Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
and everywhere we saw the detritus and filth left behind by the fleeing population. The
first casualty of war, it seemed, was not the truth - it was hygiene. Piles of plastic bottles
were strewn among the shanties, Marabou storks looking like pterodactyls plucked from
some forgotten world as they picked through the waste looking for anything edible.
At my side, Boston said nothing. Perhaps his silence was the most fearsome thing of all.
The walk really had begun to feel like a march into the bowels of hell. We had reached the
frontier, the very edge of safety. Juba had been a battlefield only four months before, with
thousands killed in the streets. No sooner had we crossed through the first shanties, to see
the great conical mound of Rajaf Hill marking the southern boundary of town, and Jebel
- a craggy ridge to the west - domineering the skyline, we began to see the soldiers. The
streets were filled with SPLA. Machine-gun posts and sangars - temporary fortifications
constructed from sandbags and stones - sat on every corner. Every hundred metres, figures
lurched out of the shadows to demand our papers and send us on our way with a warning:
the nightly curfew, designed to keep combatants from moving under the cover of darkness,
was about to come into effect. Whole areas of the city were off-limits to civilians, and any-
one caught taking photographs would be immediately arrested, perhaps even shot.
By 7 pm, we had entered the old town and reached Juba's bridge over the Nile - and
there, to my relief, Andrew Allam was waiting for us, just as had been promised. I was
grateful to see him. Allam might have been a government agent, but the government was
in control of Juba and the further we walked into the city the tighter the security became.
Enthusiastically, Allam shook my hand and guided us towards the iron bridge. One of the
oldest landmarks in Juba, it had been built by the British long before the civil wars tore the
country apart, and, Allam insisted, was testament to the good work the British had done
for the region. This bridge was the only crossing to span the Nile in two thousand miles
and was part of the reason Juba had grown from trading post to capital city in only eighty
years.
'You've had no problems?'
'Some,' I said, 'but nothing we couldn't handle.' The lower-ranking soldiers who had
stopped us were the most problematic: they seemed to think they had to shout first, ask
questions later - and, if you showed any fear, they were quick to exploit it. Along the way,
I had learned that the only way to deal with them was to demand name and rank, do my
best impression of an indignant commander; tell the bastard to stand up straight, smarten
his collar, and trust that they fell in line. Officers, I had found, were much easier to deal
with: all they wanted was a nauseating show of servility and they usually let us go.
'Well,' said Allam, 'you have nothing to fear for now! Everything's in order. You'll find
Juba a calm enough place, once you—'
