Letter from a Sudanese prison

I came bearing gifts I imagined would be useful to a foreign correspondent trapped in a grubby African prison — mosquito repellent, books, two recent issues of the Economist and an oversized bar of dark Lindt chocolate.

And I came with one big question: How did Paul Salopek, a two-time Pulitzer Prize winner for the Chicago Tribune, a veteran of dicey Third World travel, land himself in a Sudanese lockup?

The answer, on the surface, seemed simple enough. Salopek, 44, had been on assignment for National Geographic when, on August 6, he crossed over the border from Chad, entering the intractable war zone of the Darfur region without a visa.

Within two hours, he was picked up by former rebels who had cut a deal with the government.

A few days later, including one when a helicopter carrying him took ground fire, Salopek was in the hands of Sudan's notorious secret police.

The charges included not just the visa violation, but also espionage and writing "false news". The possible punishments included many years in prison.

I met Salopek four weeks later while on a reporting trip to Darfur. With stamped and signed travel papers in my pocket, I walked into the sandy court compound.

In late afternoons, the steel-barred doors to his concrete-box lockup were left open, allowing Salopek and his two Chadian colleagues — a driver and an interpreter — to move about freely and chat with visitors.

Salopek had approached his time in prison as he would a story — immersing himself in the place with the passion of a devoted observer.

He picked up a bit of Arabic and studied the names and personalities of his captors, all of whom eventually came to treat him as a friend.

They talked and shared food and played soccer. Most of all, he appeared at peace with his situation, which I knew took much effort for a man uncomfortable in the spotlight.

The Tribune, National Geographic and a host of US officials were working hard for his release, and despite some encouraging signs, Salopek was preparing himself and his two Chadian associates for a long stay.

"If I have to spend two years in Shalla prison," he said, referring to North Darfur's prison, "I'll work on my Arabic."

Brutality

Salopek knew better than most what the stakes were. For whatever he learned before entering Sudan (including through visits with rebels and refugees in Chad) he had spent a month mastering firsthand the brutality of the government here. And despite what he suffered, Salopek expressed much more concern for the hundreds of thousands of people who had died and 2 million made homeless in Darfur.

Salopek was convinced, as was every aid official and African Union officer I met in Al Fasher, that the conflict was about to become worse as the government moved to finish off the rebels who had not signed a May peace deal.

With the AU preparing to leave and a planned UN mission blocked by the government, the thin margin of safety for journalists and aid groups was about to disappear as well.

When I questioned him about his decision to enter without a visa, he acknowledged the misjudgment.

He was in a hurry to complete a project on the Sahel region running along the Sahara's southern edge.

Obtaining a visa to Sudan took months, if it came at all, and he wanted a single scene from Darfur for his story.

With luck, he would have been back in Chad the next day. But all his luck that day was bad. And he made other mistakes, too, such as carrying several notebooks that he had filled in Chad.

They gave Sudan's government plenty of evidence to convict him.

To make matters worse, rain flooded a gully on his potential escape route.

When the rebels arrived, there was nowhere to retreat to.

Salopek had made a career of illuminating the lives of the world's least powerful people caught in forces beyond their control; now, he had become a character in a quintessential Paul Salopek-type story, though when I spoke to him it was not clear whether he would ever publish it.

He seemed untroubled when I left each night, usually after two hours or more of conversation.

He was ready to stay if that was his fate. But he appeared frustrated, knowing that I was leaving to report on the conflict that had drawn him here, but one now out of his reach.

The last few days we met, it became clear that Salopek's situation was set to improve.

His wife, Linda Lynch, Tribune editor Ann Marie Lipinski and National Geographic editor Chris Johns were on their way to Khartoum, the capital of Sudan, as part of a mission led by Gov Bill Richardson of New Mexico, where Salopek has a home.

Contingent

It was unlikely, we all knew, that President Omar Hassan Al Bashir had summoned them only to send them away empty-handed.

As the endgame approached, the small contingent of US diplomatic and military officials who had made it their mission to keep Salopek as safe and comfortable as possible began preparing for his departure.

The day Salopek was freed, September 9, he and his two Chadian colleagues sat behind a small row of orange-painted bars, waiting for the judge to rule.

It was the only time I saw Salopek bend his head in the pose of defeat, though maybe it was submission or exhaustion or relief.

Moments later, at Bashir's request, the judge pardoned them all. They walked out free men, after 35 days in captivity.

In the glare of sunlight, Salopek exchanged hugs with most of his captors, including the judge, who urged him to write "a good story" about his time in Sudan.