The Constant Gardener

"In South Sudan we have calorie rich, calorie middle, calorie poor and plain destitute, Mr. Atkinson. Loki's job is to measure the hunger gaps. Every metric ton we drop costs the U.N. thirteen hundred U.S. dollars. In civil wars, the wealthy die first. That's because, if someone steals their cattle they can't adjust. The poor stay pretty much the way they were. For a group to survive, the land around it has to be safe to plant. Unfortunately, there's not a lot of safe land around. Am I going too fast for you?"

"You're doing admirably, thank you."

"So Loki has to assess the crops and measure where the hunger gaps will appear. Right now, we're on the verge of a new gap. But you've got to get the timing right. Drop food when they're due to harvest, you mess with their economy. Drop it too late, they're already dying. Air's the only answer, by the way. Transport the food by road, it gets hijacked, often by the driver."

"Right. I see. Yes."

"Don't you want to take notes?"

If you're a journalist, behave like one, he is saying. Justin opens his notebook as Edsard takes over the lecture. His subject is security.

"We have four levels of security at the food stations, Mr. Atkinson. Level four means abort. Level three is red alert, level two fair. We got no zero-risk areas in South Sudan. OK?"

"OK. Understood."

McKenzie comes back. "The monitor will tell you when you arrive at the station what level they've got today. If there's an emergency, do what he tells you. The station you're visiting is in territory technically controlled by General Garang, who gave you the visa you lost. But it's under regular attack from the north as well as rival tribes from the south. Don't think this is just a north-south thing. The tribal groupings change overnight and they'd as soon fight one another as fight Muslims. Still with me?"

"Absolutely."

"Country of Sudan is basically a fantasy of the colonial cartographer. In the south we've got Africa, green fields, oil and animist Christians. In the north we've got Arabia and sand and a bunch of Muslim extremists intent on introducing shariah law. Know what that is?"

"More or less," says Justin who in another life has written papers on the subject.

"Result is, we've got everything we need for pretty much perpetual famine. What the droughts don't achieve, civil wars do and vice versa. But Khartoum's still the legal government. Ultimately, whatever deals the U.N. cuts in the south, it's still got to pay its dues to Khartoum. So what we've got here, Mr. Atkinson, we've got a unique triangular pact between the U.N., the boys in Khartoum and the rebels they're beating the living daylights out of. Follow me?"

"You going up to Camp Seven!" Jamie the white Zimbabwean girl bellows in his ear, crouching becomingly beside him in her brown denims and bush hat and cupping her hands to her mouth.

Justin nods.

"Seven's the hot one right now! Girlfriend of mine got hit by a level four up there just a couple of weeks ago! Had to trek eleven hours through marshland, then wait another six hours without her pants for the pickup plane!"

"What happened to her pants?" Justin yells back at her.

"You have to take them off! Boys and girls! It's the chafing! Wet hot steaming trousers! It's unbearable!" She rests for a while then returns her hands to his ear. "When you hear cattle moving out of a village — run. When the women follow them — run faster. We had a guy once ran fourteen hours on no water. Lost eight pounds. Carabino was after him."

"Carabino?"

"Carabino was a good guy till he joined the northerners. Now he's apologized and come back to us. Everybody's very pleased. Nobody asks him where he's been. This your first time?"

Another nod.

"Listen. Statistically, actuarially, you should be pretty safe. Don't worry. And Brandt's a real character."

"Who's Brandt?"

"The food monitor at Camp Seven. A great guy. Everybody loves him. Crazy as a bedbug. Big God man."

"Where does he come from?"

She shrugs. "Calls himself a washed-up mongrel like the rest of us. Nobody has a past up here. It's practically a rule."

"How long's he been there?" Justin yells, and has to repeat himself.

"Six months, I guess! Six months in the field nonstop is a lifetime, believe me! Won't come down to Loki even for a couple of days R and R!" she ends regretfully, and flops back exhausted by her yelling.

Justin unbuckles himself and goes to the window. This is the journey you made. This is the spiel they gave you. This is what you saw. Below him lies emerald Nile swamp, misted by heat, pierced with Jigsaw-shaped black holes of water. On higher ground cellular cattle pens are packed tight with animals.