Travel Reference
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ing - but I was in no mood for conversation. Only a few weeks ago, I would have loved to
listen to Boston, the fervent anti-religionist, and Martin, a devout Creationist, battle over
whether Adam and Eve were black or white - but now I shrank from their arguments. They
seemed so frivolous. I couldn't stop my mind from flitting back to that Ugandan hillside
where Matt had died, nor flitting forward to what we were walking into. At every vil-
lage we passed, the news from the north intensified. As the road progressed, we saw more
people fleeing. Toyota minivans seemed to be the exodus vehicle of choice, piled up with
mattresses, chairs, tables, cooking pots, goats and entire families. The mangled wrecks of
pick-ups, buses and lorries littered the roadsides, and beyond, in the bush the entire land-
scape was filled with landmines. More families than I cared to think about had lost their
lives in traffic accidents, all in an attempt to flee the mounting hostilities. It was those hos-
tilities towards which I was willingly walking - and, for the first time in my journey, I
began to question the sanity of what I was doing. Matt Power had already lost his life, all
because of my indulgent quest to be the first man to walk the Nile. Was I really so selfish
as to ask Boston to risk his life as well, or risk the lives of any of the other companions
we would meet along the way? I began to think about home more and more often: of the
family and friends whose lives I was missing out on; of the loved ones who must have
forgotten about me while I was here, walking - just walking. I wanted to be in a world in
which I didn't stand out. I craved the anonymity of London's streets, where police didn't
stop you for your papers, and you didn't have to fear that the ground beneath your feet was
littered with explosives.
At the edge of the road, where I had stopped to take in the view, Boston and Martin
caught up with me. They'd been aggressively arguing over the age of the Earth.
'What is it, Lev?'
I didn't want to tell him the truth - that, for the first time, I was tempted by the thought
of giving up - so instead, I pointed to the north. Over the horizon, the black storm clouds
were gathering, heralding the rainy season to come. We were close to the borders of the
vast swamplands of the Sudd now, and when those rains began to fall, the country would
become impassable.
'Then we'd best be walking!' declared Boston and, for the first time, marched ahead of
me down the road.
On the 122nd day of the journey, Boston and I - having said goodbye to Martin on the
road - pushed our way into the outskirts of Juba. If Kampala is a teenager of a capital city,
then Juba is a petulant infant. Founded in 1922 by a group of Greek traders who came to
supply the British Army camped along the Nile, it was one of the most fiercely contested
battlegrounds in the Sudanese Civil Wars, and became the official capital of South Sudan
after the peace agreement of 2005. Dusk was hardening into night as Boston and I entered,
