War Unlimited

War Unlimited. My journey through a warzone. A blog by Reuben Oluwagembi.

Reuben Oluwagembi

ABOUT ME

Reuben Oluwagembi is a freelance journalist reporting from Port Selao, covering the ongoing civil war and the escalating violence throughout the country. Reuben has covered the news from all over Africa. His stories have been featured in a number of prominent newspapers around the world. In 2003, he was awarded The Parsons-Page Award for reporting on the Igandu train disaster in Tanzania.

Age: 34

Place of Birth: Lagos, Nigeria

Nationality: Nigerian, living in exile in South Africa

CONTACT ME

reuben.oluwagembi@gmail.com

Blog

Arrival in Port Selao

May 02, 2008

Last night I flew into Victory International Airport, so named for the 1981 revolution that freed the country's citizens from decades of colonial rule. Now that melancholic name serves only to remind one how things have changed. This tiny African country is in the grip of a violent civil war that shows no signs of ending.

This was immediately apparent as our plane taxied toward the terminal. Hundreds of people, citizens, were crowding around several airplanes squeezing their way up the narrow steps to the entrance. We were locked inside our plane while the pilot waited for the crowds to disperse. He feared opening the doors could force a panicked crowd onto our already full plane.

After an hour, he tried another approach taxiing the plane to a different terminal to the South. But this angered the crowds and they followed us. From my window, I watched a swarm rush after us dragging their luggage behind them.

When we reached the South terminal, we were immediately surrounded. It was clear the plane would not be moving again. Now we were stuck. To add to this, the plane ran out of water. Waiting out the crowd was about to become much more difficult.

Our pilot, a Captain Levesque from South Africa, decided on a plea to the throng. From his pilot window, he spoke to them explaining that our plane was full and could not take anyone until the passengers inside were allowed safe passage off. Shockingly, the crowd didn't believe him. They demanded proof. What more proof could we offer beyond the tired faces staring at them from the windows?

Just as things looked to settle into a permanent stand-off, the crowd suddenly turned and ran away from the plane. As quickly as they surrounded us, they melted away. We learned later that an empty plane had landed back at the main terminal ready to take on passengers. And just like that, we filed out of the plane and touched the ground of Port Selao, capital city to a dying country. Already I miss Mikela and Hope.

A chance meeting on the plane

May 02, 2008

Port Selao

The flight into Port Selao was a short hour and a half trip. Just enough time for a catnap or to get acquainted with a neighbour. I almost always choose the latter. My seat mate was a solid looking Englishman named Nicholas Greaves. He claimed to be a 'transport consultant'. When I asked what that meant, he simply grinned and told me he's part of the game. Clearly a mercenary. But he was a charming man with a powerful laugh. Like so many Brits I've met, Greaves enjoys his potty humour . I'll spare you the transcription.

To the casual observer, Greaves did indeed appear to be some drab businessman of sorts. Entirely unassuming, a crisp white cotton dress shirt under a taupe blazer. An ascot tastefully tucked at his neck. He looked the part of the British expat on a desperate hunt for the nearest bangers and mash. But a few words between us and it was clear he had far more intricate plans than a simple bit of home cooking. Greaves, or Nicholas as he insisted, asked if I'd ever heard of Major Oliver Tambossa. I knew him as the Chief of Staff for the former government but had no idea of his whereabouts now. I speculated that he had fled the country with the President.

Matter-of-factly, Nicholas stated the President was dead. I was taken aback by such off-handed remarks in open company. But then mercs rarely exhibit fear.

Nicholas told me Tambossa's the one to watch. He spit Addi Mbandtuwe's name calling the rebel leader a corrupt puppet master hiding behind the Opposition. He believed Tambossa was the country's best hope for restoring order and stabilizing the economy. He spoke passionately about the man as if he truly believed the future lay in his hands. But I've met enough mercenaries to know that Nicholas sees an opportunity. Yes, he believes in Tambossa but only so much as one believes in the 5th horse in the 7th race. Greaves is gambling that Tambossa will be the one to come out on top and Greaves wants to be in the front row to enjoy the spoils.

Yes, the man was charming. But then, almost every mercenary I've ever met has a disarming charm about them. It must be a way to compartmentalize the death and devastation they perpetrate. When our plane arrived, Nicholas thanked me for the company. As we reached the tarmac, I turned for one final word only to find the man had vanished. I have no doubt I will never see him again.

The drive from the airport

May 02, 2008

Port Selao

The taxi ride into Port Selao was a quick 30-minute drive.

It gave me a snapshot of the region. I made quick notes on the sights and sounds I saw on the way in:

African Union troops supplying primary security at airport. My guess is mostly Tunisian and Angolan troops. How long will they remain in the country?

Gas stations chaotic. Hundreds of autos jamming for access to the pumps. My driver informed me that he fills his tank (and reserve cans) at 5:00AM when they first open. And even then, he must wait in line for 30 minutes.

Road checks. The AU have set up several check points along the road leading from the airport. In the space of 15 minutes, I've had my journalist's visa closely inspected 6 times. Shockingly, no bribes have been needed. The AU are here to help and they hold that task in high regard. I doubt this will be the case throughout the country.

Supermarket destroyed. It must have been burned down several weeks ago. Windows smashed, charred facade. My driver tells me this was once the most popular market in the region. Why destroy a supermarket?

No more AU. Now all we see are roaming pickups filled with militia. A mixture of nationalities overloaded with all types of weaponry. No doubt mercenaries. I've never seen so many mercenaries in one place before. I wonder what Greaves' role is in all of this.

An old man surrounded by a band of militia. He's got his arms raised, frantically pleading with one of the soldiers.

A group of young Africans gathered around a burning barrel. They're laughing, passing round a bottle.

Graffiti: "Authenticity today!" "Free workers!" "Diamonds lie!"

Civil war over?

May 02, 2008

Port Selao

I'm set up at Luxury's Inn, a hotel near the heart of Port Selao. This country has a knack for the ironic since luxury is most definitely not in. But it's serviceable. I lucked out with internet access. The hotel owner has an ancient computer that has dial-up. For a small fee, he's letting me upload my postings each day.

I went for an evening tea in the adjoining cafe. I expected a nervous, suspicious citizenry. Instead, I was met with a downright jubilant shopkeeper. He and his regulars were buzzing with word that the civil war is near an end and freedom is days away. Can I really have missed the whole war? I'll investigate tomorrow.

Death is the reality

May 03, 2008

Port Selao

I met with fools last night. To suggest the war is over is to sink one's head deep into the sand. This civil war is alive and well and killing everyone in its wake. Throughout the night, I heard automatic weapons clacking in the streets. And this morning, I toured the surrounding neighbourhood. Within the first block I found a smouldering lorry with its tyres gone and bullet holes riddling the driver's door. Several mercenaries wandered the streets, AK-47s casually slung over their shoulders. They saunter with such ownership it's sickening. Foreigners setting the tone for all the Africans.

I spotted what I thought was a dead dog burned to a black mass. But as I got closer, the reality hit me like a sucker punch to the stomach. I was staring at a woman's body. She had been burned alive. And last night no less. I grew furious with those stupid men at the cafe. They throw up blinkers and proclaim freedom on the march while their brothers and sisters are dying. I must find a new hotel.

Hotel Evelyn

May 06, 2008

Port Selao

I'm at the Hotel Evelyn now. A cleaner, quieter place. The owners keep to themselves and I'm happy to do the same. Unfortunately they don't have internet access, so it's taken me a bit longer to find a place. I'm now posting my blogs from the back room of a laundromat. The owner's young son has a connection that's very quick, but he can only access it every couple days. So bear with me. I won't be able to post regularly.

Most pressing for me, I must find a hiding place for my cash. I don't want to say how much I have on me for security purposes. Suffice to say, I'm prepared for the worst of bribes. But I fear losing it to some random thief or impatient mercenary.

A personal driver

May 06, 2008

Port Selao

Today I hired a local as my driver during my stay. His name is Atticus, an older gentleman in his 40s who owns an old Impala. A bit rusted, it looks like it may need pushing up the slightest incline, but at least it's inconspicuous. I pay him $10 a day, a princely sum for Atticus. We're both pleased with the arrangement. Though I don't know how long I'll have him. Once he's earned enough from me, he'll likely pack up his Impala with friends and family and make for the border.

President found dead

May 07, 2008

Port Selao

Early this morning, the President's body was found shot dead near a mountain pass to the Southeast. He was alone suggesting his security detail may have been a part of the assassination.

Greaves was right. That man has his finger on the country's pulse. How does he know so much? I must follow Greaves' advice and find out more about Major Tambossa. At one time, Tambossa was a rising star within the former government. But now he seems to have gone underground. Greaves is sure he's not fled the country. I have no doubt he knows what he's talking about. But where is Tambossa hiding. And what are his intentions?

Exodus

May 08, 2008

Port Selao

News of the President's death has sent the country into a full-fledged panic. The few remaining grocers are being stripped of all supplies as the rich, the elite, the opportunists and the educated all pack up and make their getaway.

An earlier report in The Port Selao Standard about empty diamond mines had caused a nationwide panic. With no reliable industry, inflation has soared and the expat community made for the borders. But that is nothing compared to the absolute terror I now see after word of the assassination.

Food is scarce and it's making civilized people take extreme action. This morning I watched a young boy stripped of his loaf of bread by a well-heeled businessman. The man disappeared into his car and sped off leaving the boy screaming in the street.

That boy is among the poor and elderly who will remain, unable to afford the journey. Some don't want to leave as this is the only home they've ever known. I spoke with one local, a Mr. John Bankole, who told me, "I'm not a killer. I can't fight these mercenaries invading our homes. But I can't just walk away either. The most I can hope is they'll kill each other. Then we'll have our home again."

It's a noble sentiment I've heard before, but I fear it's a naive one. I know mercs, and given the choice, they'll turn on the nationals before they'll turn on their own. Mercs lack an ethical core but they do possess an odd 'honour among thieves' mentality.

I still wonder what keeps hundreds of foreign mercenaries in a bankrupt country. This is particularly curious since mercs by definition go where the money is. So what is their angle?

Ministry of Information

caption lost

May 11, 2008

Port Selao

5 days ago, I arrived at the Ministry of Information. Normally a standard visit for me as a foreign journalist, I wanted to provide my details and ensure they knew I was in the country. To be honest, I wasn't sure what I'd find. It's hard to determine who runs the country. Ever since the President's assassination, there has been a mass exodus underway.

Rear of the empty Ministry of Information.

Not surprisingly, the Ministry was a tomb. The building had been looted; documents were strewn throughout the halls.

A strange moment: I stepped into what was once a cafeteria and spotted two gazelle picking at some trash. We both froze for a moment. Then as one, they bolted through the open door. As quick as — as gazelle! — they were gone.

Car bomb at grocer's

caption lost

May 11, 2008

Port Selao

My hands won't stop shaking. Only 2 hours ago, I was writing up my previous blog when I felt the wind knocked out of me. I collapsed to the floor sure that I was suffering a massive heart attack. I couldn't move, couldn't hear a sound. Then slowly a loud ringing filled my head. It took me several minutes, I don't know how long, to register the glass and dust scattered throughout my room. That's when I realized I wasn't having a heart attack. Something else happened outside. My hotel window had shattered.

The site of today's car bomb. This photo was taken yesterday before the attack.

From where I lay, I could only see the sky out the window. Shreds of paper floated through the air and the first thought came to me: a bomb. Still unable to hear anything, I crawled to the window and cautiously peered out. Half a block away, I spotted the black ruins of a car bomb. The ground was strewn with burning oil and dead bodies. People were running around in a panic. Absolute mayhem. Someone had struck a family grocer. Moments before, that corner of the street was home to one of the few surviving grocers. It's where everyone went for supplies. I myself had been there that morning.

The car was a black inferno. A burning charred body lay lifeless next to the vehicle. I saw a young boy calling for his missing football, his right arm shorn clean from his body. I found a woman's hand in the middle of the road, curled into a fist, the index finger pointing up to the heavens.

NGOs and local citizenry braved the fires to help the survivors but they lacked the necessary medical supplies and support vehicles. No doubt more lives were needlessly lost.

A nightmare

May 12, 2008

Port Selao

It's 3:30AM. I was woken up by the sounds of gunfire in the distance and now I can't get back to sleep. With my window glass gone, the sounds and the heat are more unbearable. I had a terrible dream — a nightmare really. I was standing at my window staring down at the bomb's aftermath. The young boy with the missing arm was clutching that woman's hand. He was pointing her crooked finger at me. He opened his mouth to speak and the most demonic scream pierced my ears. There was more but I don't think I can bring myself to write it. Maybe when daylight comes.

UFLL graffiti

caption lost

May 12, 2008

Port Selao

I've heard reports and rumours of a new faction forming in the country and today I saw the first signs of its existence:

They are the United Front for Liberation and Labour. But beyond this thin slice of information, I know very little about them. Experience suggests the more the name espouses freedom and liberation, the more they will embrace the exact opposite. But I must maintain my objectivity. I will learn more.

Another Embassy bids farewell

May 15, 2008

Port Selao

Last night I attended a dinner at the Belgian Embassy. This was a farewell dinner of sorts. Rumours claim that Belgium's recalling its Ambassador any day now. Not surprising since virtually every other Embassy in the country has closed shop.

I expected the topic of conversation to be the recent car bomb at my hotel, but in fact most people hadn't heard about it. Instead, talk centred on the emergence of the UFLL. In general, people view them as an opportunistic band of mercenaries who will dissipate once they realize there's no money to be had.

But of all these diplomats and military analysts, one man spoke with particular authority. Wayne Mudekwa is the Editor-in-Chief of the independent local newspaper, The Port Selao Standard. It's the last remaining paper in the country and it fearlessly covers the conflict. Mudekwa is the man behind such courage.

Mudekwa says the UFLL is led by Addi Mbantuwe. Mbantuwe is the former labour union chief and one-time Opposition Leader. If this is true, this is indeed news! It means the UFLL must be taken seriously. Mbantuwe has made a bold move. One must wonder how long he has been planning this and what his ultimate intentions are.

I spent the rest of the evening talking with Mudekwa. We have much in common. He's a cricket fan. Sadly a Lesotho supporter! He's kindly offered to give me access to his newspaper office for supplies and Internet access. This is brilliant. Now my posts will be more regular and my bureau chief will stop complaining about missed deadlines.

Additional note: Someone mentioned the 'Jackal' at the party. He said, "The Jackal is going to disrupt the apple cart". This was in reference to the growing tension between both sides of the conflict. At the time, we'd all had too much to drink and his comment seemed like an idle reference to local mythology. But this morning I recalled a shop keeper mentioning the Jackal days before. I don't know if this is yet another faction or a single person. I must investigate.

Visit to The Port Selao Standard

caption lost

May 17, 2008

Port Selao

Last night I spent a wonderful day with Wayne Mudekwa and the good people of the Port Selao Standard. The office is small but inviting. The front room holds all eight employees crammed together, desks jammed side by side. Even Wayne's space is squeezed tight in a corner of the office. The back room is a windowless space that holds the printing presses. I was impressed by the team's ability to manage such a large circulation (50,000) from this little office. Wayne has assembled a strong team of believers. They're invested in the good work they're doing and hold dearly their role as the voice of a nation in this time of crisis.

A local shop selling the The Port Selao Standard, the city's most popular newspaper.

I was invited to Wayne's home to spend dinner with his family. I can't begin to tell you the joy that filled my heart…and my stomach. For the past 3 weeks, I've survived on the drab offerings of the local cafes. But nothing can replace the comfort of a home-cooked meal.

And of course, Wayne's family was a joy. His wife, Adela, and his two boys Jason and Thomas, share that 'joie de vivre' Wayne embraces. It was the most relaxed I've felt since I arrived in the country. All the horrors of the outside world seemed banished from their home.

I confessed to Adela that I was surprised to see her and the boys still here. She said that in fact they were packed and ready to leave the country in two days. A trusted friend was due to escort them through the mountains across the border. Wayne was noticeably saddened by this prospect, but he's a wise man. Later as he and I shared a cigar on his porch, he told me, "Our country is in chains, and the Standard is a weapon against those chains. If we're to wield this weapon freely, we must know our families are safe."

I asked about the risks to his own life but he seemed truly taken aback, "My life? Look through the archives. Great men and women have given their lives in service of this country. Like you, I'm here to stand witness to the horrors. I don't want to die, but the cost of abandoning my duty is too great."

"Don't be afraid to cry"

May 18, 2008

Port Selao

I just remembered something from last night's dinner with Wayne and his family. As I was leaving, Wayne took me by the hand, "Remember Reuben, as journalists we are the eyes of the world. If we cry, the world cries. Don't be afraid to cry. Tears can move mountains."

On the drive back, his words filled my thoughts. As much as I admire Wayne and his cause, I don't believe our job allows for tears. Tears can distract us from the truth. They can cloud our judgement. A journalist already has enough factors working to cloud judgement.

APR

caption lost

May 18, 2008

Port Selao

I spotted this graffiti on a ride into Port Selao today:

"APR unite." I'd never heard of APR before but the same day I saw this, I received an email. I'm including the text here:

Reuben,

APR is alive and well. Alliance for Popular Resistance. APR will restore peace. APR will expose Mbantuwe as the thief that he is. Reuben, you know who leads APR.

ng

ng can only be Nicholas Greaves, the mystery mercenary I met on the plane. Based on this, I must presume that Oliver Tambossa is leading the APR. I really have no other evidence to go on. But I'm sure Greaves is using me as a way to announce this new faction. I've already filed my story announcing the emergence of the APR. In fact, the story has probably hit the papers by the time you're reading this. If I'm wrong about Tambossa, we'll hear very quickly. And I may very well be called back to S.A. But I expect silence on this front.

UPDATED: Oliver Tambossa has just issued a statement based on my story this morning. He confirms that he is indeed head of the APR. Much of it is filled with drab political speak, but here's the most relevant quote: "APR will protect our wounded nation from the dangers imposed by reckless bands of thugs whose sole objective is the pillaging of our motherland." [my emphasis]

He's clearly goading the UFLL by calling them a 'band of thugs'. If Greaves is part of the APR, I can't imagine they're any different than Mbantuwe and his men. I fear for dark days ahead.

Fire fights through the night

May 19, 2008

Port Selao

It's 4:15am and all night I have listened to the gunfire and taunts of the city's mercenaries. At this very moment, I hear a man shouting in pain. He's been shot and he's begging for help. But clearly no one is coming. His fellow soldiers seem to have abandoned him.

Things have turned for the worst since Tambossa issued his taunt. He's angered the UFLL, and now both they and the СНС have launched free-for-alls against one another. I, along with many of the locals, remain indoors. It's too hot even for an eager journalist right now.

Someone is shouting back at the wounded man but it's hard to make out what he's saying. The man has started calling for help again. I can hear the tears in his voice.

Oh lord. A single shot has just rung out. Everything is quiet, the gunshot echoing through the air.

I can sense the emotions within the surrounding homes. We're all praying to hear that young man's shouts again. But they will not come.

"The Jackal is watching"

caption lost

May 19, 2008

Port Selao

This graffiti gave me the opportunity to get some nearby people to speculate on its meanings. I include their responses here:

"It is a myth. The jackal is an evil spirit that haunts the wicked."

"The Jackal is another name for the APR." [most everyone shouted down this suggestion.]

"We have three factions here. UFLL, APR…and Jackal"

But by far the most common responses claimed the Jackal was a single person:

"He is a man, but he's a ghost. No one knows where he is."

"I hear he's a foreigner. Here to steal from us like every other foreigner."

How does this Jackal fit into events? Is he indeed here to steal from the nation? If so, what does he hope to steal? The country has very little to offer anymore apart from drained diamond mines and blood-soaked streets. The Jackal is here for something else. I must find him.

Possible interviews

May 19, 2008

Port Selao

When I arrived at The Standard today, Wayne (Mudekwa, Chief Editor at The Port Selao Standard) grabbed me and directed me to the back room for some privacy. It seems my story about the APR has gotten notice by the two new factions. Wayne has been contacted by both the UFLL and the APR to arrange an interview. They're anxious to meet with a foreign journalist to get their points of view out to the world.

Both factions contacting me in the same day. Who would believe it? Of course they're using me and as such I must be cautious. But I will use them also. It's too good a story to miss. I've told Wayne to ensure that the interviews are with Mbantuwe of the UFLL, and Tambossa of the APR. It's pointless to meet anyone but the two leaders.

Water from his canteen

caption lost

May 21, 2008

North of Port Selao

Today I left Port Selao to meet with an NGO from the next village. He claimed to have information for me. I had no idea what information, but when I arrived I found a note he'd left. He had packed up last night and fled the country. There would be no meeting. Unfortunately, I have lost a number of sources this way.

I decided I should head back to the relative safety of Port Selao, but first a quick meal. Atticus, my driver, directed me to a small cafe. As I crossed a back alley, I heard laughter. I peered through some bushes and spotted a mercenary sitting with a young prisoner about 25 years old. The young man had his hands shackled behind his back. I couldn't make out exactly what was said, but both men were laughing, sharing a small joke.

The main street of the village we visited today.

The merc had his lunch laid out on the ground in front of him. He shared a sandwich with his prisoner, gave him water from his canteen. Then he checked his watch. He stood up and drew his pistol, raised it to the prisoner's temple and shot him.

The man slumped to the ground, blood spreading into the dirt. The merc holstered his gun, grabbed the handcuffs off the dead man and started to leave.

Then he stopped and looked my way. Our eyes met and I braced myself. I could just now smell the gunpowder drifting my way and felt sure I was to be next. The merc licked his teeth cleaning the remnants of his meal. Then he spit and turned away. He never once looked back.

Was he UFLL? APR? I have no idea. But it makes no difference out here.

Rogue checkpoints

May 21, 2008

Port Selao

My driver, Atticus, led us back to town after I witnessed that man's execution. Atticus said he knew of a route that would help us avoid the busy northern checkpoint of Port Selao. I was exhausted and desperate to steer clear of any more contact with either UFLL or APR.

Unfortunately, this was perhaps our worst decision of the day. 10 kilometres outside of Port Selao, we arrived at a makeshift checkpoint set up in the middle of nowhere. I'd been warned about these random roadblocks. They're often manned by a roving band of mercenaries looking to make some quick cash.

This checkpoint was run by a young Port Selao police officer wearing a tattered uniform. But he didn't look right to me. I scanned the area looking for other officers. That's when I spotted something smoking in the field to the left of us. It was hard to make out, but I saw enough to recognize it as a burning Port Selao police cruiser.

I looked back at this scruffy police officer. A rogue mercenary. I told Atticus we must be careful. I would do all the talking. But Atticus became very agitated. He started to turn the vehicle around and this brought the officer running towards us. He fired several shots in the air, slammed a fist on the car and pointed us back to the line.

I wanted to smack Atticus. He'd get us killed. I would now need a significant bribe. I had 200 American dollars on me. $100 should be more than enough to get us through. I quickly separated the money, tucking $100 into my other pocket. I was carrying more than 5 times the amount I'd normally need for payment so I was sure we'd get through without trouble.

When the man arrived at our vehicle, he immediately started in on Atticus, "Why did you try to leave?" He punched him hard on the head. I jumped in and offered him $100 as a fine for the slight. He grabbed the money and snapped his fingers, "More". I gestured to indicate I had no more. Not a smart thing.

He started smacking Atticus repeatedly again and again and again. I shouted to stop as I grabbed my last $100. Again he snapped his fingers but I explained that was all I had. He grabbed Atticus and drew his pistol into the air making clear his intent. I pleaded with him to believe me. I couldn't bear to witness another execution…especially Atticus. I suspect the terror in my eyes spoke the truth. He released Atticus and waved us on.

And like that, we were free to go. As we drove away, I saw him dragging a driver from the next vehicle. Those people would not be as fortunate as I, if you can call what happened 'fortunate'.

I feel ill over the whole affair. I'm embarrassed by my privilege to offer bribes. I'm sickened that I could do no more than save Atticus and myself. But what more can one do? He was only one man, but one man with an AK-47. And like it or not, the AK-47 appears to be the diplomacy of this destitute country.

A man who would be king

caption lost

May 25, 2008

Port Selao

An interesting encounter today at a small cafe near the outskirts of town. I stopped in to organize my notes over tea. The cafe was crowded and I grabbed the last empty booth. A man soon appeared asking to join me. He was a young American in his 30s with a weathered, leathery face, a Chinese AK-47 slung over his shoulder and two pistols strapped to his legs. He wore a heavy bullet-proof vest that had clearly been doing its job. I could count the number of times it had saved his life. Three.

The café where I met Fred.

We sat together in silence for a long while. I've met enough mercenaries to know how they think. He was a man who would talk to me — otherwise he would have chosen another table, but he'd talk when he was ready.

After starting his second coffee he asked, "You a reporter." More a statement than a question.

And so we began to talk. His name is Fred Willis. He's 23 (he looks so much older!) and he's been here for 2 years. He just recently joined up with the UFLL. When I pressed him for a reason, he simply said, "I never ran an African country before. Sounds like fun, right?" And that, I believe, is what draws most of the mercs to this place. They see a chance to live out a fantasy. Be an African King with unfettered access to the coffers of the people.

Willis showed a great deal of interest in the stories I'm writing. Perhaps I'm easily flattered but he seemed genuinely curious. I gave him the URL address to some of my stories. Who knows, it might open his eyes to the consequences of his actions. Though I doubt it.

After his second cup of coffee, he said, "See you round, Reporter Man". And just like that, he was heading out the door. Classic social skills of every good merc.

The Jackal's a mercenary

May 27, 2008

Port Selao

The one frustrating thing about my hotel is that I must go through one of the city's major checkpoints at least twice a day. And the lines always take over 45 minutes each way. But today luck was on my side.

As I approached the checkpoint, I heard a familiar voice, "Reporter Man!" Fred Willis, the young merc I'd met the other day, was manning the checkpoint. He waved me to the front of the line. Turns out he'd actually looked up one of my stories just as he said he would. It was my exclusive on the APR. He said if ever I needed more inside scoops, come see him.

I immediately asked the one burning question in my mind, "Who is the Jackal?"

And my good man Willis obliged. "The Jackal? He's a merc. A nasty one too. I ain't never seen him and I don't really care to meet him either. Good luck finding him. He moves like a ghost."

I pressed him for details. Where was he last seen? How did he know the Jackal was a mercenary?

"The older guys, they know him. A couple have worked with him years before. But he's on his own out here. He ain't working with any of us. Got his own agenda."

I asked if he knew his real name but Willis was as in the dark as me. If the Jackal is indeed a mercenary, it'll be easier to find him. Mercs tend to have predictable patterns. But most mercs don't usually have their own agendas. They follow someone else's. So what has brought the Jackal to this country?

Mbantuwe interview is on

June 01, 2008

Port Selao

I've just received word from my good friend, Wayne Mudekwa at The Standard. The UFLL have set a date for my interview with their leader, Addi Mbantuwe. He is a former labour leader who rose to power as Party Chairman of Authenticity, the country's Official Opposition. He's an unlikely leader whom I suspect is more fascinated with the idea of power rather than the desire to shape a nation.

I've left word with my bureau chief about my plans to meet Mbantuwe. Unfortunately, I have no Embassy to report to since they've all fled the country. I don't expect trouble, but one can never be sure.

A ruler in waiting

caption lost

June 03, 2008

Somewhere west of Port Selao

Today I had my interview with Addi Mbantuwe, leader of the UFLL (United Front for Liberation and Labour). The full interview has been sent to my editor in South Africa. He should be printing it in the next couple days.

As I expected, security was severe. Atticus, my driver, drove me to a cafe 5 kilometers out of town, but that's as far as he could go. Several UFLL militia were waiting for me. They sent Atticus on his way and I left with them for a one-hour drive into the country. I won't lie; I had a flickering fear I was about to disappear into the African savannah. It didn't help that my companions refused to breathe a single syllable for the entire journey. And just as my fears were starting to strangle me, a pair of large white bungalows appeared on the horizon.

Mbantuwe's compound. I snuck this photo as I was driven back to town.

We arrived and I was searched (for the third time) by a new team of militia. These men were a multicultural mish-mash. Americans, South Africans, English, nationals — all mercenaries. Their equipment was likewise a bundle of makes and models: Shotguns, Bulgarian and Chinese AK-47s, Uzis (I've come to know far too much about assault weapons).

Once I was cleared, they led me to a large office that smelled of mint and had a full zebra rug on the floor (illegal at one time in this lawless country). An oak desk dominated the far wall. To the left, a grand window gave a spectacular view of the savannah. Beyond these few items, the room was quite bare. I was left alone to wait for Mbantuwe. On his desk, I could see a small map of the country with bold red lines drawn through sections. Our location was in the largest section to the West. UFLL controlled territory, I suspect. Though it's still hard to tell who controls what.

I heard a booming barrel-laugh beyond the office door. Moments later a jovial, heavy-set man entered the room. Addi Mbantuwe, leader of the UFLL. He wore a blue Abacost jacket decorated with heavy silver and gold necklaces. His wrists were adorned with bold bracelets and a chunky Rolex. A ruler in waiting. He gripped my hand firmly, his eyes beaming like a man meeting his idol. "Am I the luckiest man in Africa? Reuben Oluwagembi here in my office. I can't believe it."

Still holding my hand, he led me to a chair and sat me down. I've met party leaders before and they all exude an amiable confidence. It's what wins them the hearts and minds of the public. But Mbantuwe utterly disarmed me.

He fell back into his own seat behind the desk and shouted to his assistants for tea. Once our pleasantries were out of the way and tea had arrived, he suddenly locked me with a piercing stare, deadly serious. "You're going to help spread the word; tell the nation and the world of our just cause." He punctuated his next sentence, "Our hope for a free nation, a free Africa".

We began the interview and I asked what I could but like any good politician, he answered the question he wished I'd asked. As you can see in this exchange from my article:

Me: The African Union has a presence in the country. Their objective is to bring the tense civil war to an end. Is the UFLL working with the AU to help bring an end to the conflict?

Mbantuwe: The civil war is indeed tense. Many lives have been lost and it breaks my heart to see my brothers and sisters dying. So you see why we need to be vigilant. We cannot let the APR run free and terrorize the nation. They're an illegal band of terrorists, and the UFLL will not rest until we restore order to our home. And that means eliminating the APR by any means necessary.

Much of my interview continued in the same vein. It ended when Mbantuwe abruptly rose, shook my hand and bounded out of the room. I checked my watch. We'd spoken for exactly one hour. Down to the minute.

It will be interesting to see what comes of my interview with the APR's Tambossa, if indeed it happens. I still haven't heard back.

Internet access troubles

June 03, 2008

Port Selao

Unfortunately, I won't be able to post every day. Internet access at The Port Selao Standard is sporadic and the staff has limited me to once a week. I'll now be doing batch posts every Wednesday so be sure to check in then for my latest news.

Mamma's Mess

June 10, 2008

Port Selao

Today was meant to be a day of relaxation, relatively speaking of course. There's only so much relaxation to be garnered in a war zone.

I went for an afternoon dinner with Atticus. My poor driver was still recovering from our last encounter with the UFLL and needed some cheering up. He was terrified for me when I left him to meet Mbantuwe. I was gone a full five hours and he was convinced I'd been taken to the jungle and executed (something I feared myself).

So today we were going to his favourite cafe, a small hideaway in Port Selao called Mamma's Mess. There aren't many shops still open for dinner services so this was a treat for both of us. And true to his boastings, the food was excellent. We both had a plate of ugali, a popular cornmeal dish here. I've only had it once before but have to say that Mamma's Mess makes the best ugali I've ever tasted.

And the look of joy on Atticus' face was all I needed. He really did seem terrified for my life, God bless him.

Tambossa Interview

caption lost

June 11, 2008

Port Selao

What a day!

I started today expecting to visit a group of refugees attempting to flee. Instead, I found a note waiting for me at the hotel reception. Oliver Tambossa, leader of the APR, wanted to meet. Today. In one hour.

I left a quick note for Atticus and told him not to worry. I gathered my things and hurried to the meeting place, a small shop 15 minutes away from my hotel.

Our meeting place. I never saw a single person the whole time I waited.

It was a secluded little corner of town. The shop was empty, so I sat on the front porch and waited. And waited. One hour and thirty minutes later, a small minivan pulled up. Two men leapt out and grabbed me forcefully. Both had automatic weapons slung over their shoulders. I was thrust into the van and a cloth bag was pulled over my head as we lurched forward.

Unlike Mbantuwe's soldiers, these men chattered and snapped constantly with one another. Unfortunately they all spoke Zulu, a language I don't know very well. But I suspect they were late picking me up and now needed me in front of Tambossa at the promised hour. Or there would be trouble.

This made for a chaotic drive. I didn't feel any of the anxiety I felt on my trip to meet Mbantuwe. I was sure that Tambossa would have read my UFLL story by now and he'd be most anxious to get his point of view to the world. Barring unforeseen disaster, I would be back in Port Selao tonight.

After a long 2-hour drive, we arrived at our destination. With the bag still over my head, they pulled me from the van and escorted me into a cool building. We marched down a hall, up a flight of stairs. I was brought through another hall or room and led to a chair.

Once seated, the bag was pulled from my head. And there sat Major Oliver Tambossa, leader of the Alliance for Popular Resistance. He's a slim man with penetrating eyes. He wore a military beret and green army fatigues. His arms were folded across his chest. He clutched a newspaper in one hand. It was a copy of my Mbantuwe interview.

He waved the paper, "Tell me that you know that he lies to your face. Mbantuwe lied to you. Tell me you know this".

My interview had begun and I could barely orient myself. I had to answer carefully. "Sir, my job is to interview. I leave the editorials to my readers. And they have strong opinions. Like you, sir."

His face broke into a wide grin, "Mr. Oluwagembi, you mistake me for a 'ruler in waiting.' I don't need massaging. I have seen your website. So please don't insult me with claims of objectivity. I know what you do. Just so we're clear."

And with that delicate warning, I was free to begin my questions. It's clear the man does his homework; he's an educated man who recognizes that he's being used as much as he uses me.

The interview lasted a short 35 minutes. Each answer he gave was precise and efficient. He had rehearsed the points he wanted to make, countering arguments Mbantuwe had made before.

When we finished, he walked me to the front door. He gripped my hand tightly and said, "I look forward to reading your story. And yes, I will read it."

With a quick nod to one of his soldiers, a black bag was again placed over my head. After another 2-hour drive, I was dropped off outside Hotel Evelyn.

Here I was safe and sound back in my room. And yet for the first time, as I stared at my laptop trying to complete the story, I felt more terrified than I ever have since arriving.

The eyes of the world

June 14, 2008

Port Selao

Much to my own surprise, the interviews I had with leaders of the UFLL and the APR have been picked up by the wire services. They've been published in over 40 newspapers already. I can hardly believe it, but my bureau chief assures me it's all true. This is great news as we need to shine a light on the turmoil in this small corner of the world.

At the same time, I see that traffic to this blog has increased over the last two weeks. So to all my new visitors, welcome! My hope is to give you a personal look at what's happening here on the ground. My blog reflects some of my more personal thoughts on events here. Things that may not always be appropriate to a news story.

Questions from readers, Part 1

June 18, 2008

Port Selao

I've spent much of the afternoon here at The Port Selao Standard reading emails sent in from visitors all around the world. I'm afraid I can't answer all your messages since my Internet access is very limited. But there are a couple questions I wanted to post and answer:

I find your website very interesting. Your writing style is quite good. I hope that you stay safe in your travels, and look forward to reading more! Keep up the good work!

Kel L.

Thanks for your concern, Kel. Rest assured that I take every precaution when I enter an unstable region. I have the support of my news bureau and am always ready for the worst. To give you an idea, my hotel room now has its own gas generator along with 15 litres of gasoline (don't tell the hotel owners!). I have 40 litres of water, boxes and boxes of dried food and noodles. 3 fully stocked first aid kits, duct tape, solar crank radio, 4 flares, water filters and hand pumps, a small carton of matches, a box of blank journals, and one well-worn copy of The SAS Survival Handbook, a book on how we persevere in the most adverse conditions. The book doesn't specifically detail life in a war-zone but the advice applies.

If I am suddenly forced to flee, I'll need to leave much of my supplies but while I'm here, I can take care of myself if (when?) the city's supply lines shut down.

Questions from readers, Part 2

June 18, 2008

Port Selao

Another question from a reader:

Dear Reuben, I visited Port Selao many years ago. I remember it as a peaceful community with some of the sweetest people I'd ever met. It saddens me to read how much it's changed. I remember a tiny shop called Rekes' Hideaway, a cute name when you consider it was located at the busiest roundabout. It was a very popular lunch spot run by the Rekes, a Tanzanian family. They put me up for a week after I'd had my purse (and all cash) stolen. I haven't heard from them in over a year. Can you tell me if they're still there?

Yours, Irena

Hello Irena, I did some investigating today and learned that indeed Rekes' Hideaway was THE place to grab some fine cassava. My driver, Atticus, told me it was his favourite stop on hot afternoons. He told me a funny story about driving the owner across town for a delivery, the car stuffed with bags of cassava bread all for a customer planning an afternoon banquet. At every stop along the way, people rushed the car recognizing the owner and drawn by the smell wafting into the street. Money and bread was exchanged and off they went to the next intersection. As Atticus put it, "Every stop, money — bread. Money — bread." When they arrived at their destination, they had a single bag of cassava. The man expecting his carload was livid!

I wish I could have visited the country when it was such a lively place. You're lucky to have seen that side of it, Irena.

Atticus and I drove to the shop yesterday. The roundabout is no longer the busy section you recall. When I was there, it was deserted. Atticus and I were the only two people in the square save for a single patrolling band of mercenaries. We were questioned briefly and then they left. The shop itself still had its sign up, but the inside had been ransacked. It was cleaned out of any valuables. Though we found one thing that may bring a smile to your face. On the front counter was a small wilting bouquet with a note attached: "We miss you. God bless and keep you safe." It's hard to know if this was left by the owners or by a thoughtful customer.

I asked around to learn what had happened to the Rekes. Indeed, they're a well-known family. You'll be pleased to know that they are safe. They left the country soon after the civil war broke out. Being foreigners, they feared for their safety and felt it best to return to Tanzania as soon as possible. A wise decision as you can well imagine. I don't know what's happened to them since. Hopefully they've set up a new shop back home.

I'll try to answer more emails as they come in. I apologize that I can't answer all of them, but I'll do my best.

Atticus is dead

June 18, 2008

Port Selao

I can barely believe I'm writing this. Atticus, my wonderful driver, is dead. Killed at an APR checkpoint. In fact, murdered.

I had just finished posting my latest blog news for this week. We left The Standard and headed back for the hotel in town. As has become our routine of late, Atticus asked, 'North or East?' Meaning which checkpoint shall we take. North, I said. I was tired and guessed the Northern route would be quieter at this time.

We arrived at the checkpoint and were stopped for questioning. This is not unusual. However, the soldier interrogating Atticus didn't like his answers — the usual answers we always provide.

Atticus was pulled from the vehicle and led to a stone wall. Two soldiers now stood over him, weapons at the ready. This was not right. I'd seen this before and knew it could not end well. I got out of the vehicle waving my press credentials, arms in the air. A third soldier rushed to me aiming his weapon at me. Pinned against our vehicle, I called to the soldiers surrounding Atticus.

I could barely make out what they were shouting at him. He tried to keep calm but I could see the fear in his eyes.

It's a horrible sensation, this terrifying moment when you sense in your bones that things are about to slip into your worst fears. Atticus looked at me. I swear to you a year passed by in our shared gaze. So much to say, so many mistakes. All the ways to start over. East. Go East. Yes, I will get your family safe passage. Yes, I will not let this be in vain. Yes, I will stand witness and remember.

And then he was gone.

I don't recall the sound of the weapon. I don't recall him falling. I only know I held him with my gaze one moment. The next, he'd slipped away.

I took Atticus back to The Standard, too shaken to do anything else. And now I'm writing here. Perhaps it would be wise for me to wait before posting my raw emotions. But I tell you straight, if I had a gun at that checkpoint. If I had a gun.

Not in vain

June 22, 2008

Port Selao

It's been four days since Atticus was killed. It's been hard to pull myself out each day but I do it. I still have deadlines. I still have a conflict to cover. I'm shocked by how easily I return to form once I'm out the door. My mind compartmentalizes Atticus and drives me forward as if I never knew him.

I've experienced this before with contacts I've had, but Atticus was different. We'd become close friends. I know his children and wife by name. He knew mine. It was the first time I'd felt like I had a partner in the field.

So to shut him from my thoughts so easily leaves me feeling dirty and heartless. I know it's simply survival, but to know and to accept are two completely different things. I must find a way to honour his memory.

Tomorrow I visit his family. I am helping evacuate them to family across the border. I haven't seen them since I broke the news.

Safe passage for family

June 22, 2008

Port Selao

Today I arranged for a driver to escort Atticus' family through the mountains and to the border. I drove out with them to see them off. The border was jammed with so many people. It took a good two hours to get them through. Fortunately, the African Union (AU) is still manning the crossing so they had no troubles. Relatives were awaiting them on the other side.

I gave what cash I could to Martina, Atticus' wife. It won't be easy to start a new life but it's what they must do. Before leaving, Martina embraced me tightly. We both cried as we held each other. It's the first time I've felt such a personal toll from a conflict.

As I left the border, I had an interesting conversation with another civilian leaving the country. He'd heard a rumour that the AU was planning to evacuate.

I immediately returned to the border and questioned several of the AU but no one would confirm or deny. I didn't really expect an answer but you never know.

I pray this rumour is false. If the AU leaves, the country will turn into an American Wild West of sorts. They are the last shreds of authority holding things together. Without them, the violence will escalate.

How to pay tribute

caption lost

June 23, 2008

Port Selao

I sense a dark cloud descending — the murder of my friend, Atticus, rumours of an AU evacuation, two new factions growing (APR and UFLL). Add to all this more evidence that this Jackal is playing some sort of role in all the chaos in this country.

The Jackal lives!

I feel like I have so much information and yet I have nothing. Just threads. But I know I've been less forthcoming than I should be. There are stories I've heard hinted at, stories I've been reluctant to follow for fear of repercussions.

So here is my promise. For Atticus. He will not die in vain. I promise to follow my stories where they lead. I am in a position to make a difference and it's my sin if I choose to ignore this fact.

Two weeks ago, Atticus told me of a pharmacy distributing junk malaria pills. There were rumours of militia involvement. Tomorrow, I am going to the factory to investigate.

APR behind junk malaria pills

June 27, 2008

Port Selao

I followed up on Atticus' tip about the pharmaceutical factory. I was hesitant to publish my report, but I cannot turn a blind eye to the real corruption in this country. I will accept whatever consequences may come my way. Here's the opening paragraph from my story. It hits the papers tomorrow:

10-year old Oliver Chamisa died overnight in his mother's arms. For the past 2 weeks, his mother had treated him with artesunate, a highly effective anti-malaria treatment she purchased on the black market. It was these tablets, not the malaria, that killed the small boy.

25 kilometres southeast of Port Selao, APR soldiers stand guard outside a small factory where thousands of artesunate tablets are produced daily. All of it junk.

The story goes on to examine the APR's motives and the sad toll on Africans, the people Tambossa supposedly wants to protect. I still can barely believe it myself. When I met him, Tambossa spoke so forcefully about the need for African unity and peace. And yet his soldiers guard this grim factory.

I went there to see for myself. I won't bore you with the hours of surveillance. But there was this moment:

As I drove back to town, my vehicle stalled about 20 kilometres outside of Port Selao. With no help in sight. After several minutes staring at the engine willing it to start, a small pickup truck rumbled up beside me. APR from the factory. Jammed with men carrying AK-47s, they all hopped out at once. All Africans, they were part of the local militia who joined up with the new factions after the government's collapse. I tensed up. This could turn ugly.

As two of the men approached me, three others started circling the vehicle. I performed a fast mental checklist — what was I carrying with me? My notes on the factory! What did I write?

But then a voice shouted out, "Here's your problem." I turned to see all three men looking at my engine. One of them climbed into the driver's seat. The two started pulling and wiggling at cables and god knows what. One of the men standing next to me offered a cigarette. I declined. "Try it now!" He turned the engine. After two attempts, the car rumbled to life. They all smiled, clapping each other's backs. In seconds, they were back in the van waving and rumbling off towards Port Selao.

It was the oddest encounter I've had yet with the APR.

Which side you?

caption lost

caption lost

July 02, 2008

Pala

My coffee had just arrived when I heard it. Takka-takka-takka.

I was sitting at a cafe in Pala with one other patron and the owner. We all froze staring out the large front windows. Then again. Takka-takka-takka. Closer.

A man raced by carrying an AK-47. That was enough for the owner who retreated to the back room of his shop. The other patron got up, poked his head out the front door and then ran.

I was alone and the gunfire was getting bigger. I could hear a deeper POM-POM-POM echoing nearby. Heavy artillery. Something was going down. APR? UFLL? I needed to find out.

I ran into the street and spotted two soldiers cutting through the street and down an alley. I chased after them at a distance keeping my head low. The gunfire was much louder on the street and seemed to be centred north of the cafe.

The soldiers disappeared at a corner and I followed after them…big mistake. I came around the corner and practically ploughed straight into them. They were hunched low reloading their weapons. Both Africans, local soldiers, they levelled their weapons at me. One of them shouted, "Which side you? Which side you?!"

I threw my arms up, "Journalist, journalist!" That calmed them down and they both returned to reloading their weapons. They couldn't care less about a journalist. I asked who they were fighting and got the most curious answers. One man said, "APR" but the second replied, "No no, UFLL. UFLL."

I asked, "Who are you fighting for?" But before I got a reply, a truck rumbled down the alley beside us. The men onboard spotted us and opened fire. The tiny lane exploded into bits of concrete and dust as I sprinted away with the two soldiers. I could feel chunks of the walls smack against me. God knows how I wasn't hit!

We turned a corner and kept sprinting. The three of us running like a pack. I should have broken away from them. I was being mistaken for a soldier. But my mind was too scared to break off alone. There was strange comfort in the group.

One of the corridors we ran down yesterday. I took this picture the next morning.

We spun down another alleyway and collapsed into a small courtyard. No sound but our panting breaths. Far off we heard more pop-pop of gunfire. But we weren't being chased anymore.

I caught the eye of one of the soldiers. We both grinned, an adrenalin rush from the near-death chase. Then we heard, "Aww, fuck".

The second soldier was lying flat out examining a wound near his gut. He'd been shot and it looked bad. Very bad. The first soldier knelt by his friend then asked me for medicine. I just stared at him and shrugged. Obviously a bad response, but I was honestly at a loss what to do. Why he thought I'd have medicine, I don't know.

He aimed his rifle at me deadly serious, "Medicine". I scanned the courtyard and could just make out a shop on the next street. I told him I'd go and see what I could find. He nodded and I rushed out the courtyard.

Back on the street, the crack of gunfire was louder. I saw a band of men crouched behind a large dumpster. Five foreign mercenaries. They looked American and English. They were exchanging fire with someone close by. The bullets made a 'zing' sound every time they struck the dumpster. I backed away and turned toward the shop. I didn't need a bullet ricocheting my way. Or worse, they might spot me and start firing.

I entered the shop. The owners, a young man and woman, peered over the counter from the back of the room. I shouted for medicine. The man pointed to a shelf. I grabbed all the bandages, gauze and pain tablets — everything that I could. How the bloody hell would this stop a gut shot? I asked how much but the man just waved me away.

I stood outside and realized I'd lost my bearings. Where was the courtyard? For a moment, I considered whether I should return at all. What if the soldier was already dead? Would I be blamed? Would the other soldier turn on me?

But I had to go back. Together we might just be able to save him. I ran towards what I guessed was the courtyard. Every 50 meters, I had to stop and tuck into a doorway or dumpster. Mercs seemed to be everywhere with bullets popping from every direction. And yet still I couldn't guess who was fighting whom.

And who knew there were so many goddamned courtyards in this little town? All of them empty. I ran into one courtyard thinking it must be the one. But it was empty. I turned to leave when I spotted a thick trail of blood. And there, where the soldier had been lying, was a puddle of blood that trailed across the courtyard and into a dark passage.

I followed the trail cautiously. I couldn't hear a sound. Were they hiding? Was someone else with them? I didn't dare call out. I stepped through the entryway pleading with my eyes to adjust to the dark.

I saw a foot. Then a leg. A body was lying in the dark. It was the soldier but he was alone. I came closer and his face came into focus. Dead. Eyes wide, frozen in terror. His hands were gathered around his wound.

The other soldier was gone. He must have fled after he dragged him to this corner. I stared out to the courtyard. Empty save for the trail of blood leading to me. That's when a new panic hit me.

And as if reading my fears, a merc stepped into the courtyard. He spotted the blood and his eyes followed it. He seemed to look right at me hidden in the dark as he raised his rife, an Uzi. He was American wearing heavy body armour and khaki pants, and he was stepping closer. I had to say something soon if I didn't want to be riddled in bullets.

Taken the next morning, this is where the soldier died. Someone took his body away in the night, but you can still see the blood trail.

As delicately and clearly as I could, I said "I'm unarmed. A journalist".

He stopped. Ordered me out with arms raised. Once in the open, he looked me over presumably trying to see where the blood came from. "Who else is there?" I told him the man was dead.

Staring into the dark passage, he asked, "You positive he's dead?" I said yes. No sooner did the words leave my lips than he launched a barrage of bullets inside.

He stopped and my ears were ringing from the noise. The Uzi's nozzle leaked a trail of smoke. All else was quiet.

"Yeah, he's dead." Then he turned and disappeared into the street.

After an hour of sneaking and hiding, I found my way back to the motel room I'd rented for the night. The next morning I tried to determine what had happened the day before. But still no one could give a clear answer. It might have been the APR or the UFLL or both. It might have been rogue mercs letting off steam. The UFLL immediately issued a statement blaming the APR for the chaos. Two hours later, the APR released a near identical statement blaming the UFLL.

And for this, that soldier died terrified and alone in that dark doorway.

Over 2 months here

July 05, 2008

Port Selao

It's hard to believe but I've been in the country since April and my money's starting to run out. Bribes are starting to catch up to me.

My visa, for what it's worth, will also need to be renewed so I need a trip down to Joburg. That means I'll get to see my family. I got an email from Darren, my bureau chief. He likes the stories he's getting and wants to send me a small video team. This is all great news.

I need to head for The Port Selao Standard and borrow their SAT phone to make arrangements.

Hunting for signals

July 05, 2008

Port Selao

I spent the last 6 hours trying to get a single line out to Joburg. I've been taken to the most ridiculous places to hunt down reception. Try finding something you can't see. Bloody impossible.

I was trying to call Darren, my bureau chief and I needed the SAT phone at the Standard. Wayne Mudekwa, the editor, helped me track down some reception outside. We hit all the usual spots he uses — the roof, a small hill on the back lot, the empty parking lot across the road, standing on the lunch room table. Nothing worked.

So we decided to head out to the large hill a kilometre north of the Standard. Once up top, we picked up a slight signal that flowed in and out. We were so close but couldn't get any higher. Wayne suggested I climb his shoulders, so I did just that.

Now I'm not a big man I assure you, but Wayne wobbled around as if he carried the world on his back. But it worked. We had a signal. I quickly dialled and soon heard Darren's voice far off in South Africa. I managed one word ("Darren!") before Wayne's knees buckled and we crashed to the ground.

And that was the end of it. We never got the signal again. I had to write a quick email to Darren explaining that I hadn't been attacked mid-call. We'll try again later.

UFLL logos on AU aid

caption lost

July 08, 2008

North of Port Selao

Today, the African Union (AU) filed a formal complaint against the UFLL for obstruction. Over the past two weeks, aid trucks have been stopped by UFLL militia. These trucks are carrying vital aid packages to the region, but UFLL soldiers are demanding their logo be sprayed onto all packages before they go any further. Worse still, the UFLL wants to control distribution. I've seen the results of this 'distribution' firsthand.

As I entered a UFLL checkpoint two days ago, the truck ahead of me was pulled aside for inspection. I watched as the guards removed several crates and boxes of aid, each one marked with a large UFLL insignia. One of the guards became furious. He started striking the driver across the head.

"What is wrong with you? That is APR country out there. Do you want to help the enemy? Are you a traitor?"

He beat him viciously for several minutes before the man was allowed to return to his vehicle bruised and bloodied. He pulled his truck around and headed back to town.

Of course I arrived at the next town to find old men, women and children in dire need of aid.

The apparent enemy of the UFLL.

Not a single soldier anywhere. It reminds me of Mbantuwe's words to me a few weeks back. They're worth repeating here: "Many lives have been lost and it breaks my heart to see my brothers and sisters dying."

Where is his broken heart now?

We're going to play golf.

July 13, 2008

Port Selao

I heard whispering first. Someone was in my room.

I opened my eyes and stared from my bed into the muzzle of an AK-47. This was straight out of a bad movie. Then I heard laughter. Snickering really. "Up, up!"

Three men stood in my hotel room. All armed. I was pulled out of bed with barely enough time to dress before I was shuttled to a waiting van. They were African, Afrikaans, one Czech I think. I couldn't tell if they were APR or UFLL. And given my recent stories, it could have been either group out to teach me a lesson.

So yes, I was more than a little scared. I was flat-out terrified.

We drove South past the city limits into UFLL country. I asked where we were headed. The driver replied, "We're going to play golf". The van erupted into childish giggles that didn't ease my nerves.

The van turned onto the path of a small hill and we drove up the winding road. We reached the plateau and saw a black sedan parked there. And several feet away stood two men. One had an Uzi slung from his shoulder; the other was the familiar shape of Addi Mbantuwe, leader of the UFLL. He clutched a driver and was slugging a bucket of golf balls into the savannah.

As he lined up his next shot, he said "Reuben, you want to know where my broken heart is."

He kept striking shots as he spoke, never once glancing back at me. "It is right here on this hill. It is wondering, have we not treated you kindly? Given you freedom to roam wherever you wish? Have we not treated you as an equal? As a brother? And yet, the way you treat us, it breaks my heart."

So yes, he'd read my latest report on the UFLL.

"One of my men once asked me, 'Can you trust this journalist?'. And I told him I looked into your eyes and saw a man of truth. They trust my judgement, Reuben."

He stopped a moment glancing at the ground around him. He started snapping his fingers, "7-wood. 7-wood."

The Uzi thug hustled to the golf bag leaning on the sedan. While Mbantuwe waited on his club he said, "Do you know what they think of my judgement now?"

With the 7-wood in his hands, he took his time lining up the next shot. "I will tell you."

He smacked the ball solidly. "They think I am a wise man. Because they know that when you and I talk, you will understand. And I know you'll understand because you're a reasonable man."

He turned to face me tossing his club at the Uzi thug. He stepped closer. Too close. He placed a hand on my shoulder as he locked me with a stare I never wish to see again. He spoke more quietly, "Reuben, I know this was all a misunderstanding, but my men aren't as charitable as me. They're passionate men and sometimes they need to be handled with kid-gloves. So let's be more careful next time."

He gripped my shoulder tighter as he leaned in, "Because if I'm disappointed again, I will slit off your tongue and feed it to you. We don't want that now do we?"

I stared in terrified silence until I realized he was waiting for an answer. I blurted a quick, "No."

He patted my shoulder nodding. He waved at one of the mercs and turned back to his golf, holding a hand out for his club. I was led back to the van without another word. The meeting was over.

I've now been sitting here in my hotel trying to decide what this all means for me. But I realize that's the wrong question. What does this mean for the country?

Duct tape maintenance

July 14, 2008

Port Selao

The young mercenary carefully wrapped a roll of grey duct tape around the butt of his rifle. It had cracked during a skirmish earlier that morning and there were no replacement weapons anywhere.

I had travelled to an APR checkpoint to interview one of their medics, but things were postponed due to the morning assault by UFLL troops. Now the medic was tending to the wounded while I watched mercs repair their weapons.

Lately everyone is doing homemade repairs to any damage their guns receive in combat. Likewise, virtually all target practice has been halted due to a growing shortage of ammo.

This comes on the heels of the African Union's arms embargo. All weapons reaching the country's borders are either confiscated or turned away.

Talking with the APR unit's sergeant, I asked how long they could hold out with sub-par weapons. "We can manage as long as the UFLL. They have the same problem, but it's okay. We've made arrangements."

I pressed him for more details. Was he suggesting the APR had made arrangements with the UFLL? But he just rolled his head. It was enough to pique my curiosity. Could the APR and UFLL actually be working together to secure arms? Arms that they will end up using on each other. And if so, where are these arms coming from?

"There's always the Jackal."

caption lost

July 16, 2008

Port Selao

Two stories I've been following collided today. I had a chance meeting with Fred Willis the other day. Fred's the young mercenary I met back in May. He looked tired and 5 years older than the last time I'd seen him. Lord knows what he's encountered since our last conversation.

I told him I was tracking a story about the arms embargo and possible cooperation between the UFLL and the APR. He laughed off that notion but then he directed me to a cafe in the country. A place called Mike's. Told me to look for a woman there, a merc.

Though you might think so, female mercs aren't that uncommon. So it was no surprise when I arrived at Mike's to find a young woman sitting at a corner table wearing cargo pants, t-shirt, and combat webbing. Her name was Nasreen (she refused to give her last name). She sat with her legs crossed and hands folded in her lap; her fingers bore faded traces of henna. Her gaze betrayed the years growing up close to war. I suspect she fell into this business because it's the only one she knows. She had the most intense eyes. They stared without judgement or expectation, but they conveyed an intimidating cool. I knew to tread lightly.

I told her Fred had sent me and she invited me to sit. I tried easing into my questions with some light chat but she cut that short, "What do you need?" She spoke in clear, precise English with a Persian accent; Tajik specifically.

I told her my suspicions that the APR and UFLL were arranging a weapons shipment together. "That is true. A Chinese freighter is heading for Angola as we speak."

She explained that leaders of both factions had pooled resources and struck a deal with the Chinese government for a full freighter of small arms and ammunition. It was due to arrive in Angola and then be transported through the mountains into the country. Likely through the West.

I raised my doubts that such a large shipment could make it past the AU and she agreed, but then she said the most interesting thing, "There's always the Jackal".

Nasreen refused to elaborate. In fact, I suspect she felt she'd said too much already. She cut our chat short and waved me off. Our conversation was over. I left Mike's feeling I'd been handed a major scoop — if only half a scoop.

And as if mocking my confusion, I spotted more Jackal graffiti on my way out of the cafe.

Graffiti outside Mike's, "Jackal is a ghost".

What could she mean? Is the Jackal helping to bring the shipment in? Is he working with the AU to stop the shipment? I had nothing. And still, my number one question loomed: Who is the Jackal?

"You must leave hotel now."

July 20, 2008

Port Selao

I found a note under my door this morning, "You must leave hotel now. AU seized arms shipment. N."

It must have come from Nasreen. I have no idea how she found me but I knew enough to take her warning seriously. I didn't know why I had to leave, but I started packing fast. As I did, I tried to piece it all together.

The African Union (AU) had seized an arms shipment yesterday. That's the type of work they've been doing for the past 2 weeks. What made this seizure different? Unless they found the Chinese shipment. That had to be it. But how did they find it?

And a chill started running through me as I put everything together. Few people knew about the Chinese shipment apart from the APR, the UFLL and some independent mercs. That is until I posted my story.

The AU must have learned of the shipment from my blog. Now my hands were starting to shake.

I grabbed everything I could, leaving behind all my petrol, extra water and supplies too heavy to lug down in a single trip. I threw everything into a beat-up Datsun I'd purchased a week earlier. I fired up the engine and was about to roar off when a gun-mounted rover rumbled down the street towards me. I was too late.

The rover pulled in front of the Datsun, its horn blasting. Inside, I could see a couple mercs staring at me impatiently. I raised my hands slowly but this made the driver blast the horn more incessantly. He shouted, "Move…move!"

I glanced behind me and realized my car was blocking an alleyway they were trying to reach. I scrambled to move the car and of course I stalled it. I fired it up again and roared into reverse to clear the way. They barrelled past me without a second glance. And I was in the clear.

I could barely believe it. I was certain that was it for me. I drove off, leaving the Evelyn for good. That hotel had been good to me for these last two months. Hopefully the supplies left behind will compensate for any outstanding bills I have.

I headed out of town not sure where I was going, but one thing is clear now. I need to work more covertly. People are watching me. This is the second close call in less than a week. And I need to be careful what I write here.

So as I write this, I've found a place to stay, but I'm going to keep that to myself. Suffice to say I'm safe for the moment.

Wildebeest from another world

caption lost

July 20, 2008

Port Selao

I captured this photo on a drive near the place I'm staying. They seem like a whole other world from what I've just come from.

A herd of wildebeest I surprised as I drove over a rise.

Africa has so much potential. Even with all the anguish, I love this continent.

"I fear myself at 80"

July 21, 2008

Port Selao

Today I met with The Standard's Wayne Mudekwa and he confirmed my suspicions. The African Union has been monitoring my blog along with The Standard's online edition. And indeed, it was through my post last week that they were alerted to the Chinese arms shipment.

This is very bad news for me and I should have known this would happen. If I'd been more careful, I would have changed hotels long ago. When Mbantuwe spoke to me last week, he was upset that I'd given a report critical of the UFLL's methods. But now I've written something that has directly affected their plans…and the APR's. I don't regret this. It is the journalist's role to shine a light into the dark corners the public can't see. It is my job to reveal facts that the public has a right to know.

I don't know the price I'll pay for this story. Mbantuwe may have already sent people to find me. I'll need to be cautious at any checkpoints. Fortunately communication is terrible in this country. Most checkpoints won't know enough to look for me specifically. They'll examine my passport and let me on my way. At least this is what I'm counting on. It's impossible to avoid checkpoints in this country.

Wayne has promised to help me in any way he can. He does this while he struggles to keep his own newspaper protected as they continue to publish stories critical of the emerging factions. While I was leaving today, he said the most interesting thing to me, "Do you know what I fear? I fear myself at 80 sitting in a comfortable rocker staring out my window. No bruises, no broken bones, no locker room stories. Just a quiet, old man who never bothered anyone."

Raid by APR

July 23, 2008

Port Selao

I'm writing as quickly as possible and I'll post at the very last second. I'm in the back room of the Standard. Several rovers have surrounded the building. One of the Standard reporters just came in to tell me it's the APR. They're here for me. Somehow they've found me. I can hear shouting. Wayne's arguing with someone outside. I would run but we're completely surrounded. I have nowhere to go. So best to get record events before they find me.

A gunshot. They're bangingg on the front door. This is gettign very scary. I can feel my haert in my throat. Shoutin g in Zulu. Don't understand. Damn why can't I speak zulu better! They're inside the front room now. Gunshot inside. I fear they're going tokill me. Mikela, I love you. I will nn

A 'guest' of the APR — PART 1

July 27, 2008

Location unknown

To the many readers who emailed letters of support and concern, let me say I am alive and well. Thank you for everything. No doubt you're wondering what happened last week.

I have just spent the last 5 days as a 'guest' of the APR.

When you last heard from me, APR mercenaries had burst into the back room of The Standard just as I sent the blog post. One of the men threw a sack over my head and I tensed up expecting a bullet to the head.

Instead, I was dragged to a waiting vehicle. I could hear Wayne shouting at them but I was too panicked to register what he said. We drove off for what felt like an hour. Though it might as easily have been 5 minutes.

I was then pulled from the vehicle and pushed forward. I had no idea where they were leading me…to a tree for a quick execution? A cliff's edge? Instead I was shoved into a hot room and the sack was pulled from my head. The two mercs I saw quickly left taking all my gear, and slammed the door behind them.

I was lying on the dirt floor of a small shed, surrounded by corrugated steel walls with wooden shelves. The heat was stifling and I desperately needed water. But there was none. The room was bare save for a few empty bottles, a bicycle, and five ebony carvings of African figurines.

I tried to remain calm. If they wanted to kill me, they would have done it by now. Instead, they had other plans. Perhaps they would interrogate me about the arms shipment from Angola. Then they would let me go. This was my best, and frankly my only, hope.

But the day moved to night and I heard nothing. Outside was completely silent. No food or water came my way and I was desperately thirsty by now. Had they left me? I stood and tried the door for the first time, but it was locked with a heavy chain. Surely they hadn't abandoned me to die a slow death.

I spent the entire night listening for the slightest sound, proof that someone was there. I never heard the vehicle leave, so they must be there, right? Or maybe I'd missed the sound.

As dawn started creeping in, I realized that I was finally cool. I had barely an hour to appreciate the relief from the heat before the temperature started rising. I couldn't survive another day of this. Not without water.

I heard footsteps approaching the shed. The door opened blasting sunlight into the dark room. I had to shade my eyes as two or three men entered the room and lifted me to my feet. I was taken outside towards a small house 100 meters away. No one said a word.

They led me inside to an empty room with a window and two chairs. They shoved me into one of the chairs, turned and left.

Still no water.

I was starting to feel dizzy. That shed sucked the life out of me and this new room seemed no better. I stared around the room trying to make sense of events. What were they planning? The second chair must be for someone. But for whom? I looked at my chair, the floor beneath it. Good god…

The floor all around the chair — it was stained. A dark, blood-red stain. I was seated in an execution chair. That's when I heard the door open.

A 'guest' of the APR — PART 2

caption lost

July 27, 2008

Location unknown

Click here to read "A 'guest' of the APR — Part 1".

I looked up as two mercs entered the room, one holding an AK-47, the other wearing a pistol holstered to his side. Both were followed close behind by Oliver Tambossa, leader of the APR.

The last time I met Tambossa, the newly-formed APR had just begun establishing their presence in the country. Now they were becoming an ever-present force through the region. And Tambossa seemed larger, more confident than the last time we'd met.

He tossed a bottle of water at me but in my weak state, I missed it and it bounced to the floor rolling back to his feet. He snorted as he sat at the chair opposite me. He did not pick up the water. It just lay there taunting me.

"I have a decision to make. Either I shoot you right here and let the chips fall where they may, or I drive you to UFLL territory and let them take the blame."

Lord knows what possessed me, the lack of water likely, but I replied, "You're a fool. Every man at the Standard saw your men kidnap me".

He tilted his head as he watched me. Then he stood, grabbed the water bottle and placed it in my lap. He patted my cheek like a priest might a sinner. He turned and left.

Minutes later I was thrown back into the shed, now several degrees hotter. I finished the water in a single gulp but it did nothing to quench my thirst. What had I done? What possessed me to say such a thing?

I stared at the five ebony men. One stood tall, three others were crouched low, and one was lying on his side. It was this fifth ebony figure that I fixated on. Maybe because we shared the same pose, maybe because he seemed as powerless as me at the moment.

Whatever it was, I studied him closely, his pronounced brow and close-set eyes conveying the gravity of my situation. I had to keep my sanity. I had to believe in hope, to keep my mind wrapped tightly around the belief I would see my family again. That Mikela would take me in her arms, and I'd draw our daughter close, the three of us shielded from the world.

Stifling hours inched by. I lay curled in that embrace for hours, gazing into the ebony man's dark eyes. If I was to live out my final moments here in this tin furnace, I found the peace to do it. I had my family, I had the ebony man's eyes. I was ready.

Some time later…ten minute? Four hours? …the door opened again. I was taken back to the small room with the execution chair. My mouth was as dry as rice paper. My breath wheezed. Tambossa entered and sat across from me. He held out a bottle of water which I grabbed and drank ferociously. I finished that and saw a second one in his hand. Again, I drank. It felt like an injection of life.

It was enough to clear my head and realize I was still stuck in a deadly grim situation. Tambossa spoke, "Anything to say to me?"

I felt numb. I slowly shook my head.

"Good." He folded his arms. I could feel his eyes on me. A terrifying silence enveloped the room. I swear the only sound we all heard was the thumping of my heart.

"The only reason you're going to live is that the UFLL lost their weapons as well." He leaned forward, "The next time you interfere in the business of the Alliance for Popular Resistance, you will find yourself here again. Only I won't be here to save you."

He held my gaze. I could see him looking, trying to bore deep into my soul, trying to decide if I truly heard him. I was too shaken to consider anything beyond survival, but whatever my eyes conveyed, he was satisfied.

My gear was returned to me and I was led back to the shed again. Good lord, I thought I was heading home. The mercs promised to return with a vehicle. While I waited, I snapped a photo of my tiny cell and I took the ebony man, my faithful companion during my incarceration.

My sweltering cell. You can see four of the ebony figures, my only companions in there. I took the fifth.

On the drive back, I asked what day it was. Sunday, they said. Sunday! I'd been held for 4 days, but my mind can only process 2 days. I must get back to Johannesburg.

Flight to Johannesburg

July 30, 2008

Port Selao

Today is a busy day. I've packed up all my belongings, and given away what I can't carry. After my 'visit' with the APR's Oliver Tambossa, I got in contact with my South African bureau chief, Darren. He wants me back pronto. They're assembling a small media unit to travel with me and I have to brief everybody. I also need to restock my cash and supplies. And right now, I especially need to hug my family tight. I should be gone for 2 weeks, but keep checking the blog. I'll continue my updates from Johannesburg.

I spoke to Wayne Mudekwa before leaving, and thanked him for his efforts to protect me. I promised I'd be back determined to shine a light on the growing tensions, and to uncover the mystery behind the Jackal. I have to find who he is and what he's doing here. Nasreen's words still puzzle me: "There's always the Jackal".

Wayne told me his team's been following an explosive story that should deliver a crushing blow to the warring factions. He wouldn't give me details as the story's not fully formed yet. I look forward to what they uncover.

Now it's off to the airport for the short flight to South Africa. When next you hear from me, I'll be in the comforts of my news office in Joburg.

A day with the family

caption lost

August 01, 2008

Johannesburg, S.A.

Home.

I have very little to write for now except to say I'm going to lock myself in my house to sleep, decompress, and reconnect with my family. See you in a few days.

The city is bustling. A happy change from Port Selao.

Call with The Standard

August 05, 2008

Johannesburg, S.A.

Spoke with Wayne, The Port Selao Standard's editor, via a choppy video conference yesterday. Tensions have grown with rumours that the African Union is negotiating plans for their withdrawal from the country. I pray this is just that…a rumour. If it's true, the country will collapse into a bloody nightmare. And I will be heading straight to the heart of the conflict. That is a possibility I don't dare broach with Mikela. At least not yet.

Bankrupt!

August 05, 2008

Johannesburg, S.A.

I had lunch today with the Bureau's Finance reporter, Stephen Fischer, an Englishman who did hard time in London's financial district before joining the ranks of us lowly writers. A brilliant man in his mid-50s, he's tall and skinny and he speaks in that proper clipped English. The Queen's English and all that.

I shared some of my experiences over the past few months and he added another layer to the growing tensions. He's been focusing on the collapse of the diamond industry. Back in May, the Port Selao Standard revealed that the country's diamond mines were dry. This brought on a financial panic and mass exodus. Government officials drained the coffers and wired funds out of the country as all high ranking officials fled.

Stephen continued to monitor the repercussions of the industry's collapse. Now the country and its remaining "leadership" find themselves bankrupt. Many of the mercenaries in the country stayed with the expectation that the diamonds would fund their venture. So how do they expect to get paid now?

What happens when hundreds of foreign mercenaries have no cash and no way to pay for their trip home? God help us.

Meet my new crew

August 06, 2008

Johannesburg, S.A.

Darren's just introduced me to my two-man crew who'll be heading back with me in a week. I couldn't be more pleased. Even though I write for a newspaper, Darren wants to send a video crew back with me since they anticipate online opportunities and cross-promotion with cable.

My cameraman is Peter Atowabene, a Durban lad with over 15 years experience in warzones. He was in Somalia back in 1993 covering the battle of Mogadishu. Many of you will know that battle from the movie and book, Black Hawk Down. He's got a dangerous sense of humour and he doesn't startle easily.

Our production assistant and sound man is Michael Watso, a young man from Britain. He's been at the S.A. office for six months and is anxious for, as he put it, "real world experience". At first I was hesitant. The last thing I needed was a young man who suddenly felt trapped and terrified once he realized that people fire real bullets at your head. But then I learned that his previous military service included a one-year deployment to Iraq. He's had his share of real bullets.

For the next week, I will brief them on the situation as we prep for the months ahead.

No word from The Standard

August 07, 2008

Johannesburg, S.A.

I was due for a video conference with Wayne today but he wasn't online. This could be due to many things. He may be caught in the horrendous line-ups at any number of checkpoints. His Internet connection may be down (the most likely reason). There could be other more worrisome reasons but Wayne knows how to protect himself out there. I'll reserve my concern for the moment.

I've left him an email. Hopefully we can connect tomorrow.

AU pulls out

August 13, 2008

Johannesburg, S.A.

Six days and still no word from Wayne or anyone from The Standard. I am growing concerned. This is highly unusual. He has always been prompt in his replies to me. And it's especially odd that I can't reach anyone at all. Where is everyone?

We've just heard an alarming report that the African Union (AU) is pulling out. The situation has become far too unstable. They don't have the manpower to maintain order. They've started to move from the role of armed peacemakers to counterinsurgents, and they state they don't have the mandate for such a role. An appeal has been made to the UN but we can't expect much from them. The permanent members (useless as always) will ensure that any proposals will be vetoed.

So that leaves the APR and the UFLL to dice up the country and claim the spoils.

We have to get back there immediately. We've booked a flight for tomorrow morning. My first order of business will be a trip to The Standard. I must find what's happened to Wayne and his team.

The last supper

caption lost

August 13, 2008

Johannesburg, S.A.

Our Bureau Chief Darren took us out for a magnificent dinner last night. The Russia House is one of, if not the, best restaurants in Joburg. The occasion was our trip to Port Selao the next day. It was a last supper of sorts though no one articulated that in so many words. My new teammates Michael Watso and Peter Atowabene came with their girlfriends. Darren brought his lovely wife, Claire. Mikela joined me of course. She could barely contain her excitement. The Russia House is a place we've always wanted to visit. Even better to visit on someone else's tab.

The room is lush and opulent bringing to mind the final days of the Russian Czars. Darren pointed out that the beautiful murals on each wall were painted in gold leaf.

The vodka began pouring and conversation was easy. Everyone was in a festive mood. We all wanted to keep things jovial. Most of us have been in war zones before and we all know how unpredictable they are. No need to go over the grim details. Best to enjoy the company you're keeping. These will be the good times to feed us during the dark days ahead.

Gifts were exchanged. I received a beautiful new watch from Darren. A pretty penny, no doubt. And for that reason, I'll be leaving it with Mikela. Otherwise, I may get my hand lopped off. Peter got a new camera lens which seemed to take him by surprise. Michael received a fine pair of sunglasses that made him look older than his 26 years.

The funniest moment of the evening came when Michael's girlfriend presented a large gift for the team. Being the lead, I was given the honour of unwrapping this monstrosity — a battery operated toy soldier complete with cotton clothing and removable helmet. We laid him among the caviar and silverware. He sprung to life and crawled his way across the linen stopping every few inches to start 'firing' his toy gun — a 'ra-ta-tat' sound with a red light flashing from the gun nozzle. This set us into hysterics.

I caught Mikela's eye and knew this was no joke to her. These last few months have been hard and they were about to get harder. An evening of levity was not the sort of antidote she needed to steel herself for my trip.

This was the sunset I captured from the balcony of the restaurant. Nothing compares to an African sunset — even on a cloudy day.

We all left and thanked Darren for a wonderful evening. Mikela and I were very quiet on the way home. We snuck into Hope's room and silently watched her sleeping. I worry for her and our small girl. I've promised Mikela that I won't be reckless while away. These two people are my world. As much as I have a job to do, I do it all for them. I'm no good to them if I turn up dead.

A brand new landscape

August 17, 2008

Port Selao

We arrived on the 14th and for the past three nights we've been locked in our hotel while a fire fight rages outside. Normally, we would get out there to cover it but things are far too hairy right now. Peter, our cameraman, has been grabbing what footage he can from the window but even that is dangerous business.

Two days ago, the African Union withdrew all troops from the region. The competing factions, APR and UFLL, have rushed to fill the void. Battles have erupted throughout the country as both groups attempt to carve out their piece of the nation.

We woke yesterday morning to the crack of a bullet through the window. Thank god we were all asleep. The bullet splintered the window and lodged into the side wall of the living area. Right at chest height.

Each night we've worked by dim light with the windows blacked shut. It looks to be the APR and the UFLL battling for control of the city. Whatever progress each side makes in the morning is cut down by the evening as the other side reclaims what was lost earlier. And so it goes each day with countless lives being lost in the process. Fortunately those lives are insurgents and mercenaries right now. I worry what happens when they start to turn on the civilians.

Aborted trip to The Standard

August 18, 2008

Port Selao

I arrived at the checkpoint hoping to reach The Standard and reconnect with Wayne. I need to know he is okay. My gut fears the worst.

At my insistence, Peter and Michael stayed back at the hotel. I felt I could move quicker on my own. But today I was stopped at a checkpoint crippled by chaos. There was no distinct line of cars, everyone just jamming themselves towards the gate. And the mercs manning the gate seemed in no hurry to do much of anything.

After 45 minutes of absolutely nothing, one of the mercs announced that the checkpoint was closed for the day. No reason, no explanation. The men just sat back in the sun ignoring the throng.

A man in the car next to me started weeping. I learned that his wife and child were stranded at home in a remote part of the savannah 20 kilometres north. He'd been working in town to support them, but he'd just learned of an attack at the nearest village. He needed to get them out before things escalated. Now they were stranded.

He got out of his car and walked to the mercenaries. I could see him pleading his case, but the men stared as if watching a sports update. Then they just turned back to each other and continued whatever useless banter they had going. Not a word to the poor man.

His family might very well die and he was helpless. He got to his car and drove off to another checkpoint across town. Hopefully he'd reach it before they shut down for the night. Hopefully.

With the AU withdrawal, it hasn't taken long for things to degenerate to such levels. As Lord Acton famously said, absolute power corrupts absolutely.

"De l'eau."

caption lost

August 19, 2008

Port Selao

We turned onto a main road when I heard the pop-pop of a high-powered rifle. We all collapsed behind a barrier and Peter instantly had the camera on me. In a punched whisper he said, "Go, go!

Along with Peter and Michael, my new crew, I had been walking down the main road of a small community called Dogon Village. Michael, our resourceful P.A., heard about a raid on this place the previous night. So this morning we loaded into our beater and made the short 15-minute drive here.

We found a ghost town, or at least it seemed as much at first. We couldn't find any evidence of an attack. It appeared that we'd chased a rumour. We decided to track down a resident for a quick interview, then back to Port Selao. That's when the shooting started.

We hunched behind a concrete barrier, the video camera trained on me. Peter said, "Go, go!" Meaning I should start the report. His precise professionalism in the circumstances was impressive even by my standards.

This was my first report on-camera while under fire. I was scared but something inside me kept focus. I heard my voice as if it was someone else's. I set the scene, pointing towards the gunfire, ducking for extra effect when I heard another pop-pop.

Then footsteps. Running fast near us. We spotted a man, a mercenary, sprinting across the road away from us. And then a single POP from behind.

The man screamed and collapsed in the middle of the road. He couldn't move, but we could see he was still alive. Whoever shot him knew precisely where to strike.

He cried out. The man was in agony but you could hear he was nowhere near death. After a few minutes of quiet, he started shouting in French, "De l'eau!" Water.

Was he alone? Had his comrades been killed? Or worse, had they already fled?

"De l'eau!" He was whimpering now. I could see he'd been shot in the gut. It wouldn't be much longer for him, but it wouldn't be pleasant either.

I grabbed the water canteen from Michael and made a run for him. I did it so fast, I had no time to realize my stupidity. I only knew I couldn't be party to such a brutal death.

I crouched beside him. We were utterly exposed. He was older than I expected. Maybe 45. His whole body shook as his blood stained the dirt around him. He blinked madly. Again he said, "L'eau".

I removed the top and held it close to his lips.

Before a drop reached him, the canteen exploded in my hand. I fell back unsure what had happened. I stared at the man. He was shaking. The shattered canteen lay 10 meters away from him. Someone shot the canteen from my hand.

I stared up to the hillside where the shot must have come. Whoever fired, didn't shoot me. They only wanted to take out the water for this dying man.

Again his voice, quieter. Weaker. "De l'eau, l'eau."

I couldn't make sense of this. What kind of animals had we become? What kind of savagery could we sink to?

I stood up, staring into the hills, "What do you want?!"

I heard my voice echo.

"When has he suffered enough for you?!"

I was staring hard into the hills. He was there somewhere. I wanted to see this man, to see the beast behind the gun. Before I could, I felt someone slam against me. I collapsed behind a barrier and looked up to see Michael atop me. He'd run from cover and tackled me to the ground.

We lay there quietly. I couldn't hear the French man any longer. When I looked, I saw his dead eyes staring into the dirt.

I peered over the barrier to the hillside. I could see no one. But I didn't need to see him to know. I'd just had my first encounter with the Jackal.

Somewhere in that hill, the Jackal is staring back at me.

A meeting with Fred Willis

August 20, 2008

Port Selao

I'm uploading a full week's worth of posts. It's been busy since I arrived. I still haven't made contact with Wayne at the Standard. Very troubling. I found a tiny shop that has sluggish Internet but at least it works.

I've just come back from a long chat with the young mercenary, Fred Willis. He contacted me out of the blue. He and two other friends wanted to sit down and give their perspective on the conflict. It was an enlightening conversation to say the least. I have to organize my notes. It will be in my posts next week. I'll leave you with one thing he said to me, "There's no order here. There's nothing. I ain't got a nickel to my name, and I guess that's my problem".

"Time to go home."

August 22, 2008

Port Selao

• note: This post has profanity from my interview with the mercenaries

"I ain't got a nickel to my name, and I guess that's my problem". These were Fred Willis' words to me.

I'd met with him and two other mercenaries, a young Chilean named Pablo, and Irek, a Polish man in his 40s. We were at Mike's, the café where I spoke with Nasreen a few weeks back. Seems to be a popular hang-out for the many contractors here.

All three men were feeling the crush of the country's bankruptcy. They worked for the UFLL but had yet to see any cash. No surprise since the group financing the UFLL, Bastion UK, had essentially collapsed. Their stocks plummeted and the UFLL was left in the cold. These men were the ones being hit hardest.

Fred was practical about his options, "Ain't no sense jumping to the APR. I don't see how those f**kers could be better. Fact is I gotta find a way outta here. Time to go home."

Easier said than done. Having spent all their own money while awaiting a payday, these men had no way of paying for the trip home. They were trapped in a no-win situation. No cash to get home. No way to make cash.

Irek, a stone-faced man, spoke in a deep baritone, "Hector knows something". Hector Voorhees, a foreign contractor responsible for hiring most of the UFLL mercs.

I could tell that Fred and Pablo laid blame for their plight at Voorhees' feet. But not Irek. He was convinced that staying close to Voorhees would be his way out.

"Hector has not left yet. We've done three tours together. You believe me, he hasn't left because he has a plan."

Fred shook his head slowly. I could see he'd reached his breaking point. He wanted out and he was going to find a way.

The whole time we spoke, Pablo sat quietly. I had expected more from the Chilean. Ones I'd met in the past had fiery personalities, but Pablo kept a slow-brew. At last he spoke, "We've been f**ked. F**ked by Voorhees, f**ked by the UFLL, f**ked by the Africans."

It wasn't just his language. Something in his narrow eyes and his breathing…panting really. He seemed on the verge of striking. I just prayed I was nowhere near him when he finally let loose. He added, "I'm done with them all. Now I work for me."

As I left, Fred followed me out. He claimed the next time I heard from him, it'd be an email from his living room in Ohio, USA. I look forward to it.

Wayne Mudekwa murdered

caption lost

August 23, 2008

Port Selao

This morning, I received word from a local contact: the body of Wayne Mudekwa was found near a farm outside Dogon Village. He was now at the morgue in Port Selao. It was my worst fear realized. I had long suspected this news was coming, but I held onto slim hope he may appear at my door.

When we arrived at the morgue, we were met by APR officials who claimed that Wayne committed suicide. We demanded to see his body and things began to escalate. They refused to show us and we refused to leave until we saw him.

Unbeknownst to me and the APR men, Peter had turned his camera on and was surreptitiously filming the encounter. After a few phone calls, we were granted access.

They led us to a large cold room soaked in death. The stench overwhelmed me. I had to steady myself before entering. I stood speechless as I looked inside. Bodies piled everywhere, young men, women…children. We were led to the far corner of the room.

There on the floor lay Wayne Mudekwa, his entire body covered in a layer of dried blood. His eyes were swollen shut, his jaw and nose had been broken. His right arm was burnt black. I couldn't see the fingers on his hand. They'd been burnt clean off. He had stab wounds all across his chest.

And the APR claimed this was suicide.

I don't know what's happened to the rest of the Standard's staff. I will keep investigating. I've learned that the Standard offices have been taken over by Oliver Tambossa and the APR leadership.

A great man has been lost. Wayne Mudekwa stood for peace and believed in his country. Through his strong reportage, Wayne beat at the country's corruption, determined to bleed out the truth. It cost him his life.

Now the APR occupies the offices of the country's last free newspaper. It's a sad portrait of the state of affairs when Tambossa and his APR thugs destroy a house of truth and fill it with lies.

We arranged to take Wayne's body away tomorrow. He will be buried here, a peaceful plot of land that seems immune to the horrors around it.

Arms problem solved?

August 27, 2008

Port Selao

Despite the AU weapons embargo at the borders, and despite a lack of financing, I've just learned that the arms problems have been solved for both the APR and the UFLL. I'm seeing fewer busted weapons with homemade repairs.

No one is talking. Any mercs I approach either don't know or won't admit where the weapons have come from. So what or who is the source?

One other note: My bureau chief, Darren, is getting pressure from the head office. Our video footage is "too real" for the higher-ups. There's talk of pulling us out — for our own safety.

"Too real." Can you believe it?

Fred Willis dead

August 27, 2008

Port Selao

Savage murder never stops here. Today I learned that Fred Willis was killed near Lake Segolo. He had been necklaced in the middle of a road. Necklacing is the disgusting act of binding a rubber tyre around the victim, filling it with gasoline, then setting it alight.

We arrived at Lake Segolo and met with a man who witnessed the event. Here is what he told us:

"I was mending a fishing net when I heard shouting. I saw a man leading a second man to the road. He had a tyre pulled down around his chest and gasoline was spilling from the insides. I could smell it. He was about to be necklaced.

"He was screaming, 'Pablo stop! Pablo stop!' But the man ignored him. I wanted to do something but the man had a gun. What could I do?"

Pablo, the mercenary I met when I last saw Fred. After speaking with several locals, we learned that Fred had secured a seat on a truck bound for the border. He was literally leaving the country within an hour of his murder. Pablo had killed him for that seat. To kill him is despicable, but necklacing…what sort of madness could push a man to that? It makes me sick to think of it.

Fred was a sweet, misguided young man. He was mere hours away from regaining his youth and maybe finding his humanity again. Instead, he'll remain here as a reminder of the barbarity of man.

A warning — "You're being watched."

August 29, 2008

Near Port Selao

Friends back home are often amazed at how quickly I can go from reports of death to talk of my daily routines. It's hard to explain, but it's a sad consequence of being in such volatile surroundings for so long. Today's post may be one of those stories given my last report on Fred:

We left the hotel this morning in search of fresh fruit and vegetables. That alone can be a formidable task here, but it was made doubly difficult today. We walked two blocks when I realized we were being followed. A plump African hovered about 20 metres behind us. He was doing a miserable job of hiding himself. I suspect that was intentional. He wanted his presence known.

I told Peter and Michael (both oblivious to our interloper), but we kept walking as though we didn't notice the man. I wanted to lose him fast. We entered a small market and split up. We all agreed to meet at the far exit.

I kept stopping to examine items, glancing behind me. The man was gone. I'd lost him. I could only hope the others were as lucky.

When we met minutes later at the far entrance, it looked that we'd lost the man. Before we started on our way, another African appeared. A lean man in jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt, he walked straight up to the three of us. He had a brought smile, his teeth knotted like ancient tree roots. He asked, "Good shopping?" A French accent, possibly Côte d'Ivoire.

I didn't need this nonsense and pushed him to the point, "What do you want?"

He locked eyes with mine, his obnoxious toothy smile still grinning, "You're being watched."

And then he walked away. He waved to someone in the market. That's when we saw the plump African shuffle up alongside him. The two disappeared down an alley.

I can't tell if they were APR or UFLL. I suppose it doesn't matter. The consequences are the same. We can be got at any time.

A package for me.

September 03, 2008

Near Port Selao

I found a note waiting for me back at the hotel. It was from a local contact: he had a package for me. It said to meet him at our regular café. I sent one of the hotel attendants with a package to my contact. The attendant thought he was delivering a gift of chocolates. I had a note hidden inside explaining I was being watched. Any hand-off we do must be cloak and dagger. We couldn't meet directly.

The next day (today), I arrived at the café and spotted my contact immediately. He was seated in the middle of the café against a wall. We never once made eye contact. After ordering a tea, I sat at the table behind him.

No sooner did I sit up than my contact headed for the exit. He left behind a folded newspaper and an empty glass. I made as if I was looking for something to read and then grabbed the paper.

I could feel a thin package inside — an envelope. I took my time and finished my tea. I didn't sense anyone following me but now was not the time to be careless.

I left with the newspaper, the whole time my hand was burning. I had to know what I was holding. After what seemed the longest walk to the hotel, I was back in the room with Peter and Michael.

I folded open the newspaper to find a taped-up manila envelope. It had my name on the centre. Underneath that, I saw words that sent a chill through me: "Tears can move mountains."

The Jackal arming the APR and UFLL

A bill of lading I found in the parcel Wayne sent me. Evidence of a Jackal shipment to Africa.

September 03, 2008

Near Port Selao

Wayne Mudekwa has sent me a message from beyond the grave.

A local contact gave me a package he received a few days ago. My name was on the cover along with a familiar quote from Wayne: "Tears can move mountains". Months ago I mocked that sentiment in one of my posts. I look back at what I wrote and see a different man. I barely recognize myself.

There was a note:

"Reuben, you're the only one I can trust. I am being watched. If I'm found dead, I need to know this is safe. You'll know what to do. God be with you. W."

Inside I found several documents and photocopies, bills of lading, long lists of all types of ammunition and small arms. And everything pointed to one man: The Jackal.

A bill of lading I found in the parcel Wayne sent. Evidence of a Jackal shipment to Africa.

The APR and the UFLL have been buying their arms and ammunition from the Jackal. He has managed to keep a supply line open to the outside world. The African Union has been trying to shut him down, but he manages to avoid their men and get supplies through the borders.

One curious fact mentioned in the documents. Wayne learned that the price for these supplies was well below black market value. This is especially odd given the desperate situation for both factions. No doubt they would have gladly paid any price to be fully armed. The Jackal doesn't appear to be taking advantage of the opportunity.

I'm curious to know your thoughts on this development. Feel free to leave a comment and share your insights.

We've been called back

September 07, 2008

Port Selao

The head office is getting scared. Darren, our bureau chief, has been reporting all our progress back to London. When they heard about the threats and the death of Wayne Mudekwa, they recalled the entire team.

Are they concerned for our safety? That's a laughable notion. They fear the public backlash if we all wind up dead. They worry they'll be criticized for letting their reporters loose in the country. It's one thing for freelancers, but for those on the payroll? Well that's not good business.

But to be honest, there's a part of me that's exhausted from everything. Maybe I'm ready for the journey home. I've tried my luck enough. We have secured a vehicle heading to the southern border on the 11th.

Time to leave

September 08, 2008

Port Selao

It's five hours since the incident and Michael still can't hear from his left ear.

Michael, Peter and I were walking back to the hotel after an early dinner at one of the few restaurants still open. It was light out. We turned down a small road and spotted a lone mercenary. He was teetering, clearly drunk.

We backtracked to head in a different direction. Too late. "Hey!!"

I whispered, "Keep moving". We marched on hoping he'd just let us go. Then we heard, POP POP POP! He was shooting. We froze and heard his heavy footsteps running towards us.

He practically fell against me as he reached us. He reeked of alcohol and pressed his hand to my shoulder steadying himself.

"Who are you?" he demanded. He was an Afrikaner. Unshaven, dishevelled and looking for a fight. I explained we were reporters heading back to our hotel. He was staring at Michael who was trying to avoid eye contact. Then without warning, he raised his pistol to Michael and fired!

Michael screamed, we all jumped in shock. He'd fired at point-blank range aiming just a foot off of Michael's head. I started shouting, "Stop, stop, stop!"

I reached into my pocket and grabbed every American dollar I had, possibly over $700. I pleaded that he take it for all the trouble. The drunken man stared at the cash I'd stuffed in his hand trying to process his sudden windfall.

I took that opportunity to lead a screaming Michael away. When I looked back at the merc, he was still staring at the cash, weaving in the middle of the road. Once out of sight, we found a small café to regroup. Michael wasn't hit, but he was clearly shaken from the whole experience. He thought his ear had been blown off.

And now here we are five hours later in the relative safety of our hotel. And still Michael can't hear properly. I only hope it's not permanent.

That was a very close call. You can only tempt fate so long. It's time for us to leave.

I met the Jackal

'Sinner, Jackal will find you'' I found this on my way home. Given today's encounter, it felt like the message was aimed at me specifically. I guess were all sinners out here.

September 10, 2008

Port Selao

I finally met the Jackal at a small café and I have only just realized it. I was there to meet a contact for the last time before shipping out tomorrow. I sat near the window drinking a tea.

I didn't notice anyone else inside until I heard, "Tea…where small talk dies in agony".

I stopped mid-sip. Did someone just quote Percy Shelley? I turned to see a solid man stretched back in his chair, a foot resting on an empty seat. He drank from a cup of what I can only guess was tea. He was American with a slow baritone voice that addressed the room if not me specifically. He wore a loose open shirt that added to his strange mystique — like a free love prophet with a .45 on his hip.

"I'm sorry?" I said. He looked at me, I realize now it was a look of familiarity. He knew who I was.

He said, "Something tells me you aren't a man for small talk. Me neither".

We spoke for only 10 minutes. We spoke of the war, the two factions. We both agreed a stalemate was brewing, and if that was allowed to continue, these contractors might start turning on the locals left in the country. I told him my time was done. I was shipping out tomorrow.

He said, "I thought you were looking for the Jackal. You never know. Maybe he was looking for you too."

At that he stood up and strode out the door. Without so much as a nod to me, he was gone.

"Sinner, Jackal will find you" I found this on my way home. Given today's encounter, it felt like the message was aimed at me specifically. I guess we're all sinners out here.

Now that I'm back at the hotel, it suddenly hits me. That man is the Jackal. It seems so obvious now, but at the time the prospect of meeting him like that was such an impossibility that it never entered my head.

I can't leave. I have to find him. Michael and Peter are driving out tomorrow morning. I've decided…I'm staying.

No sign of Jackal

September 12, 2008

Port Selao

I still can't believe it. I had the Jackal right in front of me. We spoke! And I didn't even realize it. How could I be so foolish? I'll keep visiting the café in the hopes he'll return.

Still searching

September 15, 2008

Port Selao

If I have blown my one opportunity, I will curse myself for the rest of my days. Still no sign of the Jackal. I now know WHO I'm looking for. I just have to learn WHERE I should look. The only lead I have is the tiny café. Tomorrow will be the same day as our last meeting. A good chance he'll come then?

I've found him

September 16, 2008

Port Selao

4:30 pm I arrived at the café, the same time I've been going for the past few days. This was when I met him last. And today I found him. The Jackal.

He was seated at the same table as last week. I sat down across from him and he just stared. Not a word. So I said, "I know who you are".

He replied, "I know who you are, Reuben". He'd read my news story about his weapons trade with both factions. He didn't seem bothered by the publicity. No doubt the APR and UFLL were having violent fits at their offices, but the Jackal — he couldn't care less what I wrote about his operations, and he denied nothing.

He had yet to admit he was the Jackal, but it was clear to both of us that I knew. I didn't want to waste time and risk another blown opportunity. I pressed him for an interview. I'd been carrying my cassette recorder each day in the hopes that we met. Honestly, I expected him to refuse an audio recording.

Instead he nodded and said, "Come here tomorrow. Same time." And with that he left.

Interview # 1 — The Jackal

September 17, 2008

Leboa-Sako

The Jackal set a bold tone for our interview with his very first answer. I started with what I felt was a basic question, "What has brought you to Africa?" He proceeded to speak for 5 minutes. Some of it rambling, some of it shocking. All of it reaching the heart of the man. He held nothing back during our entire 45 minute interview.

To give you a sampling: "To break a man's will… to break his spirit… you have to break his mind". This answer came from my first question. The interview grew all the more intense from that moment on.

We have a second interview scheduled for Saturday. I will be conducting all my interviews first before I publish them. Then I'll put together a full report. Stay tuned. So far it is the most fascinating interview I have conducted here.

On another note — I've been reading your thoughts in the comments section. Very astute observations. You've given me lots to consider while I'm here. So here's a question for you, dear readers. If you could ask a question of the Jackal, what would it be? Leave your answer in the comments and I'll try to use some of them in my interviews.

Interview # 2 — The Jackal

September 20, 2008

Near Port Selao

Today, I interviewed the Jackal for over an hour. We covered a lot of ground, but I started with a basic question. I asked him his real name — surely no one's christened The Jackal! But he was expectedly elusive, "What's in a name?" I pointed out that the name 'Jackal' has elicited fear in civilians and mercenaries alike. So clearly there's something in his chosen name. And to that, he said, "I didn't choose anything. You can call me what you want. Call me dead, I don't give a s**t. They fear the man, not the name."

Just a sampling. A lot of good material today. Next interview is scheduled for the 24th.

A 'friendly' drive

More and more i am seeing graffiti plastered everywhere. In this photo, the UFLL and APR fight over ownership of this abandoned building.

September 23, 2008

Near Port Selao

I've made efforts to stay off people's radar here, but today I wasn't so lucky.

While walking through town to meet some refugees bound for the border, a covered rover pulled up alongside me, the windows tinted. A stocky man stepped out in front of me, opened the rear door and gestured for me to enter.

I glanced around. The last thing I wanted was to get in. Then I heard a familiar voice, "Come, Reuben. We're all friends."

I peered inside to find Addi Mbantuwe, leader of the UFLL. He was stretched out in the back, clutching a baby blue handkerchief which he used to wave me in. I felt I had no choice. I got in and we drove off.

He was straight to the point, "I hear you've met the Jackal. He's a dangerous man, you know. If you keep meeting with him…well, it would be a shame if you disappeared somehow."

We'd driven no more than half a block when the driver pulled to the side of the road. Mbantuwe leaned closer to me, his eyes like lasers, "Listen my friend, you will turn up dead if you insist on talking to this man and publishing his garbage".

The door opened. Our meeting was over and I hadn't said a word.

The rover drove away. The whole encounter was so carefully orchestrated as if Mbantuwe and his men rehearsed it over and over. Nevertheless, the point was clear. I've been living on borrowed time.

How long can I survive like this? What the hell am I doing in this country?

More and more I am seeing graffiti plastered everywhere. In this photo, the UFLL and the APR fight over ownership of this abandoned building.

Interview # 3 — The Jackal

September 24, 2008

Near Port Selao

I met the Jackal again today. Yesterday's encounter with Mbantuwe gave me pause, just as he intended. And while I don't wish to bait him, I won't let threats get in the way of my goal. And that is to bring news of this conflict to the world.

Today's meeting was a short one, 20 minutes. However, it was a vivid 20 minutes. The man has a strange charisma. He speaks in a manner that seems "normal", almost pleasant. He talks like he might be discussing a football match. And yet what he says…my god, the man has witnessed horrors no man should endure. Today he recounted the story of a former prison mate who slipped into insanity. It was a chilling tale I wish I could forget.

"I have them!"

September 28, 2008

Near Port Selao

I can't believe it. I've been furiously scribbling notes for the past 2 hours trying desperately to recall every word the Jackal said to me over our last three interviews.

My cassette tapes have been confiscated — the tapes containing the Jackal interviews. All three of my interviews are gone. I have nothing.

I woke this morning to banging in the hotel hallway. Every day reveals some new crisis, so much so that these emergencies start to feel routine.

Just as I considered making a hasty exit, the banging arrived at my door. Two men entered — contractors. An African who looked to be in charge and a younger Filipino. While the African stood at the entrance, the Filipino began rifling through my belongings.

I asked the African who he was, APR or UFLL, but he gave me nothing. Suddenly the Filipino shouted, "I have them!"

He was clutching my cassettes. "Good, " snapped the African. "Take them. We'll destroy them at the office."

They both turned and marched out. I raced after them shouting to stop. I followed them right down to the street. I could have been a ghost. They walked with complete disregard for my presence. They climbed into their rover and sped off. The Filipino parted with a sideways smirk to me.

My tapes were gone. Were they really planning on destroying them? God, I hope not. And I can't tell you if they were APR or UFLL.

Refugees pay for faction abuses

I see militia everywhere now. Those civillians who couldn't flee the country have gone into hiding. I rarely see them in the streets anymore.

October 01, 2008

Near Port Selao

Today was the first time I walked the town all morning and saw nothing but mercenaries. They're patrolling the main street; they lean against cars idly chattering about nothing. Gone are the stranded citizens, those poor and destitute refugees left behind after the massive exodus back in May.

But this is nothing to celebrate. These people haven't found a way out. Instead, they're all holed up, in hiding. I've heard too many incidents of random violence against the locals. Just yesterday I met a man, his face and neck soaked in his own blood. He'd been beaten repeatedly by a small gang of mercenaries. They accused him of eavesdropping on their conversation as he walked by. His left ear was so badly battered, it looked as though a dog's teeth had shredded it. He will most certainly never hear from that ear again.

His is but one story in a country of misery. And it's for this that the many remaining citizens have started congregating together, hiding away from the contractors taking over the country.

I got an email today from Darren: The AU is planning to close the borders to anyone without travel papers. There's a refugee crisis forming across the border. Sealing it may make their jobs easier, but it will surely cause panic and chaos inside this country.

I see militia everywhere now. Those civilians who couldn't flee the country have gone into hiding. I rarely see them in the streets anymore.

"How does this happen?"

October 02, 2008

Near Port Selao

I found this email when I logged in today:

Dear Rueben:

I live in the United States, and I have to say that I'm shocked to report that very little information about the war ever reaches us. As far as most of us overseas know, the civil war ended when the AU peacekeepers marched into Port Selao, and your stories came as quite a shock. I suppose that we all assumed that the war was over, yet whenever I read your blog, it seems that things are still just as bad as they were before, probably even worse. How can the entire world simply overlook such a bloody conflict, especially after decades of seeing what happens when we overlook them? How does this happen?

Mike,

Phoenix, AZ

Mike poses a very good question. How does this happen? Rwanda, Kenya, Zimbabwe, and here. All over Africa, there is bloody death but the world chooses not to see. I believe most people are like Mike. They get angry at what they see; they want to know, to help. But the news media decides what is "news".

On my trip back to South Africa a few weeks ago, I caught a report from one of those 24-hour news shows. It was a story about some singer in Hollywood hounded by the media. The story was about the media's obsession over her. It was presented as news. I couldn't believe my eyes. The media was doing a story about themselves and their own obsessions. On that same day, I'd received photos of a man who'd had his arms hacked off by drunken mercenaries near Lake Segolo.

So I too have to wonder, how does this happen? I don't have the answer. All I can say is that we must rely on ourselves. We must keep our eyes open. We must seek out information (the Internet, foreign newspapers). We must be hungry for news of the suffering. It's never pleasant, but it's a first step. It gives a voice to the dying or the dead.

Interview #4 — The Jackal

October 02, 2008

Near Port Selao

It's strange to interview a man you know only as the Jackal. In person, he doesn't really answer to any name. He is forever anonymous when you're in his presence. And it's not just in name. We sat in a small café different from our previous meeting place. Near the back, we had enough privacy to conduct an interview without busy eavesdropping.

Thirty minutes into the interview, a waiter asked if I needed a refill. I said yes and gestured to the Jackal to see if he wanted more. Before he could respond, the waiter gasped aloud, "Oh I'm sorry! I'm so sorry I didn't see you there."

The Jackal kept such a low profile to the point that he was invisible even to the waiter. Was he hidden in a dark corner, hidden behind a potted plant? No and no. He sat with his back against the wall, but he's a very still man. He has chameleon qualities, disappearing into the fabric of a room.

He has promised me one final interview. I asked what he planned after that, but his reply was as vague as his convictions have been sure; "Probably get drunk on some skiff in Bangkok".

Posting notes for safety

October 03, 2008

Near Port Selao

I've spent the last 3 hours transcribing my interviews with the Jackal. I can't risk another raid on my room and unfortunately I have no other place I can confidently stash the tapes. So I've been copying everything the man's said word for word. I'm going to post to a folder online. They should be safe there.

It's interesting listening to him again. He has no doubt in his answers. He never pauses to consider the question. And his voice…it has a strange timbre to it. Like the bass strings of cello. It's quite haunting to hear in the quiet of my room.

When I convert my tapes, I will post the recordings on this site.

AU blocking borders — no papers, no travel

October 08, 2008

Near Port Selao

It's official. The African Union (AU) has sealed the borders into neighbouring countries. Now only people travelling with proper letters of transit will be allowed to leave. On the one hand, this is no surprise. Even though the AU has left the country, they're still trying to control the flow of illegal weapons, and to stop any new mercenaries from slipping across the border. On the other hand, there are thousands of innocent people left behind who are desperate for a way out.

Getting these transit papers won't be easy. Basic travel has become dangerous since the AU's departure. The streets are empty save for armed militia from either the APR or the UFLL.

I spoke with a priest from a small parish (he's asked his name not be use for fear of retribution) and he told me he's helped establish a drive to secure documents for the many stranded citizens throughout the country, but they're having trouble finding anyone who's prepared to deliver these papers. It's a risky job that could cost one his life. What they need is a mercenary ready to take on the two factions, and that's not something they'll easily find.

Prepping for final Jackal interview

October 10, 2008

Near Port Selao

Two hours at this and I feel like I have only 2 good questions for my final meeting with the Jackal. There are days I feel like a writer and other days, like today, where English feels like a foreign language. I'm not sure what to expect from this interview, but my gut tells me this will be significant. The Jackal made a point of declaring this the final one. Perhaps he'll give me a window into his grand plan…if there is one.

I meet him on Tuesday so I still have a few days, but my god what's wrong with me today? I should have pages full of questions and I can't even scribble down topics.

I think the conflict's been getting to me. I spend every day listening to the crack of automatic weapons in the streets. My body carries an ever-present tension expecting a bullet to the chest. I wonder if everyone feels this. And no, wearing a bullet-proof vest doesn't really offer the comfort you might hope it would. I've seen dead men who were shot through the gaps in their armour. Bullets find the holes.

On another note, I've read your many comments. Thank you for all your concern for my safety. Believe me when I tell you that I take precautions everywhere. I don't carry a weapon. It's just something I cannot and will not do. The minute I do that, I cross a line. The minute I do that, my life will become even more threatened. And yes, as you've observed, I have decided to remain in the country to cover events. If I were to leave, I fear the story would be lost. Honestly, that's a greater tragedy than any harm that may come my way.

"You don't wanna do that, friend."

October 11, 2008

Near Dogon Village

Following a lead, I drove out for Dogon Village today. It's a small community to the northwest of Port Selao. I had it on good authority that a major weapons stockpile was there. This was a key hub for both the APR and the UFLL. I needed to check it out.

Unfortunately, after some quick inquiries and searching, I realized the information was either outdated or just plain wrong. There were no weapons stockpiles here. Troop presence was minimal at the moment with only a handful of UFLL militia maintaining the zone and displaying little interest in me. There were no secrets here.

I found a small shop and sat down for soup and a sandwich. The place was quiet. In fact the whole village was quiet.

I'd just finished my soup when I heard a loud POP. And then a commotion, like a scramble of bodies and furniture. Several men spilled into the shop from the rear some laughing, some wide-eyed in shock. They saw me and tried to compose themselves.

The group found a table but I could still see others lingering outside near the back. I went to investigate. Then I heard one of the men, "You don't wanna do that, friend".

I ignored him and stepped out the back. A small group of men was huddled near an entrance exchanging money. They parted as I stepped in.

A man was seated at a table. He looked numb, dazed. A pistol twitched repeatedly in his hand. He was staring across the table at a man slumped to the side against the wall. His left temple had a hole spilling blood. His entire face and clothes were soaked in blood. He was dead.

His hand still clutched a pistol. Russian roulette.

"Wanna buy in, friend?"

I turned to see the same man from the shop now staring at me. He gripped a young man whose eyes blinked in terror. He was a merc, probably a thief among this amoral lot. He was shoved to the table as two men pulled away the dead body.

I thrust my way out of the room. I felt physically sick. Boredom and power had stripped away any final layer of decency left to these men. Their souls were doomed and I needed far away from it.

I got in my car and drove as fast as I could.

Back at my room, I took a long hot bath. I wanted to scrub that town from my skin. If only I could scrub it from my mind.

A shocking rumour

October 12, 2008

Near Port Selao

Two different sources, both reliable, passed on a rumour. An assassin has been sent, and he's after the Jackal. Neither of my sources had much information. It's unclear whether this assassin has entered the country already. When he does come, he'll most likely have to make the pass through the mountains to the West, the only unprotected passage. All borders are being monitored by the AU. They're being particularly vigilant with anyone whom they suspect may be a mercenary.

The only other way in is by airplane but to do that, this assassin would need the support of very important people. And that's not entirely out of the question. There could be involvement of foreign governments (South Africa, America perhaps). The Jackal is aiding the warring factions. Without him, both sides would have run out of weapons and ammunition months ago. So I don't doubt that foreign operatives have conspired to remove the Jackal.

I don't know how they briefed this hunter, but if he wants the Jackal, he's in for the battle of his life. There's one thing I've learned from the Jackal — he will fight for what he wants at all costs.

An assassin among us

October 15, 2008

Near Port Selao

The Jackal is gone. I was scheduled to meet him yesterday. When I arrived at the café, he wasn't there. In the past, he'd always arrived before me. I doubt I'll hear from him again.

He's likely heard about the assassin and is either gone into hiding or he's planning to turn the tables and hunt the hunter. I'll try to find the Jackal again but he's the sort of man who will stay hidden if that's what he wants. Unless he needs me, I won't ever see him again.

But the assassin — I must find out who he is. Who sent him? WHY was he sent? Is he in the country already? Or is he yet to arrive?

"I'm hit! I'm hit!"

October 18, 2008

Near Goka Falls

"Want a Kit-Kat?" This was Yuri, a Russian reporter still chasing the stories here. We are two of a small handful of the press that haven't fled the country. I passed on the chocolate and aimed my camera out the passenger window catching some shots of the zebra in the distance.

Yuri was driving us to Goka Falls, a tall majestic waterfall. We were scheduled to meet with a local commander of the APR. I'm not sure what we expected to find. For me, I'm always searching for the personal angle. Who are these people who can do such horrible things? What does it take to choose the life of a mercenary? In fact, is it even a choice for all of them?

Goka Falls sits high atop a large cliff. A narrow winding road leads up to the APR's complex beside the head of the Falls. We arrived at the base of the road and were waved through the checkpoint. We drove on up, Yuri carefully navigating the twists and turns. The foliage was thick with trees and vines. We could barely see the sky beyond.

Then out of nowhere: POP POP POP POP!

The window cracked with two bullet holes. Yuri swerved to the side and slammed into a tree.

And again: POP POP POP!

We crouched low in our seats, but the bullets kept coming. Yuri flipped the car in reverse and hit the gas, but the wheels spun. We were stuck.

POP POP POP POP!

"I'm hit! I'm hit!"

That was Yuri. He held his right shoulder where blood was spilling out.

I shouted out the window, "We're reporters! The press! Press, press!

POP POP POP!

Glass shards splintered around us. We both huddled low. "Press! Press! Press!" But no matter what we shouted, they kept firing…whoever 'they' was.

We heard another vehicle rumble up to us. This was it, we had to identify ourselves fast or we were dead.

I threw my hands in the air, clearly visible and shouted, "Press! Press! Press! Press!"

I heard some shouts near us — Zulu. The shooting had stopped, and then I heard another voice much farther off. Again, in Zulu.

They both shouted back and forth while Yuri and I huddled low. Yuri's shoulder was bleeding badly and I handed him my jacket to press against it.

A man approached the car and opened the door. It was the guard at the checkpoint below. There had been a misunderstanding. The guards up here didn't catch the radio message about our approach. He actually laughed and said, "Lucky for you he's a terrible shot". That was enough for me.

"Are you mad? He's shot my friend! I need medical attention right now. He's been shot in the shoulder by your stupid man out there."

That seemed to wake up the guard. He nodded and helped to move Yuri into his vehicle. We then drove to the compound where he received treatment. The wound was not serious fortunately. But the entire episode tainted my meeting with the APR commander.

Where are the civilians?

Mercenaries have taken over every small town I've visited. In many regions, the APR and UFLL have divided the towns in half, each force staring the other down across an agreed-upon border

October 19, 2008

Near Port Selao

The streets are jammed with militia. Roadblocks have been set up at every corner. It's impossible to go 10 kilometres without encountering a checkpoint of some kind. And the checkpoint rules are to shoot first. These are the worst of times.

Mercenaries have taken over every small town I've visited. In many regions, the APR and UFLL have divided the towns in half, each force staring the other down across an agreed-upon border.

What few civilians I see are leaving their villages and making for the borders. Or they're still in hiding.

There's a tense stand-off between the two factions, the UFLL and the APR. Maybe they realize that if they attack each other, they'll kill themselves off in quick order. Whatever it is, the tension is thick. It seems a pin-prick could ignite everything.

A fool's mission

October 22, 2008

Near Port Selao

Today I met the man I believe is charged with hunting the Jackal. I was at Mike's, a local café where I've met many mercenaries. In fact I took this man for one of the faction militia at first. But then I could see by his fresh clothes that he was new to the country.

And that's when I realized, this must be the man. He is the one sent on a fool's mission. Kill the Jackal. He has the eyes of a hunter, penetrating and focused. Against most men, I suspect he's a formidable opponent. But against the Jackal? Surely the Jackal will see him killed first.

At first I expected he was another thug there to confiscate my cassettes, but I could see he was different. He didn't yet have that dead gaze I see in so many men here. I took a chance with him and asked what I've already asked of a few men. I know my Jackal tapes must be somewhere. I refuse to believe they've been destroyed. So I asked him to keep a watch for any tapes and bring them to me. Who knows if he will? But if I don't ask, he most certainly won't do it.

I will pray for him. Knowing what I do about the Jackal, I can be sure he's already five steps ahead of this poor man. He has no idea what he's walked into.

Tapes recovered

October 29, 2008

Near Port Selao

17 tapes. I have all 17 tapes again. I can barely believe my good fortune. These are the audio recordings of the Jackal made in September and October. I've found a resourceful computer wizard to help me. A tiny man who calls himself Newton. He lives in a hobbit-sized hut that has no running water, but it does have impressive Internet access and a lightning-fast computer. Unbelievable the things you find if you look hard enough.

He's agreed to encode my tapes and post them online. So watch for them next week.

Tapes are live

November 02, 2008

Near Port Selao

Here they are, my audio recordings of the Jackal. I don't have enough space on my site to post everything, so we selected highlights. These sound bites should stir up debate among you, my good readers. You won't agree with all he says, but you'll be fascinated nonetheless. Share your thoughts in the comments. I'd love to hear your opinion.

Jackal 01 — Recorded 17/09/2008 :

Jackal 02 — Recorded 17/09/2008 :

Jackal 03 — Recorded 17/09/2008 :

Jackal 04 — Recorded 17/09/2008 :

Jackal 05 — Recorded 20/09/2008 :

Jackal 06 — Recorded 20/09/2008 :

Jackal 07 — Recorded 20/09/2008 :

Jackal 08 — Recorded 24/09/2008 :

Jackal 09 — Recorded 24/09/2008 :

Jackal 10 — Recorded 2/10/2008 :

Jackal 11 — Recorded 2/10/2008 :

Jackal 12 — Recorded 5/10/2008 :

Jackal 13 — Recorded 5/10/2008 :

Jackal 14 — Recorded 13/10/2008 :

Jackal 15 — Recorded 15/10/2008 :

Jackal 16 — Recorded 30/10/2008 :

Jackal 17 — Recorded 30/10/2008 :

A sudden offer from S.A.

November 05, 2008

Port Selao

Darren has resigned as Bureau Chief in Johannesburg. He and his family are heading back to England. I'm sad to see Darren leaving. He has been an avid supporter of my work here.

However, Darren's recommended me as his replacement — Bureau Chief of the Joburg office. This effectively means I would be in charge of all African news coverage. I've also been offered a four-part series profiling the Jackal and the conflict here. It seems the job is mine. All I need to do is say yes.

It's all so sudden. The decision may appear obvious to some of you, but for me it's unclear. Of course my dear family is there, so settling down to a desk job seems a natural progression and good for the family.

Yet as a reporter, my work has thrived in the field. I'm at my best when I can feel what I'm reporting. When I can smell it and get my hands dirty. I've never been the sort to lounge behind a desk. I worry that my effectiveness will be hampered considerably.

And my work here is far from over. I have a tough decision to make.

SRC

• https://reubenblog.typepad.com/reubens_blog/aboutreuben.html

Far Cry franchise
Main games	Far Cry (Classic)· Far Cry 2 · Far Cry 3 (Classic Edition) · Far Cry 3: Blood Dragon (Classic Edition) · Far Cry 4 · Far Cry Primal · Far Cry 5 · Far Cry New Dawn · Far Cry 6
Spin-off games	Far Cry Instincts · Far Cry Instincts: Evolution · Far Cry Instincts: Predator · Far Cry Vengeance · Paradise Lost · Far Cry VR: Dive Into Insanity
Mobile & web games	Far Cry 2 mobile · Far Cry 3: Outpost (The Grid) · Far Cry 3: Insanity Mirror · Far Cry 4: Arcade Poker · Far Cry 4: Arena Master · Far Cry 4: What Are You Made Of?
Crossover games	Trials of the Blood Dragon · UNO: The Call of Yara · XDefiant · Captain Laserhawk: the G.A.M.E.
Compilations	Far Cry: Wild Expedition · Far Cry Compilation · Limited Edition
Cancelled games	X-Isle · Far Cry Zeta · Project Maverick
Map editors	CryEngine Sandbox · Far Cry 2 Map Editor · Far Cry 3 Map Editor · Far Cry 4 Map Editor · Far Cry Arcade (Map Editor)
Other media
Films & television	Far Cry film · The Far Cry Experience · Far Cry 5: Inside Eden's Gate · Captain Laserhawk: A Blood Dragon Remix · FX's Far Cry
Audio series	Far Cry: Rise of the Revolution
Tabletop games	Far Cry: Beyond (cancelled) · Far Cry: Escape from Rook Islands
Novels & comics	Far Cry: Götterdämmerung · Far Cry 2: Blutige Diamanten · Far Cry Absolution · The Book of Joseph · Far Cry: Rite of Passage · Happy Vaas Day · Inside · Far Cry: Esperanza's Tears · Captain Laserhawk: A Blood Dragon Remix: Mega City Blues · Captain Laserhawk: A Blood Dragon Remix: Crushing Love · Far Cry: Cull the Herd
Companion books	Far Cry: Official Strategy Guide · Far Cry Instincts: Official Strategy Guide · Far Cry 2: Prima Official Game Guide · The Art of Far Cry 2 · Far Cry 3: Prima Official Game Guide · Far Cry 3: Face Your Insanity Guide · Far Cry 4: Prima Official Game Guide · Far Cry 4: Collector's Edition Guide · Far Cry Primal: Prima Official Game Guide · Far Cry Primal: Collector's Edition Guide · Far Cry Primal: Easy Wenja Phrasebook · Far Cry 5: Collector's Edition Guide · The Official Far Cry Survival Manual · The Art of Far Cry 6 · Captain Laserhawk: A Blood Dragon Remix — The Art of the Animated Series
Music	Far Cry (Original Videogame Score) · Far Cry (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack) · Far Cry 2 (Original Game Soundtrack) · Far Cry 3 (Original Game Soundtrack) · Far Cry 3: Blood Dragon (Original Game Soundtrack) · Far Cry 4 (Original Game Soundtrack) · Far Cry Primal (Original Game Soundtrack) · Trials of the Blood Dragon (Original Game Soundtrack) · Far Cry 5: Inside Eden's Gate (Original Soundtrack) · Far Cry Arcade (Original Game Soundtrack) · Far Cry 5 (Original Game Soundtrack) · Far Cry 5 Presents: Into the Flames · Far Cry 5 Presents: We Will Rise Again · Far Cry 5 Presents: When the World Falls · Far Cry 5: Hours of Darkness (Original Game Soundtrack) · Far Cry 5: Lost on Mars (Original Game Soundtrack) · Far Cry 5: Dead Living Zombies (Original Game Soundtrack) · Far Cry New Dawn (Original Game Soundtrack) · Far Cry 6 (Original Game Soundtrack) · Far Cry 6: The Music of Yara · Far Cry 6 - Vaas: Insanity (Original Game Soundtrack) · Far Cry 6 - Pagan: Control (Original Game Soundtrack · Far Cry 6 - Joseph: Collapse (Original Game Soundtrack) · Far Cry 6 x Stranger Things: The Vanishing (Original Game Soundtrack) · Far Cry 6: Lost Between Worlds (Original Game Soundtrack) · Captain Laserhawk: A Blood Dragon Remix (Music from the Original TV Series)
Blog posts	War Unlimited · Divya's Travel Blog · A word from your dig director
DLCs and expansions
Far Cry 2	Fortunes Pack DLC · Intel bonus missions
Far Cry 3	Deluxe Edition · Hunter Pack DLC · Monkey Business · Lost Expedition · Predator DLC · Warrior Pack
Far Cry 4	Escape from Durgesh Prison · Hurk's Redemption · Overrun · Valley of the Yetis
Far Cry 5	Big Game Hunter · Dead Living Zombies · Far Cry Arcade · Hours of Darkness · Lost On Mars
Far Cry 6	Croc Hunter Pack · Joseph: Collapse · Jungle Expedition Pack · Lost Between Worlds · Pagan: Control · Vaas: Insanity · Vice Pack