Six Months in Sudan (14 page)

“She’s on her way to Khartoum, right?”

“No. She delayed too.”

“How is she?”

“Very tired.”

“And everyone else?”

“Everyone is okay.”

“Good. So, you’re leaving today?”

“Yes. My plane is at three.”

“Let’s go find a Coke or something. I’ll wait with you. And if the plane doesn’t come, you can just take your R&R here, in Agok.”

“If the plane does not come, I will walk to Khartoum.”

I close the back door and jump into the passenger seat. “Anthony, take us to Agok’s fanciest restaurant.”

He looks at me, key paused in the ignition.

“Coca-Cola. Let’s get some Coca-Cola.”

The airstrip is deserted, and we rumble down its center. I don’t mention the ruts we are deepening. We turn off at its end, and widely spaced tukuls begin to appear, some deep in the scrub between hills, others closer to the road. We pass a group of children walking side by side, laughing. A man with a hoe angled on his shoulder waves.

My time in Addis has helped me see Abyei more clearly. People I met talked about their projects in Uganda or Mozambique. Weddings, local girlfriends, weekend trips. In the five or six weeks I have been in Abyei, I couldn’t tell you one particular thing about the place, one custom, one habit of its people. It has been closed to me, or me to it. This is partly because of my tendency to retreat when I need respite, but it’s more than that. Every gathering is a military one, every second person you pass at night a soldier. People are building their tukuls, working all day, and in the hospital, I see the poorest, the ones with no mosquito nets, or no access to clean water. Not only does our language seem irreconcilable, so do our worlds.

“I don’t know, Mohamed. This is pretty nice.”

We pull into a row of stalls that is Agok’s market, carbon copies of the shops we see in Abyei. Outside of them lean bicycles, their frames wrapped in bright tape, their handlebars draped with flowers.

Anthony parks in front of a stall and we get out. Seated inside a slanted recubra are three Dinka men, listening intently to a radio.

“Drink?” Anthony asks.

“I’ll have a Coca-Cola. Mohamed?”

“Apple.”

Anthony goes into the recubra and Mohamed and I sit down on the thick root of a tree. I turn to him.

“You said the hospital was busy? Measles?”

“Yes, still many patients.”

“Any more cases of meningitis?”

“Maybe one. Lumbar puncture was negative.”

Anthony returns with our sodas. I fumble in my pocket for some dinars. He waves them away.

“Thank you, Anthony.”

He nods, returns to the recubra, and emerges with a three-legged chair. He sits on it, angles his long legs away, puts his chin on his chest, and within seconds, falls asleep. I marvel.

Five boys, all around ten or twelve years old, emerge from between the stands. As Mohamed and I chat, they slowly circle closer until one bravely sits beside Mohamed. Mohamed puts his hand on the boy’s head and says something in Dinka. He can speak a few words. The boy smiles. The rest of them come closer, emboldened. They start to chatter brightly. Mohamed takes a final swig of his soda, then tosses the bottle across the dusty road. The children scramble for it, the fastest bolting away from the scrum, green plastic bottle in his hand.

“So, what else in the hospital? How is Mansood and his knee?” I ask.

“He is getting worse. He won’t walk any more. He has stopped eating.”

“Did you start him on TB treatment like we talked about?”

“Yes. Last week. Aweil too.”

I look away. “Oh yeah. How is she doing?”

“She smiled the other day.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She still is having fevers, but two days ago I was in the TFC, and I saw her laugh.”

The boys have returned. They are now sitting on the lowest bough
of the tree, swinging their legs. I drain the last few drops of my Coke onto the ground and hand my bottle to the youngest. He grins and hands it to the fastest. I take my camera from my satchel, gesture the fastest forward. He’s shy.

Click.

A boy, about six years old, in sandals five times too large, comes barreling around the corner of one of the stalls. He is holding, in each hand, the thin ends of two sticks whose tips are brought together through the center of a tin can lid that rolls on the ground before him. He careens past us and around the corner of a recubra.

“What are you going to do in Khartoum?”

“Visit my uncles. Eat. Rest. Watch television.”

“What about look for a wife? Aren’t you supposed to be married by now?”

“I am still looking.”

“I think the Dinka mother, the one on the veranda, I think she likes you. Maybe you should take your R&R here and go on some dates. I can chaperone. We can get you some cows. How many do you think you’ll need? Ten?”

He laughs. “She is very tall. Maybe more than ten.”

“I can lend you some of mine.”

Mohamed glances at his watch. “I think we should go back to the airstrip.”

“Why? What’s the hurry? If we miss it, there’s another in a few days.”

Mohamed taps Anthony on the leg. He wakes with a start. He jangles the key from his pocket, stands up, and returns the chair to the recubra. We leave the boys swinging their legs from the thick branch.

We retrace our route. There are a few Land Cruisers at the airstrip now, their passengers waiting inside. We park between two of them. Anthony radios back to Abyei. We sit quietly and scan the sky. Within minutes, the faint buzz of a plane.

“Well, Mohamed. I hope you get a chance to get some good rest. And that you come back.”

“I’ll be back. See you soon.” We shake hands.

The plane loops once, twice, and lands. The engines whine down, and the pilots step from the cockpit. Mohamed moves towards them and queues with the few other passengers. I watch him lean forward over the clipboard the pilot is holding and point at his name. He turns towards us and gives us a thumbs-up. Anthony starts the engine.

We roll smoothly through Agok. I have my hand out the window, pushing against the hot wind. Anthony offers me a cigarette. I shake my head.

We are on the red rippled road back to Abyei. We pass a truck coming the other way, its box full of grinning soldiers bent over the cab against the rushing wind. Women carrying buckets on their heads try to flag us down, motioning “slow-slow” by waving their hand towards the ground. We ignore them, and in the sideview mirror, I see their grimaces seconds before they cover their faces from the dirt.

This is a road I have never been on. In fact, I have seen nothing but Abyei. It seems like it is kilometers between tukuls. I cannot tell where these people are walking from, or to.

We round a corner, and in the middle of the road is a large log. Two soldiers sit underneath a tree, bored. They glance at me, at our MSF sticker, step lazily out to retrieve the log, and wave us on.

Scattered huts start to appear. I turn to Anthony.

“Abyei?”

“No. Tongsay.”

I recognize the name. Bev talks about it. It is a town made of SPLA soldiers. The huts become denser. Between them I can see scatters of plastic bags, piles of garbage.

We pull up to a second military stop, huts on all sides. This time the soldiers do not remove the log from the road. A group of them sits by the side, and as we slow, they stand and come towards us.

There are ten or so in the group. Two are armed. Anthony reaches towards the HF radio and turns it off. It is better if they think we are not broadcasting.

They gather at his side of the car. An older man, large, wearing a gray tunic, appears to be their spokesperson. He is familiar. He places one hand on either side of Anthony’s open window and leans in. He smiles at me. Now I recognize him. I met him on my second day, when I refused to transfer the man with the severed radial nerve.

He and Anthony converse in Dinka. I can’t understand a word. Anthony appears nervous. He is repeating something.

“Anthony, what’s going on?”

He doesn’t turn my way, instead waves his hand at me. Be quiet.

“Anthony. What?”

He turns. “They want us to take a person to Abyei.”

“We can’t.”

“I know. I say.”

“Who is it?” I ask.

Anthony points to an old man sitting underneath a piece of thatch tacked up under a tree. The man looks at the ground.

“They say he is sick.”

He doesn’t look it.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Anthony shrugs.

“He is dizzy,” says the older man, leaning farther into the cabin. “He walked all day, from Abyei, to visit his daughter here and now he feels sick.”

“I’m sorry, but we cannot take anyone in our car who does not work for us. It is against our rules. It is for security.”

“But he is an old man. He is sick.”

“I can make an exception for an emergency. But only emergencies. All others need to find their own way to the hospital.”

“You’re the doctor at the hospital, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Yet you refuse to help a sick man? What is your job? Is it not to help the sick? How can you call yourself a doctor?” His voice starts to rise.

More people have come from the huts on either side of the road and are flanking our car.

“Listen. These are our rules. I can’t break them. I would not ask you to go against yours. Do not ask me to go against mine.”

“We let you pass here, time and again, and you will not do us this kindness?” Soldiers now stand both in front of and behind our car.

Anthony is staring directly at the steering wheel.

“I’ll tell you what. I will contact my boss, Bev. You know her. I will ask her permission. If she gives it, I will take him. If she does not, I cannot. Anthony? Back up.”

The car starts, and as we inch backwards, people step away. I turn on the radio.

“Bev for James. Bev for James.”

“James, go ahead.”

“Bev, Anthony and I are in Tongsay and we have been stopped at a roadblock. They want us to transport someone to Abyei. Do you copy?”

“I copy. Who stopped you? Over.”

“I don’t know. I never asked his name. They claim the person for transport is sick, but he appears well.”

“We need to get you out of there. You need to go to the hospital right away. Grenade. One man dead, one boy wounded. Do you copy?”

“I copy.”

“Okay. Sit tight. I’m on my way. Over and out.”

I love that woman. I turn the radio off.

“Anthony, pull the car ahead again.” We inch forward. “Let the patient come here,” I say, and turn the latch on the door of the Land Cruiser. It swings open. I gesture to the man.

He comes towards me. His gait looks normal. He draws closer, his eyes wide. He’s nervous. He is within a foot of me now. I reach for his wrist and feel his pulse. It is 80, regular. I open my mouth wide. He does the same. His tongue and gums are shiny and moist. For audience effect, I feel along the front of his neck, the angled sternocleidomastoid, reach behind its muscle belly to feel for swollen lymph nodes. There are none.

I walk to the back of the Land Cruiser where people are clustered, watching. I address the large man in the tunic, the one who was speaking English.

“He is okay. No emergency. I think he just needs to rest here for the night. Today was a hot day. He is sick from the heat. Give him clean water. And some bread.”

“Do you have any medicines?”

“He doesn’t need any. If he is still sick tomorrow, tell him to ask for me in the hospital. I talked with Bev. No transport. And I need to go. There is a sick boy in the hospital.”

He steps away from the car, his face stern. Finally, he gestures towards the log and turns away. Two soldiers step forward and remove it. He walks back towards the piece of thatch and doesn’t look back.

Anthony starts the car and drives away. He looks at me, smiles, shakes his head. I shake mine, and pick up the receiver.

“Bev for James. Bev for James.”

“James, go ahead.”

“Bev, everything is okay. Do you copy?”

“Affirmative. Where are you?”

“Past Tongsay. Moving towards Abyei.”

“I’ll see you in a few minutes. Over and out.”

Anthony and I drive on in silence as the sun arches towards Sudan’s flat rim. On all sides are brown scrappy acacia trees. I lean my head against the rattling door frame and watch the gravel blur beside our wheels.

We soon see the plume of Bev’s approaching truck and slow to a stop. She leans out the window.

“Everything all right?”

“Yeah, it’s cool. They tried to bully us into taking someone to Abyei. He wasn’t sick. He just didn’t want to walk.”

“They know better than that. I’m going to go and talk to them.”

“Give ’em hell. Hey, how did Nyanut make out? Did she use the meds I sent from Khartoum?”

“Worked fine. She’s grateful.” She drives away.

We rumble our way to Abyei. We turn down its one red road and pass compound 2. Its guard raises a slow hand. We stop at compound 1’s metal gate.

I shake my head. “Mustashfa,” I say, and point to the hospital.

Military compound, howitzer. We park out front and I leave my bags in the back of the Land Cruiser. I walk through the front gate and pass the nursing room.