by Andrew Brown
Gabriel found the cleanest table and sat down with his laptop to retrieve his emails. Jane’s message remained in his inbox, its presence a sign of his abject indecision as to how to respond. He ignored it by typing a short but jolly message to Brian Hargreaves, downplaying the heat and dire conditions and saying nothing about the seeming dead end of his trip. Within seconds, he received an auto-reply: Hargreaves would be ‘out of office’ for three days. He stared at the message, as if it might be hiding something more personal, feeling a cold loneliness overtake him.
Rasta brought him some tea: a cup, a metal pot of hot milk and two teabags. Gabriel was beginning to enjoy the little ritual of making his tea this way, squeezing the red-brown juice out of the teabag and watching the milk darken. He helped himself to two slices of colon-stupefying bread with peanut butter for breakfast. One of the young foreign-aid workers loped up to the bar, still half-asleep and clearly very hung-over, disappearing back towards the rooms with two cans of Coca-Cola.
Gabriel closed the laptop. He needed to clear his head before he could respond to Jane. He would undertake an early Sunday-morning walk, he decided, some brisk exercise to focus his thoughts on the matters at hand. He would start the day by exploring Juba’s main market – Konyo Konyo – on foot.
The muddy road outside the compound was already filled with passing boda boda taxis, people shouting to one another from the backs of revving motorbikes, clutching parcels and holding on with one hand. Some smiled at Gabriel, engaging with him directly. A huge tree in an empty lot strained under the weight of a number of scraggly, bare-headed marabou storks, watching him like grumpy geriatrics as he passed. He had to walk through a mound of rotting garbage to avoid a particularly large pool in the road; a boda boda sank above its axle as it negotiated its way through. The rubbish was soft underfoot and gave off a squelch with each step. He passed a group of men sorting charcoal into bags, packed like bulging pupae, the ground thick with black powder, the whites of their eyes bright against the soot.
Then, down a litter-strewn path to his left, he caught the glint of water, not a muddy pool but a wide expanse of moving water. He set off, stepping over the chassis of a disintegrated truck, the earth stained with oil, and then stuck to the meandering path as best he could among the tall grasses. His trousers were soaked by the time he reached the end where it opened out into a broad bank of rushes. In front of him the White Nile appeared, vast and swift, a massive bulk of brown water that eddied and pushed and sucked as it moved alongside the city. It was headed ultimately for the Sudd, the swampland that dominated the centre of the country, where the water would be filtered by thousands of square miles of vegetation, purified for its marriage with the Blue Nile and its grand entry into Egypt.
Upstream, a group of naked men – perhaps forty in all – were bathing in the shallows, soap suds foaming in clumps about their legs. Just downstream, a large blue tanker was sucking up water. While Gabriel watched, the tanker finished and reversed, its place immediately occupied by an identical truck. A black hose snaked down into the water like a proboscis and the machine started to suck the contaminated water into its bowels. ‘Juba Aqua’ was printed on the side – a name Gabriel recalled seeing on the bottles of water at the bar. Suitably sanitised, he hoped.
He walked for a short distance along the bank before cutting back up along a wider, more accessible road. Men had gathered under a tree to drink tea, one with a newspaper reading out the news to the constant commentary of his audience. Food sellers flanked one side of the road, cooking large flat breads – like coarse pancakes – in wide-rimmed pans. The smell of burning charcoal mixed with odours of reused oil and something richer, like braised meat. He stopped by one of the stands. An imposing woman with bright yellow-and-green headgear was spooning chunks of goat meat in gravy into the middle of the flat bread.
‘Kisra?’ she asked him, gesturing towards the food.
‘No, thank you,’ he said, stepping back and rubbing his stomach to show he was already full. The food looked appetising and his peanut butter sandwich had left him a long way short of satiated, but food from the side of the road made him nervous. The woman smiled and paid him no further heed.
Rasta had told him that he should aim for the minaret of the central mosque, walking up the grandly named Unity Boulevard – one of the few tarred streets – away from the river. He had made it sound as if the market was a single square, European-style, easily missed by the unobservant. But Konyo Konyo turned out to be a sprawling suburb that started quite close to the river and spread itself luxuriantly across nearly four square kilometres of Juba. The first sign was a huge walled compound in which trucks were parked in an impossible gridlocked puzzle, the ground beneath them thick with spilt diesel and oil. The activity in the compound was frenetic. People were shouting; sweaty, bare-chested men offloaded the trucks, huge sacks lifted and packed alongside the vehicles on the churned ground. On one truck, piled above the roof of the cab with bunches of green bananas, a well-dressed woman was standing beneath an umbrella held up against the sun. It took Gabriel a moment to realise that she was expertly perched on the stacked fruit itself, calmly directing operations from on high.
The market itself appeared to begin on the other side of the road, unannounced save for the sudden increase in movement into the uneven alleyways. Gabriel pushed down the closest walkway with some trepidation, the smell of urine and decaying garbage strong about him. The corrugated sides of the makeshift structures leant inwards, as if trying to narrow his path. And then, unexpectedly, he emerged, as if spat out, into a shaded labyrinth of internal corridors that crisscrossed in front of him as far as he could see. The alleyways were spanned by thin material that provided a ceiling against the day’s heat. Sound was dulled by the fabrics that hung from each little stall. The effect was a soft light and quietened interior space, despite the throngs of people passing through.
Tailors using foot pedals to operate their sewing machines sat hunched over their cloth, tracing pencilled lines. Their customers stood nearby sipping tea, watching their suit or dress take shape. A man sat on a modified bicycle, the wheels removed, a grinding wheel replacing the handlebars. The knife blades hissed on the grindstone as he pumped his legs up and down, tiny sparks showering out onto the earth beneath him. To his right, a series of pastel-coloured cloths, the size of small tablecloths, hung from cords high above his head, each printed in black ink with the design of hibiscus flowers and intricate creepers, some with two doves sitting chest to chest, others with hearts and religious motifs. A young man was working at a table, deftly swiping a black felt-tipped marker over the fabric to create the designs. Several men sat on chairs carefully pouring water from decorated enamel kettles over their bare toes, washing their feet and ankles before attending mosque. There was something medieval about the scene. Gabriel felt as if he had somehow slipped through the doors of an ancient city and found its inhabitants still at work.
He walked for ages, carefully stepping over the muddy pools. The noise and smells and movement and colours were nearly overwhelming, and yet, because of the strange reticence of the Sudanese, it was manageable. He must have been an extraordinary sight: pale, sweating, oddly dressed, and yet not a person looked at him. He walked through a market of thousands without a single person calling to him, no one touching him. He was like a ghost among the living, untouched by the eyes of those around him. It was, he realised after a while, both a blessing and a diabolical curse, the scar of the suicidal, ignored and unobserved. No wonder his loneliness felt unbearable. But he learnt that the moment he made eye contact, softly said good morning to a passing inhabitant, put out a hand in greeting, their faces lit up and their smiles widened. ‘Good morning, how are you? It is good that you are here. Make yourself welcome.’
He walked through passages flanked by cloth and tall displays of sandals, people selling dubious United Nations T-shirts and garish American jeans with studded patterns in beads. Many stores sported an array of cheap Chines
e plastic goods, from hairbrushes to buckets and fly swatters. He wandered through a particularly muddy alleyway between two tea rooms and came out into the fresh food section, undulating with the uneven ground into the distance. There was even more activity here, the sellers calling and negotiating loudly, laughter interspersed with the bleating of goats tied up by their back legs. The smell of roasting meat drifted enticingly across the stalls. Rows of rough tables showed off bananas, pineapples, mangoes and mounds of black dates, their skins smooth like the backs of cockroaches. Small pyramids of bright-red tomatoes vied for space with brinjals, red onions and red-and-orange bullet-sized chillies, carefully brushed into separate piles. People chewed the ends of sugar cane, spitting out the fibres when they’d sucked them dry. Many women wore Muslim scarves around their heads, and some were in full-length traditional dresses. One pocket of the food market seemed dedicated to Arabic cuisine, with open sacks of spices on display, incense and frankincense filling the air with aromatic smokiness. Gabriel stopped at one stall selling strange pink orbs of resin, seemingly friable, but surprisingly solid on closer inspection. The seller gestured to him, showing him that it was to be smoked. ‘Medicine,’ a passer-by informed him in friendly fashion.
A number of sellers offered pineapples, the size of elongated footballs, far larger than anything Gabriel had ever imagined. Wheelbarrows were pushed around the marketplace, wheels squeaking, with succulent chunks already cut and peeled, sliced like cartoon slices of watermelon, wrapped in plastic to keep the flies at bay. Juice dribbled out the rusted bottoms of the barrows, leaving sticky trails as they negotiated their way through the bags of rice, cow peas, speckled beans and lentils. Another wheelbarrow offered him cleaned chunks of sugar cane, inviting him to tear sweet strips down with his teeth.
Gabriel bought a small bag of roasted peanuts and tramped back towards the compound, crunching the nuts with relish. Bicycles weaved in front of him, weighed down front, back and on the sides by square water tanks. Yellow-billed kites, far more intimidating in size and behaviour than the elegant birds of prey of the Hotwells cliffs, dived unconcerned around him, their triangular tail feathers directing their swoop, sending skinks and rock lizards scattering. He walked along a muddy road headed towards the cemetery, its surface a mass of crushed water bottles that obscured the surface beneath, the taxis and boda bodas crunching them with the sound of brittle bones.
* * *
A combination of an early night and abstinence did nothing to aid his sleep and Gabriel endured another humid and restless evening, waking well before sunrise. The Sudanese started all physical labour long before the heat of daylight, and the pounding of generators, the chorused tinkling of stone on metal, the lowing of cattle being escorted to slaughter, all began at four o’clock in the morning. He woke with a start, dragged from a dream of broken teeth, a bloody tongue and bits of tooth enamel rolling around in his mouth like corn kernels. His jaw felt stiff from grinding.
He languished in the dining area, drinking insipid coffee and lining his stomach with stodgy bread, while he waited for Rasta to take him back to the UNDP compound. He knew better than to ask about their time of departure, but nevertheless reminded his driver of the ten o’ clock meeting. His emails showed no reply from Hargreaves, but he managed to send a neutral response to Jane, maintaining a cold dignity, before setting off in the Land Cruiser.
But, having made the effort to get to the UN offices on time, he was irritated to find that Ms Preston was nowhere to be seen. He was left sitting on a battered bench under a mango tree, old pips scattered underfoot like smoothed river stones. Gabriel picked one up, surprised at how light it was and tossed it across the entranceway. The sound echoed throughout the compound and he picked up another, and another, watching as they skipped across the stone.
Finally, Ms Preston emerged and walked over to talk to him; clearly the conversation did not justify sitting down in her office.
‘Good morning, Mr Cockburn. The person I mentioned will be here shortly. You can discuss things with her further then.’ Ms Preston looked even grumpier than before, her rash of freckles more austere in the morning light.
‘The person … she’s a woman?’ Gabriel asked, realising his tautology too late.
‘Yes, Mr Cockburn, Alek is a woman. As am I. As is everyone else around here who gets things done, in case you hadn’t noticed. While the men sit around drinking tea, cleaning their AK-47s and swinging their dicks in the air.’
Frosty wasn’t the word. Ms Preston did not wait for his response before turning back towards her office. Gabriel continued throwing mango pips listlessly about, his aim more determined as his frustration grew. A woman to guide him about this infernal country, he mused, and one lacking in punctuality at that. He picked up a larger pip and sent it skipping across the ground; it knocked into the opened metal gate with a clang. Only then did he notice the small figure watching him, a little girl in a simple dress, barefoot and with her fingers in her mouth, peering into the compound from the gateway. They stared at each other for a moment, before Gabriel lifted his hand to wave. She hesitated and then turned and ran out of sight.
He followed her, more to stretch his legs than from any curiosity. There was an empty plot opposite the compound, overrun with castor-oil plants and tall weeds. Rubbish clogged the overgrowth along the small paths that snaked away from the road. The little girl disappeared down one trail, swallowed up by the wilting plants. A wisp of smoke rose from the centre. Gabriel crossed the bumpy earth road and stared over the wall of weeds.
The field was not in fact empty; it was filled with temporary structures, mostly made from cut saplings bent over one another and lashed together with twine, some with pieces of metal and plastic attached to the sides like a mismatched jigsaw puzzle. It was like some toy town put together for a school camp-out, but for the foul smell of baking excrement and the few torn UNHCR tarpaulins pulled over some homes. The little girl had run into the middle of a stick structure with low walls. A small shawl had been pinned to the top in a pathetic attempt at shelter. The figure of an elderly woman, skin hugging her bones, huddled in the tiny square of shade. Two younger women sat in the dirt beside her, the full brunt of the sun on their bodies. The little girl scuttled behind them.
Gabriel didn’t know why, but he lifted his camera to take a photograph. Perhaps it was because he’d never seen anything like it, the abject hopelessness of the gathering. One of the women looked up. There was something in her eyes, or perhaps the absence of something, that made him change his mind, and his hand fell limply to his side. He nodded his head towards her in greeting and turned back towards the compound.
A tall woman, thin to the point of being scrawny, her features almost cadaverous, was standing at the gate. ‘They tell me you need a guide,’ she said. ‘Yet you keep me waiting.’
Alek.
‘But you could only just have got here,’ he protested.
‘So your time is more valuable than mine?’
It wasn’t a good start. He could not quite define what unsettled him about her, fearing that it would come down to the deep, matt blackness of her skin or the assertive way in which she presented herself. Her hair, a mesh of closely curled strands, seemed only partially under control. There was a haughtiness to her that in one instance raised a visceral dislike and at the same time a consciousness of his innate racism.
‘Are you a journalist?’ Her stare was unrelenting, as if she was observing something tiresome but necessary. ‘You need a permit to take photographs. They’re not giving permits at the moment. We’ll not get far.’
This is what it would be like to face a firing squad, Gabriel thought – a machine-gun blast of negativity. He felt overcome with weariness. His ambivalence towards the journey left him with little motivation or urgency, and every excuse to call the expedition off looked inviting. But he also sensed a strength in this unlikeable woman that gave him some hope.
‘Can we sit down somewhere and I’ll explain to you what I
’m here for? When I’ve explained this to you properly, then you can decide. I’m just tired of people … making assumptions and not really listening to me. Can we just do that at least?’
It was pitiful, he knew, this mewling call for understanding, and the woman remained unimpressed. ‘Just know that I am not your bamba, your mistress to command,’ she said. ‘Just remember that. But, yes, I can sit and I will listen.’
Gabriel nodded encouragingly.
‘Then we will say goodbye.’ She smiled for the first time, a flash of humour and glint of skew teeth at his expense.
They walked out of the compound and soon found a small tea house. The intestines of an animal were being boiled up inside the hut and they sat outside on plastic chairs, some distance away from the sickly smell of tripe. Gabriel was grateful to Rasta that he at least knew enough now to order them tea and not to scald his mouth in front of his new acquaintance when it arrived. They sat silently for a moment, sipping at the edges of their milky potions.
‘So what do you want to tell me?’ Alek asked eventually.
Gabriel sighed. ‘It’s complicated,’ he said, unsure of how to present his mission in a way that would sound compelling, or quite frankly anything other than mad or indulgent. Should he bombard her with the impressive science, or simplify it all to the most basic of tenets? He couldn’t determine her level of intellect from their brief interaction. But Alek listened without interrupting, save to ask for clarification now and then. Her grasp of what he was saying seemed immediate and he ventured into more detailed explanations of his research. She listened without fidgeting or being distracted by passing traffic. She occasionally sipped her tea, but her eyes did not leave him as he spoke. He found it disconcerting to be the focus of such fierce attention and looked away repeatedly, only to find her gaze still levelled at him when he looked at her again.