by Wm. Barnard
This book is dedicated to all those
who diligently pursue the Truth.
CHAPTER 1
The incessant buzzing of a mosquito bouncing inside my ear canal caused me to slap myself out of a deep slumber. Dazed, I sat up in the sweat-drenched back seat of our open air jeep, startled to discover a throng of children surrounding the vehicle. Having fallen asleep hours ago back near the border of Sudan, I had no idea how long it had taken us to arrive to this tiny remote village in Northern Uganda.
Now that the half-naked children knew I was actually alive, they surged forward, pushing up against every side of the jeep in an effort to get closer. The light pink skin of their outstretched palms contrasted against their extremely dark faces as they motioned for whatever handouts I might offer. Their continued pleas in broken English went unheeded as I tried to rub my eyes awake with one hand while waving them off with the other. With their requests growing increasingly louder, a man under the rusted hood of a nearby truck shouted something in the local dialect and their voices immediately dropped off. All but one young boy walked away dejected.
The man shook his head, glancing over at me before fixing his gaze back at the engine, apparently still puzzled as to what was wrong with the truck. It seemed that his attempt to silence the kids was not merely out of respect to me, but so he could contemplate the mechanical problem in quiet.
Standing up in the back of the jeep, I scanned the area for my photographer and our two guides while the remaining child leaned silently against the spare tire on the back. The smell of burning trash directed my eyes to a small fire pit about a hundred yards away where I recognized the back of Bob’s hulking frame. Dwarfing our companions, Bob had his camera bag strapped to his back and appeared engaged in a conversation with some elders of the tribe.
Late the night before, we had come close to pulling right into the middle of a tribal skirmish. In order to avoid becoming casualties of misdirected bullets, our guides had pulled an immediate U-turn and had begun driving back south. I could only assume now that we had stopped driving because we were a good distance away from the conflict. The previous day’s threatening black storm clouds had been replaced this morning with a crisp blue backdrop and I hoped it somehow was a sign that we were relatively safe.
My parched throat caused me to start searching for the plastic bottle of water that I had stashed the night before. Relieved to locate it at the bottom of my rucksack, I guzzled half of it before I caught the eye of the shirtless boy who still stood in front of me. With his head now cocked to the side, I could sense that his quick study of me had left him perplexed.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Cuto. Who are you?” He replied, revealing two missing top teeth.
“My name’s Zach.”
“Where are you from?”
“I’m from the United States. How do you know how to speak English?”
“Some missionaries from America come here to teach us. They show us how to make clean water.” He pointed over to a nearby well that had some kind of filtration system attached to it. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m a writer. We’re trying to interview some children who used to be soldiers with the L.R.A. We were supposed to meet up with a few boys in a displacement camp last night, but had to turn around.”
“You want to talk to kids who got away?”
“Yes. Do you know any children that live around here who have escaped?”
“My cousin Adroa across the lake.”
“Near here?” I said, becoming hopeful.
“Yes, but he moved to the city for work.”
“Oh. Have you ever seen the L.R.A., or other armies fighting in this area?”
“No, sometimes we hear shooting. But we never see the L.R.A. They come in the night and steal the kids away.”
“Are you afraid they will get you one day?” I asked him gently.
Cuto didn’t answer and his gaze fell down toward his feet.
Having to live under this constant threat had obviously robbed him of his childhood, and made me wonder why some of my colleagues ever chose to be war correspondents.
I regretted bringing up the subject with him and tried to think quickly of something to distract his thoughts. Pulling out one of the five soccer balls from an old army duffel bag, I bounced the small gift to him off my knee and into his eager arms. All of my last minute efforts to get to the sports store back home in time were instantly rewarded by the unforgettable look on Cuto’s beaming face.
“I can keep?” Cuto asked, his voice rising.
“It’s all yours,” I smiled back.
“Thank you. Thank you very much, Mr. Zach,” he said, beginning to juggle it successfully off his knees for a minute before inadvertently kicking it too hard and having to give chase.
Watching him run freely, I remembered how Bob and I were moved to compassion when we first heard about the plight of children like Cuto in this central Africa region. Since 1987, the L.R.A. (Lord’s Resistance Army) had notoriously kidnapped children and brainwashed them into believing that their rebel militia was ordained from God. While many world leaders were well aware of the L.R.A.’s criminal acts, I hoped our story would help create an international outcry that would motivate the United Nations to take action and intervene.
As Cuto returned to the jeep with the ball, I dug down into my backpack so I could offer him a candy bar. Like most kids, Cuto saw no need to savor the treat but ripped off the wrapper and quickly engulfed the halfmelted Snickers bar before I could even finish half of mine.
It was always a joy to watch how quickly the demeanor of a child could change from the pure pleasure of chocolate, and Cuto did not disappoint. The resulting sugar rush made him talk a mile-a-minute while he repeatedly bounced the soccer ball off his forehead.
“Do you like to fish, Mr. Zach?”
“I used to. I haven’t been in a while. Do you?”
“Oh yes. Very much. We have some big fish in our lake.”
“How far is it from here?”
“Very close. Do you want to go? I will show where I saw a ship come down from the sky and go into the water.”
“You saw a plane crash? I asked, stepping out of the jeep.
“No, no, Mr. Zach. It was changing colors and then landed very slowly and down into the water,” he said with a toothless grin that only a kid can pull off as cute.
Odd as the account about the aircraft sounded, only his continued yanking on my hand compelled me to look further into it. As Cuto lead me to the local shaman’s home on the outskirts of the village, we walked by a collection of small, circular mud huts that ostensibly lacked electricity or plumbing. Two women balancing water jugs skillfully on top of their heads approached us, looking bewildered and no doubt wondering what this white man was doing in their village.
At times, my travels to isolated locations such as this didn’t feel like I had simply gone overseas, but had instead landed on an entirely different planet. While growing up, I had always dreamed of going outside of California to see the world, but now seeing it for the past several years made me painfully aware of the immense amount of human suffering.
When I reflected on the vast difference of my lifestyle compared to those who struggled to survive from day to day, it always made my return home to the daily grind of Southern California seem like a day at Disneyland.
CUTO CONTINUED TO DEFTLY DRIBBLE the ball off his bare feet until we came to a slightly larger hut with an unusual doorway. While most of the entrances to the huts had traditional blankets covering them, the shaman’s hut held a large faded beach towel with the cartoon image
of Homer Simpson gripping a Duff Beer.
Even with this American Icon hanging from the door, I began to imagine the “bush doctor” coming out to suspiciously inspect me, wearing nothing but a loincloth and a necklace of animal teeth. Cuto scooped the ball into the air with his left foot and caught it on the run as he scampered into the hut.
Seconds later, the shaman burst out from behind the beach towel, flinging Homer to the side and causing me to take a step back. With the young boy at first tightly clutching his arm, Cuto finally let go as the man stretched out his arm toward me.
“Hello, my name is Mukama,” he said, politely waiting to shake my hand. The shaman stood six foot tall and wiry, and his choice of a white polo shirt and beige slacks made me laugh at my naivety for stereotyping him as the witch doctor from a National Geographic special.
“Nice to meet you, Mukama. I’m Zach. Your friend here tells me he saw some kind of strange air craft crash into a local lake.”
“Not crash. Just flying in and out of the water,” he smiled pensively.
“You mean landing on the water and then taking off?”
“No, into the water. Submerged completely. It’s quite bizarre.”
“You’ve seen this yourself?” I asked, tilting my head as if that would help me comprehend what he just said.
“Yes; actually more than once in the last couple of weeks.”
The story only got stranger. According to Mukama, this particular ship not only possessed the ability to alter its colors, but could even change shapes as it hovered over the lake.
“Do you want to go to the lake where I saw it?” Cuto asked, his eyes getting bigger.
“Sure. But wait a second; I need to find out what’s going on with my photographer.”
Bob always gravitated toward those afflicted by adversity and as I jogged towards the jeep, I found him taking a photo of a man who apparently lost his leg from a previous war. Despite the man’s tragedy, he stood proudly for the photo, leaning against a crude wooden crutch and wearing his injury as a badge of honor.
After I told Bob to grab his gear and follow me, he gave me the latest update as we walked briskly back towards the shaman’s hut.
“Our guides think we might have enough gas to make it to a town about forty-five minutes south of here where we could refuel and try to get an update on any tribal conflicts. At this point, I don’t think it would be a bad idea to start working on an alternative plan to fly out of Sudan instead if our route back to Kampala becomes too dangerous.”
“That sounds precarious in itself,” I stated.
“Well, it’s looking like a pretty risky proposition either way now.”
When I relayed to Bob the story about the mysterious aircraft, he arched his left eyebrow.
“So Zach, you want me to lug all this gear down here so I can take photos of some little green men?”
“Didn’t you mention something back home about wanting an adventure?”
My comment brought out Bob’s trademark smirk, and as he shifted the weight of his camera bag he let out an exaggerated grunt. “Well, who knows, a photo like this just may top my lifelong dream of capturing a Big Foot on film.”
“That’s what I like about you Bob. You’re always looking to dream big.” I shot back, which caused him to chuckle.
Working for several magazines through the years, Bob had enjoyed traveling the world for different shoots, but I sensed that time away from home was putting too much strain on his wife and young son, and this might be his last overseas job. Even though we were both thirty-three, I was still single, free to pursue my quest for that one big story that would leave my mark on the world.
After meeting up with Cuto and Mukama, we headed into a wooded area surrounding the village that mainly consisted of giant eucalyptus trees before ending up on a twisting path beside a small creek. We all walked side by side until a dramatic increase in a variety of trees and shrubs caused the trail to narrow, forcing us to follow single file.
Now under the dark canopy of a dense forest, the shaman shared how he had perfected his English.
“One of the former missionaries that stayed here was Dr. Brent Gallagher. He set up a scholarship so I could go to the University of North Carolina and become a doctor. Unfortunately when my father died, I had to leave school early and come back to assist my family.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I offered.
“I’m hoping by next year I can go back to finish up. It would really help my tribe if we had a doctor in the village. The nearest one right now is almost an hour from here.”
I couldn’t put my finger as to why his accent seemed somewhat different until it finally dawned on me: Mukama’s native tongue was now mixed with a Southern drawl.
The oppressive humidity seemed to increase with each step as we huffed down the trail for fifteen-minutes before coming upon a milk-chocolate colored lake, which appeared to be about a half mile across. Bob immediately began snapping shots of some local fishermen who were casting nets on the other side of the lake from their small wooden dinghy.
Mukama pointed over to a small outcropping of rocks and said, “That is where we were fishing from last Tuesday when we saw an enormous orange triangular ship land in the middle of the lake. But right before it went it to the water, it turned into a bright green sphere.”
Mukama’s retelling of the account caused Bob’s eyebrow to elevate a couple notches higher than usual on the skeptic scale and he shot me a sarcastic “okay” sign with his fingers. Now completely disinterested, Bob wandered off to snap photos of a colorful tropical bird that was perched in a nearby tree.
Hoping he had not seen Bob’s dismissal of his account, I tried to keep Mukama occupied with my questions.
“So Mukama, are there less fish in the water now or do the fish caught taste any different after you saw the aircraft?
He stroked his chin and thought for a moment before answering. “No, I don’t think so. Not that I noticed anyway…”
Right as he replied, a thundering splash startled us as a radiant object soared out of the center of the lake. Stopping abruptly about a quarter of a mile above the lake, the glowing orb hovered above us for what seemed like just a few seconds before it darted away horizontally.
“Holy smoke!” Bob yelled.
Pulling his camera back down and peering into the view finder, he exclaimed, “Yes! I got it.”
Too stunned to even move at first, I could not believe Bob had been collected enough to take a photo. Eager to see what he had captured, we all ran over to look at the film. Unfortunately, the photo only revealed a small sphere of light and we would have to wait until we got back so we could enlarge the photo. However, as the small brown waves began lapping up onto the banks of the lake, we were given clear evidence that we just stumbled upon something extraordinary.
“See? I told you,” Mukama smiled directly at Bob.
Bob shook his head and laughed. “Yeah, you sure did.” Turning to me, he asked, “What in the world do you think that was, Zach?”
Before I could answer, we all flinched as the distinctive blast of a mortar shell reverberated through the woods.
Mukama’s thin face strained as he shouted, “We need to go back!”
While I had been in South American countries that were battling rebel forces, I had never been thrust into an actual combat zone. With a surge of adrenaline pumping through my veins, I immediately thought about the very real possibility that another reporter would be writing how my first encounter with live fire ended up being my last.
As we quickly rushed toward the village, the rattling of machine gun fire echoed through the dense trees causing us to pick up our pace. Despite standing only half our height, Cuto sprinted ahead while tightly clutching his brand new ball.
I tried to lighten Bob’s load by carrying one of his bags, but the jog was taking a toll on his two hundred and seventy pound frame. Bob’s labored attempts to breathe made me concerned that he might not make it bac
k without having a heart attack, but stopping to rest simply wasn’t an option.
Nearing the tree line that bordered the village, we could hear sounds of heavy machinery and the surging of truck engines. Mukama told us to crouch down behind an embankment while he crept up ahead to spy out the commotion.
He jogged back looking calmer and said, “Don’t worry. There are Federal troops in our village now.”
A cloud of red dust from the approaching convoy of military vehicles greeted us as we exited the woods. Our guides spotted us as they stood on the hood of our jeep and frantically waved us over to where they had relocated the vehicle.
When we arrived back over to the jeep, Bob bent over and held his knees. The back of his shirt was soaked in sweat and his face had grown extremely pale. While relieved to stop our run, he now appeared to be on the verge of vomiting. Our rest proved short-lived when we heard more shells exploding, this time much closer. The driver started the engine and hurried us to get our gear in the jeep.
Speeding away from the direction of the convoy, our jeep shot past several children running to their huts for refuge. When we finally passed Mukama’s home, I saw Cuto standing alone, his shoulders slumped forward. Several yards away his new soccer ball lay abandoned.
I continued staring back at Cuto until I could barely make out his small frame. Even though I knew I was powerless to change his situation, I still couldn’t prevent the sense of guilt that came over me as we drove away in the safety of our jeep.
OUR TWO NATIVE GUIDES WERE on loan from African Tours, which normally caters to wealthy Americans and Europeans who want to go on a safari and observe lions roaming the plains. While they didn’t verbalize it, we could sense their increasing edginess about continuing our search for former child soldiers to interview.
Akiki, who looked to be in his mid-twenties, sat shotgun and turned around to face us before saying, “This is somewhat strange. The L.R.A. usually tries to sneak into the villages during the night. But once in a while they will launch artillery shells in the daytime and try to get the children to run into the forest so they can ambush them. I’m sure once they see that government troops have arrived they will retreat further into the forest.”