Pickle

I spent the day travelling the Juba road vitising IDP (Internally Displaced Person) camps. Along the rough dirt road, which conects Gulu to Sudan, you can find nearly a dozen IDP's. Just recently, due to the ongoing peace talks between the LRA (Lords Revolution Army) and UPDF (Ugandan People's Defense Force), things have settled. I was told by another passenger in the truck, that travelling this road just a year ago would have required a military convoy. For the last twenty years people have gathered in the camps seeking protection from the LRA. Throughout the day I heard story after story of ruthless attack.
All there is for transportation along the road is pick up trucks which carry supplies to the camps and back and forth from Juba, Sudan and Gulu. I met two boys about my age. They had lived in the camps since they were born. A vendor was selling sun glasses and I bought the three of us a pair. After visiting the camps I figured since I was this close I might as well go to the border. I almost made it too, stopped just fifteen km away from Sudan. We ran into a mess where four rusty trucks were stuck up to their axils in mud. Drivers kept charging in to try and get around but only added to the mess.
As everyone stood around, one man started screaming at me because I had a camera around my neck, although it had never even came out of its case. He went back to his friends who all seemed to be drunk and they continued to talk and look at me. I thought it would be best to get out of there quickly. I was told it was six km back to the nearest camp, so I slipped out of site and started walking. By my guess, I only made it a mile and a half before waving down a small truck. I paid them and they took me back to Gulu.