HARPER LANDS IN Aybei, some sixty miles west of the Nuba Mountains. The recent bombings have transformed the immediate area into a crushed jigsaw shell; the nearest marketplace abandoned, the homes, huts and buildings burned out. Only a handful of people have not yet fled into the hillside and deeper into the mountains. The Ethiopian peacekeeping troops sent into the region are ineffective. Absent a clear directive, they avoid the Northern soldiers, ignore the Maule as it lands.
Ani Risha has arranged for seven men to meet Benchere. Dressed in a mismatch of old shirts and slacks of no uniform color, in tennis shoes and open-toed sandals instead of boots, each man is slim framed and leanly muscled. The rifles they carry are as antiquated as Harper predicted. One of the men introduces himself as Abebe Neen. Sand has settled in Abebe’s hair. His eyes are the color of bitumen. His skin is the same dark shade as Ani Risha’s, though not as smooth. He has on a green and black faded shirt, brown pants frayed at the cuffs. His belt is twine, his right back pocket missing. “This is all then?” he says as Benchere and Harper come from the Maule.
The two Cessnas have been sent on to Juba. Harper leaves the Maule beside a Timpir tree. Benchere follows Abebe to a jeep where he sits in front. Abebe slides in behind the wheel, hands his rifle to a second man who climbs in back with Harper. A third man is left behind to guard the Maule, while the others follow on foot. The road is rutted from the shelling. Only a few structures remain undamaged. A bus at the side of the road has been torched and the tires removed. The city is built on sands coated with silt and ash. The breeze stirs. Harper takes a dew rag from his pocket and ties it over his nose and mouth. Benchere does the same. The absence of people and livestock makes everything feel part of a violent rapture; the smell less of decay than a swift annihilation.
Harper asks about the bodies, the reported numbers of dead in Abyei leaving him to wonder. Abebe answers curtly, “We have eaten them, of course. What would you do in America, Mr. Harper?”
After three miles, they stop at a mud brick hutch, square with a thatch roof and a single window in the rear. The door is a thin sheet of unpainted wood. The debris out front has been cleared away. An outdoor pit used for cooking is encircled with clay bricks stacked two feet high. The pit is to the left of the house. Twenty yards further down is the truck with supplies Ani Risha promised.
Benchere gets out of the jeep and walks toward the truck. Inside is a mismatch of metals, scrap sheets and rubbish finds, a butane torch, pieces of rope and rocks, two bags of cement and a sack with files and hammers. The materials present a challenge as few of the metals work well together. Benchere doesn’t mention this. He assumes Abebe has helped orchestrate the haul and, not wishing to offend, he touches the closest sheet of tin and thanks him for the effort, does his best to sound enthusiastic. “Wonderful work, Mr. Neen,” he says.
Skeptical of Benchere’s visit, Abebe does not reply.
The house has been cleaned and set up with the expectation of several more people arriving. Mattresses line the floor, shelves filled with canned meats and vegetables; Jolly Green Giant and Dinty Moore, nothing extravagant yet each a luxury in Abyei. Harper goes outside to the cooking pit which is filled with dry wood. After traveling all night, he wants to sleep, but is also hungry, tries to decide what to do.
Benchere leaves the truck and walks across what is left of the road. A half house sits abandoned. Additional structures remain further off in equal states of ruin. To the side of the house, grave upon grave, the earth heaped and turned and not quite repaired. Benchere takes stock. The wreckage of the city is disturbing, though less surprising than the silence. From all reports online, Benchere anticipated constant gunfire, sirens blasting and ongoing mayhem. Discovering the area no longer under siege comes as a relief, and yet for reasons of his own he is also disappointed.
He wipes his face with the palm of his hands, thinks of Deyna, considers what Ani Risha has asked him to do, pictures the ghosts in Abyei, the ghosts in his head. Crazy, crazy, crazy, he attempts to convince himself. Here is fine, here is good enough. He has come as a favor, has come for personal reasons, to give himself distance, and if needed, perhaps more. He looks about, attempts to merge the two purposes of his trip, but can’t quite do it, becomes anxious and thinks building a sculpture here in the empty ruins of Abyei is a mistake.
Ahh, Benchere.
From miles away, he listens for sounds of mortars, imagines the gunplay in the hills, the planes overhead and the Northern soldiers in ambush. He remembers the night Deyna came to him, lying there in the dark, holding her awkwardly afterward, over-compensating, making his grip too tight, releasing her, only to reach for her again. He thinks next of Marti, of the times and times and times again, then pictures the fighting further off in Kadugli and Khartoum and tells himself, if nothing else, a sculpture nearer the mountains will serve the canvas of the area better. The challenge of his arrival excites him suddenly. He moves a fly from in front of his face, checks behind what remains of the shattered wall, folds and unfolds his arms, rubs at his chin, puts his hands on his hips and stares east toward the horizon.
Harper watches, sees Benchere clear enough to have a bad feeling. “Hey,” he shouts, tries distracting him by tossing a stone. “Come and have some water and cool down,” he says. “Come and get some sleep.”
The other men watch as well, unsure what is happening as Harper yells, “Come on.”
Benchere looks in the direction of the truck, points back at Harper.
“Fuck.” Harper shakes his head, tells Benchere, “Hold on now.”
Benchere pretends not to hear.
Harper pitches another stone, this time directly at him. “You’re crazy,” he says.
Benchere howls.
Harper raises his hands, is tempted to flatten the tires on all the vehicles, making it impossible for Benchere to call Abebe over and say in that way he has when posing a question that is no question at all, “So Mr. Neen, how far is it to the Nuba Mountains anyway? How far if we left now in this thing you call a truck?”
DANCY MUND HAS put on a suit, adjusts his tie, parts his hair and polishes his shoes. Gabriella has refreshed her make-up which tends to run in the heat. Near noon, four men and two women arrive in a rented limo. The Munds go and greet their guests together, repeat the word delighted nine times.
Two of the guests snap pictures of Benchere’s sculpture. The others film with their cell phones. Afterward, everyone heads behind the fence where a table is set with plates and glasses, a pitcher of water, sliced fruit, fried potatoes, a bowl of nuts and sugared candies Gabriella has saved. Dancy arranged the meeting in the days before, had hoped to catch Benchere by surprise and bring further support for developing the area directly to him. With Benchere absent, the Munds look to close the deal on their own. Dancy encourages everyone to fill their plates then moves to the front of the table and begins his presentation.
On hand is a representative from CEDA – The Citizen Entrepreneurial Development Agency – the UNDP – United Nations Development Program – and BOCONGO – Botswana Council of Non-Governmental Organizations. The remaining invitees are agents for Botswana’s very deepest pockets; investors made familiar with the Munds’ idea for a resort and intrigued enough to consider involvement.
Deyna and the others watch from the main camp. The Africana stop what they are doing to observe as well. Daimon films. Rose and Stern run photographs through their computer for each of the six arrivals. “Quite the gathering,” Stern says.
“Big guns.”
“Heavy hitters.”
The group talks with Mund of routes and roads, of building a landing strip for commercial planes, of the hotel they will erect in the desert with Benchere’s sculpture as the centerpiece. When asked, Dancy apologizes for Benchere’s absence, explains that he is off now in the Sudan overseeing another project, but that he feels very strongly about the prospect of inner-desert development. “No one is more committed to his vision than Michael,” Mund says. “Of course,
” he uses the moment to explain how the sculpture is actually free for all who come to the area to view on their own. “We don’t need to license the work from Benchere. The land here is available for purchase. Our including Michael is more of a courtesy. We can build here on our own.”
The Munds present their business plan. A decision is made to bring out a surveyor, a geologist and an engineer to determine what is needed. Numbers are discussed, a projection and timeline, as well as a cost analysis the others will take back with them to consider. At the end of the meeting Gabrielle offers the group parting favors: oranges and dried meat for their drive, each packed in sheets of wax paper flown in from Maun.
Handshakes and backslaps are exchanged all around. As they walk to the limousine one of the men points in the direction of the Africana and the storefront, which is partially stocked and prepared for business. Mund takes note, is about to offer assurances that the assemblage is temporary and will be removed once the actual construction of their resort is underway. Instead, each of the others congratulates Mund for his ingenuity and business savvy. “It’s generous,” the woman from CEDA says and everyone agrees.
Mund pivots on his bad leg and replies, “I do what I can.” He opens the car door and wishes them all a safe journey.
ABEBE DRIVES THE truck with Benchere and Harper up front. Before leaving Abyei, he radios Juba and reports their change of plans. The radio is ancient. After twenty minutes they receive a one word response from the capital: Proceed.
Two of the other men follow behind in the jeep. The road from Abyei is a rough path covered with sand. The trail disappears completely nearer the mountains. Twice a plane flies overhead and Abebe squeezes the wheel tighter, curses beneath his breath. Voetsek. Fokof. Hol naier. The truck and jeep have been covered with mud to help camouflage them from the planes but this only helps so much. Not until the whoosh of the planes pass does Abebe relax his grip.
Most of the water and canned foods from Abyei is packed in back of the truck with the metals. Extra gas is stored as well. They drive along the west side of the mountains, toward Kadugli and possibly Kordofan. Benchere sits by the door, Harper in the center. The road bounces them from side to side. An hour removed from Abyei they are stopped by Southern fighters. Abebe identifies himself and the Americans. “Yo brothers,” he says and gets out of the truck, stretches, explains about Kiir and Risha and Benchere, offers a few cans of food from the back and inquires about the road ahead.
They continue on. Harper naps. Just after dusk the mountains come clearly into view. The landscape rolls higher, the hills in a more severe undulation. The topsoil is dotted with dry yellow grass, thorny trees and shrubs. Abebe stops at a series of abandoned huts that have survived the recent shelling. He gets out of the truck again, calls “Hallo,” and waits to hear if anyone is near enough to answer.
Harper and Benchere climb out as well. Abebe calls louder into the hills. When no one shouts back he tells Benchere, “They are further up. It is safer in the mountains.”
“We should drive on then.”
“No.” Abebe says, “We’ll stop here.” He explains why driving in the dark is a bad idea. The men from the jeep check inside the huts. Benchere and Harper examine the cratered holes in the earth while Abebe walks the length of the area. The absence of any tools, clothing or food suggests the village has either been ransacked or quickly packed up by the original inhabitants and carried off.
Wood is gathered and a fire started. Cans of stewing beef and corn are opened then mixed together in the only pot they’ve brought. They eat communally this way, with spoons sunk in. Harper has tobacco and papers picked up in Tshane. After their meal he offers the two men a smoke. They take the pouch and papers and show Harper how to roll a cigarette with one hand. Their names are Bako and Jelani. Harper calls them Ben and Jerry. The men don’t get the joke but smile just the same. “What is a Harper?” they ask. “Do you play?” Bako mimics the strumming of strings.
Harper interprets the mood of the men as a good sign. After a day of driving only Abebe remains silent. Harper offers him the pouch and papers but he declines. Benchere takes his spoon and stuffs it in his back pocket. He turns to Abebe, asks about Kadugli, wants to know how far off they are and what chance there is they will run into soldiers between here and there.
Abebe holds his rifle in his left hand. The muscles of his forearm are taut strands of rope wrapped around the bone. He turns sideways to Benchere, treats the question as an indicator of the American’s obliviousness, has taken to dropping the Mr. as he replies, “You had us drive here and now you want to know what might happen, Bencheer?”
Benchere nods once as if to show he understands what Abebe is saying. He rephrases his question, to which Abebe replies, “We can expect to see soldiers.”
“And if we stay here, how long before they find us?”
“How long?” he takes out a cigarette from his own pack, lights it and says, “These are questions you wouldn’t ask if you understood better the situation.”
“Right, but assuming I don’t.”
Abebe lets the smoke out through his nose. The question irks and Abebe is tempted to say, If you knew what you are supposed to, Bencheer, you would have stayed in Abyei. He goes ahead instead and describes the areas near Nuba and further up where they are heading, details the regular attacks, the bombings and the soldiers. In Kadugli, the South attempts to push back the North with limited success. “Not to worry,” Abebe mocks now. “I can get you all the way to Kadugli if you want. Beyond Kordofan. We can go to Khartoum and meet al-Bashir for lunch.”
Benchere gives the comment a shrug, dismisses the sarcasm while saying, “Khartoum may be a bit far. I bet al-Bashir has plans for lunch, but if you can get us to Kadugli that will be good. Let’s shoot for that.”
“Shoot, yes.” Abebe slips his arm through his rifle strap, slides the gun up over his back then turns his head so that he’s looking at Benchere from a different angle. He puffs more smoke, brings his head straight and says of Benchere’s decision to leave Abyei, “Tell me again what you will do in Kadugli.”
The details of Benchere’s plan have already been presented and yet when Benchere answers, “I’m here to build a sculpture,” the reaction from Abebe is to laugh.
The men with Harper look over. Abebe stands with Benchere on the opposite side of the fire and asks, “This is what you’ve come for?”
“It is.”
“We’ve heard this.”
“Then you know.”
“What am I supposed to know, Bencheer?”
“Why I’m here.”
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“Didn’t I just tell you?” Benchere’s voice rises. Defensive, he says, “I’m sticking my Goddamn neck out, Abe. You might want to lighten up a bit on the attitude.”
Abebe holds to a different view and says, “This neck that is stuck, Bencheer, isn’t it ours? Taking you where you want to go and for what? To sculpt?” This time when Abebe laughs the other men join him as well. The place they’ve stopped sits in a hollow between two hills, not quite a valley but low enough to offer shelter. Abebe tugs at his shirt beneath his rifle strap. He stares at Benchere, wonders what the penalty might be if he left the Americans here on their own and was done with them. Of Benchere’s plan he says, “Why not bring us something we can use? Food and guns. What are we supposed to do with a sculpture?”
Benchere adjusts his safari hat. The temperature is warm still, though the air through the near-valley after sunset has a hint of something cooled. The question is reasonable. What are you doing? He answers not as his students would, does not tell Abebe that building a sculpture is a stick in the eye to al-Bashir, a show of defiance that puts a spine in the center of the South’s resolve. Instead, he says, “What you’re supposed to do there, Abe, is observe what the sculpture has to offer.”
“To observe?”
“That’s right.” He settles his boots on the sand, takes the spoon from his pock
et and waves it like a baton for no particular reason. He forgets how exhausted he is from too little sleep and all the travel, keeps Abebe in front of him, leans forward and says, “Art is what everything else chases. Do you get what I’m saying?”
Abebe answers, “No.”
Benchere huffs. He takes the spoon and slaps it inside his left palm, puts it in his front pocket then takes it back out and says, “Think of art as the looking glass. What you are able to see is truth in its most concentrated form. It doesn’t matter if you’re from the North or South, if you’re an innocent or a monster. Everyone when they stop and look at art is confronted by the same thing. This is art’s function.”
“To show us truth?”
Benchere sounds off like his students, “Art is truth.”
Abebe listens, finishes his cigarette and crushes it under the toe of his shoe. Despite his size compared to Benchere, there is a power when he speaks. He responds with denial, challenges Benchere directly. “What are we to see that we don’t know now, Bencheer? What truth is there that I don’t get? There is no other truth than this,” he moves his hand about, lets the panorama of where they are settle in. “You can’t create truth. A sculpture is cold steel and knows nothing.” He points again, shows the craters in the earth’s surface, the empty huts beneath the hills and mountains. “This is truth for real,” he says. “This is all there is.”
“You’re wrong,” Benchere, provoked, lets Abebe know, “What you describe isn’t truth.” He digs in and says, “War is real but it’s still bullshit. Listen to me. You have all these years of conflict, declarations and treaties and pacts, agreements and referendums, cease-fires and attacks and none of this resolves a damn thing. It’s a killing field. It’s genocide. It’s madness. It’s reality, sure. There’s no denying. But truth?” Benchere says, “Reality isn’t truth, Abe, it’s just the thing you live in while you search for something else.”
Benchere in Wonderland Page 18
