Gwennie's Girl Read online

  The men cheered. ‘It’s not that you smell, love,’ said Sam, ‘But you deserve it. Go enjoy! Just give us a call if you’ve forgotten how and we’ll give you a hand.’

  ‘Or two or three,’ said the blonde.

  The laughs continued as Lizzie enjoyed a memorable cleansing.

  Among the other helpers was a very young refugee who had walked up to the compound in the first days and offered to help. She was alone in the camp, Lizzie was told, as all her family had been killed. Lizzie often saw her sitting alone, twisting a strand of her hair and staring off into memories that Lizzie could only imagine until the other workers would gently bring her back to her present time and place.

  One very hot afternoon, Lizzie saw the young one stumble back into the compound. The girl had been helping to distribute food to long, long queues of men and women who waited for hours in the sun. She had handed food to a man she had recognised. She had seen him kill her younger brother. He was wearing the shirt she had given to her brother for his birthday.

  ‘What did she do?’ Lizzie had asked when told what had happened.

  ‘She kept on giving the food,’ she was told. ’She did not look at his face, just handed him the food. She needs to cry.’ So did they all need to cry.

  In this huge crowd, there were others who were alone. Many children were separated from relatives in the exodus. Often their parents had been killed, and the kids just tacked themselves onto a group. Sometimes people took them under their wings. Sometimes not.

  Lizzie was returning to the compound late one morning, and she made her way through the crowd that stood at the edges, a crowd which was always patient and respected the boundaries marked out with simple posts and rope. This time, she felt herself pushed from behind, and the someone thrust forward a small boy, maybe eight or nine years old.

  ‘He has no one,’ said a voice in French. ‘He is hungry.’

  The child was wearing a torn T-shirt covered in what looked like blood. He was thin and trembling. They were a long way from the collection point for these little ones, and Lizzie doubted he could walk any further. She called to Sam who looked unhappy at the request but who, after a moment’s hesitation, picked up the boy and carried him to the compound fire. The women hurried over and brought him water and then a small bowl of cold rice. Lizzie saw what the expression “wolfed it down” meant as he crammed the food into his mouth with his fingers. One of the women brought a towel, washed his face and quietly began to talk to him, asking how he came to be here. She was still talking gently to him when the red-bearded Irishman stormed up to the group.

  ‘You can’t do that, Lizzie!’ he yelled. ‘You can’t bring one kid in here while thousands of others are standing out there waiting their turn.’ He was irate, this nice family man who was working nineteen hours a day, half a world away from home.

  ‘I can’t deal with individuals! I just can’t!’

  The African woman’s voice interrupted softly, ‘He was with his father and his uncles in the bush when they heard the screaming. They ran back to their home but there was blood everywhere and he ran away. He does not remember how he came here. He just says he came with people.’

  The Irishman ran his hands through his hair and rubbed his eyes. ‘I can’t deal with individuals. I just can’t,’ he muttered as he walked away. Lizzie understood that he couldn’t, but she wondered who could. Who could deal with the individual suffering of this huge mass of people?

  Two local women had recently arrived at the camp, searching for news of friends and relatives who had been in Rwanda. Lizzie had seen them on the bridge and heard the stark anguish in the call for the outsiders to tell the story. All day, these women went from hut to hut, seeking information and offering some solace, at least a sympathetic ear to the devastated women.

  At the end of each day, Lizzie saw them return dejectedly to the corner of the compound where they shared a tent with one of the local aid workers. Lizzie approached them and told them of the small boy in the blood splattered T-shirt. The taller of them took the boy, cuddled him and said she would see what she could do. By the next morning, she had located some people from his home who said they would care for him. She had also alerted the UN personnel who were trying to deal with such cases.

  As Lizzie walked slowly back to the main distribution point, Sam called, ‘Lizzie, we’ve just had a message. There is another stream coming across the bridge. A mix of Hutu and Tutsi. Going to be hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys.’

  Hey man, isn’t that always the way? You want me to know the difference? With my record? Gwennie might have known but not Lizzie.

  They all crowded into one of the precious four by four vehicles and drove slowly down the road to the border crossing. An estimated six to ten thousand refugees were still coming into the camp each day, toiling up those last kilometres in the hot sun. Some pushed bicycles or pulled goats. Some carried bundles. Some had nothing. Lizzie noticed one tall slim young woman walking awkwardly and dazedly. She caught Sam’s eye.

  ‘Exhausted,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘Raped,’ Lizzie sensed.

  They could not pick people up. There was simply not enough transport, and she now knew the anguish of the workers who had to deal with people en masse. They stopped at one point for the crew to photograph the stream of tired refugees that was coming up the hill towards the camp. Please, please, please, let these pictures make some difference.

  A young mother sat by the side of the road. In her lap lay a tiny baby, very, very still. The woman just sat. She could not go on. She had nothing with her at all. Just the tiny, very still baby. Up the hill came an old man. There were very few old people because they just didn’t make it. He had an old blanket around his shoulders and walked with a stick. He shuffled, half a foot in front of half a foot. Who knew how long it had taken him so far and how long it would take him to reach the camp. As he shuffled up to the place where the young mother sat with her baby he put his hand under his blanket and pulled out a little cloth bag with a draw-string, the sort of bag that Australian kids used to hold marbles when they were young. The old man put his hand into the little bag and pulled out a handful of beans. As he shuffled past the young mother he dropped the beans into her lap. That was all he had, all he had been able to carry those long, long miles. He did not speak. He just shuffled on up the hill in the hot sun all by himself. It was an image of generosity that stayed with Lizzie for many years. Hutu? Tutsi? Killer? Victim? Hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys. The story of Lizzie’s life.

  They continued down to the river again. For days it had been carrying bodies and parts of bodies away from the fighting down to Lake Victoria. Bloated, often headless and limbless torsos floated as mute evidence of the vicious hatred that could be seeded and exploded in human communities. Some were caught in plants at the edge of the flow. Some paused in eddies and backwaters. The bridge was deserted except for Lizzie’s group and soldiers on the Rwandan side because the current influx of refugees was crossing upstream. Although the crew had been here before they stood again huddled together looking over the railing.

  ‘Lizzie, look through there,’ Sam was at her shoulder, pointing across the bridge into deep undergrowth and bush. ‘I think that’s a pile of stuff the early ones must have been forced to abandon before crossing. Any chance we could get over, do you think?’

  Lizzie looked and shrugged, ‘I can try. Give me a few minutes—but don’t go away. Who knows the mood of these soldier boys?’

  She sauntered across the bridge and went up to the barrier where two guards lounged with their weapons and watched her every move. She decided if they didn’t speak French, she’d just give up. She tried the usual pleasantries.

  ‘Bonjour.’

  Silence.

  ‘How are you going, today?’

  Silence.

  Then, with the help of mime, ‘Is it possible we can enter? Just for a few minutes? To take some photos?’

  Movement. The guns we
re jerked up higher and pointed at her chest. Oh great. Bloody great, Sam. You and your shots. I could get shot, here. Into the old routine, darling. Bloody hell, why aren’t I a gorgeous, leggy blonde? Well, do your best, girl, do your best.

  She smiled and started again.

  ‘Bonjour,’ accompanied by a simper, well, the nearest to a simper she could manage. ‘How are you…?’

  Just for a moment, I thought I heard something on that gun click. Of course I was imagining it. You just moved it to a more comfortable position. Still, maybe I’ll just say good-bye and wander back over this extremely, extremely long bridge. Why did I not notice before how far it is to the other end of the bridge? Well, bye now. That was definitely a click and you growled something at me. It was not French. But it was a growl. Oh great! You are waving that evil-looking thing at me. You want me to go? Or you want me to stay? We have a problem here, Sir, you are not being clear. Oh! On second thoughts maybe you are being clear. You definitely want me to stay. Stand still, right? Stay right where I am, right? Anything you say, Boss. Anything you say. I see. You and I are staying here and your mate is going for reinforcements, is that it? Believe me, mate, you do not need reinforcements. There is only me—dammit! Where is that lousy photographer who wanted a shot? He’s staying well back, isn’t he? Just because I told him to stay well back doesn’t mean he has to do it. But don’t worry, I’m staying. See? I’m staying and this sickly grimace on my face is meant to be a smile. See? I’m smiling, and I’m staying. And here comes your friend with about six other friends. All carrying. Every one of them. Oh great! Keep smiling, girl. Look cool. With sweat pouring down my armpits? And it is not from the sun. Try again.

  ‘Bonjour.’

  ‘Bonjour.’

  Yes!!

  Lizzie went through the routine again, the pleasantries, the simpering, the mimed request to go through to take some photos.

  ‘What are they for, these photos?’

  She explained about the need for aid, stressing that it would be to help the people of Rwanda, not putting emphasis on the refugees who had fled. Countries after war needed help to stabilise… yackity, yackity yack. Her voice gradually wound down—really there was a limit to her French. Why the hell didn’t she find time for classes?

  ‘Wait,’ she was told.

  She waited. At first, she tried to chat to the seven, armed men all standing watching her until she realised how ridiculous she must seem, so she shut up. She glanced back to see Sam about halfway across the bridge, lounging casually against the rail but with his camera on her. Bloody terrific. If anything happened, he would photograph it all. Save me from photographers!

  The boss-man was back. He spoke to the others who moved aside slightly. ‘Where is your camera?’ he demanded.

  Lizzie pointed back to Sam. There was more talk between the soldiers, then a nod. ‘You can go through. You stay where we can see you. Five minutes.’

  Lizzie called Sam who came at a run. ‘We can go in. Be quick. We have five minutes.’

  He was at the barrier instantly. Then paused, ‘Is this cool?’ he asked.

  ‘Completely,’ replied Lizzie. Honestly, man, you did ask for it!

  They moved onto Rwandan territory, and he shot the pile of pangas rusting in the sun amidst abandoned cooking pots, old shoes, an old pram. A soggy bible mouldered in the heap. There were a few torn snapshots. Items carried away in haste so, presumably, precious to the people who had been forced to dump them just before they crossed to refuge. There was a shout, and they both scrambled back to the road, thanked the armed watchers and slipped back through the barrier.

  Halfway across the bridge, Sam stopped. ‘How the hell would you know if it was really cool for us to enter?’

  ‘Just told you what you wanted to hear, boyo,’ Lizzie grinned in reply. ‘Instinct.’

  ‘You should trust your instinct about blokes more often,’ said Sam.

  Not likely. Old habits die hard, girl. You let yourself in for a lot of grief with that attitude at one stage of your life. But maybe nothing’s black or white. Maybe you’re learning to use your judgement again. Could you trust your gut, girl? Maybe. Maybe not.

  The others were waiting for them, and they climbed the winding hill to the vehicle, piled in and headed back to the camp. Their work was done. They were all up early next morning expecting a ride back to the airstrip. Problem. There was no vehicle available. One had broken down, and the other vehicle had had to go to help. It was too dangerous to leave people stranded. The Irishman shrugged but there was nothing he could do. The “short ride” to the camp had actual been about seven to eight kilometres. They could sit, wait and hope a vehicle arrived or they could walk. It was already hot, and the equipment was heavy. But the plane wouldn’t wait. They had to walk.

  ‘You might pick up a lift on the road,’ said the Irishman as he shook hands and they thanked him and the others in the compound. The road was a red, dusty track, and they were a silent group as they trudged along sharing the burden of packs and tripods and cameras. Lizzie was distinctly sick of being dirty and sweaty. The back of one foot was beginning to blister, and she wished she had a hat. Thankfully, she had her sunglasses. The blonde had twitted her, ‘Ray-ban sunglasses in a refugee camp?’ She had a feeling he was envious more than that he found it inappropriate.

  ‘All my sunglasses are Ray-ban,’ she had replied. They were. They had all cost her two dollars each in a Bangkok market. Pretentious Ponce, she had thought. Then realised she was being just as pretentious, so she explained and thought he did look a little less impressed.

  They had walked a couple of kilometres, and the rest of the road was looking longer and longer when they heard an engine and saw in a haze of red dust a truck approaching—and it looked empty. It was a tall-sided transport that rattled and bumped its way towards them going in the direction of the airstrip.

  ‘Here’s a go,’ called Lizzie.

  She waved to the driver who pulled up just past them. She ran to the cabin and explained their predicament to the driver who was a Tanzanian who looked tired and irritable too. Who knew how long he’d been driving?

  ‘OK. Get up back.’

  Lizzie signalled to the others who were already scrambling aboard with packs and equipment. She ran back to get her pack from where she had dropped it at the side of the road, slung it on her shoulder and grabbed for the side of the truck. Too late. And too short. The truck was moving and she couldn’t get a foothold so she had to chase the bloody truck. Sam and the blonde were leaning over the back to reach down.

  ‘Jump!’

  How the hell does a little, middle-aged lady jump and run at the same time when she is choking in the red dust and carrying a pack? Somehow. Anyhow. She jumped, and they grabbed her hands. Now she was hanging behind the rumbling, jolting vehicle.

  ‘Pull me up!’ she screamed.

  ‘Say please, Lizzie.’

  She looked up to see them all grinning. Of course, they could have stopped the truck. Of course, they could drag her over the top.

  ‘Pull me up!’ she demanded.

  ‘Say, please, Lizzie.’

  Oh, to hell with it!

  ‘Please! Please! Please! You bastards,’ she added as she landed in a heap in the truck.

  ‘We love ya, Lizzie,’ grinned Sam. ‘We wouldn’t have left you. We need our pay!’

  They made it to the plane, guilty at being glad they could leave. Sam was silent beside Lizzie, then he took her hand and said, ‘Can’t do more than what we do, girl.’ Lizzie smiled. Sam smiled too. ‘So how about giving one of the good guys a chance? I won’t hurt you.’

  Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve heard that before.

  They arrived back at the hotel in Dar, which now looked super luxurious. Lizzie showered. Showered. Such bliss. Under the warm running water, she washed away her grime and with it a little more of the conviction that what had happened so long ago had been somehow her fault She washed her hair, put on the set of clean clothes that she had le
ft in her bag—and felt almost glamorous, she was soooooo clean. Gwennie would have approved of her girl. She emerged from her room to find Sam waiting. ‘I booked a table for us. Not fancy but no bananas and no rice. Not even beans,’ he grinned.

  ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘I pissed them off. Nah, they have gone out looking for more booze. I took the liberty of thinking you and I might get a meal together. Is that OK?’

  Lizzie smiled at this big man, who seemed to be one of the good guys. What the hell, Gwennie. Shall I take a chance? It’s only a meal.

  Oh sure, only a meal.

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ she said. It was a lovely meal. The evening was soft and warm, and Sam was lovely too. That night, as she slept in his arms, she did not feel scared. She felt at peace. Who knew what could happen? Whatever happened, she felt he might not be the sort to hurt her—and she was more alert to that sort of danger now. Anyway, she had her plane ticket back to Geneva in a couple of days. She would kiss him goodbye and fly away, wouldn’t she? Yes, she would, and she would remember a gentle night of loving—and she would remember Rwanda.

  Geneva

  It was winter in Geneva, and outside it was a crisp evening. If she stood up and looked out of the windows of this, her own, very safe apartment she could see across the lights of the city, and there would be the Cathedral, St. Pierre’s, rising out of the Old Town. It would have the weathered glow of bronze against the white coldness that illuminated the streets. She would look towards Lac Leman and remember the Jet d’Eau with its ever-so-Swiss, controlled spring of joy. There would be a high spot of light from the restaurant on the Saleve, that ridge of hills that cradled one side of the city, and on the other side she would see the Jura providing the balance for her view through to the white icing of the Alps. From her window, on a clear day she could see Mont Blanc.

  On a clear day… That was the song, ‘On a clear day you can see forever.’ Well, most of her days now were clear days. Once, she had looked into forever and fought like hell to stay this side of it. Maybe one day she would be ready to do the forever bit. Maybe. Maybe not. She had almost fallen for it once. She had considered it. She had also realised it was not an option for her. Fancy getting so depressed about dying that you die to make yourself feel better. Not smart, girl. It was more likely that they would have to drag her screaming and kicking into forever. It was a strong possibility when she remembered that previous time and her resistance. Dignity and serenity were definitely not in her repertoire.