The gun market in Ezo is booming, literally. Alongside the freshest fruit and vegetables in South Sudan, one can stroll through the stalls and haggle for a shotgun, pistol or even an AK47. A used Kalashnikov costs as little as $50 and is as readily available as a bunch of bananas.
Ezo is a border town. It is where South Sudan, Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) and Central African Republic (CAR) meet. It is truly the breadbasket of the country and apparently a grassroots armory.
I am told the weapons come in from Central African Republic, which witnesses say is reaching a state of complete anarchy after rebels overthrew the democratically elected government in March. The result has been a quick descent into chaos for almost all areas of CAR, including the areas bordering Ezo.
When you walk through town, you can feel the tension. The expression on faces is one of distrust and trauma. However, when we visited the UNMISS base, the Warrior staff were, as usual, proud and attentive.
Ezo has no bank and one of the biggest challenges our Field Officers face is ensuring that guards and supervisors receive their salaries on time. The personal stress and collective risk involved with transporting hard currency through some of these areas is significant. When the Field Officer responsible for Western Equatoria State finally sat down to pay his guard force, he looked so happy and relieved it was as if he was the one receiving the money!
In order to get to Tambura, Warrior Security’s furthest site in Western Equatoria from Juba, we retraced our steps for 80 kilometres and then branched north for a further 100. We inspected the guard force, paid the monthly salaries and took the long road back.
At Tambura, our guards are working inside an UNMISS base protected by soldiers from the Rwandan army (RWANBATT). For a while our vehicle moved in tandem with a RWANBATT convoy and you could tell they had driven the route countless times. The soldiers sitting in the back of the Toyota Landcruiser pickup bounced along, raising their legs like synchronized swimmers at each pool of water.
We followed the convoy along the muddy road for nearly 200 kilometres. Then the heavens opened. Not usually an issue, but for the fuel light which came on at that very moment.
In this part of the world, fuel stations aren’t common, but I have a motto: “Always prepare and never panic”. When we left Juba, the vehicle had a full tank and 220 extra litres in a blue drum roped tightly onto the pickup bed. Even if you have enough fuel on board, the process of refilling the vehicle is a team effort. Siphoning from drum to fuel tank is easy enough on a sunny day but not quite so stress-free under a steady down pour with no cover save a thin forest canopy. Field Officer Iranya Gideon’s face said it all as he and Evans set about the task. For the record I had my fair share of soaking too!
That tank of fuel took us all the way back to Maridi, where we stopped for the night. Over a plate of roasted goat meat I noticed an American couple sitting across the courtyard. I greeted them and the man, named Kit, explained his fiancé Mika had broken her arm. With a look of absolute agony, the young woman displayed her makeshift sling. They told me they were going to try and make the six-hour trip back to Yambio and hope that the UN would helicopter her to Juba. I knew if she didn’t make Juba soon a serious infection could set in as the bone had broken the skin.
Knowing the UNMISS flight routes well, I advised that the same helicopter departs Yambio, lands in Maridi and then proceeds to Juba, and recommended they start the booking process immediately. I then worked a few of my own angles to try and move the process along because things aren’t always fast or fair in the bureaucratic jungle of the United Nations. Furthermore I called the head of URG medical clinic in Juba, Warrior’s medical provider and longtime friend. With a reception committee organized, we got Mika on the morning flight and Kit joined us on the back seat for the 10 hour drive back to Juba.
This trip had taken me to one of South Sudan’s most unique areas. But when I consider the 1500 kilometres we travelled, my prominent memories are of the characters. People like Field Officer Iranya Gideon, who has developed from a site supervisor in Juba, with a tentative demeanor, to promotion as Field Officer in command of an entire state in one of the most difficult countries in Africa. I think about Evans, a former child soldier turned Senior Driving Instructor for Warrior. I think about how the three of us were able to help an injured American couple stranded almost 8000 miles from home with nowhere to turn. I think about our guards across the outstations that sometimes walk for hours in the rain to make sure they are on shift, protecting our clients’ property and staff with a smile, placing themselves between danger and the people that they serve.
Tribalism and nepotism in South Sudan are at a level that is difficult to fathom. It often results in weekly killings throughout the country. I always tell our Outstations staff that it doesn’t matter whether you are Dinka, Nuer, Equatorian or one of South Sudan’s 38 other ethnic groups. What matters is that when you put on the uniform and come to work, you are all part of one Warrior family, which is something nobody can ever take away. And I think people are beginning to believe it.
For me, Family is a group of people committed to being there for each other; it’s about strength and integrity as both a unit and individual. What I have seen on the last 1500 kilometres is that the people working for Warrior Security South Sudan follow that ethos everyday, personally and professionally, on or off the job. We’re not just securing people and property with a physical presence. We are providing trust, peace of mind, and dependability, which are three things that cannot be manufactured and sold. They are earned, one act at a time.
