Leaving Juba

JUBA, SUDAN - 1980
This was a heat not made for mortals.

Anco and Paolo wavered where they stood and lemming sweat leapt off them into the atmosphere. For Paolo, this felt like the end. Malaria had ignited a second inferno within him, and everything down to his bones was singeing into tissue-thin carbon. But at last he was leaving Juba.

The airport was little more than a box built around a few desks, and the hordes of sweaty commuters clambering over one another transformed it into a battery farm. Only one plane a day was scheduled to land in Juba – bound for Khartoum – and weeks had passed since the last one hit the tarmac. Without any money to pay for petrol, Sudan Air had effectively forsaken the people of Juba, no matter what their purpose or place.

A radio announcement from Khartoum had signalled the arrival of a plane that day. Hordes crashed upon the airport in the hope of a seat.

The flight plan was a haphazard itinerary. From Juba, it would fly to Nairobi in Kenya, at which point it would fly back to Juba. There were no landing lights at Juba airport, so if the plane did not arrive by 6pm when the sun set it would simply carry on to Khartoum. Passengers bound for Khartoum faced the gamble of either buying an extra ticket to Nairobi or waiting in the hope that Sudan Air’s pilots were more efficient than its accountants.

Paolo’s burning state left no room for chance, so he and Anco bought the extra ticket; a relatively cheap fee for the wallets of UN contractors. This fact did not escape the attention of the customs official – a brick wall draped in military garb, with a firearm but no shoes.

“You are Italian, yes?”

Anco and Paolo nodded.

“Then you should be heading north to Khartoum, not Nairobi – why have you each bought two tickets?”

Anco and Paolo explained that they were not gambling men.

“Fucking capitalists, you don’t care if you waste a cent. Get out of here and stop ruining this country.”

The official stamped their passports and gruffly ushered them through to the plane.

ITHACA, GREECE – 2008
Paolo calls them UFOs – useless floating objects. These giant motor yachts tear through the water, haemorrhaging expensive diesel at the rate of ten euros a minute. Their passengers lounge either on deck or below, but never behind the controls, as they prefer to hire crew in the usual white shorts and shirt uniform. For Paolo, who enjoys the challenge and sustainability of sailing, there does not seem to be any purpose to owning a motor boat at all.

“These people do not care about anything except looking like they have money to spend, and the money goes nowhere, nothing, out into the water. When the oil is gone, what will they have? A useless thing sitting in an expensive marina, and I will still be out sailing.”

We could already see the effects of rising fuel costs and recession out here in the Ionian islands. Two years earlier, the harbour side cafes had swarmed with tourists from dawn to dawn, but now there was only a few buzzing about.

This did not really trouble us too much, but on the other hand it could prove costly to Ithaca. Without much in the way of agriculture, Ithaca’s major income is drawn from its sharing a name with the fabled homeland of Homer’s Odysseus. Myths have calcified in the scant ruins and caves on the island, which locals mine using adventure-seekers and dreamy students in place of picks and shovels.

In exchange, the tourists carve Ithaca’s main port of Vathi, shaping it into carbon copy restaurants touting Italian and British food, while kitsch Greek restaurants are exiled a kilometre beyond the town.

NAIROBI, KENYA – 1980
“Yes, an Italian flight will leave here three days from now, but if I were you, I’d stay onboard and fly back to Khartoum. There is a flight to Italy early tomorrow morning.”

Anco and Paolo thanked the friendly pilot and returned to their seats. Outside, Nairobi fluttered green and welcoming. Still, taut muscles wracked Paolo’s body and the necessity for a quick return outweighed Kenyan comforts.

Soon the plane leapt back into the sky, arcing north towards Sudan and, eventually, Rome. Anco and Paolo drifted off into a relaxed sleep.

THE INLAND SEA, GREECE – 2008
Mornings are peaceful in this part of the world, especially for sailors, as there is no wind until after lunchtime.

The Inland Sea is that part of the Ionian lapping between the western islands and the mainland. Compared to the naked waves of the open sea, the Inland is a gentle place that holds numerous interesting anchorages.

The island of Atokos rises steeply from the water, eliminating any chance of flat land except for the scant square metres that support the island’s only house. Sailors drop anchor in this “One House Bay” to swim in the warm, invisible waters during the day.

A more comfortable swim can be found in the south-eastern, unnamed bay of Oxia. This island is similar to Atokos, in that it has been pinched up into steep, narrow ridges, but it has recently seen the development of fish farms within its protected waters. We dropped anchor beside one of these; a short distance away were a couple of shacks made from old caravans perched nervously above the water to provide shelter for the farm’s custodians.

To guarantee stability in Oxia’s waters, a long line must be swum to shore and attached to a rock. Simone and I used this to propel ourselves across the water, using a free hand to keep our shoes dry. Once ashore we clambered up fossilised rocks and ascended the steep, pine coated land in an ape-like manner. Our senses were so taxed in an effort to avoid loose handholds that we did not notice the creamy coating of goat poo mixing with the sweat of our hands.

Returning from the top required a different tactic. Making sure that my bottom avoided planting itself in spiky bushes, I used my feet and hands as skis and ploughed down through pine needles and rocks in a controlled fall. Along the way, Simone’s inner botanist caught sight of wild sage, which she collected and stored in the pantry of her bra.

JUBA, SUDAN – 1980
“All passengers must disembark this flight for customs control.”

It was the third time that this announcement had come across the speaker, but Anco and Paolo were still in their seats. The plane had just made it to Juba in time, landing at 5:55pm. At first, customs had allowed those passengers continuing to Khartoum to remain onboard. But now, something had changed.

“You two’d better get off, otherwise we’ll never be able to leave here,” said the friendly pilot.

The same shoeless customs official stood blocking their entry into the airport. Duty had apparently erased his memory, as he didn’t seem to recognise either of the Italians. With a nonchalant flick, he opened their passports and looked over the Arabic departure stamp he’d planted himself hours earlier.

“Your visas have expired,” he said, stone-faced, “give me your passports and wait here.”

Paolo had had enough. For days he’d been trying to escape Juba, to return to Italy and the promise of malaria-free health, and he was not going to let a disgruntled soldier ruin his plans.

He told the official this.

“Say one more word, and I’ll put you in jail,” replied the guard.

MESSOLONGI, GREECE – 2008
Though he didn’t know it, Lord Byron came to Messolongi to die.

We came to pick up Paolo’s wife, Daniela.

A university town, Messolongi is situated on the north side of the Gulf of Patras and was the first place I’d seen completely devoid of foreign tourism. The harbour is part of the Klisova Lagoon, the largest natural wetland in Greece, and entry from the sea was only achieved by motoring down a thin channel surrounded by treacherous shallows.

Small shacks sit on either side of the channel, and from afar they look as if they’re floating on the water. Passing them gives you the sense of being onboard a patrol boat in the Mekong Delta, with the occasional palm tree conspiring towards this illusion. Children use old, wooden piers to jump into the murky waters, and a trio of teenage girls in bikinis waved at us and posed suggestively before vanishing into the brine.

Walking through the dusty streets of Messolongi’s outskirts was like some bizarre shift into rural Australia. Gumtrees are common here, and the close ties between Greece and Australia have resulted in similar housing styles. People of all ages rode on bicycles or motorcycles, and at night crowds of locals bloomed out of the darkness.

In the morning, Simone ran down into the cabin to yell that a turtle was swimming around in the lagoon. We all climbed onto shore, and chased around, trying to catch a glimpse. However, the turtle was wily and would only peak out of the water every few minutes, using the submerged intervals to swim across to the opposite side of the harbour. This meant that we constantly ran back and forth, our cameras limp in our hands, catching nothing but ripples.

A local fisherman saw our plight and told us that there were two turtles who regularly visited the lagoon each morning. The reason for their continued patronage was the fisherman, who cleaned out his nets here, chucking tiny fish and crabs back into the water. Sure enough, the turtles were hovering around his boat, rising up like ancient mummies to groan oxygen before diving down to swallow a dead fish.
“Some mornings they’ll be so happy that they come up to the boat and we talk,” the fisherman said.

JUBA, SUDAN – 1980
That morning Anco and Paolo eavesdropped on radio chatter from Khartoum. A dignitary had died in the capital and a military aircraft was arriving in Juba that day to pick up his family. If Sudan Air wasn’t going to help them, maybe the army would – the two had certainly used military transport in the past.

Arriving just as the plane landed, Anco and Paolo boarded in order to speak to the captain. He was not around, but they struck up a conversation with the first mate.

“We are engineers, contractors working for the UN’s Food and Agricultural Organisation. He is very sick with malaria and we need to get to Khartoum to fly to Rome, please, can we fly with you?”

The first mate nodded and wrote their names down on a clipboard in Arabic.

“This will be fine. You can load your luggage, but you’ll have to wait before you can board.”

While Anco and Paolo waited, a small crowd gathered around the plane and each petitioner added their name to the clipboard.

When it finally came time for the plane to leave, the tarmac was hidden beneath a few hundred pairs of feet. The captain, cut from the same cloth as the customs official, stood at the door and barked out a list of names. Paolo’s fevered heart quivered when he realised that, despite having been first on the list, neither his nor Anco’s names had been called; the captain was reading from the bottom of the list.

“Enough!” the captain yelled, and moved to close the door.

“No!” Anco and Paolo screamed, “our bags are onboard, we were here first, you must let us on!”

“Enough!” was the harsh reply, and the captain slammed the door shut.

Like a sad puppy, the crowd slowly walked away from the plane, back towards the terminal. Paolo, who was lagging due to his weakened condition, turned around and saw the strangest sight. The plane door was open again. Now was his chance!

“Anco, quick!” Paolo called out, and ran up the stairs.

He had safely made it onto the plane, but Anco, who had been with the crowd ahead, was now running in a rushing wave of Sudanese commuters. The lot washed up the stairs, and Paolo clung to the doorframe, doing his best to push people away so that Anco could climb onboard.

Anco was only a few steps away from the door, when Paolo felt a tap on his shoulder. There, bristling with anger, was the captain. His fist hung in the air between him and Paolo for a fierce second, before it swung down and struck the Italian straight in his solar plexus.

Broken, Paolo fell backwards into the confused clutter of people and the door shut once again. There was nothing more to be done than watch as the plane, along with Anco and Paolo’s luggage, made its way back to Khartoum.

NAVAGIO, GREECE – 2008
“It’s funny, isn’t it – this is the most photographed place in Greece and we’re having trouble trying to recognise it.”

Dad sat in the cockpit of Felicite, musing as we passed the north-western shore of Zakynthos, one of the Ionian islands. In Antiquity, when the Olympian gods overthrew the Titans, these giants must have fallen here, their outstretched hands gouging mammoth furrows in the side of the island in an attempt to grab the land they were about to lose forever.

We were looking for Navagio, the famous Shipwreck Beach that has graced pamphlets and coffee table books all over the world. Here, sometime last century, a cargo vessel washed ashore, disembowelled and abandoned to rust. It could not have chosen a more picturesque grave, surrounded on all sides by steep, multi-coloured cliffs and turquoise waters.

After almost an hour of searching, we found our target, reclining like a Roman senator. Yet, there was concern on the deck.

“There are no tourists here,” Daniela said, “normally this place is filled with boats.”

It seemed that the ever-spreading murk of recession and credit crunch had struck even these crystal waters, though it hadn’t done a thing about cleaning the water – sparkling, transparent waters are beautiful, but they also reveal years of tourist abuse. Simone, Daniela and I swam to shore alongside cigarette butts and other, nondescript forms of jetsam.

The wreck itself was alluring, but not spectacular, and I was more interested in reading the scribbles of a thousand languages across its rotting hull. Mostly these were lovers strengthening their vows with graffiti.

We hauled anchor once everyone was back onboard, leaving Navagio and its ageing hype behind.

JUBA, SUDAN – 1980
In his effort to make a point about how much capitalists are willing to spend, the customs official had left Anco and Paolo to stew for a day, before returning their passports and granting a new visa. For a small fee, of course.

The time that this wasted, however, was far costlier, and Paolo now wondered if the only way he’d be able to return to Rome was in a coffin. It was a plausible danger; Anco and Paolo had earlier befriended a group of five British students when they’d first arrived. Two of them were now dead, swept into a grave by malaria.

All of this would never have happened if it weren’t for the simple fact that Captain Abdeen, FAO’s chartered pilot, hadn’t been busy on a mission in South Africa.

Friendly and accommodating, Abdeen treated his small plane as if he were giving lifts to his buddies. Quite often he’d let Paolo come up to the cockpit and plug in a Pink Floyd tape, or he’d swerve through the sky to give passengers a view of something interesting down below.

Thus, like a true deus ex machina, when Paolo was on the verge of a cooked demise, Abdeen and his plane flew down out of the heavens to whisk Anco and Paolo safely back to Khartoum. Along the way he made sure to switch course, just enough so that the two Italians caught a good view of the angry customs official shaking his fist at the fleeing capitalists from Juba’s tarmac. Someone plugged Dark Side of the Moon into the tape deck, and everyone cheered, reclining like true heroes as they flew off into the sunset.

Captain Abdeen would die when his plane crashed two years later.