hid over there in the bushes, explained it to me. The killers hacked off the feet of those waiting in the lines so they couldnât run. Some bled to death where they lay, others were dragged into the toilet blocks where they were finished off.â
Mike recalled that up until then his Africa had been one of sweeping plains, magnificent wildlife and, what they called in the army, low-intensity conflict. In Namibia, the black population had overthrown the white population. There had been killings and atrocities on both sides â that happened in any war â but what he had seen in Rwanda was genocide. One race wiping out another race.
Once the hospital was up and running again, they were kept busy with a host of other projects. The Australians built or repaired orphanages and churches, scraped away more dried blood and tried to restore some order to a shattered country. Who, he had wondered, would ever really want to return to it? It had the smell of a slaughterhouse mixed with that of a freshly burnt-down building. Woodsmoke from thousands of campfires hung over the refugee camps and the towns like a suffocating funeral shroud.
When Mike got home to Australia he realised yet again that he didnât have a home, except for the army. He had started to wonder if he had got it all wrong. After eight years of part-time study he had finallyfinished his degree, interrupted by sojourns to various war zones, which had never ceased to impress his tutors. But of what use, he asked himself time and again, was a degree in zoology to a soldier?
Rian had left his job-for-life in the National Parks Service, resigned to the fact that he would no longer be entitled to the best posts and pay because of the colour of his skin. However, he had transferred his knowledge of the African bush to his countryâs fastest growing industry â tourism.
He began by running tours from South Africa into Zimbabwe and Namibia in a second-hand Volkswagen Kombi. After a couple of years he sank the money he had so far saved into two old ex-army Bedford trucks. Like a dozen or more other entrepreneurs with the same idea, he planned to offer overland tours for foreign backpackers, travelling from Cape Town or Joâburg to as far afield as Nairobi or, civil wars in intervening counties permitting, Cairo.
Mike had visited South Africa on holiday and Rian had proudly showed off his tour vehicles.
âJesus, mate, you couldnât pay me enough to ride to Nairobi in the back of one of these heaps,â Mike had chided him.
âYou may laugh, man, but the English, Germans, Danes, you Aussies, and Kiwis are happy to pay for the privilege of riding in Nelson and Susie,â he said, giving Nelson, who was named after Mandela, an affectionate pat on its bright yellow bonnet. Susie de Witt had mixed feelings about having a stubby, rusting, smoke-belching ex-army truck named in her honour, but accepted the compliment graciously anddutifully christened her with a bottle of Stellenbosch sparkling wine over her bullbar.
Rian could only spend a few days with Mike because he had other work to do. As well as running his own business he occasionally instructed safari-guide courses and, on the spur of the moment, he invited Mike to come along as a student.
âThereâs been a cancellation,â he explained.
âWhat, you want me to spend my holiday being ordered about the bush by a South African?â Mike laughed.
âYou might learn something. Thereâll be no favouritism.â
âYou mean you wonât shoot if I get charged by a lion?â
âItâll be good for you,â Rian said, his tone suddenly less flippant.
Rian was right, and Mike knew it from the first day of the course. Rian taught his students tracking, bird and plant identification, and new and fascinating information about Africaâs big game that Mike had never found in any textbook. They also learned how to safely shepherd city-bred
Mike recalled that up until then his Africa had been one of sweeping plains, magnificent wildlife and, what they called in the army, low-intensity conflict. In Namibia, the black population had overthrown the white population. There had been killings and atrocities on both sides â that happened in any war â but what he had seen in Rwanda was genocide. One race wiping out another race.
Once the hospital was up and running again, they were kept busy with a host of other projects. The Australians built or repaired orphanages and churches, scraped away more dried blood and tried to restore some order to a shattered country. Who, he had wondered, would ever really want to return to it? It had the smell of a slaughterhouse mixed with that of a freshly burnt-down building. Woodsmoke from thousands of campfires hung over the refugee camps and the towns like a suffocating funeral shroud.
When Mike got home to Australia he realised yet again that he didnât have a home, except for the army. He had started to wonder if he had got it all wrong. After eight years of part-time study he had finallyfinished his degree, interrupted by sojourns to various war zones, which had never ceased to impress his tutors. But of what use, he asked himself time and again, was a degree in zoology to a soldier?
Rian had left his job-for-life in the National Parks Service, resigned to the fact that he would no longer be entitled to the best posts and pay because of the colour of his skin. However, he had transferred his knowledge of the African bush to his countryâs fastest growing industry â tourism.
He began by running tours from South Africa into Zimbabwe and Namibia in a second-hand Volkswagen Kombi. After a couple of years he sank the money he had so far saved into two old ex-army Bedford trucks. Like a dozen or more other entrepreneurs with the same idea, he planned to offer overland tours for foreign backpackers, travelling from Cape Town or Joâburg to as far afield as Nairobi or, civil wars in intervening counties permitting, Cairo.
Mike had visited South Africa on holiday and Rian had proudly showed off his tour vehicles.
âJesus, mate, you couldnât pay me enough to ride to Nairobi in the back of one of these heaps,â Mike had chided him.
âYou may laugh, man, but the English, Germans, Danes, you Aussies, and Kiwis are happy to pay for the privilege of riding in Nelson and Susie,â he said, giving Nelson, who was named after Mandela, an affectionate pat on its bright yellow bonnet. Susie de Witt had mixed feelings about having a stubby, rusting, smoke-belching ex-army truck named in her honour, but accepted the compliment graciously anddutifully christened her with a bottle of Stellenbosch sparkling wine over her bullbar.
Rian could only spend a few days with Mike because he had other work to do. As well as running his own business he occasionally instructed safari-guide courses and, on the spur of the moment, he invited Mike to come along as a student.
âThereâs been a cancellation,â he explained.
âWhat, you want me to spend my holiday being ordered about the bush by a South African?â Mike laughed.
âYou might learn something. Thereâll be no favouritism.â
âYou mean you wonât shoot if I get charged by a lion?â
âItâll be good for you,â Rian said, his tone suddenly less flippant.
Rian was right, and Mike knew it from the first day of the course. Rian taught his students tracking, bird and plant identification, and new and fascinating information about Africaâs big game that Mike had never found in any textbook. They also learned how to safely shepherd city-bred
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