Petrichor.
It was a particular smell that wafted up when those first big droplets of rain begin to thump against the hard-packed red earth of the African savannah. Gregor had first heard this term in Uganda, from a woman with whom he’d had a brief but passionate affair that was at its most fervent in the torrents of messages exchanged on WhatsApp. It was one of those long-distance affairs that began as a flirtationship and ended shortly after a fleshly consummation which had left both parties feeling a little something less than they had hoped.
Now he was smelling it again, here in South Sudan, on the long road to from Juba to Bor. It was a road that his convoy had already been traversing for six hours, and they’d barely covered half of the distance to their destination. On this rutted surface they were lucky to get above twenty kilometers per hour in their rugged white Nissan Patrol SUV’s, stenciled with “UN” in the ubiquitous black letters, but even so they had long ago outrun their escort of armored personnel carriers, which lumbered stolidly along behind them.
The rain had been threatening for some hours – Gregor had first noticed the ominous clouds forming over the Nile as the convoy had slowed to let a large herd of cattle pass.
Three young men drove the thin, heavy-horned animals. One of them carried an AK-47, the other two held long spears whose shafts rested on their shoulders. This was a dangerous business, Gregor had thought. He’d estimated the beasts represented a value of around $25,000—a great prize for anyone who could capture them, although he suspected that would be easier said than done.
Despite the lack of their escort, the silent authority of their armor and their autocannons, the convoy had passed unmolested through several checkpoints manned by lethargic soldiers. At one, the officer on duty leaned back in a plastic chair, holding a baby in his lap. The tall, dark-skinned men made no effort to shake them down for money, as Gregor knew they would have done to any passing civilian or humanitarian vehicles.
Freedom of movement for the UN forces was only a problem in areas where the government didn’t want them to be – and the government didn’t care about travel along this road because it wasn’t the current focus of any particular conflict.
But that had not always been the case.
***
Petrichor.
In Uganda, where the white rhinos snuffled through the tall grass, that word had made him think of the potential for a long, passionate afternoon spent in a safari lodge as rain drummed softly on the thatched roof, but here it evoked rather different thoughts. Here, in a country with less than 100 kilometers of paved roads – and most of those in the capital itself – rain meant mud, and mud meant they might find themselves stranded.
But rain also meant life; new shoots of green grass bursting through the blackened crust of the vast swathes of savannah and swampland that the Nuer and Dinka and Murle tribesmen had burned during the last dry season. In the mud, long dormant catfish would awaken, and would be found flopping around the UN encampments, far from the nearest standing water. Life was a strange and wonderful thing, and it never failed to surprise Gregor the degree to which his own species not only took their own too-short existences completely for granted but actually put so much effort into snuffing them out in a variety of terrible ways.
This morbid thought surfaced as their convoy passed the rusting hulk of a T-55 tank, crouched like some great, reddish-brown beast on the side of the road.
Gregor knew from a professional training in such things that whomever had trusted their small allotment of years to the seeming invulnerability of that armored bulk had found their faith consumed in a white-hot jet of plasma when an anti-tank rocket had stuck them – when?
It could have been as recently as two years before, or as long ago as three decades – this had been a road to Hell since before Gregor was born. But it was not a road paved with good intentions – indeed, it was not paved with anything at all. North of here, Gregor knew, the ground changed from this hard, red laterite soil – known locally as murram – to a dark clay which became treacherously soft when wet.
And now the sky had made good on its threats.
***
Petrichor.
But it was cusp of the seasons – perhaps this was just a shower that would soon pass, though the dark thunderheads scudding eastward suggested otherwise. No sense looking for trouble, as that had a way of finding Gregor, and anyway, it was time for lunch, as evidenced by the fact that the convoy was stopping – the lead vehicle, driven by the Force Commander himself, pulling off to the side of the rutted red-clay road.
In the dry circle under a towering baobab, the Indian sergeants set out a handful of chairs, and General Gavaskar, a short, muscular officer who hailed from India’s Special Forces beckoned Gregor to come join him. This was not unexpected, as next to the general, Gregor was one of the most senior officers in the convoy, and a key member of the Force Commander’s staff. Jack, the red-faced Englishman who rode with General Gavaskar in the lead vehicle was already settling himself in one of the chairs.
“Come, Gregor, sit,” said the general, waving at an empty chair. “Let us eat.”
Food was brought forth – samosas and small sandwiches and water and tea. The Force Commander rarely ate much, preferring to allow meals to delay him no more than courtesy allowed, but today, with the big drops of rain pattering in the leaves above them and on the dust outside the perimeter of the sheltering branches, he seemed inclined to be a little more relaxed, willing to see what the skies had in store for them.
Jack, a veteran of British Royal Army Medical Corps who had spent most of his life in this country and in its wars began to spin stories of his days with the rebel armies, telling of men too tall for the Russian tanks, of summary executions and of grotesque injuries that he’d been called upon to treat. The stories were unbelievable, but this was a country where the truth was often so much stranger than any fiction one could imagine.
The rain began to slacken, and the Force Commander rose suddenly, causing Bob to pause mid-sentence. “Let’s try the road,” said the general, and headed for his vehicle.
With luck, Gregor thought as he rose to follow, we’ll sleep in Bor tonight – and dine with the officers of the 20th Jammu and Kashmir Rifles. Without it, we’ll sleep hungry under the stars, as so many do every day in this “Land of Great Abundance.”
*** The End? ***
I hope you've enjoyed this story, which is a fictionalized account of part of one of my very real experiences in while serving as a UN peacekeeper in South Sudan.
If you liked this story, I hope you will consider reading my memoir - which is now available for pre-order on Amazon.
Please note that if you join my 1000 True Fans list, I have a special offer of a pre-release free autographed copy of the book for everyone who pre-orders the hardcover now! That means, you'll ended up with TWO copies for the price of one - an autographed book a few months before everyone else, and a second copy to gift to a friend or family member!
