remind me of the markets where what you see is what you get and that isn’t a lot.  The route home from the bush, to Malakal, then Juba, followed by Nairobi brings one in successive steps toward the excesses of Western living.  The stopover at Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport lets one know they have reentered “civilization” and the reminders of the lost world of Sudan abound.   Just sitting on the airplane takes adjustment with its personal entertainment systems, constant food and beverage services, and nice compact restrooms that are reasonably clean for the first few hours of the journey back.  Once home and recovered, the planning for my return begins as if a part of me was left in Sudan, and I have to go back and get it.  The reality is though, that it’s not that I leave a part of me there, it’s that all of me doesn’t want to come back and thus, some of me stays.