Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
A kernel of fear hardened in my stomach. I knew of the Blue House only from hearsay.
Its colloquial name didn't sound terrible, but even so it inspired dread in the minds of the
South Sudanese. It was an infamous construct, known to expats as the 'Ministry of Tor-
ture', and sat in the centre of town, its innards hidden from view by reflective glass win-
dows and shiny blue walls.
'What for?' I asked - but my only reply was a glare from the Dinka guard at my side,
and a deliberate flashing of his pistol.
At around 9 pm, the Land Cruiser entered a stretch of highway cloaked in absolute dark-
ness. On either side, the buildings had been blacked out. What few streetlights remained
had been turned off, and even the cars that we passed moved with their headlights turned
off. Five hundred yards on, the Land Cruiser slowed to a halt and, as the Dinka driver
emerged to get us out of the back, I saw the fortress of the Blue House itself. Its gates were
surrounded by soldiers in a dizzying array of uniforms; some I took for SPLA, but others
I didn't recognise, and still more were in plain clothes, hanging around in packs along the
edge of the road.
Behind me, Boston stumbled up onto the road. Allam was protesting to the agents again,
but his arguments fell on deaf ears; with few words, they directed us towards iron gates,
where yet more soldiers manned a gunnery point. Moments later, the gates were open and
we were through, shepherded into a black courtyard bordered by tall, concrete walls.
'Sit down,' one of the soldiers barked. In silence, we took seats on a cold, metal bench,
watching as the other two agents disappeared into the building. At my side, Allam drew a
cigarette from his pocket and fumbled to light it - but, in a flash, the Dinka guard ripped it
from his lips and ground it beneath his heel, cursing in Arabic. I could only assume it was
to do with the blackout engulfing these streets.
The minutes stretched on, each one seemingly longer than the last. Boston, preternatur-
ally quiet, had his gaze fixed on the floor and, every time I tried to get his attention, he
seemed to inch further away. It was only now that my feelings of guilt truly solidified. I
found myself thinking of Lily and his children in flashes: here was Jezu Adonis, wearily
climbing out of bed; here, his daughter Aurore welcoming me to their house. I had been
foolish in coming to South Sudan myself, but even more foolish in bringing Boston.
Movement erupted in the corner of my eye. The barriers were opening again, and
through them marched six or seven men, with their hands tied behind their backs. I took
them to be Nuer, captives from the opposing side of the conflict, and watched as more
armed guards followed after. Only twenty metres from where we stood, one of the soldiers
barked and the Nuer were forced to their knees, heads bowed against the compound wall.
Now, they were lost to the shadows on the fringes of the courtyard. I could no longer see
them; all I could see were the soldiers bringing batons back to rain down blows. For a short
