I

Flying over the lush landscape of northern Kenya en route to Juba, the capital of the then autonomous region and now the world’s youngest country, South Sudan, I decided that cars and buses were in and planes and helicopters were out. That decision led me to being stranded on a dirt road surrounded only by low hills, high grass and a few scattered trees. The rented car had already broken down twice in an hour, and the driver seemed unable to identify the problem. Mundri, my destination, was still another 120 kilometres away. I was reluctantly considering jumping on the next bus back to Juba to start all over again, when a convoy of southern Sudanese soldiers passed by. Two Land Cruiser pick-ups filled to the brim with camouflaged, weapon-toting, war-weary soldiers pulled up alongside us. To my surprise the driver of the first Land Cruiser jumped out and offered to help fix the car. Taking the opportunity to stretch their legs, the entire contingent disembarked and we were surrounded by a platoon of soldiers offering opinions on what was wrong with the car. The consensus was that the fuel pump was busted, but since it couldn’t be fixed there was little that could be done. As the order was given to mount up, the commanding officer asked me where I was headed.

‘Mundri,’ I replied.