bush, surely?â To Mike, Australia seemed safe, bland, even boring, compared with Africa.
âYouâre right. But heâs restless. He wants to travel, to see more of Africa, and whatever happens here I guess it would still be hard to leave, even if we did have the cash.â
âAnother thing we have in common â restlessness,â Mike said.
âAch, you should be marrying, settling down, having children. Youâre past thirty, surely itâs time for you to re-marry?â
Mike smiled at her typically South African candour. âYou donât have a sister, do you?â
âHey, no flirting, you sneaky Aussie bastard,â Rian called, towelling his hair dry.
âTruth is, I think I may have stopped looking,â Mike said to Susie as Rian carried Jan into the family tent.
âThen you should do all the women of South Africa a favour and lock yourself in a monastery. Donât advertise whatâs not for sale!â
âIâm not quite ready to go that far, but with my job I move around every couple of years, and the moneyâs nothing to write home about. Not much to offer a girl.â
âDonât sell yourself short. In the meantime Iâll keep an eye out for you, and youâre always welcome in our home.â
âThanks, Suze, but Iâve no idea when Iâll get back to Africa.â
In 1994, again as part of a multinational United Nations force, Australia sent a medical detachment, an infantry company and a few other specialists into a tiny eastern African country that few Australians would have been able to locate on a map. The country was Rwanda and Mike, newly promoted to sergeant, knew he should have followed that tried-and-true adage that all soldiers swear by: never volunteer for anything. The first thing he had seen as he walked down the ramp of the Hercules transport aircraft at Kigali airport was a dog trotting along the runway carrying a human head in its mouth. Things got worse after that.
In the absence of any mines to clear or ammunition to dispose of, the army engineers, like the doctors, nurses and infantrymen they worked alongside, set to the grim business of cleaning out the hospital at Kigali which the Australian contingentwas tasked with reopening. Now the UN badge on one of the shirts in his kitbag caught Mikeâs eye and he remembered the criticism that had been levelled against the organisation â that it had gone in too late, despite ample warning of the bloodbath that ensued.
The hospital, that place of mercy and healing, had been used by one tribe as a place to slaughter another tribe. Standing outside the gutted building, chain-smoking to try to remove the stench of death in his nostrils, Mike and a couple of other Australians had listened to a French missionary describe what had happened.
âThese were people, oui , people like you and me, comprenez , understand? They herded their former friends and neighbours and workmates, employees and employers, into lines at gunpoint and marched them to the hospital.â The grey-haired priest cast his eyes to the sky, then blinked a couple of times before continuing.
âThey did not want to waste the bullets, understand? They used machetes. The victims were made to kneel over a toilet bowl where they were decapitated or had their throats slit. The theory was that the blood could be flushed away.â
The theory didnât hold up, as Mike and the other soldiers discovered. Every toilet in the hospital was choked with blood and flesh and hair and Christ alone knew what else. It was their job to clean them out.
He recalled how the missionary had anticipated their questions before they had a chance to ask them.
âYou are asking yourself why the people waiting inthe lines for extermination didnât run, charge their armed guards or do anything else to escape the slaughter, non ?â
Mike had nodded.
âThe answer is simple. A witness, a boy who
âYouâre right. But heâs restless. He wants to travel, to see more of Africa, and whatever happens here I guess it would still be hard to leave, even if we did have the cash.â
âAnother thing we have in common â restlessness,â Mike said.
âAch, you should be marrying, settling down, having children. Youâre past thirty, surely itâs time for you to re-marry?â
Mike smiled at her typically South African candour. âYou donât have a sister, do you?â
âHey, no flirting, you sneaky Aussie bastard,â Rian called, towelling his hair dry.
âTruth is, I think I may have stopped looking,â Mike said to Susie as Rian carried Jan into the family tent.
âThen you should do all the women of South Africa a favour and lock yourself in a monastery. Donât advertise whatâs not for sale!â
âIâm not quite ready to go that far, but with my job I move around every couple of years, and the moneyâs nothing to write home about. Not much to offer a girl.â
âDonât sell yourself short. In the meantime Iâll keep an eye out for you, and youâre always welcome in our home.â
âThanks, Suze, but Iâve no idea when Iâll get back to Africa.â
In 1994, again as part of a multinational United Nations force, Australia sent a medical detachment, an infantry company and a few other specialists into a tiny eastern African country that few Australians would have been able to locate on a map. The country was Rwanda and Mike, newly promoted to sergeant, knew he should have followed that tried-and-true adage that all soldiers swear by: never volunteer for anything. The first thing he had seen as he walked down the ramp of the Hercules transport aircraft at Kigali airport was a dog trotting along the runway carrying a human head in its mouth. Things got worse after that.
In the absence of any mines to clear or ammunition to dispose of, the army engineers, like the doctors, nurses and infantrymen they worked alongside, set to the grim business of cleaning out the hospital at Kigali which the Australian contingentwas tasked with reopening. Now the UN badge on one of the shirts in his kitbag caught Mikeâs eye and he remembered the criticism that had been levelled against the organisation â that it had gone in too late, despite ample warning of the bloodbath that ensued.
The hospital, that place of mercy and healing, had been used by one tribe as a place to slaughter another tribe. Standing outside the gutted building, chain-smoking to try to remove the stench of death in his nostrils, Mike and a couple of other Australians had listened to a French missionary describe what had happened.
âThese were people, oui , people like you and me, comprenez , understand? They herded their former friends and neighbours and workmates, employees and employers, into lines at gunpoint and marched them to the hospital.â The grey-haired priest cast his eyes to the sky, then blinked a couple of times before continuing.
âThey did not want to waste the bullets, understand? They used machetes. The victims were made to kneel over a toilet bowl where they were decapitated or had their throats slit. The theory was that the blood could be flushed away.â
The theory didnât hold up, as Mike and the other soldiers discovered. Every toilet in the hospital was choked with blood and flesh and hair and Christ alone knew what else. It was their job to clean them out.
He recalled how the missionary had anticipated their questions before they had a chance to ask them.
âYou are asking yourself why the people waiting inthe lines for extermination didnât run, charge their armed guards or do anything else to escape the slaughter, non ?â
Mike had nodded.
âThe answer is simple. A witness, a boy who
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