Devil’s Harvest (27 page)

‘We’re heading for Bentiu for tonight,’ she replied. ‘That’s where we’ll sleep. There is a truck stop there where we can stay. There’s nothing else around here, so we have to head there.’

Gabriel scoured the map. Bentiu was another hundred miles to the north, at least, following the bends of the river into the most northern state of South Sudan. On his map, the border with Sudan itself was marked with dramatic pink and red dashes. His planned destination had been Safaha and then to the site for his research. Bentiu was not in the same direction at all.

‘Look at your map!’ Alek said. ‘Show me where between Wau and Raga we can spend the night. Look, it is all open; there is nothing.’ She swept her hand across the map, sending it flying from his grasp. She picked it up and shook off the red dust, spreading the pages back over the bonnet of the Land Cruiser. Gabriel looked at it again; she was right, there was very little along the road. And their progress was far slower than he’d anticipated when he had planned their nightly stops.

‘But we could’ve just flown to Bentiu, Alek. We could’ve saved ourselves two days on the road!’

‘Yes, but then we would be without a vehicle. Where you want to go only a Land Cruiser can go.’

She had an answer for everything, yet he still felt misled. ‘But why only tell me now? And Kamal as well?’

The driver looked up in agreement. Gabriel wondered, not for the first time, quite how much English he understood.

‘I’m the one paying you,’ he protested. ‘I have to know what I am paying for. You can’t just make decisions without talking to me.’

Alek looked defiant, all the charm of the previous evening gone. She shouted something abusive at Kamal, who had started to rise from his seat to join in the challenge. He cowered back, clutching his money. The ground around him was littered with yellow-red balls from the sycamore fig, the smell of rotting fruit sweet-sour in the growing heat.

‘Come with me,’ Alek said, pulling Gabriel’s arm and steering him into the tin-walled tea room. A young man was busy with the kettles nestled on the coals. Gabriel sat down expectantly, but Alek said nothing, ordering tea from the man instead. She seemed to need time to collect her thoughts, rocking on her seat in introspection. Only once their tea had arrived and the young man had returned to his pots did she start to talk again. Her eyes shone and she held her head still, directly in front of Gabriel.

‘Bentiu is a good place to spend the night. This is true and I have not lied to you about that. But I have also not told you everything.’

Gabriel felt his stomach lurch and he put his tea down. Suddenly, the sticky sweetness of the powdered milk and heaped sugar was nauseating. He still harboured some misgivings about his guide, despite the fact that the relationship between them had started to improve. Now all his doubts welled up.

‘There’s a place near Bentiu. My mother is buried there. I have not been to the grave in a long time. I’m taking us through Bentiu so that I can visit her grave. That is the real reason. And I am sorry that I did not ask you first, but I was afraid that you would say no. From Bentiu the road west is good and we will find your plants within a day. We will not lose time, I promise.’ She looked at him, forlorn, and placed her wrists on the table before him.

It was such a simple, undeniably human plea that Gabriel felt almost joyous with relief. There were no tears, but her face was genuinely distraught. Since meeting her, Gabriel hadn’t seen Alek so vulnerable. He put out his hand and held her wrist, feeling the delicate bones beneath a silky, dry skin.

‘Thank you,’ she said, sensing his acquiescence before he had articulated it.

The interaction was brief, his hand bare on her arm, her eyes on him, grateful, almost gracious. And then she was up, her tea drained to the last smears of undiluted milk powder across the bottom of the glass. She barked an order at Kamal and, within minutes, they were back in the vehicle.

Buoyed by the exchange, Alek was more talkative than usual. She pointed to the sycamore fig as they pulled away. ‘
Jumeiz
,’ she explained. ‘They say the Jews brought it here with them from Palestine. You see them growing thick in Ethiopia. Like many things brought here by foreigners, it looks hopeful, but it’s useless. You cannot eat it; it just stinks up the place with its mess.’

Gabriel heard the wheels crunch over the pods, the smell of rotten fruit cloying at the back of his throat.

‘The tree did save me once, actually. There was a young man interested in me, before the camps. He came to visit me and I put on shorts, like a boy, and hid up in the tree. I looked like one of my brothers hunting for birds’ eggs. I told the children I would throw the rotten fruit at them if they told. He never spotted me, even when he stood right underneath.’

Gabriel imagined her gangly legs hanging from the tree. There was something comforting about her childhood stories; yet always that qualification: ‘before the camps’.

The exchange at the tea room seemed forgotten by Kamal, too, now assuaged by the money in his pocket. He drove fast, passing through a series of small villages. The area was drier and the road surface harder, though still deeply rutted in places. Then the huts petered out and the crops stood degraded in the fields, weeds carpeting the ground beneath them. And then even the crop fields ran out and the bushes and grasses took over. The mood in the Land Cruiser seemed to change again as the landscape emptied. Gabriel noted a burnt-out military truck hidden in the bushes, with shredded canvas over its loading bay. Kamal saw it, too, staring to the side and taking his eyes off the road for a dangerous length of time. The driver started muttering to himself distractedly.

Gabriel closed his eyes and tried to doze, but his head bounced against the seat and he could feel the wire structure underneath the thin covering of foam. Flies kept landing just below his nostrils and in the corners of his eyes in search of moisture. Then, just as his mind started to empty, he heard Alek’s voice, edged with anxiety as she addressed the driver. The vehicle slowed and Gabriel opened his eyes to see a large military roadblock approaching.

The roadblock had been set up just before a small bridge, the narrowing of the road allowing the soldiers to cordon off the path completely. A technical was parked at right angles, its machine gun pointed at them. There was a large khaki-coloured tent with tables and chairs and another longer tent that seemed to serve as a dormitory. A tall antenna stood in a clearing, tied from all sides to the trees. The men were dressed in full military uniform, carrying their AK-47s with disturbing familiarity. Several trucks were parked at the side, one showing the barrel of an anti-aircraft gun pointing skywards from the canvas. This was not like the traffic or police stops that they had passed through before.

A young soldier occupied the middle of the road, his machine gun waving in their oncoming direction, one of his hands pointing to a clearing to the side. There would be no smiling and no easy passing. Kamal steered the vehicle off the road and bounced into the cleared area, turning the engine off resignedly. No one approached them, and Gabriel understood that they were expected to present themselves at the tent for whatever interrogation awaited. He collected his bag with his passport and money and headed past the soldiers towards the tent. The young man who’d stopped them ignored him, instead staring down the road intently. There was a nervousness among the soldiers standing alongside the tent as well, their gaze alighting on the stranger but then flitting off into the bush. Over the past two days, Gabriel had gradually lost the anxiety he’d first felt when leaving Juba, the sheer fatigue of travel numbing his fears. But now it returned, the edginess of being beyond help, at the mercy of people he did not understand, who had no need to indulge him.

The interior of the tent was hot and gloomy, although the flaps had been tied back to let in as much natural light as possible. It smelt of old smoke and human activity, and something like varnish. A thin man with very dark skin and a pencil moustache sat behind the table, the radio receiver next to him. Behind him, further into the darkness of the tent, three soldiers were hunched over a crate, their weapons disassembled in front of them. The smell Gabriel had noted was gun oil, soaked into old rags and being used to wipe down the gun barrels. Loose bullets lay alongside them, piled like the bodies of locusts.

The soldier behind the desk glanced at Gabriel’s passport with little interest and he did not ask either Alek or Kamal for theirs. He turned his attention to Kamal, who had a lot to say for himself, talking quickly and animatedly. Alek seemed displeased with his diatribe and tried, unsuccessfully, to intervene. It dawned on Gabriel that Kamal intended to use the military roadblock to bring their northward journey to an end. Alek was determined not to let him succeed. Gabriel felt his own ambivalence keenly. He stepped outside the tent, his forehead already wet with perspiration. Another vehicle arrived, bouncing to a standstill in a swirl of dust. The driver seemed to know the soldiers, and greetings passed among them. The vehicle was allowed to continue, the old clutch shuddering as the gears changed and the driver accelerated. Behind him Gabriel could hear Alek objecting, her voice strident. The military officer was shouting back at her loudly.

Then she stormed past Gabriel out of the tent, her body arching like a whip snake in anger.

The officer beckoned to Gabriel to approach. ‘You cannot go any further. Al Babr is now in the north. You must turn around here.’

Kamal’s head had finally stopped nodding. There was something in the driver’s sly expression that infuriated Gabriel, the look of collusion on his face, self-satisfied at outsmarting them both.

‘Please wait outside, Kamal,’ he said. The driver’s eyes narrowed. He started to object, but Gabriel cut him short, gesturing with his hand for the man to leave. ‘I want to talk to the officer on my own. Please leave us for a moment.’

Kamal left the tent, grumbling. Gabriel was surprised at his own assertiveness, but he could see that the officer was watching him closely now.

‘If you’re about to offer me money, may I suggest that you do not do so. I want no money from you.’

Gabriel let his bag sink back to the ground.

‘We are soldiers, not policemen,’ the officer added, with some venom.

‘I wasn’t planning to bribe you, I assure you,’ Gabriel lied, his heart pounding. Had he really been prepared to pay money to continue this voyage of madness? ‘You’re right that some of the police roadblocks have expected money from us, but this is clearly a different situation.’

‘Yes, a different situation.’ The officer smoothed his fingers over his moustache as if the manicured facial hair symbolised the distinction.

‘What I wanted to explain to you is that I am the person in charge of this … expedition.’ Gabriel wished he could think of another word for their undertaking; ‘expedition’ suggested something equally military-minded, but the officer did not appear to react to the word. ‘We are headed for an area in Northern Bahr el Ghazal where I’m doing research on a plant. I’m from a university in England and these two people are taking me to find this plant. We are only in this area because we want to sleep in Bentiu tonight. After that we will be heading south-west again, out of Unity State. I give you my assurance.’

The man contemplated Gabriel in silence.

‘We will just spend one night in Bentiu—’

‘I heard you, my friend.’ The officer held up his hand to silence Gabriel, his body otherwise unmoving. Then he roused himself, sitting up straight in his chair. ‘Give me your passport and your papers and wait outside.’

‘I have no other papers,’ Gabriel replied. ‘I’m not with any agency. I’m not with the church. I’m a scientist; I am here to study a new plant. On my own.’

The soldier looked at him again. Then he nodded. ‘I will call you when I have a decision.’

Gabriel left the tent and ignored Kamal’s glare. Glancing around, he saw Alek standing on the small bridge looking down into the rushes below. He walked past the soldiers to join her. He noted with disquiet that their gaze was still fixed on the incoming road.

‘I’ve spoken to the officer,’ he told her. ‘I’m not sure that it made any difference, but he says we must wait.’

Alek shrugged, still gazing into the reeds. Small birds with red chests flitted back and forth among tightly woven nests.

‘This little river is an explanation of this whole country all on its own,’ she said obliquely. ‘This river goes back into the memories of the tribes who live here. It’s a part of the histories and stories of everyone. The Dinka people call it the Kiir River, which refers to their ancestors. But the Baggara call it Bahr al-Arab – the River of the Arabs. So this river forms the frontier between the Dinka and the Baggara. Hundreds of thousands have died here. When Khartoum ruled us, we had to call it by its Arabic name and all the maps showed that name. Now Juba and the Dinka rule, and we call it the Kiir. Hundreds of thousands more will die here before it is over.’ Alek gazed sadly at the pools of water, the surface disturbed by swarms of lacewings and mosquitoes. ‘But it is still just a river.’

Gabriel stood by her side, trying to locate the source of his uprising of distress. Why was she telling him this? Was he in physical danger? He had never been exposed to violence before. Even the riots in Bristol, the lout who had struck his face, the scenes of carnage on television news, none of it had broken the intellectual crust that confined his emotions. But standing on the bridge, surrounded by bush and soldiers and the evidence of war, his anxiety started to feel increasingly visceral.

As if to answer his unspoken questions, one of the soldiers on the road edge suddenly pointed to the sky and shouted, ‘Antonov! Antonov!’

The effect on his comrades was dramatic. The men in the tent, including the moustached officer, bolted out and scanned the sky, the officer with a pair of camouflage-coloured binoculars. The soldiers manning the roadblock had abandoned it and were sprinting to the trucks. The canvas was ripped off the back and the barrel of the anti-aircraft gun gleamed in the sunlight. Someone started the truck engine and it shifted backwards into a better position.