[thenorthographer]

I've looked at locks from both sides.

The same application we use to lock things inside us, becomes the very same application we use to lock others out. To prevent us from hurting or to keep the things inside us from hurting others.

The cavities of our hearts and minds needn't be locked. We imprison ourselves and thus imprison others.

Some of us spend a lifetime collecting locks and others... a lifetime trying to find keys.

#locksmiths #33minutes #sidewalkserenades

[thenorthographer]

Woke up drunk.. again

Craig was preparing the jet fuel I.v. drip. Lekker little cocktail that clears the night before's palm wine and star beer from your system.

Being stationed remotely near the Bumbuna dam keeps you off the radar from the Brass, but you have to make due with whatever you can find to drink.

Craig and I ran a remote clinic between Bumbuna and Makeni and looked after forty Filipinos working on the haul road for WBHO, stretching from Tonkilili all the way down to the port at Pepel.

On that particular day, the Brass decided on a staff rotation between Bumbuna and Makeni. I suspected that they knew about the drinking by now...Jisis who didn't. Reports were frequently late. Inventory on schedule drugs were cooked to hide our frequent jetfuel lines, which we graciously supplied to the Filipinos in exchange for booze and smokes.

By 09h00 we were packed and would pass the replacement team in an hour en route to Makeni.

Makeni, the centre of all things civilized. The Wuzum hotel housed the Welsh and Aussies and was just around the corner from the SOS camp that we'd be stationed at. Being the apex in town, the Wuzum saw a lot of traffic; Dutch missionary girls and the Red Cross nurses who rotated in and out of country from other parts in Sierra Leone. So it was a lekker change of scenery after staring at the bush for six weeks. Or so we thought.

If there is one thing in this world that I hate. It's inventory. Not only because it would interfere with our drinking as we couldn't hide the addiction or hangovers anymore but because now we had to report to a Clinic Superintendent. Daily stock counts. Drug registers filled out in proper fashion and daily inspection of paperwork. We were fucked. Craig and I formulated a game plan of drinking less on duty and drinking less in between everything else so we could hold a pose. And we had access to Vodka again. Not the good stuff like the old Soviet Bear or some other Russian variant but cheap imports from Liberia. There was a St. Mary's around the corner and we payed a runner for delivery.

We didn't have any big mining accidents at the time as it was only phase one, with bush clearing and construction off the haul road being done. Days were spent cleaning the clinic and training the locals in First-Aid. We treated Malaria cases in between, especially amongst the expats, some suturing for minor cuts etc. and assisted local hospitals with their own trauma and medical cases etc. You know just to stay sharp mos.

Tuesday morning, Mick Hallahan our in-country OPS Manager called on the sat phone. Mick was and old boy, 3 Para Rgn soldier from the U.K. So when he spoke you took a piss standing at attention. Himself and our SHE-Q guy Attie Strydom were on the way with a guy form Basil Reed civils who was in bad shape. Hansie de Beer.

Hansie was a junior safety officer and it was his first time out of S.A. Nice chap. Didn't know him personally but he frequented in the mess hall during breakfasts etc.

Hansie arrived at the clinic complaining of head ache and nausea and he looked like shit. They found him drowsy at his desk.

I immediately ran an i.v line of Nacl 0.9% to treat for dehydration as this was, other than malaria the most common thing among expats in Sierra Leone. Hansie's vitals were stable, although his NIBP was low, I think 112/72. This was 11h30 pm. I did a quick finger prick for a rapid malaria test. Positive. I waited one hour and tested again. Positive. Our in country protocol said, as we were contracted to AML said that if in the event of Malaria and or other serious medical illness that we have to inform the World Travel Clinic via sat phone in JHB of the patient, vitals signs, any diagnostic findings etc. ( For some fucking reason) we were dumb and couldnt treat Typhoid, Malaria etc.

It was 11h51 and haven't had a sip of Russia's finest yet and was already withdrawing.

I raised the WTC on the sat phone and was put through the a doctor in charge who I can't name (A. De Frey) I ran the patients particulars by him as well as the Rapid test and last vitals. The doctor a.k.a Doos said that the patients vitals does not reflect malaria and I was to to repeat the test in three hours again. I was busy replying but was cut off. Call ended.

Hansie's vitals were still stable although he developed a laboured breath and raised pulse. His NIBP was now at 110/70. I informed my Sup and was instructed to carry out the Doos' order.

By 03h00 i repeated the Rapid Malaria test. It came back positive. Hansie's vitals were fluctuating. I raised the Doos' on the sat phone again. Says he to me that if we don't know what malaria is we should come to JHB and he will school us.

My shift ended and Craig started his. I asked if he could cover for me until 21h00 as I needed a drink although I was on standby. Craig tested Hansie at 18h00. Positive and called Jhb and relayed vitals. The Doctor was irritated and said we should start quinine on a low dose until he called back. Craig wakes me up at 22h00. Repeats the doctors order. Fuck. We don't have a cardiac monitor and quinine causes cardiac arrhythmias which we won't be able to monitor.

Hansie was in kak now. His vitals were dropping. NIBP, Pulse, Resp Rates the whole works. I phoned the doctor again and said we did not have a cardiac monitor as HE advised that we would not be needing it at the time of deployment.

We transfer Hansie to a villa outside the Wuzum. Inserted a NG tube for fluids, set up the SP02 and BP monitor. Craig and take turns until 06h00 monitoring vitals etc. I crushed coartem during the night to reconstitute it and admininitered it thought the NG Tube. Hansie was unresponsive by then and I made shit fit.

At 03h00 I phoned the OPS Room calling for a medivac. Ops informs me that the French pilots don't fly at night and couldn't have a flight plan done in that time anyway.

At 06h30 that morning, I've never been that sober In my Life. Hansie's NIBP was at 98/40. Pulse of 140bpm and laboured racing breaths.

Ops phoned at 06h35. The helo was on the way. French pilots with their french Puma. Hansie is prepped on Life Support for medivac. Mick phones to confirm that big bird is on the way and that ISOS will meet them at Lungi on the tarmac. I cry!! Like a child to the big man over the phone. He says " It time...If you could survive this sober you can survive anything else everywhere else sober too"

I went ahead and got as drunk as the human body could have allowed for three days. "Wit Dronk"

I went home on rotation one week later. My boys were born two weeks later on the 2nd of December. I had a drink that morning in the parking lot at Femina hospital.

Then it was done.

I tagged a bunch of people years later on Social Media who were involved in Hansie's rescue.

Hansie replied a few days later;

" Dankie vir alles oom, ek sal dit nooit vergeet nie"

The Rescue of Hansie de Beer

Adventures in Remote Site Rescue

Pepel, Sierra Leone

2010

- Michael Botha

[thenorthographer]

Children of a lesser God

[thenorthographer]

Ghosts of North-Africa

Since the beginning of time, whenever a substance of value was found, people perished, in infinite numbers and in distressing ways.

The trading of ivory, gold and diamonds across Africa's once most important trade route now included the selling of lives. Men, woman and children. 

They are the migrants of the Sahara, the ghosts off North-Africa.

Welcome to the Niger desert...

For centuries caravans have trekked the desolated sands of the Sahara, trading in gold, spices, and kola nuts with outer desert towns and trade posts. Less desired items were also traded in Mali and along the Timbuktu route, for instance slaves, beads and cowry shells which were often bartered with ivory from the west.

The caravans often relied on the Berber people to safely guide them across the north-western Sahara desert, sending out runners to scout routes for desert pirates along the Dar el-Arbain route and to prepare the Oasis at Karwa before the caravans, in their thousands arrived.

The camels are prepared in advance, grazed and watered for the 6 month perilous journey. Vital Oasis stops are required for resupplying water and for the animals to rest. The journey along the trade routes covered thousands of miles through the most harsh conditions in this million year old desert. Death by exposure was a common occurrence.

Today, thousand year old stone markers pay homage to the fallen,  echoing Dante's words; "Abandon all hope — Ye Who Enter Here"

Present day, Agadez; the Ciudad Juárez of North-Africa.

Desert bandits, arms markets and drugs, with silver and leather goods being the most popular items sold or traded for salt from Bilma.

No tourists are noticed. The absence of their buses and foreign languages make us, the bearded hijab clad westerners stick out like a sore thumb. The Agadez mosque and market draws followers and patrons from surrounding towns and villages. The once flourishing town has now become a hub for traffickers and smugglers. The profit...humans.

"More people die in the Sahara than out in the Mediterranean", a Malian man tells us. "We trek to Agadez from Chad, Gambia, Mali and Sudan, leaving our homes, our lives and everything else behind. We are kept hidden away from authorities in the ghettos of this small mud built desert town, subjected to hard labour and sexual exploitation, until once a week, the smugglers from Libya arrive", he says.

Amir arranged passage for us to Tunis, explaining the forty hour trip by road, crossing into Algeria. I had last seen the Syrian in Rusafa. It seems like ten years ago. He reminds me that it hàs been ten years. His business card still says, "Guide".

For a middle eastern man he looks more a westerner than we do. Unanimously we blame MTV. Amir laughs it off. Feeble attempt at humor for such a place like this.

Forty hours to Tunis.

More people die in the Sahara the Malian said...the Psalms shepard boy's words mull in my head. This is the valley he spoke of, the shadows of death.

I am addicted to sadness...

Sunrise. The first rays of light are greeted by the call of prayer delivered by a solitary face less voice. It flows through the streets out towards the desert.

Amir received a phone call over  breakfast, informing him of a flight from Mono Dayak to Nouhadibou. We pack hastily. The Red Cross chartered plane fills up quickly. The French pilots sell the seats cheap.

Dollars buys anything. Passports are roughly checked and stamped as we are extricated from the boarding gate like goats.

Amir points at a man and says "That's him, the Tuareg". The dark skinned man on the mobile phone was busy arguing the price of personal floatation devices from Togo for one of his merchant boats.

"Migrant boats", I almost said out loud.

This neatly dressed man straight from an Armani catalogue is a human trafficker and merchant of death. Amir tells us that this man enjoys protection from a Benghazi  group of militants and is untouchable through out North Africa.

Seatbelt fastened. I drift off at the humming of the powerful Allison T56 engines as they come to life.

"What drives us to leave our lives behind, risking inevitable death. To be buried in unmarked graves or swallowed by the deep blue sea. To reach foreign shores. To learn a new language. To start a new job. To raise our children. To leave the sand of this desert behind. To start a new life. To live in peace. We are the cowry shells and beads of this desert. We are weighed and bartered. We are the remnants of war. We are the ghosts of the Sahara. We are a substance of value"

The last of the passengers tuck their baggage away in the over head compartments and take their seats.

The Tuareg walks down the isle with an entourage of gladiators briefly making eye contact before taking his seat "As Salaam Alaikum", he greets.

I remember the article about the people who fled the war in Mali. Did they die in the Sahara after forty hours of thirst? After forty hours of exposure? Or forty hours of abanoned prayers?

My heart wept for them as I replied; "Wa Alaikum Salaam".

I close my eyes and wonder...what peace?

Michael Botha

The Northographer ©

2020

[thenorthographer]

It's

It's not the want. Its the journey. The want finds itself...

Matter and Space

The northographer ©

4/4/2018

[thenorthographer]

1 Corinthians 13:2

…and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.

Street Life

The northographer ©

26/3/2018

[thenorthographer]

Someone’s father, someone’s brother and someone’s son…

Poverty and dereliction is a Government inflicted disease. No Human is deserving of this. Sad world…

Street photography

South Africa

The northographer ©

[thenorthographer]

The Lord's Prayer

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.

And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever.

Amen.

Bem vindo a Mosambik

[thenorthographer]

Across Borders

Children of Chokwe

Resanno Garcia Mozambique Border

The northographer ©

[thenorthographer]

War child. Children of Tete. The Renamo Conflict Tete, Northern Mozambique. The northographer ©

[thenorthographer]

Remnants Of War Children of Tete The Renamo conflict Tete Northern Mozambique The northographer ©

[thenorthographer]

I have

…crafted a life meticulously, with high walls, and inside the most beautiful space for solitude. And that’s the pity of it all…

Elizabeth House of Hope Mamelodi - East

The northographer ©

20/3/2018

[thenorthographer]

My brother's keeper Children of Zaire Kolwezi, Democratic Republic Congo The northographer © Official UNICEF correspondant

[thenorthographer]

So that I may feed others Children of Zaire Beni, Democratic Republic Congo The northographer © Official UNICEF correspondant

[thenorthographer]

A life without colour

Children of Zaire Beni, Democratic Republic Congo

The northographer © Official UNICEF correspondant

[thenorthographer]

And when white gloves can only fix eyes that see too near, too far or not enough, who can diagnose those of us that see too much..

PTSD is real. The guns, the ghosts and the spirits exist. You are still alive. And you are not alone.

Light up the Darkness

The northographer ©

30/3/2018

[thenorthographer]

Sidewalk serenade

Perhaps there are no beautiful destinations or terminals for the heart.

Maybe the places we go and the people we meet were never more than longitudes and latitudes of coincidence or chance, mapped out long before the bodies met; 

The man on the bus. The old woman missing her husband at sunset, the little girl in the flower market or the good doctor with the golden heart. 

Maybe it was just a time paradox creating events still to come. Maybe it was never about arriving but always searching for the port. 

Maybe it was the words you could never find. Maybe it was the chapter untold. Maybe the same matter should not occupy the same space. Maybe it was the waterfall crash from which you won’t wade. 

Maybe the search for hope was just coincidence or by chance…or a once off sidewalk serenade.. 

Michael Botha

The northographer ©

19/3/2018