tourists through some of the most dangerous country in the world.
After the course, on the drive back to his home, Rian had seemed relieved to again be able to talk to Mike as a close friend.
âYou did well. I mean it. A lot of these kids are trying to become guides because they see it as a way of getting rich, which it isnât, or as a fast ticket out of the townships. Youâre doing it because you love the bush and you love the wildlife. I canât teach them that,â he said.
âBut what good is it going to do me?â Mike had asked.
âThatâs your problem, my friend. But there is work here for good guides and work further north, in Botswana, Zambia and Tanzania. Youâll find South African-trained guides in all those countries, and not all of them are South Africans.â
It was a tempting thought. A life in the African bush, impressing rich foreign tourists, some of them no doubt female and attractive, sounded appealing to Mike. He had shelved the idea as a nice dream, however, and promised Rian he would one day return to Africa.
Six months later he was back, once more at the expense of the Australian taxpayer. Mike had known about Operation Coracle, his armyâs contribution to the mine-clearing effort in Mozambique, for several years, and had made no secret of his ambitions to be part of it.
His army career had progressed steadily, if not meteorically, and he had made the jump from warrant officer to the commissioned ranks, as a captain, by virtue of his years of experience. He was promoted to major after ticking the boxes in a series of boring desk jobs and, after much persistence, finally landed what had seemed like his dream posting â Mozambique.
Now the dream had turned into a nightmare, with the deaths of Carlos and Fernando, but he knew things would be OK if he could wake up next to Isabella every day for the rest of his life.
Mike looked around his Maputo flat once moreto make sure he hadnât forgotten anything. He took the framed picture of Isabella and him at the beach from the wall and placed it on top of the clothes in his kitbag.
3
T he next morning, Monday, Mike headed back to the UN offices on Avenida da Angola, all his senses as usual assaulted by daily life in Maputo. African women in bright blouses and tight skirts on their way to work gingerly stepped around piles of rotting garbage. Blue-black exhaust smoke belched from cars that wouldnât be allowed on the road in a western country, and pedestrians dodged speeding chapas , small vans converted to taxis, driven by apparently suicidal young men with booming car radios turned up as far as the volume dial would go. The sun was already strong, but any relief from the heat offered by shady trees on the sidewalk was countered by the stench of stale urine at the base of their trunks. The stormwater drain by the side of the road smelled of untreated sewage.
Mike pushed open the heavy wooden door that led to the UN offices and waved hello to the guardo , the security guard employed by the construction company that owned the building. He pushed a buttonand the electric door lock buzzed, allowing Mike to enter.
He nodded good morning to one of the Finns working on the ground floor. The man was seated at his desk behind a glass partition and looked to Mike like a hairy blond fish in a bowl. He headed upstairs to the mezzanine level, where he and most of the other UN officers worked.
Jakeâs office had a sign, âChief Technical Adviserâ, stuck to the glass partition. Mike walked in without knocking. Now that he had made the decision to leave the army he wanted to sever his ties to it, and the world of mine clearance, as quickly as possible.
âGoodbye, Jake. Iâm leaving the army. Itâs been nice knowing you.â
âNot so fast, youâve still got some explaining to do,â Jake said. âYou canât just ride off into the sunset like that.â
âWhat do
After the course, on the drive back to his home, Rian had seemed relieved to again be able to talk to Mike as a close friend.
âYou did well. I mean it. A lot of these kids are trying to become guides because they see it as a way of getting rich, which it isnât, or as a fast ticket out of the townships. Youâre doing it because you love the bush and you love the wildlife. I canât teach them that,â he said.
âBut what good is it going to do me?â Mike had asked.
âThatâs your problem, my friend. But there is work here for good guides and work further north, in Botswana, Zambia and Tanzania. Youâll find South African-trained guides in all those countries, and not all of them are South Africans.â
It was a tempting thought. A life in the African bush, impressing rich foreign tourists, some of them no doubt female and attractive, sounded appealing to Mike. He had shelved the idea as a nice dream, however, and promised Rian he would one day return to Africa.
Six months later he was back, once more at the expense of the Australian taxpayer. Mike had known about Operation Coracle, his armyâs contribution to the mine-clearing effort in Mozambique, for several years, and had made no secret of his ambitions to be part of it.
His army career had progressed steadily, if not meteorically, and he had made the jump from warrant officer to the commissioned ranks, as a captain, by virtue of his years of experience. He was promoted to major after ticking the boxes in a series of boring desk jobs and, after much persistence, finally landed what had seemed like his dream posting â Mozambique.
Now the dream had turned into a nightmare, with the deaths of Carlos and Fernando, but he knew things would be OK if he could wake up next to Isabella every day for the rest of his life.
Mike looked around his Maputo flat once moreto make sure he hadnât forgotten anything. He took the framed picture of Isabella and him at the beach from the wall and placed it on top of the clothes in his kitbag.
3
T he next morning, Monday, Mike headed back to the UN offices on Avenida da Angola, all his senses as usual assaulted by daily life in Maputo. African women in bright blouses and tight skirts on their way to work gingerly stepped around piles of rotting garbage. Blue-black exhaust smoke belched from cars that wouldnât be allowed on the road in a western country, and pedestrians dodged speeding chapas , small vans converted to taxis, driven by apparently suicidal young men with booming car radios turned up as far as the volume dial would go. The sun was already strong, but any relief from the heat offered by shady trees on the sidewalk was countered by the stench of stale urine at the base of their trunks. The stormwater drain by the side of the road smelled of untreated sewage.
Mike pushed open the heavy wooden door that led to the UN offices and waved hello to the guardo , the security guard employed by the construction company that owned the building. He pushed a buttonand the electric door lock buzzed, allowing Mike to enter.
He nodded good morning to one of the Finns working on the ground floor. The man was seated at his desk behind a glass partition and looked to Mike like a hairy blond fish in a bowl. He headed upstairs to the mezzanine level, where he and most of the other UN officers worked.
Jakeâs office had a sign, âChief Technical Adviserâ, stuck to the glass partition. Mike walked in without knocking. Now that he had made the decision to leave the army he wanted to sever his ties to it, and the world of mine clearance, as quickly as possible.
âGoodbye, Jake. Iâm leaving the army. Itâs been nice knowing you.â
âNot so fast, youâve still got some explaining to do,â Jake said. âYou canât just ride off into the sunset like that.â
âWhat do
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