...Gordon climbs into the box and squeezes in among the other passengers. The vehicle moves off as I watch, angry with people who take stuff that isn't theirs, and disturbed by the level of fear I feel at the sight of him disappearing into a cloud of dust. In all the confusion we have just parted without discussing where, exactly, he is going. A police station, a bank. How long should I should wait to go after him if he doesn't return? Two hours? Four? Six? Add to this a new uneasiness, thanks to the surprising realisation that Sudan too has thieves and we have become complacent. And here am I, chained to more than I can carry, alone. Alone did I say? Whatever I am, it is definitely not alone. At a time when my strongest instinct is to lay low, blend in and take stock, I know it is far too late for that. I set my face to neutral, or something like it, but too many have already seen beneath the mask. They are watching me now, staring actually, waiting to see what I will do next. Is it just my state of mind, or am I right to feel that not all the stares are kind? I am overly conscious of all our stuff—two heavy backpacks, adorned with all their bits, and my daypack, with camera and big white lens inside. I drag everything over to the side, which is to say, I put myself and our bags next to something, so I do not feel quite so exposed. There are no corners to retreat to here, no shops or stalls where I can hide in a pretence of purpose. Besides it is hot in the sun, and getting hotter. They come in waves. At first it is mostly kids and then as word spreads, men come to stare as well. You would think the adults would know better. “I don’t do tricks,” I state to the nearest boy, who blinks several times and continues staring just the same. I try ignoring them. I write in my journal, I look out over their heads, I sit as still as a statue in the hope they will get bored and go away. But no. What are they looking at for God’s sake—my hair turning grey? “What?” I snap at no one in particular and there is scattered laughter but no reply. Certainly no one gets up to leave. Finally I try picking them off, one by one. I focus on someone in the front row and return his stare until he starts to twitch and fidget and look sideways, suddenly aware of himself. Welcome to my world, I want to shriek. The pressure peaks, and he ducks back into the crowd. There is a shuffle, someone moves into the gap, and we begin all over again. It is a fruitless pursuit, and I have more important things to do, like negotiating a ride to the border. With perfect timing, a completely different kind of bloke comes forward and we have an actual conversation. His name is David. He cannot get rid of the audience, but at least they back off a little. He offers me a chai and brings back a glass of thick, strong brew. I ask him about lorries heading to Gallabat. “I will find out,” says David, and away he goes; the disadvantage being that the crowd moves in again and I think I might go crazy before either he or Gordon returns. The small bit of shade I had has long slipped away and the only thing worse than sitting here waiting is sitting here waiting in the sun. I drag our packs toward the arc of spectators as though no one is there and like magic a corridor opens up before me. I am headed for a large lorry with decent clearance beneath the undercarriage. I push the packs ahead of me and crawl in after them. I have to sit forward with my elbows resting on one of the packs but it is cool under here, and about as good as things are going to get. My audience watches this new development with interest and seconds later, a small boy ducks down beside the truck and prepares to settle in. I growl at him and he suddenly changes his mind. David is my next visitor. He also ducks down beside the truck. He does not seem in the least surprised to find me here. “Six thousand pounds each,” he says, balancing easily in a squat with his heels on the ground. I frown at this figure. “Wow. That seems like a lot. Must be a hell of a road to the border.” It is a messed-up fact here that the worse the journey, the more a passenger has to pay for the privilege of enduring it. David shrugs. “What are you willing to pay?” “One thousand pounds is what we’ve been paying for that kind of distance.” He says he is willing to go back and put it to the driver but he doubts very much we will find a ride to Gallabat on a donkey for that kind of money. Negotiations grind to a halt at four thousand pounds, but with only an hour to go until the lorry leaves, it could be a moot point. I make a decision—if Gordon isn't back by the time the lorry leaves, I'm going to go and find him…