Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
to serve the SPLA, so I volunteered as a soldier. But they said to me - Andrew, the pen
is mightier than the sword. And the camera is even mightier than that! So use your new
education, and be our voice. Well, that's exactly what I did. I reported for the government,
and worked in media, telling good news stories - victories and so on . . .'
'Propaganda?' Boston said, in his usual brusque style.
For the first time, Allam's teeth flashed menacingly - and I thought I caught a glimpse
of the true man, beneath his jovial exterior. 'Yes, my Congolese friend. Propaganda! The
stories we told were an important way of winning the civil war, and South Sudan finally
getting its independence . . .'
'And then?' I asked, wanting to steer Boston away from quizzing him further.
'That was twenty years ago. I've been in and out of South Sudan and England ever
since. I have a family in England - in Dorset, where my beautiful wife lives - but I make
my money here. Who'd have thought it? I make money here in Africa and send it back to
my family in England! This is a topsy-turvy world, my friends . . .'
After Allam had left, promising to send our arrangements for the start of our trek tomor-
row, Boston muttered, 'He is not the man for us, Lev.'
'What are you talking about, Boston? He's already sorted the rangers for us to . . .'
'He's a government agent.'
I was used to this by now - Boston seeing spooks everywhere he turned - but, this time,
his assertion didn't seem nearly so wild.
'I promise it, Lev. A part-time colonel with the SPLA, helping media and foreign
guests? He's a spy, Lev. He isn't here to help us. He's here to keep an eye on us, to make
sure we're who we say we are.'
'Well,' I began, 'we
are
who we say we are. If Allam can help us cross this country . . .'
Boston laughed - as much at me as at the situation. 'He won't help like you think he
will. He's a government man. Do you really think they'd want us walking in areas they
don't hold, where they can't control the people we talk to, the things we see . . .?'
I had to concede: Boston had a point. I lay awake for a long time that night, thinking of
the strange pact we had made with this strange spy catcher.
There are almost three hundred kilometres of river between Nimule and Juba, and in the
morning we set out, guided to the edge of town by Allam himself. Before we embarked
properly, there was a surprise awaiting us. Outside Nimule, where the Nile does a sharp
northerly turn when it hits the hard rock of the Nimule plateau, a tamarind tree was grow-
ing from an outcrop of smooth boulders. Beneath that tree's gnarled branches, a collection
of village elders awaited our arrival. Allam was grinning as we approached, and one by
one he introduced me to the chiefs of the area, and of the Madi people.
