Travel Reference
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'They think we're UN,' he whispered.
'It's okay,' I told him. 'We'll be back at the hotel soon - but you have to eat . . .'
Our bellies filled, we left the restaurant in haste. Dusk was already settling - or perhaps
it was only the storm clouds thickening overhead - but we had not yet reached the com-
pound when a man lurched out of the shadows between two buildings and staggered into
the street to confront us. In a second, he had cocked his rifle, raising it up to point directly
at me.
He was screaming in a language I didn't understand, but the hatred in his eyes eclipsed
all words. His eyes rolled madly. In an instant, Siraje threw his hands into the air; in an-
other, the SPLA guards had their weapons raised, striding in front of me to drive the man
back. There was a terrible moment in which nothing happened and everything was pos-
sible; then the man lowered his weapon, hawked up phlegm to spit at the ground, and slunk
off through the door of a nearby house.
'What did he say?' I asked.
One of the soldiers answered: 'He said . . . he will kill you, because you are here with
the UN.'
For a moment, I remained silent. There would have been no use protesting I was here
for my own expedition, that I was not part of the UN in any way. Reason and logic didn't
count for anything in situations like this. Emotions were running too high in Bor; anti-
Western sentiment leached out of every pair of eyes. I looked at Siraje: 'Are you okay?'
He nodded, no longer shaking so visibly. 'I put myself in the hands of God,' he
answered.
'Let's get out of here,' I said - and, without another word, we raced for the hotel.
No sooner had I settled into my room than the darkness smothered the hotel. Lying in the
comforting blackness, I tried not to think of what tomorrow had in store. My plan was to
go back to the local commander and talk again about leaving Bor for the north - but, the
more I thought about it, the less real it felt. Bor was only the front line of the ongoing war;
whatever the north had in store, it would be much, much worse.
It was only moments after I closed my eyes that the first gunfire sounded. Immediately,
I sat up, listening to the fighting erupt. Somewhere, close to the hotel, a running gun battle
had broken out. Perhaps the Dinka were storming the UN compound again, or perhaps
rebels were making a play for Bor. All of a sudden, the room was illuminated in a wash of
bright red. I got to my feet and crept to the window.
When I drew the broken blinds back, I could see tracers lighting up the night sky, il-
luminating the rooftops of Bor in snatches of brilliant colour. With every passing second,
the gunfire seemed to grow closer. I heard the familiar crack of 7.62-calibre AK-47 rounds
as they pounded the compound next door. The dull thud of DSHK rounds reverberated
