Here are some of my favorite snaps of Sudan’s historic election. Please be advised some images are copyrighted and should not be used without formal permission.

Military and police forces deployed heavily following the announcement of election results on Monday.

The security environment in Juba has taken a sudden turn for the worse. Following the announcement of election results this afternoon, riots and confrontations were reported in the Hai Malakal and Customs areas of Juba town. The United Nations and other security services confirmed that shots were fired in the Hai Malakal area during confrontations. Heavily armed units of military and police deployed throughout the area in trucks and armored personnel carriers. All traffic and pedestrians were banned from entering.

All United Nations staff are on lockdown.

Reports indicate that the confrontation involves supporters of Independent candidate Alfred Ladu Gore, who ran for the gubernatorial seat for Central Equitoria. The word on the street, and among some polling officials and election observers, is that Gore won more popular votes than his opponent, the SPLM incumbent, Lt. General Clement Wani. The outcome, however, does not reflect such claims.

The issue of independent candidates was a tricky one throughout the elections process. Feeling that the SPLM candidate nomination process was unfair, some 300 SPLM members, many of them fairly senior, opted to break ranks and run on their own. This infuriated many within the SPLM and caused considerable tension in races throughout the region.

The Central Equitoria gubernatorial race proved particularly tense due to strong support for Alfred Gore. In the days before results were announced, rumors circulated that neither candidate would accept the other’s victory and that confrontations were probable.

Juba residents fear that violence might spread if political agreements are not reached. “We do not know what will happen,” says Robert, a local resident. “We are just remaining inside and praying that it will not get worse.”

I’m slated to move with police forces tomorrow. We’ll see if they will really allow it. Updates to follow.

By the looks of it, you’d never know that an historic election is underway. The streets of Juba are largely empty; shops are shuttered. Few cars and pedestrians are seen on the roads. Polling stations in schools, offices and other public venues are poorly marked and appear much as they do on ordinary days.

It is, quite frankly, not what I expected.

The population seems subdued. One might assume that the first multiparty elections in 24 years would generate palpable excitement. The carloads of party supporters that typically buzz the streets during African elections are nowhere to be found. It seems that everyone here is laying low until they’re sure that violence won’t break out.

At every polling station one encounters groups of frustrated citizens who cannot find their names on lengthy, posted rosters. All possess their original registration cards and claim to have registered at the locations at which they’re now attempting to vote. “I registered here,” says Morris, a 35-year-old Juba resident. “It was at this exact location and now they are saying that I am not on the list,” he shouts. If ones name does not appear on the list, that person is unable to cast a ballot.

Many feel that the absence of their names from the official lists robs them of a long anticipated national right. “I have a national duty to vote in these elections,” says David Francis, another Juba resident. “I am being robbed of that opportunity, it is terrible,” he says.

Polling officials scramble to address the issue. Many polling stations have requested the original hand-written registration books. “We hope that once the original books arrive, we will be able to resolve this problem,” says a polling station head in Juba’s Hai Nimra Talata neighborhood.

In addition to the absence of names from registration lists, many also believe that the lists are poorly constructed. “These are very confusing,” a many tells me outside a Juba polling station in Malakia. “It’s like it was designed for Arabic, which you read right to left, but changed to English.” He said that the order of names had been changed, with first names leading. “Many of use have several names, but when we lead with the first names, which many people share, it becomes very hard to find yours,” he adds.

When combined with high levels of illiteracy, these issues cause great confusion and frustration. Literate voters who cannot find their own names are often too frustrated to assist illiterate ones with the same problem.

I spent the first day of polling in Terekeka, a small town northwest of Juba. While some voters complained of similar registration discrepancy issues, polling seemed more organized there than it does in Juba. In Terekeka, however, incorrect ballots were delivered. “We received too many state assembly ballots here and none for the national assembly,” a polling manager tells me. “We did not open the station because of this.”

While these issues certainly pose problems for the integrity of the elections, I believe that some of the reporting on the elections is too negative. To date, there have been no major instances of violence or blatant intimidation. These are the main issues we feared and we’ve yet to see them manifest. While the logistics and execution of the elections leaves much to be desired, one must remember that great numbers of people here have virtually no experience with elections. Expecting them to go seamlessly is both unrealistic and unfair.

Perhaps it’s too lenient, but I feel that if these elections conclude without violence, they will have been a success.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

As the MSF compound disappears from sight, I close my eyes and repeat the phrase in my mind. I recite the last line forcefully as if to quell the internal argument about why I’m in this situation. The darkness outside the window is so severe that I have difficulty distinguishing when my eyes are open and closed. My head is light from gasoline fumes emanating from jerry cans in the back. Despite containing seven cramped occupants, the car is quiet. For a moment, I feel out of touch with what is really happening.

The car pulls to a stop at the thatched gate of a compound. I squint out the window and spot a handful of near-naked boys silhouetted by fire. They’ve spotted the car and ceased movement, like a herd of startled deer. I fumble for a headlamp in my pack. “What is this,” I ask Mary. “Ismael’s compound,” she says.

Ismael Kony is, perhaps, the most feared and powerful man in Pibor. During the war, he commanded a vast militia of Murle fighters who received support from the northern Sudanese government. Together with other northern-aligned militias, Kony and his men posed serious challenge to the Sudan People’s Liberation Army. While despised by SPLA leaders during the war, the majority of Murle regard him as a hero. “The politics of this war are very complicated,” Mary once told me in response to a question about Ismael. “The SPLA were sometimes very tough on Murle. Ismael protected them.” His partnership with the northern government was one of convenience, not ideological or political support, she said.

We stand in the shadows of Kony’s compound now because Mary is, through rather unnerving circumstances, his sister-in-law. Mary’s father was a Murle chief and, before his death in 1989, served as a military commander in the SPLA. With her father and Ismael on opposing sides of the political divide, fighting raged between them. In the midst of the war, Kony abducted Mary’s older sister and took her as a wife. The practice of abduction is common among Murle and, according to Mary, her sister soon accepted her fate. “She is happy with him,” Mary explains. “Even though going with him at first was not her choice, she would never leave him.” Despite the traumatic origins of the relationship, Mary has also grown close with Kony. In fact, the vehicle in which we arrived is one of Kony’s extensive fleet.

We stream through the gate quietly and single file. My eyes slowly adjust to the darkness and I’m able to make out the general specs of the compound. Its courtyard is wide and long with modest, grass-thatched huts along the near side. Its neatly swept surface indicates the presence of women and children, both of which begin to emerge as we gather outside the huts. I know that Ismael himself is not around, having seen him at his primary residence in Juba last week.

Mary greets an older woman who she later identifies is Kony’s first, and consequently, most important wife. I shake her hand and speak in Arabic, which elicits a minimal response. I wonder, for a moment, if she only speaks Murle or if she’s plainly not interested in chatting with me. Unlike my ordinary life, this self-absorbed, neurotic moment is a welcomed reprieve from worrying about my immediate safety. I rest on a wooden stool in the middle of the courtyard and try, the best I can, I maintain this silly distraction.

The conversation between Mary and the women of the compound is slow and seemingly subdued. I hear nothing but “ooohs” and “ahhhs” between softly spoken Murle. Their exchange is devoid of the laughter and smiles that define conversations between familiar people here. During a long lull, which I wrongly perceive as the end of the talk, I interrupt. “What’s going on,” I blurt out in a tone much too loud for the mood. “We’re still talking,” Mary responds. “Relax.” Her tone that mixes sympathy and irritation and, for a moment, I feel like a scolded child.

Soon one of the women approaches Mary, places her hands on her shoulders, and leans in to speak more softly than before. While I could neither hear nor understand the question, Mary’s answer makes it clear. “SSDF,” Mary shyly responds. “Uh huh,” mumbles the woman as she leans out and moves slowly towards her original seat. She seems troubled by the English letters that formed Mary’s response. While I’m sure she does not speak more than a word of English, she knows what those letter mean or, perhaps more importantly, what they don’t. The South Sudan Democratic Forum. We’re down to brass tax.

We’re shown to an adjacent compound that’s near but not connected to Kony’s. Wedded to the idea of security within his walls, I protest. “This is clearly not Ismael’s compound,” I argue. The defeated look on Mary’s face puts a quick end to my gripes. There’s nothing around for miles. There’s no phone. No planes, trains or buses. It’s the middle of the night. “Accept the things I cannot change,” I tell myself. I readjust my bags and carry on.

A tall, dark-skinned man shows me to a hut with two single beds inside. A generator powered light bulb dangles from a wire in the middle of the roof. I’m pleased to see it. “It’s fifty pounds per night,” he tells me. It could be 1,000, I think, as if I’ll just pop over and check the rates at Motel 6. “Water for bathing,” he says, pointing to a small, pink pitcher near the bed. “Fine,” I respond, dropping my pack to the dirt floor. “I just want to lay down.” He leaves at once and, for the first time in days, I’m alone.

Three pieces of crooked wood comprise the gate of this compound. It rests half open between two huts. I consider closing it and, just as quickly, wonder what difference it would make. I stand in the courtyard wondering what might occur in the coming hours. Mary approaches with a tired sway. “Is this cool,” I ask. “Yes,” she says. “I don’t think we’ll have any problems.” I look at her suspiciously and she looks straight ahead, her face weighted with exhaustion. “I just need to sleep,” she says. I nod. “Try to relax,” she adds before turning towards her hut. “We will find out what’s happening tomorrow. “ The hum of the generator soon comes to tragic end and blackness settles over us once again. Tomorrow seems like decades away.

We arrive in Gumaruk under the powerful rays of a midday sun. The village is slightly larger than Manyabol and resembles the old American West. Hordes of SPLA soldiers lounge on battered verandas as flies buzz around sparsely stocked food stands. The heat is unbearable and there is almost no shade to speak of.

At the end of Gumaruk’s one main street, under its one large tree, dozens of residents vie for refuge. At the center of the scene sit several candidates from the ruling Sudan People’s Liberation Movement. A handsome man in a pristine black suit addresses the crowd through a microphone. “SPLM Oyeeee!,” he yells. “Oyeeeee,” the crowd musters lethargically. The chant is common during election season and loosely translates as, “SPLM is on top.” The sharp looking man is a spokesman of the party and its present candidates, who sit fanning themselves in cumbersomely warm suits.

For the first time on the campaign trial, Mary is face-to-face with her political opponents. She has, since announcing her candidacy, faced pressure from the SPLM to withdraw from the race. Her only direct competitor for the Pibor National Assembly seat is a women running on behalf of the SPLM. While she is the wife of a late, Murle war hero, she is neither from Pibor, nor a member of the tribe herself. In an environment where political support is often based on tribe and reputation, Mary’s fame as a musician and notoriety among the Murle increases her chances of victory.

“I’m scared that people will vote for me because they know me as a musician,” Mary told me weeks earlier. “I think many people will support me, even though they don’t know my platform, and that makes me fear.” While her sentiments contradict most western sensibilities, the political landscape here is leaps and bounds from advanced democracy. In a place where political competition is new, violence is recent and power is sacred, challenging the establishment can be dangerous.

The atmosphere in Gumaruk is tense and Mary decides that she will not attempt to host a formal rally. Feeling overwhelmed by the heat, I distance myself from the crowds and rest against our parked car. As I scribble notes about the scene, I notice a small, paunchy man approaching with a suspicious and unfriendly expression. He squints his eyes and leans close to inspect the press passes hanging from my neck.

“Hello,” I say, his head only inches from mine. No response. “Can I help you,” I ask, irritated by his disregard for my personal space. He’s too busy inspecting the fine print to acknowledge me. “What are you doing here,” he demands, as though the extended examination of my visible credentials afforded him no insights. “I’m a journalist,” I say, “I’m working on a story about Mary Boyoi.” He pauses for a minute, presumably confused about which track to pursue from here.

“Why,” he demands. “Why am I doing a story about Mary,” I ask rhetorically, surprised by his brazen approach. “Yes, why Mary.” His tone is increasingly aggressive and suggests little genuine interest in my answers. Around his neck sits a blue lanyard with SPLM printed in repetitive, white letters. The attached identification card is conveniently tucked into his shirt pocket. His political motivations now clear, I become certain that no answer will be satisfactory and I decide it wise to offer as little information as possible. “Because these are elections and journalists cover candidates,” I say, collecting my things from the hood of the car. He does not want to let me go, but can’t think of a good enough reason to stop me. He glares in my direction as I walk towards the crowd.

After deciding that a night in Gumaruk might not be wise, we pile back into the car and drive the final leg to Pibor. The town, which consists of little more than few shops built inside metal shipping containers, appears from nothing. The soft light of early evening shrouds a group of men playing soccer on a parched UN airstrip, which forms Pibor’s western boundary. A cloud of thick dust follows the players, obscuring the action. White, World Food Program storage tents line the airstrip, a visible sign of Jonglei’s ongoing food shortage. An inactive cell phone tower taunts local residents, most of whom have no means of communication with the outside world. It is, in many ways, a concentrated example of the challenges here.

As night descends on Pibor, Mary receives word that one of her supporters has been arrested. Unsure of the circumstances the arrest, she begins to fear that a similar fate might await her here. With the news fresh in her mind, we head to the Medecins Sans Frontieres (Doctors Without Borders) compound with hopes of pitching our tents within its walls. It is not until we are inside the compound that I learn that Mary has no existing relationships with MSF staff in Pibor nor had she previously alerted them of her intentions to stay in their compound. “I am a famous musician in southern Sudan and I am now running as a political candidate,” she explains to a skeptical logistics manager, Chris. “This man is a journalist covering my story,” she adds, gesturing in my direction. Chris looks me up and down and I know, without a doubt, that there’s no way we’re sleeping in this compound.

“Have some water and let me go check with my boss about this,” he says in between drags of a cigarette. He is exceedingly thin and looks tired, two understandable conditions for someone who’s been in Pibor for nearly six months. Sure that the answer will be a resounding no, I consider saving him the perfunctory trip and its related banter. A small glimmer of hope envelopes my tongue, however, and I say nothing. I fill a mug with cold, clean water, the first of it’s kind that I’ve had in several days. My lips and mouth and feel dry.

As Chris disappears into the night, I lurk in the shadows of the MSF mess hall, peering at the activities inside. An American accent describes the movie Old School to a Belgian colleague. I see a man looking over a woman’s shoulder as they swap digital films on external hard drives. “You should definitely take it,” he says, “it’s hilarious.” I shake my head in agreement, as if I’m part of their conversation. I wish I could just chill out and watch Old School, I think.

The stereo inside blares Evenflow, by Pearl Jam, a favored band of my angsty, adolescent years. Hidden in the darkness, I silently mouth the words to the chorus and wonder what happened to my collection of Pearl Jam tee shirts. The thought is soon interrupted by the unmistakable sound of released carbonation from the porch. Like an alerted dog, my head straightens and I avoid making unnecessary sounds. On the far side of the porch, I spot an MSF staffer taking the first sip of an ice-cold Corona. In a flash, my water loses all appeal. Sweating beer in hand, she strides into the yard where other staffers prepare charcoal for a barbeque. Drenched in ulterior motives and very thinly veiled desperation, I move in to make small talk. No one seems interested.

Chris returns with a look that quickly crushes my budding fantasy of Coronas, grilled meat and peace of mind. “I cannot allow you to sleep here,” he says in a direct tone typical of many Europeans. “Perhaps you can find accommodation in town.” Mary appears distressed, a feeling that I quickly assume. “But I am concerned for my security here,” she pleads. “One of my supporters has been arrested and I am not sure if I will be safe.” Standing in the darkness, with no accommodation in sight and a dwindling amount of time in this oasis of security, my blood begins to boil. I had not, until just now, heard Mary admit that she feared for her safety in Pibor. In all my neurotic, security-related queries, Mary insisted that everything here would be fine. I suspected, however, that her interest in my coverage led to a particularly rosy forecast.

“It is exactly because you have these security concerns that I cannot allow you to stay in the compound,” Chris explains, his patience on the decline. Having worked with international organizations in the past, I understood his reasoning and knew there was no chance of reconsidering. “Thanks anyway,” I manage over a growing lump in my throat. “Let’s get a move on.”

The light from the few florescent bulbs inside the compound fades quickly outside the gate and we’re soon enveloped by the darkness of Pibor. While I’m sure the town is visible ahead, I squint futilely into a black abyss. My stomach knots as we lumber towards the car, unsure of what lies ahead. “Well, what now,” I ask Mary with clear irritation. “I don’t know,” she responds somberly. Her concerned expression and unusually humble tone cut through me. If I’m in a bad spot, she’s in a worse one, I think.

The driver turns the engine and steps on the accelerator. The car lurches forward, without direction, into the night. The taillights of a vehicle meander down a road in the far distance. Without them, we might as well be on the moon.

I decide to shave in the morning even though the growth on my face is slight. Once I leave Bor, I won’t see running water for a week. I find few things less pleasant than an itchy neck in Sudan’s oppressive heat. I’ll have more than enough to make me feel uncomfortable in the coming days.

Bor is livelier than I anticipated. Under the cover of darkness it looked like little more than a few disparate shops. The morning brought vendors, shoppers, police officers and kids into the unpaved streets. We stop briefly in a market area to purchase credit units for Mary’s Thuriya satellite phone. A hallmark of underdevelopment in Jonglei is the virtual absence of mobile phone networks. As soon as one reaches the outer limits of Bor town, the signals fade along with most other signs of modernity.

The “road” from Bor to Pibor originates from an intersection on the south end of town. A red-and-white crossing gate ominously marks the entrance of this narrow dirt track. The road is of notably poorer quality than the Juba-Bor passage, which allows speeds of nearly 70 km per hour. We’ll be lucky to break 30 here. The earth in this part of Jonglei is known as “black cotton,” a reference to its unusual color and consistency. It’s particularly soft, even to the touch, and small amounts of rain transform it into an impassable, tar-like substance. During the rain season, this part of Jonglei becomes an archipelago.

The outskirts of Bor are inhabited by the Dinka-Bor, a large and powerful tribe in southern Sudan. Their small, grass-thatch huts are visible in clusters along the road. The Dinka-Bor are in frequent conflict with the neighboring Nuer and Murle over cattle and land. The tribes here are pastoralists and many compete for the same scarce resources. In this period of extreme drought, grazing lands are coveted. Additionally, severe shortages of food and water increase tension, competition and violence. Intense inter-communal fighting during 2009, which left some 2,500 dead, created a cycle of revenge killings that show few signs of abating.

Mary Boyoi and her campaign team are Murle from the neighboring Pibor County. The Murle inspire fear among their neighbors with fierce warrior culture and, perhaps more importantly, their custom of abducting children. As we pass through the small Dinka village of Anyidi, Mary suddenly orders the driver to stop. He pulls to a clearing and Mary jumps out to campaign among Dinka in the village center. She smiles broadly as she hands posters to a group of older men.

Within minutes the pleasantries fade and her Murle identity becomes the heated focal point. “We were raided by Murle just last week,” an elder claims. “They killed several people and took a small child.” Mary’s smile fades as his acrimony mounts. “How can we vote for a Murle when the Murle are treating our people like this?” Mary tries nervously to maintain eye contact with the speaker. It’s clear she’s in a minefield. “I hope to make peace among our tribes,” she tells the group. “If I am elected, I will work on identifying abducted children and returning them home.” The crowd seems skeptical.

“I told them that I can solve this problem of child trafficking and abduction when I’m in the parliament,” Mary says. “But they let me know that if I campaign to my own Murle people on the promise of identifying and returning abducted children, none of them will vote for me.” Conflict politics are notoriously tricky.

After Anyidi, the green, wooded Dinka areas give way to a blistering prairie. The road becomes less consistent, veering sharply where the original track became impassable. The vegetation on the side of road is sparse and dry. It’s visibly clear than during the rain season, everything here, including the road, is submerged in swamp water.

Gazelle and antelope dash along the side of the truck. The expansive prairie is part of one of the largest migration routes in Africa. Our driver attempts to race Gazelle, a pursuit I find irritating. While everyone else seems entertained, I can only imagine us cracking an axel on the uneven road and being stranded, without shade, in this blistering wasteland. I do my best to keep my mouth shut but disapproval forms my visible expression.

A metal bar jutting from that arid soil marks the transition from Dinka to Murle territory. Without a guide, a foreigner would never notice. “Welcome to my land,” Mary says. The horizon is as barren as its been for the last five hours.

Ahead, a group of Murle men lay prone under a solitary tree. They don deep, decorative branding on their bare torsos. Mary approaches with a cautious smile and a handful of campaign posters. The men receive her pleasantly but with evident reservation. Her polite introduction again gives way to yelling. “The SPLA are beating us,” a man exclaims. He launches into passionate speech about the ongoing process of SPLA-led disarmament in the area. “They are coming to take the guns but they are beating and torturing us in the process. What will you do about this?” Mary sighs and asks for more information. She has not been to these parts in many years and some of the claims are new for her, too. The man goes on; the beatings, the cattle raiding, the lack of food, of water, of health facilities.

The challenges are innumerable. Mary tries to sum up and leave on a positive note. Again, the men appear unconvinced.

After several bumpy hours, our vehicle rolls to a stop in the small Murle village of Manyabol. The area consists of a few grass thatched huts and shops. This windswept community is the only sign of civilization for hundreds of miles in all directions. It is the trading center for several adjacent cattle camps, most of which are currently unoccupied due to drought. No one appears to be doing much of anything at all. Groups of men sit under what little shade is available, improvising games in the dirt. Women form their own groups; cooking, talking & spitting. Nude children dart in all directions, some venturing closer for a more critical review of my pale skin. A boy stealthily strokes the hair on my forearm before bolting away in a fit of laughter.

I try to play along but I’m tired.

I pitch my small tent on even ground, arrange my things inside and prepare for a night without a mattress. I pray that the Dinka-Bor won’t settle any scores tonight.