Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
The port in Bor was ramshackle, but somehow it buzzed with activity, stevedores and
fishermen pursuing their daily business as if this was not the epicentre of a war. Among
them, a rabble of different soldiers moved back and forth. Siraje and I had not left the
docks behind by the time we knew we had crossed the front-line.
Soldiers, policemen and hundreds of armed civilians flooded the muddy streets. We
walked on, barely speaking a word. My only idea was that, once here, I could find some
soldiers to accompany me northwards, convince them to hand me over to the rebels, and
then pay them to shepherd me through the rebel-controlled territories until, eventually, I
reached Sudan. There would be no shortage of soldiers to ask, but suddenly I doubted
whether any would agree.
The streets leading into the heart of the city had been razed. Blown-up tanks rusted at
the sides of the roads. Death was everywhere. Mass graves had been the only way to bury
those who were killed, and before we had reached the city proper, I could see the freshly
churned earth where victims had been buried.
We hadn't reached the town centre when a voice hailed us from a roadblock and,
seconds later, SPLA soldiers flocked to our sides. In my urgency to retrieve the papers Al-
lam had given me, permitting me to travel as far as Bor, I explained about the expedition.
The soldiers scrutinised the papers carefully. When they instructed me to follow, I knew
there was no other choice.
The soldiers led us deeper into Bor's old town. On the banks of the Nile, a cathedral
had been raked by gunfire, portions of its stone wall charred black by fire, and a grave
dug for the seventeen clergymen and nuns who'd been murdered here a few weeks before.
The market place was empty, burnt to the ground three months ago, and ATMs hung from
walls like eyeballs from their sockets. Everywhere, the walls were daubed in crude graffiti:
FUCK YOU NUER! declared one pillar. DINKAS DEFEATED! exclaimed another.
After navigating several patrols and checkpoints, the soldiers deposited us at the state
compound in the middle of town. It was here that the state governor's representatives
gathered, co-ordinating the defence of not just the city but the whole of Jonglei State. The
local SPLA commander was sitting under a tamarind tree as we approached, surrounded by
men in camouflage uniform. Many of the militia were sporting sunglasses and flip-flops,
and all crowned their heads with a simple black or maroon beret. The madness of the mo-
ment put me in mind of some terrible '80s action movie - only this was real.
'Let us start at the beginning. I have seen your papers, but I would hear it from your own
mouth. Who are you?'
'My name,' I began, 'is Levison Wood. I'm . . .' It felt churlish, all of a sudden, to say
'explorer', so instead I told him I was a geographer, leading an expedition to walk the
length of the Nile. I showed him the press cuttings I had saved from Uganda, my papers
from Andrew Allam, spoke about how two SPLA soldiers had valiantly guided me from
