Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Tamarind juice to the explorers of the Nile with this man. Now, because of my expedition,
he would never see home again.
It was five o'clock by the time the rangers returned, bringing with them ten more rangers
from one of the reserve's stations, several miles away. By then the fire was dying of its
own volition and, up on top of the hill, the first intimations of dusk were drawing in. It
was cooler, now - and, staring at the bundle that was all that was left of Matt Power, that
seemed the cruellest irony of all.
As we sat in disbelief, the rangers cut a makeshift stretcher from the branches of an aca-
cia and, in a sombre procession, we bore Matt's body back across the plain. After some
hours we emerged from the bush and took shelter at one of the rangers' outposts, where
local police were waiting to take our statements. Numb, we recounted the events of the day
at a strange remove. There was already a feeling that they had happened in a different age,
in a different time.
Once the statements were taken, it was already night, and a pick-up truck was waiting
to take us away from the reserve. Alongside Matt's body, we made the lonely drive west,
forty five kilometres to the town of Arua, which sits on the western border with the Congo.
Ordinarily, Boston would have begun some tirade about his years in the DRC, while sim-
ultaneously declaring the country's superiority above all others, but as we approached he
was silent. The only sound was of Jason, starting up his mobile phone and - now we had a
signal - dialling a New York number.
'Who are you calling?' I asked.
'Matt's wife,' he answered. 'Jess.'
In an Arua hotel, we sat together in the bar, staring into our beers. Every time I opened
my mouth to speak, words failed to come. But I knew what I wanted to say: 'Screw the
Nile. To hell with the Nile.' I wanted the cold comfort of English skies again. I wanted
the familiar surrounds of London, or the plain, safe drudgery of the Staffordshire village
where I had grown up. I wanted to be anywhere but here, thinking of the man who had
died so that he could write about me on my indulgent, pointless, selfish trek.
It was Jason who broke the silence. 'Thank you,' he said, lifting his glass.
I looked at him numbly, and lifted mine to join his. I could scarcely believe what he was
saying.
'We did all we could,' he said.
'It was simply his time,' said Boston sadly, as he drained his glass.
But, all through the long night, I wasn't so sure. I would never forget the gesture Jason
had made, but whether I could ever exonerate myself of blame is a question for which I'm
not sure I'll ever find an answer.
