Dark skies, humid and hot. My body searching for breeze either from a fan, and air conditioner or the wind. The change from Copenhagen winter to the tropics, blown out of proportion by whatever bug is in my system.
Juba feels like its holding its breath as the treason trial gets underway, and there are few smiles. The centre of the town is blocked, creating crazy traffic flows through side streets, already rutted after the short rains. Soldiers seem to be all over the place, with the first signs of wounded soldiers on the streets. The corresponding increase in intimidation and harassment of UN staff remains a concern.
Said, here for the week from our Jerusalem office, took over cooking duties. Spaghetti bolognaise his culinary masterpiece, which I managed to eat without messing all over my shirt.
Huge storm over Juba Town. Rain thundering against the iron roof. Streets, rivers of mud and plastic bottles. The lot of people in the IDP camps, dire as they turn into swimming pools of filth. People stand with their few possessions and food on their heads, desperately holding onto plastic sheets, turned into sails by the wind. The real misery of war.
Inside my dry house, a gleaming new marvel of technology, runs ‘whisper quiet’ to clean my clothes. A convenience that within the context seems bizarre.
On the easel, a painting of boys at the taxi stop, with their wheelbarrows waiting to carry goods from women returning to the IDP camp.