Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Juba to Minkaman. 'I'm here to pass through,' I finally explained. 'To follow the west
bank north.'
The local commander paused a moment, as if to scrutinise me further. Then he gave an
emphatic shake of the head.
'Now is not a good time to be in Bor, not for an Englishman, not even for South
Sudanese. Do you know what is happening here, Levison Wood?'
I told him I did.
'If you truly did, you would not be here, asking for soldiers to take you north. The UN
base in town has just been attacked. We cannot tell what happens next. My advice to you
is to leave Bor and not think of this expedition again. This is a war.'
The local commander afforded us four soldiers to escort us across town, to the ruins of the
South Sudan Hotel. What we found was a compound in ruins. The South Sudan Hotel had
once been one of the most progressive places in the newly formed nation, a place for inter-
national leaders and businessmen looking to invest in the new country to stay. Now, it was
an empty shell. Hunching close to the river, its walls were strafed with bullet holes and, in
the road outside, a minibus had been destroyed by more gunfire. Across the hotel court-
yard, the doors had been kicked in or torn from their hinges. Windows were shattered, and
I could see the black marks where fire had licked up the walls.
The manager had little to say - only as he showed us to rooms along the veranda did he
reiterate what the local commander had said: this was no place for a foreigner to be, and
certainly not a white man. Dinka soldiers, he said, had stormed the UN compound in town
to attack the Nuer who had barricaded themselves there. In the fallout of the attack, the UN
peacekeepers had opened fire - forty-eight Nuer now lay dead, along with seven Dinka,
and a group of Indian peacekeepers. As he left, I found I was grateful for the protection
the local SPLA commander had given us - but the thought grew in me: what use were four
men against a city spiralling out of control?
For a few hours, the South Sudan Hotel was our refuge. Only when hunger started to
gnaw at my guts did I return to the veranda, to find Siraje in his room next door. It was
time, I told him, to venture back into town - if only to find something to eat.
Under the watchful eyes of our SPLA guard, we left the compound and ventured back
into Bor. The heart of the old town was awash with armed civilians. Everywhere, eyes
turned to follow us; groups of Dinka gunmen loitered on the intersections, dissuaded from
approaching only because of the armed guard. This was no time to explore what Bor had
to offer, and the guards led us to an Ethiopian restaurant, where we hurriedly ordered food.
Even here, the diners were armed to the teeth: AK-47s hung across shoulders or rested in
laps. Eyes considered us from every corner. By the time the food had arrived, I could tell
Siraje had lost his appetite; the terror, visible on his face, was hardening in his gut.
