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This is a long and dreadful night. The Land
Rover broke down this afternoon while we
were driving along a shallow stream bed,
which is apparently the only road around
here. The moment we emerged, clouds of tiny
stingless Trigona bees swarmed all over us
to drink our sweat. They crawled into our
clothes, armpits, ears, the corners of our
eyes, our nostrils and mouths. In five
minutes they had almost driven us mad, so we
waited up the hill until dark, then came
back to fix the vehicle. We spent an hour
pushing it out of the stream, then more
hours being eaten alive by mosquitoes, while
Georg lay underneath swearing in Hungarian
at the broken clutch and trying to find some
important screw that he had dropped. To pass
the time I watched Tomas. He was holding the
inspection lamp for Georg, and a blizzard of
moths were dancing around his head like a
halo. I imagined they were snowflakes, and
what it would be like to be cold, not
dissolving in the African heat.
I watched Amy down by the river this
evening, shaving her legs. Apparently she
does it every day. Says it is to do with
self respect. I think that is a little
strange. No-one gives a damn and those
little nicks seem the perfect way to get
infections.
Tomas is smiling again! I don’t know how he
does it. He found three leeches on his ankle
today, broke a filling on a mango stone and
dropped his laptop computer in the stream. I
got in a temper when I only had one leech –
still it was on my neck! Ugh.
Ah. Is that the sound of the engine? It
looks like we are off, at least as far as a
decent camping spot. I do hope the woman at
Zizunga is hanging on for us okay. I dread
to think what kind of horrible disease we
might catch from spending two days cooped up
in a Land Rover with her. These are the kind
of selfish thoughts I cannot let Amy know.
(Erica’s Diary 1992)
* * *
We found a mother at the side of the road an
hour ago. She said her husband had died
yesterday and she walked all day without
food or water to get medicine for her sick
baby. Exhaustion and desperation dripped
from her, but as she lifted her tiny bundle
her face glowed with hope. Georg gave her
water while Amy held the little boy. His
entire torso fitted into the crook of her
arm, his wrists no wider than a thumb. Only
his head, almost dry despite the heat, was
of normal size.
The general opinion was that he had malaria,
but the nearest microscope to prove it was
probably in Zizunga. While Amy inserted a
thermometer I tried to distract him, by
resting my little finger in his hand. He
didn’t grip, but his enormous brown eyes
turned in brief fearful focus and he lay
slack as string.
The mother asked something of Georg and
smiled, a huge carious grin that almost
broke my heart under the weight of trust.
The only word I could catch was ‘medicine’.
All we could offer was a little food for
her, some clean water and hydrolite solution
to relieve the child’s dehydration. After
that it would be up to his system. I asked
Amy about sharing the anti-malarial tablets
we were taking. She replied that the
formulation we had was useless once
infection was established. And what if it
wasn’t malaria, but something else?
The only option was to squeeze them in with
us. Georg didn’t think the nuns at Zizunga
would have any better supplies, but at least
a diagnosis was possible. But when he opened
the door the woman refused to get in.
Then she turned to me and thrust her sick
child into my arms. ‘Medicine, Zizunga’ she
said to me. Georg remonstrated with her, and
tears started freely down her face. She
wouldn’t come with us because she had to
return to bury her husband, but Georg
refused to take the baby alone, despite
Amy’s protestations.
‘Amy, we can’t turn up at Zizunga, dump a
dying child with Sister Margaret and then
drive off to the airstrip. And we’ll never
find the mother again even if the child
survives. You know the MFA rules, ‘never
create an orphan’. Both mother and baby or
neither.’
Amy bit her lip as she watched Georg gently
take the boy from me and return him to the
woman. The mother nodded, and turned away.
She gathered the child in her arms, and
walked away, until the dusk swallowed her.
(Erica’s Diary 1992)
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