Something About The Law

A unique stench drifted with the red dust through the Land Rover windows – a stench that had wooed battalions of vultures. “The Chief is dead.”

We sat in silence and attempted to suppress our stares of morbid voyeurism. I averted my gaze to a parade of women and toddlers carrying containers of wine on their heads. For the second time that morning, I regretted our conspicuousness.

The journey had commenced with a surprise encounter in the bush. We bumped through the scrub under the illusion that we had left habitation behind. Gradually, we became aware of a “toot” that emanated from neither a bird nor the vehicle electronics. Somebody was blowing rhythmically on a whistle.

One hundred men appeared from the trees, jogging in unison. Slight of build and barefoot, they wore fraying green fatigues. I spied many more guns than shoes. They had barely reached adolescence. “Look,” my colleague exclaimed, “It’s come-dressed-as-a-soldier-day at school.”

The car slowed to walking pace as the SPLA cadets surrounded the vehicle. They gripped us with penetrating stares. “Hands up, those of us who feel conspicuous.” We had cruised into a cliché of White Land Rover-syndrome.

Along that road, I felt that I journeyed through three countries. The Twic (pronounced “Twitch”) to the Ngok Dinka are what the Dutch are to the Germans. The Twic embrace directness, have a laid-back attitude and shy-away from brick-like bread. I noticed that children, teenage boys and old men regard clothes as optional. Along the road, I encountered passers-by with no garments to speak of.

In turn, the residents of Northern Bahr el Ghazal make the Twic appear outrageous and the Ngok Dinka disdainfully liberal. Though Christian, the people of Aweil dress in Arabic fashion. Seven-year-old girls cover their heads. Elbows look lewd.

***

The past week reads like a palimpsest of surreal encounters, desert scenery, verdant vistas, personal sadness and surges of exhilaration.

I have helped change Land Rover tires in the bush with cigar-smoking Canadians. I have toured village radio stations amidst queues of ladies waiting their turn to ululate on air. I have contended with a menagerie of maggots in a police station latrine. I have laid my head to rest in the mudded comfort of a sand-floored Tukul. I have boarded a World Food Program plane that navigated through a caravan of donkeys and school children to ascend from the air strip. And now I reside in Juba – at the inception of a new volume of this experience.

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