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vaguely reminiscent of the hundreds of crocodiles we had seen lounging along the banks
of the river - and, though he had arranged for our arrival to be greeted by a troop of Acholi
dancers, taking part in their elaborate ritual was the last thing on my mind. Exhausted, at
last I could retreat to my bed. Tomorrow, Boston and I would meet up with Matt Power
and Jason Florio, two journalists who had been keen to accompany us on part of the jour-
ney. But, before then, we needed the comforting blackness of sleep.
It was evening before Matt and Jason arrived, to be greeted by Tamarind juice - just like
Samuel Baker, all those years ago. While Boston had spent the day scrambling for a phone
signal to contact his family, I had wandered from shadow to shadow, seeking some respite
wherever the sun was not casting its most destructive rays. For long hours I lost myself
in Hemingway's Green Hills of Africa, but his ruminations on Tanzania were difficult to
concentrate on, with one eye always on the sun hanging in the sky.
I was holed up in the newly built bomas of the Heritage Lodge - a camp built in the
traditions of the Nilotic tribes, with thatch huts covered with colourful decorations on the
adobe walls - when Matt and Jason finally arrived. The rooms looked out over the river
which seemed to melt into the vast forest around, and the town of Pakwach was noth-
ing more than a grey smudge in an otherwise verdant landscape. When Boston introduced
them, the day was paling to dusk, and with it the edge came off the heat. I was glad of it
and we gulped down the Tamarind juice with relish. For the moment, Matt and Jason were
just glad for the chance to drink something; I could tell they'd had a long journey to get
here, and probably weren't acclimatised yet. Debilitating as it was for me and Boston, at
least we had been introduced to it, one degree at a time.
'Captain Wood, I presume?' said the man before me with a grin. He was all teeth and
smiles, with a pair of dark sunglasses and an air of cheery mischief.
I suspected I was going to like him straight away. Matt Power was an American travel
and adventure journalist, who had been commissioned by his new editors at the US
magazine Men's Journal to accompany me for a week and write about the expedition.
'Hi, mate,' said Jason. I broke into a smile at the familiar sound of an English accent.
Jason was perhaps forty, with an enormous beard and long, straggly hair. There was
something about him that had the air of a guerrilla fighter, a kind of English Fidel Castro
with a camera. It didn't surprise me, therefore, to find he'd travelled all over Afghanistan
with the Mujahideen and happened to be in New York for 9/11. For all his tame demean-
our, this man was the real deal, and I was intrigued to find out more of his adventures.
Matt and Jason had been friends for a few years and had long planned on working together
on an assignment, but, while Matt had plunged straight into this fierce Ugandan heat from
the tail end of a bitter New York winter, Jason had come from the Gambia in West Africa,
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