“Maybe he is possessed by a devil!” said Emmanuel. I was sitting at the back of a bus with him and Hanan, while outside, a fierce young man was insisting he wouldn’t let it move until I got off. The people at Custom Market reacted to the drama just like any other crowd: women chattered urgently in Arabic, motioning that he must be crazy, and men stepped in dutifully to bring the situation under control.
Custom Market is not by nature a peaceful place, consisting of dozens of small stalls and pedlars loudly pushing fruit, beans, jewellery and other goods alongside a great crowd of ‘buses’. But it is a place of trade and lively fraternising – of human co-operation, not conflict.
We were there to switch to buses on our way to a group meeting. The place appears to be the city’s bus station. There were scores of vehicles, maybe as many as one hundred, covering a wide area. How it is possible to locate the correct one, I have no idea. The buses in Juba are almost universally small white minivans which pack in about a dozen passengers and drop and pick up flexibly along their route. The conductor leans out the window shouting where the bus is going, and this seems to be the only way of identifying which bus to catch. If you want to stop somewhere you click (which the conductor also does to collect money). I haven’t even attempted to use the buses alone yet.
As we were standing for a moment in the market I felt my water bottle yanked from my hand. I looked around to see a severe looking man who seemed to be around my age. He was wearing a red t-shirt and smoking a cigarette. I had hardly had time to react before he poured the contents of the bottle over my head.
Instantly there was a commotion as Emmanuel cried out. Those nearby stepped in to intervene asking what was going on. Hanan and Emmanuel insisted I had done nothing. I asked what was going on and Emmanuel said the man had mental issues. There were enough people to easily guard me, but as Hanan led me away the red shirted youth watched and followed, gesturing aggressively. I wasn’t able to walk away, but it was the middle of the day and the market was full of people who blocked him from getting to me. “Here, come” said Hanan, leading me by the hand into the crowd of buses. We climbed into one and moved quickly to the back seat.
I thought maybe we’d lost him, but then we saw him peer into the bus. He walked up to the back of the bus and swung a punch at my head. I was at the full extent of his reach and Hanan shielded me with her hand, so the blow landed only lightly on my forehead. Once again a commotion broke out and he retreated from the bus. There was a mix of concern, shock and gossip in the voices chattering hurriedly in Arabic. Clearly the locals were just as taken aback as I had been.
I am told there are no facilities to deal with the mentally ill in Juba. Several times one of my hosts has explained the behaviour of someone on the street as being the result of a mental disorder or drunkenness. On my first visit to the bank a drunken soldier interrupted usual business demanding that he had money he was unable to withdraw. When the bank told him his account was empty and he had withdrawn his last month’s pay Reverend Moses handed him a few pounds and told him to use it for transport to go and take it up with his commanding officer.
Even in Chicago or London the sight of a destitute man muttering to himself is not unusual, and for all the conflict, pollutants and poverty that the residents of Juba have been subjected to it is perhaps surprising that the mentally ill are not more prevalent. However, the lack of government capability to care for those who are disturbed or abusing substances, and the uncertainty of policing, makes their presence, like the stray dogs that roam the city, somewhat disconcerting.
The problems are real, but the spirit and unity of the great majority of the people often overcomes them - despite the demands of one madman the bus was leaving and there nothing he could do except laugh as the crowd took him away.
Custom Market is not by nature a peaceful place, consisting of dozens of small stalls and pedlars loudly pushing fruit, beans, jewellery and other goods alongside a great crowd of ‘buses’. But it is a place of trade and lively fraternising – of human co-operation, not conflict.
We were there to switch to buses on our way to a group meeting. The place appears to be the city’s bus station. There were scores of vehicles, maybe as many as one hundred, covering a wide area. How it is possible to locate the correct one, I have no idea. The buses in Juba are almost universally small white minivans which pack in about a dozen passengers and drop and pick up flexibly along their route. The conductor leans out the window shouting where the bus is going, and this seems to be the only way of identifying which bus to catch. If you want to stop somewhere you click (which the conductor also does to collect money). I haven’t even attempted to use the buses alone yet.
As we were standing for a moment in the market I felt my water bottle yanked from my hand. I looked around to see a severe looking man who seemed to be around my age. He was wearing a red t-shirt and smoking a cigarette. I had hardly had time to react before he poured the contents of the bottle over my head.
Instantly there was a commotion as Emmanuel cried out. Those nearby stepped in to intervene asking what was going on. Hanan and Emmanuel insisted I had done nothing. I asked what was going on and Emmanuel said the man had mental issues. There were enough people to easily guard me, but as Hanan led me away the red shirted youth watched and followed, gesturing aggressively. I wasn’t able to walk away, but it was the middle of the day and the market was full of people who blocked him from getting to me. “Here, come” said Hanan, leading me by the hand into the crowd of buses. We climbed into one and moved quickly to the back seat.
I thought maybe we’d lost him, but then we saw him peer into the bus. He walked up to the back of the bus and swung a punch at my head. I was at the full extent of his reach and Hanan shielded me with her hand, so the blow landed only lightly on my forehead. Once again a commotion broke out and he retreated from the bus. There was a mix of concern, shock and gossip in the voices chattering hurriedly in Arabic. Clearly the locals were just as taken aback as I had been.
I am told there are no facilities to deal with the mentally ill in Juba. Several times one of my hosts has explained the behaviour of someone on the street as being the result of a mental disorder or drunkenness. On my first visit to the bank a drunken soldier interrupted usual business demanding that he had money he was unable to withdraw. When the bank told him his account was empty and he had withdrawn his last month’s pay Reverend Moses handed him a few pounds and told him to use it for transport to go and take it up with his commanding officer.
Even in Chicago or London the sight of a destitute man muttering to himself is not unusual, and for all the conflict, pollutants and poverty that the residents of Juba have been subjected to it is perhaps surprising that the mentally ill are not more prevalent. However, the lack of government capability to care for those who are disturbed or abusing substances, and the uncertainty of policing, makes their presence, like the stray dogs that roam the city, somewhat disconcerting.
The problems are real, but the spirit and unity of the great majority of the people often overcomes them - despite the demands of one madman the bus was leaving and there nothing he could do except laugh as the crowd took him away.
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