Rock City

A day of errand running around Juba to take bananas to Poni as she’s sick, track down the Undersecretary at the Ministry of Wildlife and look for garages to service our battered vehicles at non-exorbitant prices.

When mixing in expat circles you certainly meet some colourful characters. Some of these you don’t particularly warm to. In Cambodia this was certainly true. Juba also seems to attract a crew where ‘gay’ jokes and stereotypes, the kind that many of us left behind in high school, remain the height of sophistication. Cue teeth gritted so hard they now hurt.

At one of the garages we visited today, there was an impressive setup and display of spare parts, which is no mean feat with the gargantuan challenge of importing here. A brash Geordie was barking at the workshop staff in a strong accent at very rapid pace, allowing the workers to absorb an estimated 5% of his words. I’m debating whether the constant hollering and swearing marries well with the professionalism we need. It probably does, but it took me by surprise, as I never hear Africans swearing and doubt his colleagues approve.

Image of the Rock City area of Juba, where everyone at the Toyota garage had gone to lunch. Hard to believe this is a few minutes’ drive from bustling markets, aggressive junctions and the constant threat of traffic police setting their beady eyes on you.