Walking the Nile

by Levison Wood

It took me a moment to understand. By then, the soldier had thrown our packs at our feet and were half-way across the compound, carrying all our electrical equipment.

  ‘. . . pending an investigation,’ the colonel concluded. Turning, he summoned one of the soldiers who had been attacking the Nuer up against the compound wall. ‘Take them to Bedouin Lodge,’ he began. ‘The investigation will be complete by morning. You are to return to us then.’

  I began to protest, but a single look from Andrew Allam stopped me. He was already tramping across the courtyard, back to the gate. Not even Allam, it seemed, could wait one more second to be rid of this place. Heaving my ransacked pack over my shoulder, I hurried to follow.

  THE IMPENETRABLE SWAMP

  Juba to Bor, South Sudan, April 2014

  ‘Missionaries, mercenaries and misfits,’ said the man behind the hotel bar. ‘Everyone here’s a lunatic with nowhere better to be, but if you find the right one, they might be able to help you get north.’

  Two days after we had been dragged to the Blue House, I was prowling the hallways of Bedouin Lodge – a popular hotel crammed between an abattoir and a graveyard where dogs regularly dug up human remains – intent on finding a way to further our expedition. The morning after our arrest, our equipment had been returned and the spies’ specious charges all dropped – half of me understood that, when the soldiers had found nothing suspicious, they had decided to let us go; but I also suspected they had been looking for money, some kind of bribe. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to stay in Juba long. The problem was how to go further. Allam had prepared papers that would allow us – mindless government agents aside – to get to the city of Bor, a further 120 miles downriver. But, after that, there were still five hundred miles before the border with Sudan.

  The man in the hotel bar was Andy Belcher, a white Kenyan pilot who had turned hotelier and refused to leave Bedouin Lodge even when Juba erupted into ethnic violence. Belcher was a gregarious man with a sardonic sense of humour; you had to have a certain kind of mania to live and work in a warzone.

  ‘I can . . .’ Belcher began, ‘. . . make some introductions.’

  ‘Introductions?’

  He gave me a knowing smile. ‘Leave it with me, Lev.’

  Boston crossed the bar and went into the hotel lobby. Once or twice he tried to venture outside, only to reappear moments later, seemingly unwilling to wander too far. In the past days, I’d been watching him closely: he was peculiarly skittish, refusing to engage me when I’d tried to broach the subject of his family and what they would make of me dragging him further north. ‘You are not dragging me, Lev,’ he kept saying. ‘I want to see the river’s end.’ My dream, it seemed, had become Boston’s too, but every time I considered taking him further I remembered Matt Power and felt my stomach tighten.

  Belcher spent the next days introducing me to a roster of every defiant ex-pat he could find, while I sourced out every remaining aid worker and NGO in Juba, only to hear the same: to travel north was to invite disaster; if one side didn’t kill me, the other certainly would. Alone among them, only one of Belcher’s contacts thought differently. Three nights later, I walked into the bar at the Bedouin Lodge and, in a fog of cigarette smoke, Belcher introduced me to Ken Miller.

  Miller was not the first suspicious associate that I had met thanks to Belcher. There had been a man known to all as Commander Dan, a sixty-year-old former Catholic Irish priest who’d had to leave the church for marrying a Dinka woman and running guns for the rebels under the pretence of aid work. But Miller seemed different. Dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and dark glasses, he seemed to have modelled himself on a rogue CIA agent from a Bond film. Belcher had described him using only three words: ‘Mad as fuck.’

  ‘Everything’s possible,’ he said in a thick Scottish accent, as I took my seat. ‘What’s the plan?’

  There was no plan. At this point, I was running out of ideas. ‘I’ve got papers that can take me to Bor, but after that . . . I’ve tried every NGO, every aid worker. The UN are running a barge down the Nile to Malakal, but nobody there’s returning my calls.’

  Miller nodded. There was a funk about him that told me he was stoned, seeing me through a miasma of smoke. ‘It’s all about the cash. Cash can get you anything you want. How much have you got?’

  ‘Not all that much . . .’

  ‘See,’ drawled Miller, ‘you could walk to Bor. That should be okay. But, go on the west bank, through Lakes State. Then you have two choices. Stay west and go up to Wau or Yei – stay away from Bentiu, mind you; those Nuer are planning an attack any day now – then cross in Abyei and Sudan. But you’ll need to avoid the Nile . . .’

  ‘It’s the Nile I’m walking.’

  ‘Aye, but the rebels are regrouping and they’ve just got a resupply from Ethiopia. They will attack before the rains come. That means you’ve got less than a month.’

  I caught Belcher watching from the bar and was reminded of what he’d said: Miller knew what was going on with the rebels because he’d travelled every inch of the country, smuggling guns, supplies and vehicles to every militia out there.

  ‘Otherwise, from Bor, you could try and make contact with the rebels and get into Ayod, then get a rebel escort up to Malakal, and then hand back over to the government. It’s the front lines you’ll have to worry about. Normally, I’d say go up the Jonglei Canal – but, if you try that shit now, you’ll get fuckin’ shot, me laddie.’

  Miller was speaking with such nonchalance that, for a moment, his vision sounded possible. He slumped back in his chair, taking a long drag of his cigarette. ‘I’ll come with yer!’ he said, raising an eyebrow. ‘It’ll only cost yer seventy-five grand. US dollars, cash. New bills, of course.’ He must have seen the way I was staring at him, trying to suppress my astonishment, because then he said, ‘That would be all in. No expenses required.’

  Slowly, I stood and backed away, stepping out of the cloud of sweet smoke that surrounded us. ‘Let me think about it,’ I said.

  The last thing I heard as I walked out of the bar was Miller mutter, ‘Aye, you do that, laddie . . .’

  That night, I found Boston kicking his heels nervously outside the hotel. Across the rooftops of Juba, the sky seemed steelier each day – a sure sign that the rainy season was descending from the north.

  ‘Boston,’ I said, ‘we need to talk.’

  Boston tramped along the hotel wall, where the brickwork had been opened up by the spray of automatic rifles. He had been like this for days, pacing up and down like a captured tiger, eager to get back on the road – to be anywhere but here.

  ‘What did Miller say?’

  ‘Miller’s after money. It’s hand him everything and risk failure, or get to Bor without him and risk failure. It’s a no-win situation. The only hope is getting to Bor on Allam’s papers and making a decision there. This expedition’s thrown enough at us already that . . .’ I paused. ‘Miller says to take the west bank, through Lakes State and into Unity. Once you get past Terekeka and Minkaman, you reach the edge of the Sudd. Seems that’s the way to get to Bor.’

  In an instant, all the nerves evaporated from Boston: ‘When do we leave?’

  I steadied myself. There was something I needed to say, a thought that had been blossoming in the back of my mind ever since we had crossed the border into South Sudan. ‘Boston, we’ve been travelling together for four and a half months. Day in, day out, we’ve never been further than a few metres apart. I don’t think I can say that about another human being in my life. So . . .’ I hesitated. ‘This isn’t an easy thing to say, so I’m just going to say it: Boston, you’re not coming with me to Bor, for a start your visa is about to run out, and it’s just too dangerous. Come to Terekeka by all means, but after that I just don’t know.’

  At first Boston didn’t speak. Perhaps he had known, all along, that sooner or later, I would have to tell him this. But it seemed he was only gathering his thoughts: ‘You can’t do this, Lev. This is my expedition too. Above ev
erything else, I want to see the pyramids. I want to see the sea.’

  ‘I should never have brought you into South Sudan. You know as well as I do what’s waiting up there. It’s walking into a warzone. Miller says the rebels are planning another counter-attack. It’s fight and fight back all the way to Sudan. Look, it’s one thing taking risks for myself, but it’s another doing it for somebody else. And . . . think of Matt Power. You have a family, Boston. You should go back to Kampala, be with them.’

  ‘I have been in warzones before, Lev.’

  He said it with steeliness, and I could see the desperation in his eyes: he wanted to see this journey through. I didn’t want to tell him the other thoughts that had been circling my mind – that, even now, Boston had stopped being a guide, that, once we reached Sudan, he wouldn’t even know any of the native languages. The truth was, he had stopped being a true guide some months ago; first and foremost, he had become a friend. He’d looked after me when times were tough and, on more than one occasion, forced me to my feet when walking was the last thing I wanted to do. But, now that he was a friend, the thought of risking his life outweighed everything else.

  ‘Come to see the Sudd but after that, unless your papers come through and the security improves, you’re going home, Boston,’ I said – and, after that, we said nothing, just tramped back into the bar, where Belcher was waiting with two cold beers.

  If I had had my way, I would have headed north without any minders – but the ever-watchful Allam insisted that I take two local gunmen as protection. After some delay, and protracted negotiations with a local security officer about how far they would come and how much of a ‘tip’ I’d give them – despite their being SPLA officers with government salaries – I awaited my new companions with a heavy heart. ‘This is Africa,’ I had to keep reminding myself, refuelling on yet another plate of over-smoked tilapia. ‘Nothing comes for free.’

  The two men who walked into Bedouin Lodge were both Dinka, NCOs in the SPLA. Shorter than I’d imagined, they marched up, wearing mixed uniforms and flip-flops on their feet. Each carried an AK-47, but there was something open and friendly about their faces that immediately endeared them to me. Nevertheless, if these were to be my companions on a perilous trek north, I wanted to get off to an appropriate start. The guards Allam had supplied for us on the road to Juba had all let us down.

  ‘Okay, you two,’ I said, thoroughly fed up with mutinous soldiers. ‘We are walking to Bor. Not driving, not hitch-hiking. Walking. Understand? By foot.’ I pointed at my feet, but the pair only looked at me, expressionless. ‘We will sleep wherever we can, and eat whatever we can,’ I continued. ‘I am told you two can be trusted, that you’re strong men.’ For the first time, they nodded enthusiastically. ‘I am told you will not complain, that Dinka are the very best soldiers, and that you will not run away or give up.’ Solemnly, they shook their heads. ‘Good. I will pay you well, but you will not get a penny until we arrive. Do you understand?’

  The elder of the two, who introduced himself as Ariike, began to rummage in the child’s schoolbag over his shoulder and produced a dog-eared notebook. ‘Sir,’ he said with an unusual smile, ‘let me write this down.’

  He produced a pencil.

  ‘Warking de Nayl,’ he wrote at the top of the page, stopping once to look at me. ‘An exhibition to wark thru Youganda, Ruanda, Tazmania, Kenya and Ethyopia.’

  ‘That isn’t quite what . . .’

  He looked at me with an earnest frown. ‘I was a teacher of English and speak it perfectly. See?’ Proudly, he pointed at the gibberish.

  ‘Excellent!’ I said. ‘Then there can be no mistakes.’

  ‘You will sign?’

  I took the stubby pencil from him and scrawled my name at the bottom of the page. An agreement had been reached, a contract signed. I had two new guardians on the way north, and it was time to see how far we could get.

  Heading north out of Juba, the river soon became a vast entanglement of channels banked in vast swamps and flat, lush flood plains. All around, the grass was kept short by the thousands of cattle that roamed the river looking for new pastures, all under the watchful eyes of their herdsmen, members of the Mundari tribe. Back in December this area had been torn apart by rebel fighters, who had swarmed through the villages massacring all the foreigners and soldiers they could find – but now the district was safe, thanks almost entirely to the efforts of the Mundari themselves. The Mundari are traditionally cattle herders and agriculturalists, but their reputation as a peace-loving people is matched only by their capacity for violence in times of need. That, a local woman told us, was the reason even a white man could walk this stretch of the river unmolested: where the Mundari held sway, the rebels were too frightened to come. I could tell why. The Mundari live on a diet of milk and fish, but look as if they supplement it with steroids. They are as imposing and statuesque a people as any in Africa.

  The Mundari are also a very stoic people. One day, I was passing the fishing village of Terekeka which lies on the west bank of the Nile as it begins to widen and become the Sudd. I’d been looking for a place to sleep, when one of the soldiers suggested we take a boat across to one of the islands and make camp amongst the Mundari herdsmen. Thinking it was better than the usual corner of a filthy police station, I heartily agreed and we took passage on a tiny rowing boat. Twenty minutes later, having navigated the floating islands of matted rushes, we spotted what we were looking for.

  ‘There they are!’ shouted Ariike with glee.

  In the distance, on a bare grassy bank, stood what I hoped would be welcoming hosts. Ten men, utterly naked except for loose pieces of cotton covering only the bare essentials, stood guard to a corral in which several hundred head of long-horned cattle lowed. Smoke poured out of campfires where cow dung was burnt as way of protection against mosquitoes, both for the cows and people. As I jumped off the boat, an enormous hand appeared out of the crowd to help me up.

  It was the biggest hand I’ve ever seen, and unsurprisingly attached to a behemoth of a human being. His name was Sirillo, and he pulled me onto the island like he was lifting a rag doll. Seven feet tall, in his spare hand he carried a spear that seemed like a toothpick compared to his massive muscular frame. Slung across his naked back was an AK-47 with a feather poking out of the barrel for effect. ‘Welcome!’ he said with an honest smile.

  At twenty-two, Sirillo was the head of the clan youth, and, leaving the elders to relax, was in charge of keeping the cattle safe and settling matters of the community. I looked around. Naked children, covered in ash, were busy rubbing more into the hides of the cows. Some of the young men were wrestling each other whilst women, bare-breasted, looked on to decide who would be their husband. Boston and I gleefully joined in the proceedings, covering ourselves in ash and trying to keep our dignity whilst being thrown to the deck by teenage boys twice our size. It was a moment of beautiful serenity, an island of peace in a land ravaged by war. There were hundreds and hundreds of cows, just returned from grazing and now pegged out with bells around their necks. Walking through them was a perilous business, as horns, some of them five feet long, were shaken in disgust at our intrusion. Some of the women were milking the cows, and would often drink straight from the udders.

  As Sirillo was showing us to a bare piece of grass on which we could pitch tents, a cow began to piss nearby. Suddenly, there was a commotion and three grown men ran towards the cow as fast as they could. But it was Sirillo that won the day. Pushing the other men aside, he put his head straight under the cow and took what can only be described as a golden shower. As I stood watching in utter disbelief, Ariike grinned wildly. Sirillo stood back up and rubbed the urine from his eyes.

  I was speechless.

  ‘It’s good for your hair,’ said the giant.

  ‘Makes it go red, and then the ladies like it.’

  Still speechless.

  ‘And, anyway, we don’t like to wash in the river.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ I fin
ally uttered.

  ‘Too dangerous,’ said Sirillo, looking solemn as he peered over his shoulder to the mighty Nile. ‘Too many crocodiles, they always eat people.’

  Of course, I knew of the danger of crocodiles – but in most places where humans live, the crocs stay away. The chances of getting eaten are usually pretty slim.

  ‘Not here,’ he said. ‘They are monsters. My brother was eaten by a crocodile.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ I said, again on the verge of speechlessness. ‘When was that?’

  Sirillo, covered in piss and glistening in the sunset, looked at me benevolently.

  ‘At eleven o’clock this morning.’

  He shrugged his shoulders, picked up his spear and weaved his way through the cow horns and smoke back to his home, a teepee of dried grass. In the golden light of dusk, it looked like nothing so much as a bird’s nest.

  The time had come to say goodbye to Boston. For some reason there had been a mistake at the border office and he’d only got a month instead of two, and what’s more, the fighting was intensifying and I wasn’t prepared to put him in danger. We’d spent a solemn week north of Juba, but since our conversation things had been difficult in the knowledge that he was going home. We’d hardly spoken, and when we did it was just the mundane, daily practicalities of the walk. We’d reached the edge of the Sudd, and for Boston, the end of his journey. Standing on the banks of the Nile, we kept the goodbye short and I made Boston the promise that one day we’d meet again, and with that he got into a minibus which had been idling, waiting for fleeing Dinka from across the swamp. Without so much as a rearward glance, the car disappeared down the dusty road. In a moment it was gone, lost in the bush – and so was Boston.

  It wasn’t until some hours later, as I was poring over a map of Lakes State and trying to synthesise all the information Miller had given me that the prospect of heading into the wilderness without Boston began to feel real. Boston had been my ally and protector for so long that being at the mercy of strangers was going to feel strange. I tried to shake off the feeling. I was going to miss his tales of Congolese misadventure, his wildly inaccurate conspiracy theories – not to mention his pigeon hunting – but I had started this expedition alone and that was how it would have to continue.