I’d acquired the body armor after my first visit to Sudan, when I discovered that standard issue gear didn’t fit someone who wasn’t a six foot three, two-hundred pound soldier. After two weeks of wearing ill-fitting equipment day and night, I had backache that felt terminal, abs that would have thrilled a bodybuilder, and no boobs to speak of. My custom fit equipment was slightly smaller, but only a little less heavy. It was blue, to distinguish me from the military, although that was a double-edged sword: I wouldn’t be shot as a soldier or a spy, but sometimes journalists and nonmilitary personnel were targeted as the more valuable kill. Even insurgents knew the value of PR.
The rest of my gear was, perhaps, a little eccentric, but based on experience of several previous assignments to hostile environments. When working within US military zones, I always included Copenhagen Black tobacco as a gift for the soldiers who’d be assigned to babysit me. I’d learned that many of the men, especially those from the south, appreciated that little piece of home. I also carried garlic tablets, as one of the best means of avoiding insect and mosquito bites; and several packs of gum to counter the remedy. I had a pair of flip-flops, which were useful for crunching across floors where cockroaches had the run of the place in the night; a large sarong that could double as a towel, lightweight sheet, sleeping bag or mosquito net; and a knee-length man’s shirt that I wore in Muslim countries, to provide some modesty over skimpy T-shirts. I’d tried wearing a burka but found I couldn’t run in one, and somehow, it seemed more disrespectful to the local customs than simply showing that I understood their culture by covering up. I always carried a black headscarf: useful across the spectrum, from Catholic churches in Portugal, to bazaars in Baghdad.
Dry shampoo was a luxury as far as my male colleagues were concerned, but for me, it made the difference between feeling revoltingly and disgustingly dirty when there was no chance to shower for several days, and just a little less grubby. And thank heaven for whoever had invented baby-wipes. One other essential nonessential was a humble bottle of tamari soy sauce. People laughed at me when I produced my small bottle, but by the time they’d had MREs ration packs, three times a day for two weeks, the flavor my soy sauce could add, made me the most popular person around. Mango chutney was also a favorite.
I also carried lavender oil, earplugs, an eye-mask, and a thin, inflatable mattress given to me by a US Army captain whom I kissed when I realized how comfortable it was. Which wasn’t something I’d be telling Sebastian about. His jealous streak was only ever a heartbeat away: I had to remember that. It wasn’t that I liked to see that side of him, but damn, it made me feel wanted.
I tried to keep my mind on the job: thinking about him would have me in tears again.
I checked my first aid supplies: dehydration tablets were important, but one of the most useful things, for a woman, was a Mooncup, for those awkward times when sanitary napkins and tampons were impossible to get hold of. Oddly enough, I usually carried condoms with me, too: I’d never needed them for myself, but I’d given them out to colleagues on a fairly regular basis. I’d been planning to buy some in Geneva while I was waiting for my permits to come through, but I’d met Sebastian first. Funny the way things worked out.
I also kept photocopies of my passport and Press ID badge, and would print out a dozen copies of my new credentials when I arrived at the airport. I would also keep JPEGs of important documents, which I emailed to a secret account that only I could access.
There was one more important job to do.
I booted up my laptop and reluctantly, tearfully, I deleted all the photographs of Sebastian and myself from my camera, memory stick, laptop and phone, instead emailing the pictures to the same, private account. I couldn’t risk anyone seeing them and identifying him as a US Marine. I was sorely tempted to keep one photo to look at, but it wasn’t worth the risk, for either of us.
The tears began again as, one-by-one, those photographs that recorded our all too few days of happiness were wiped from my camera’s memory. I knew Sebastian didn’t have a photograph of me either. All he had was my stupid little pebble. Suddenly that seemed terribly important and I was glad I’d given it to him.
I stared at my beautiful engagement ring, then pulled it off my finger, placing it on a thin, gold chain around my neck, where I could imagine it was near to my heart.