Band-Aid for a Broken Leg

by Damien Brown

  We hung the second bag of fluids and squeezed it in fast. Next, IV dextrose to raise his blood sugar level. The two cart-drivers stood close by, concerned and apologising all the time. ‘We came as fast as we could,’ said the younger man. ‘We are sorry—we tried to bring him here faster, but it took most of the night. That road is very bad. There was a lot of sand, and the moon was with us for only some of the time.’

  The first nurse returned with the drugs and Sofia sent her back to find an anti-tetanus dose in the fridge of our living compound. Gradually, the man’s conscious state improved and with help he was able to lift his head a little to sip water. ‘What happened?’ we asked again, but he only mumbled softly.

  ‘You must tell us,’ said the health worker. ‘We need to know so we can tell the police. This, what has been done to you—it is terrible.’

  The patient shook his head and said something about it being okay, no police.

  ‘But who did this?’

  He took his time. Another sip of water, then the words he whispered brought the room to a halt.

  ‘A leopard.’

  Everyone paused.

  ‘A leopard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You sure?’

  A nod.

  ‘In town?’

  ‘Outside,’ he whispered. ‘Away from Rivungu village. To the north.’

  Murmurs rippled through the room.

  ‘But he could attack again!’ cried the nurse with the syringe. ‘He will come back! This hasn’t happened for years—we must let the police know to hunt him.’

  The patient shook his head. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘It is okay.’

  ‘How?’ asked the younger man from the cart. ‘Did you injure it?’

  The patient asked for another sip of water. The nurse filled a cup from the yellow jerry can beside the desk and helped him drink, propping him up gently on the foam mattress. ‘It happened in the dark,’ he began, slowly. ‘I did not know . . . I did not see it coming. It was very quick. I covered myself . . . here, my arms, like this, over my face . . . but it carried on.’ He stopped to take another sip of water and shut his eyes, then described the hissing of the animal as the attack continued, saying that he didn’t know how long it all went on for—one minute, maybe fifteen. At some point he’d managed to get free. ‘It must have gone,’ he said. ‘I do not know why, because before it was angry, very strong . . . But I am lucky—I found my knife. I found it before he came back.’ Another long pause. No movement in the room as everyone stood frozen. ‘I was frightened,’ he continued, in time. ‘I pushed this other arm, here, into him when he came. Into his face. I tried to keep him from my eyes, my neck . . . With my free arm I got it. Many times . . . Anywhere.’

  The Angolans looked on in disbelief.

  ‘With your knife?’ asked the younger man. ‘Got him with the knife?’

  A nod.

  ‘It is dead?’

  Another nod.

  ‘You sure? Can you be sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You saw the body?’

  He nodded again. We’d have hoisted this man—this real-life Rambo!—into the air in celebration had he been in any state for it, but for the moment he needed treatment. Someone was going to have to debride and explore the wounds, trim away the dead, infected tissue at the edges of the lacerations, clean them, and make sure there were no deeper collections of pus. In the meantime we gave him antibiotics and the nurse wiped his wounds with antiseptic. Sofia drew up a dose of morphine to give in anticipation of further treatment, but the patient shook his head.

  ‘It’s only for the pain,’ she explained. ‘You’ll feel better for it, then we can clean those wounds properly.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘but no. It has been two days already. Two days since I was attacked. I have been travelling since then . . . walking, lying in the bush, and now the pain is gone. I do not need that medicine.’

  • • •

  So began my first full morning, just hours ago. But for the moment we’re still debating the net. Still discussing the pros and cons of cheap mesh, although the conversation—as with every other exchange I’ve had out here—is in truth clumsier, far more circuitous, because it requires another expat to interpret for me: I can’t speak Portuguese. It’s no small issue. None of the Angolans I’ve met here speak English, and there’s no translator for hire. So for now Tim interprets, I stare confusedly, and Toyota waits patiently. Tim insists that we need to find something special to bring, and Toyota laughs.

  ‘Aqui?’—Here?— he asks. ‘Eh! Look around!’

  We do. It’s a valid point. Suggestions to bring chocolate—we have a modest supply in the expat compound beside this tent—are met with equal disapproval. ‘You cannot bring something that many people have never seen,’ Toyota says, ‘and expect that the couple can keep this for themselves.’

  ‘Why not give money?’ I ask.

  ‘Even worse!’ laughs Toyota. ‘This they will spend on little things. Things like soap and salt, or maybe batteries for a torch. They will not save this money. And what special thing, as you say you would like to give, can they buy with it? You have seen our market?’

  I have. It’s another valid point. Donated clothes and the goods Toyota mentioned account for most wares, so we continue to go in circles. Tim asks Toyota what he’d think if we arrived at his next wedding with only this net to give on behalf of the team, which clearly catches him off guard.

  ‘This?’ asks Toyota. ‘For me?’ He pauses, dissolving suddenly into laughter. Big whoops convulse his body, and whether he’s laughing with us or at us I can’t tell, but it’s so utterly infectious that we both succumb anyway. His teeth are perfect; perfect white teeth in a chiselled face, and his skin, flawless, has the complexion of everyone here—a colour utterly dark, blacker than black coffee. His body seems designed for laughing, and when he does it’s so loud and all-consuming and high-pitched and totally unexpected from his muscled physique that I don’t even know why we started anymore but we carry on anyway, just swept up with him. And this, I suspect, is the difficulty with Toyota: his face, although handsome, is a thoroughly mischievous one. It seems impossible to take what he says seriously.

  ‘Now listen,’ says Toyota, regaining his composure. ‘We can talk all afternoon like this, but I am serious about the mosquito net. I do not joke about it. It is a good gift for many reasons. For one, it will last them many years—these things do not fall apart. And even more important, it will protect them from malaria. And tell me, Doctor, is this not what we are all about? Keeping people healthy?’

  I can’t argue.

  ‘So this is a gift that could even save their lives, this net that you laugh at?’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘It is! But I will tell you another truth,’ he says, motioning us closer. He lowers his voice to near-whisper as his eyes sparkle, giggling excitedly in anticipation of his own point. We’re now three boys huddled together in a locker room. ‘Tell me this, you two,’ he begins. ‘Where do people make love?’

  We stare blankly at him.

  ‘It is in their beds, yes?’ he prompts.

  We agree.

  ‘Of course it is! And now tell me this: where does this mosquito net hang?’

  We shrug, unsure of his point.

  ‘Over the bed!’ he answers.

  I still can’t see what he’s getting at. Neither can Tim.

  ‘So imagine!’ enthuses Toyota. ‘Imagine that when they are making love—tonight, tomorrow, all the days after this—it will be under this net. Under our gift. And for years to come, all of us with MSF here in Mavinga—we will be in their hearts whenever this couple make love!’

  And so, only hours later, sticking closely to the two roads we’re cleared to use, we make our way to the wedding. With mosquito net in hand. And yet again I’m forced to concede how thoroughly lost I am. How am I to relate to, let alone live with, people from such a different world? How am I to supervise this entire hos
pital—this only hospital—on my own? And what exactly did I imagine I was going to achieve coming here, anyway? All questions that seemed infinitely easier to answer two days ago. But for the moment we arrive at the wedding venue itself; and here, I’m at last afforded some respite from these bigger issues by a more pressing one: the entire congregation—bride, groom, minister and a hundred guests—are waiting patiently, the wedding ceremony having been delayed, because we’re late.

  2. THE FIRST DANCE

  Five kinds of people end up in places like Mavinga, the saying goes. The five Ms: Medics, Missionaries, Mercenaries, Misfits and Madmen—sometimes even a few categories in the same person. Me? I’ll take Medic, if only by exclusion. As for Mad, not yet, although we’ll see what six months on call in Angola will do. Ditto Misfit. And as for Missionary or Mercenary? Not in any sane applications of the words.

  It’s not quite clear to me how I’ve ended up volunteering, though. I can’t recall any precise moment of decision-making. But there is history. Born during the latter years of the apartheid era, I spent the first fourteen years of my life in Cape Town, South Africa; a privileged middle-class childhood, albeit one largely cocooned from the rest of my country by race laws and attendant Whites Only signs. The wider realities of the region did occasionally reveal themselves to me, however, such as when the sprawling shanty-towns—oceans of poverty in which millions of my fellow countrymen drowned, their homes cobbled together from scavenged materials—blurred past our car window. But these were only ever fleeting objects of curiosity as we travelled fast between two wealthy areas, which was largely my experience of Africa in those days: a series of glimpsed images, of momentary encounters and half-baked impressions that seemed deeply contradictory.

  The real Africa was in my mind a pitiful place, a thing to be mourned. ‘Don’t you dare leave those vegetables on your plate,’ my grandmother would reprimand me, ‘because there are children starving all over this continent!’ Yet equally it seemed a place to be feared, avoided. Reports of violence filled the daily newspapers, while high-walled compounds and private security companies were the norm in many white areas. Nothing like life for those in the poorer black townships, though. Political unrest and police crackdowns resulted in numerous deaths there during those years, and gang-related crime was rampant; I’d heard it said that a girl growing up in these areas had a statistically greater chance of being raped than of learning to read.

  But none of this directly affected my young life. For the most part such things happened there—outside the cities, in the townships, several of which could be seen from the sports fields of my school on a clear day but were as foreign to me as the favelas of Brazil. I never had black friends who could share their stories, and a state-controlled media and whites-only education system perpetuated my ignorance to a degree. Maybe I’m just making excuses; I did see street kids, ragged throngs of them begging in the city centre, or huddled from the cold of Cape winter mornings beneath sheets of newspaper, but I took this to be an inescapable fact of life on the continent. My overriding recollection of Africa is rather its profound appeal: stories of a childhood in rural Africa from my great-grandmother, whose two stuffed, mounted lions looked on from the corner of her lounge; hiking for weeks with my father along the rugged southern African coast, baboons climbing down the rock faces to rifle through our campsite for food; a family safari in Zululand, not far to the east of my grandfather’s farm, with leopards well-fed and at a safe distance; and the gentle nature and easy laugh of the few black Africans I did meet.

  Amid increasing political tensions in the early 1990s, my family migrated to Australia, where I went on to study medicine. It was the obvious career decision for a seventeen-year-old who’d been fascinated by the surgical procedures of the nearby vet, and who harboured a vague notion of ‘helping’—maybe even of returning to Africa. But it wasn’t until my university years that I had my first close-up, if inadvertent, encounters with poverty.

  Backpacking with borrowed money during lengthy semester breaks, I travelled widely. In Kathmandu streets, I came across leprosy sufferers who begged from pitifully makeshift wheelchairs—wooden trays fitted with furniture coasters—on my way to trek in the Himalayas. En route to tropical beaches, I met children and elderly people working the busy intersections of South American cities, selling rolls of toilet paper, individual boiled sweets, even just a lone apple; in a town in the Andes I chatted with a young woman selling string by the metre to support her unwell mother. Health care was too expensive for them to access, she told me: the medication they needed would cost thirty dollars a month. What pensions would be available for these people to claim? What access to health care? Another day, a group of street children approached me, selling finger puppets. ‘But mister,’ replied one little girl when I evasively showed her the two I’d previously purchased, ‘you have eight more fingers. You can buy eight more!’

  And the only common denominators I could see in all this were opportunity and circumstance. That I was a medical student who spent time backpacking had more to do with the chance events of my birthplace and parents than any great effort or brilliance on my part: it could have been me staring into that car window from the edge of a shanty-town. So there was no religious compulsion, family pressure or career disillusionment behind my decision to volunteer. It wasn’t about escapism, though I’ll admit that the travel and cultural aspects of working in less-developed contexts were far from a deterrent. But I wanted to help. Or at least try, in some capacity.

  Embarking on a whirlwind tour of duty in Australian hospitals after graduation, I gained as broad a range of medical experience as I could, rotating through various paediatric, obstetric, surgical, medical and emergency departments. After two years, I flew to Peru to study for a diploma in tropical medicine. A short stint volunteering in a clinic in Thailand followed—a brief but immensely rewarding experience. Mornings were filled by lengthy rounds in open-walled wards, treating Burmese refugees suffering from malaria, TB and HIV/AIDS, among other conditions. Many had crossed the border just to seek health care, fleeing ethnic persecution under a military regime that allocated only forty cents to each person in the annual health budget. In the afternoons I gave teaching sessions to the health workers, themselves Burmese refugees, who sat cross-legged for hours as I drew hearts and kidneys on the whiteboard, explaining the basics they’d never learned. And in the evenings I cycled past rice paddies to my teak guesthouse, where the neighbours were saffron-robed Buddhist monks, whose saffron-coloured laundry chequered the whitewashed monastery walls on sunny afternoons. Everything about the experience appealed to me, and I was sold. This work, I decided, was what I wanted to do with my life.

  As for Angola? The position was the first to be proposed by MSF in the months following my application. It came at a good time; a new doctor had arrived at the Thai clinic, and the year I’d taken off for volunteer work was already halfway gone. Not knowing anything about Angola, though—such as where it was on a map—I called my parents.

  ‘The irony . . .’ Mum sobbed. ‘I mean, we migrate from southern Africa, end up in Australia . . . We have every opportunity here, everything! Landed with our bums in the butter, as your grandma used to say, and now you want to go back to the region? And to Angola of all places? Good heavens, child . . . Angola? Speak to your father about this . . .’ At which, a couple of octaves lower and with a thicker accent on a faulty cordless phone—

  ‘Ja, hello? What’s he . . . Angola? Shit! You know that I was there, don’t you? You know I got sent to the border there during their war, just on the Namibian side?’

  This I only vaguely recalled. Dad’s stories of his conscription into the South African Defence Force seemed to revolve more around flipping truck tyres around compounds, dressed in full combat attire—punishment for having disrespected an officer, he’d joked—rather than any tales of battle per se, but by now there was again sobbing on the other phone because Mum had just remembered a high school friend.

/>   ‘Cliff! Oh my God . . . you know Cliffie was shot there? He was so young, such a nice guy . . . Shot dead near the border. Somewhere in the south, I think . . .’

  —so I decided not to disclose that my posting was in fact near the border, and in the south, too. But, their initial shock aside, my parents were unfailingly supportive.

  ‘Just make sure you know exactly what you’re getting into,’ Dad cautioned.

  Background reading revealed nothing reassuring: Angola had only recently emerged from a long, catastrophic, twenty-seven-year civil war. Images of Princess Diana touring minefields came up frequently during any internet search, outnumbered only by pictures of amputees and bombed-out buildings. Descriptions of the conflict and its aftermath were frightening. Far from any notions of a war with clear objectives and established fronts, a soldier recalled the confusion, as detailed in a book I came across, Ryszard Kapuscinski’s Another Day of Life: ‘You can travel the whole country and come back alive,’ he’d said, ‘or you can die a metre from where you’re standing. There are no principles, no methods . . . Nobody knows where they really stand.’

  The conflict began as an unfortunately common scenario of the era: a post-colonial scramble for the control of a newly autonomous country. Following Angola’s independence from Portugal in 1975, several armed liberation groups, previously united in their struggle against the colonial government, turned immediately on each other. Capitals were declared in different parts of the country, and fighting erupted; no one was going to relinquish control of this vast, diamond-and oil-rich nation. Two groups eventually emerged as the major protagonists: UNITA (The National Union for the Total Independence of Angola), and the Marxist MPLA (The People’s Movement for the Liberation of Angola), with other countries weighing in. The Soviet Union and Cuba supported the Marxist MPLA, the Cubans in particular sending tens of thousands of troops, while South Africa and the USA supported the opposing UNITA forces; these were, after all, Cold War years. And in the meantime, vast diamond and oil reserves helped fund the conflict’s perpetuation as foreign companies continued to trade with the belligerents.