Chapter One
I jumped out of the way of a speeding boda boda and tripped over a pregnant goat. The driver of the scooter yelled at me. I gave him a hand gesture in return. Not a good idea, in this town, at this time of night. But Iâd had a rotten day and was in a matching mood.
The goat I ignored. It was not a good idea to interfere with her. She was worth money.
Juba, South Sudan. April. The dry season. The air red with dust blowing down from the desert to the north. Choking dust. Getting into everything. Me, coughing up my lungs half the night.
At six foot three, Iâm considered a big guy back home in Canada. Here, in a group of locals, Iâm about average. Some of these guysâheck, some of the womenâmust be close to seven feet. Damn good-looking women though.
My nameâs Ray Robertson. In Canada, Iâm an RCMP officer. In South Sudan, Iâm with the UN. Our role is to be trainers, mentors and advisers. Help the new country of South Sudan build a modern police force.
Yeah, right.
Iâve been in the country eleven and a half months. Just over two weeks to go. First thing Iâm going to do when I check into my hotel in Nairobi is have a bath. A long hot bath. Get all that red dirt out of my lily-white skin. Jenny gets in the next morning. Weâre going to Mombasa. A fancy hotel. A week on the beach. Sex and warm water and clean sand. More sex. Heaven.
I climbed into the police truck. Iâd recently begun working with John Deng. He was a good guy, Deng. From the Dinka tribe, so about as tall and thin as a lamppost. He didnât say much, but what he did say was worth listening to.
His phone rang. Deng spoke into it, a couple of short words I didnât catch. He hung up and turned to me. His eyes and teeth were very white in the dark.
âAnother dead woman,â he said.
âDamn.â
Deng put the truck into gear and we pulled into the traffic. Think youâve seen traffic chaos? Come to Juba. The cityâs mostly dirt roads. Uncovered manholes, open drainage ditches and piles of rubble. Potholes you could lose a family in. Trucks, 4x4s, cars, boda bodas, pedestrians, goats, chickens and the occasional small child. Every one of them fighting for space, jostling to push another inch through the crowds. The roads have no street signs and few traffic signs. Which no one pays attention to anyway.
We drove toward the river. The White Nile. The goal of Burton, Speke, Baker, the great Victorian explorers. The riverâs wide here, moving fast. Itâs not white for sure. More the color of warm American beer. Full of twigs and branches and whole trees trapped in the current. Plus a lot of other things that I donât want to think much about.
The old settlementâs called Juba Town. Disintegrating white buildings, cracked and broken sidewalks, mountains of rubbish. A crumbling blue mosque in a dusty square. Small shops selling anything and everything alongside outdoor markets hawking goods.
In daytime, the streets are crowded. Soldiers in green camouflage uniforms. Police in blue camo. Adults going about their business. Bare-bottomed babies. Schoolchildren with scrubbed faces, clean uniforms and wide, friendly smiles. Honking horns, shouting men, chatting women, music and laughter.
Now, at night, all was quiet. A handful of fires burned in trash piles that had spilled into the streets. Men sat in circles drinking beer. Women watched from open doorways. Above, thick clouds blocked moon and stars.
A water station had been built close to the river. Blue water trucks lined up there during the day to get safe water. The street was a mess of deep puddles, red mud, rocks, ruts and trash. Not as good as some, better than most.
Deng stopped our truck at the bend. Where the road turned sharply to run parallel to the river. He left the vehicle lights on and we got out. I pulled my flashlight out of my belt. Flashlight and a night stick. Thatâs all I carried.
Jon Land, Robert Fitzpatrick