Warrior Training (17 page)

I typed up an Amelio proposal and submitted the paperwork to my squadron commander. It came back later that day covered in red ink. I worked through his suggestions and submitted version two. This version copped an even bigger hammering than the first. After three or four
knockbacks I was starting to regret making the application. As it was, I was only asking for $815 to pay for my accommodation and the flights from Dar es Salaam to Mafia Island, and that I be exempt from our compulsory week of med training the following year. With the amount of red pen my proposal received, anyone would think I was asking for a fully funded Contiki tour around Europe.

My troop commander sensed my frustration. ‘Hey, Fenno,' he said. ‘If it makes you feel any better, I don't think I've ever handed the Boss a piece of paperwork that he hasn't hammered. He loves his red pen.'

I didn't realise it at the time, but my squadron commander was doing me a favour. Besides testing my perseverance, he was nurturing me through the process because he wanted me to attain maximum growth. I was thinking about medical work in Africa – small picture – he was thinking about the process of organising such a trip – big picture.

I resubmitted my proposal again and soon learnt that I would have to present my plan to half a dozen senior officers, including the commanding officer of the SAS.
You've got to be shitting me
, I thought.
Just writing it was bad enough, and now I've gotta sell the freaking thing to the main man?

I knew there was no way I could pull my submission without looking like a pussy, so I went home and asked my wife if she could give me a hand with a PowerPoint presentation. At the time, my computer skills were pretty much non-existent. I acknowledged the shortfall and within four months was touch-typing at 60 words per minute.

The presentation Colleen put together was probably a decade ahead of its time. It was so slick it bordered on
ridiculous. When it was over, the commanding officer made a point of saying it was one of the best presentations he'd ever seen. My smug smile vanished when my troop commander enlightened the group that it had been my wife who had put the masterpiece together.

But the commanding officer approved my proposal. I was off to Africa.

The Doc and his wife had invited Colleen to join me, and she didn't have to be asked twice. We flew to Dar es Salaam and searched for a taxi. After 20 minutes we took our chances and threw our packs in an old banged-up station wagon. It was white and had a piece of mauve carpet glued to the dash. With not a lot of cash to throw around, we'd chosen to stay at the Safari Inn. For US$15 we weren't expecting anything flash.

Our taxi driver appeared genuine, and his face was full and smooth. But when he veered off the main road and began taking way down a couple of poorly lit alleys, I looked at Col and shook my head. ‘If this dude tries to pump us over then I promise I'll snap his bloody neck.'

I felt a little foolish. Although I knew there wouldn't be a lot I could do if a group of his mates were waiting around the corner, I felt better knowing that he'd also have a pretty shitty night. We continued on. The sides of the alley were lined with corrugated iron, and the street narrowed to the point where it was impossible to open both left and right doors at the same time. Our vehicle headlights illuminated the dusty, potholed road.

The driver stopped the car and pointed to a building with barred windows. ‘Safari hotel over there. I go check.'

I was tempted to follow him. There were many dull glows hidden behind drawn curtains. An armed guard approached the driver, they had a conversation and the driver returned. He looked relieved and told us everything was arranged. It was only the second time I had seen him smile; the first had been when he offered us a ride. I paid him and asked if he would pick us up the following morning. For this we scored smile number three.

Our room was surprisingly spacious, with two single beds set on opposite sides.

‘This is cool,' said Colleen as she jumped onto her bed and unravelled the mosquito net.

I checked my bed and felt like Poppa Bear – someone with sandy feet had been sleeping in my bed. ‘Do you want to go out for a look around?'

‘No way,' said Col.

‘Come on, we're in Africa.'

With an armed guard downstairs, Col was happy to stay in the room while I went for a walk. I removed everything from my wallet except for $10. Not far from the hotel I met a couple of locals who offered me some weed. I declined, so they asked if I would like a beer instead. I nodded and opened up my wallet nice and wide. They checked the contents and one of them signalled for me to give him two dollars.

With this in hand, he ran off down the road while his mate patted the kerb, encouraging me to take a seat. He smiled and sucked hard on his joint. I wasn't expecting to see the man who ran off with my two dollars again, and I didn't expect that Mr Weed was going to hang around either.

A couple of minutes later, the man returned with three bottles of beer, from which the caps had already been removed. I offered them both a bottle but they shook their heads and pointed to their joint. I was sceptical about drinking from a bottle that had been opened so I was adamant they joined me. They agreed to take one bottle between them; the other two were for me.

Before I had finished my second beer, Mr Weed signalled for my wallet, opened it, took out another two dollars and handed the money to his mate, who once again ran off down the road. He returned my wallet to me and smiled.

An Italian man wearing a white shirt and safari pants soon joined us, and so did three Masai men, their skin as dark and rich as chocolate. They were dressed in traditional red robes, wore sandals and carried spears. They were cool guys, and the Italian was able to smooth the boundaries between English and Swahili. Over the next two hours Mr Weed opened and closed my wallet three more times. The Africans preferred to smoke pot, while the Italian and I drank beer.

Colleen, wondering where I had got to, tiptoed out of her room and followed the laughs that bounced through the corridors. She was confused: she recognised my laughter but had no idea where it was coming from. She pressed her ear against several doors before returning to her room and going to bed. Not long afterwards, I opened the door, all smiles. Not even the grit between my sheets annoyed me that night.

The next morning, dressed in black pants and a white collared shirt, the driver waited eagerly by his cab. He
looked like he was dressed for church. I wasn't surprised; he'd charged us $50 the day before. To him, we were easy money.

We spent the morning at the airport, arguing with a local travel agency. First they tried to tell us that our flights to Mafia Island had not been paid for, then they said there were no flights that day, and finally, after nearly six hours of waiting and heated negotiation, we were escorted to a dodgy plane, an old six-seater Cessna, out the back.

The plane had been double-booked, and it was obvious that our fares were supplementing a few of the locals'. Little wonder they didn't want us on the plane – there wasn't room. But I was adamant we were getting on, so we squashed our packs in the outside luggage compartment and boarded.

Col was petrified and refused to sit up the front near the pilot. She preferred to sit behind me, where she could close her eyes and pretend she was somewhere else. With just three seats remaining, seven other people piled on board; one guy was carrying a cage with a couple of chickens. The turbulent flight from Dar es Salaam to Mafia Island took 45 minutes, and I don't know who hated it more – Col or the chickens.

We retrieved our packs and were met by the Doc's wife, Jackie. She was a tall, attractive woman with a tremendous work ethic and keen sense of adventure. The Doc's boyish smile juxtaposed his powerful physique, which was well suited to playing rugby. They both were strongly motivated people, not by money but to provide the residents of Chole with sustainable primary health care. We rattled across
Mafia Island in an old four-wheel drive, which only took about 40 minutes. Then we bundled our packs and supplies onto a wooden sailing boat and enjoyed the 20-minute ride to Chole Island itself.

Chole Island, East Africa.

Chole forms part of the Mafia Island group, located south of Zanzibar. Largely surrounded by mangroves interspersed with quaint stretches of beach, the island has a tropical climate that is perfect for an assortment of palm and baobab trees. Thick rainforest dominates the centre. There are two rainy seasons: the short rains from November to December, and the long rains from March to May. Eighty per cent of the island's 2000 mm of rainfall each year comes during the latter season.

No vehicles are permitted on the island, and with no power Chole remains a reminder of what life was once like for millions of Africans. When the light fades, a hush envelopes the island as the locals retreat into their mud-brick huts, with sleep not too far away.

Besides the medical clinic, which the Doc and Jackie established in late 1997, an eco-tourism lodge was also being constructed. The owners have since done a wonderful job establishing a series of stunning tree-houses that add to, rather than detract from, the island's natural beauty.

The 800 predominantly Muslim locals who lived on Chole Island appeared happy, their lives uncluttered and their days filled with fishing and subsistence farming. The Doc's residence had a biblical feel; a gravel path bordered by white coral led to a brilliant white building. Two red bougainvilleas dominated the entrance. The place looked so clean and so pure that for a moment I thought I might be refused entry unless I wiped the dust from my boots. But the goat shit that littered the front steps made me feel more at ease.

We arrived on 10 January 1999. The following morning I accompanied the Doc to the medical clinic, a 600-metre trek through the rainforest. By the time we reached the clinic my trousers and shirt were damp, my forehead shiny with perspiration. The clinic, small and clean, comprised two examination rooms, a birthing suite, laboratory, undercover waiting area, toilet and several storerooms. The floors, even in the waiting area, were concrete. The examination rooms had a couple of chairs, a wooden desk and a long examination table, which had been sanded smooth and painted with lacquer.

The staff were well trained and friendly. Although they only had a fairly limited grasp of English, what they did know was sufficient when translating between us and the locals.

Training for the local staff, Chole Island.

My first patient, a man aged in his mid-thirties, complained of numbness in his legs. The Doc waited until I'd asked a series of questions before telling me he was suffering from a disorder, Guillaine-Barré syndrome, which affected his bowels and limbs.

‘Fenno, as you'll see, we're only able to provide limited treatment on the island. This man might never regain full sensation in his lower limbs. The main problem is infection, as he'll most likely cut his foot at some point and won't feel it.'

We gave the man a course of multivitamins and told him to regularly check the soles of his feet. There was nothing else we could do.

My next patient was a fisherman who had stepped on a nail. I cleaned and dressed the wound and sent him on his way. The next man, wearing a sarong and a loosely buttoned white shirt, hobbled into the examination room,
propped himself up on the table and spread his legs.
A regular
, I thought.

The man smiled and revealed a dressing on the inside of his upper right thigh. What had begun as a minor graze had now degenerated into a deep tropical ulcer. I removed the dressing and held my breath as I inspected the wound. The stench, like a rotting mouse, was vile. A thin piece of sterile cloth – a wick – protruded from the wound.

‘With something like this, it's better to allow the wound to drain,' the Doc said. ‘We inserted a wick four days ago and he's come back to have it replaced. Even minor cuts can turn into deep ulcers in the tropics. Unless it's a clean cut, the best way to treat them is with either secondary healing or delayed primary closure.'