Just so you know, this is a story about meeting an exceptional and, as it turns out, celebrated woman in the most unlikely of places. In a way, I still can't believe that this meeting actually happened. But here goes the tale anyway. And please note that to protect her personal privacy and professional reputation her real identity will be kept secret. However, for those of you familiar with the entertainment landscape you might be able to guess. I, myself, was clueless as to who she was as you will see below.
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Months earlier.
Putting my feet up on the railing I leaned back in my wicker chair, happy to relax in the early afternoon Ruandan heat. The morning caseload at the remote MSF hospital was surprisingly light and I was enjoying the peaceful spell. I should note that the term 'hospital' was really stretching a point, however our simple medical facility, graciously support by European donations and UNHCR funding was all that existed for medical aid for some distance in all directions.
My locum at this facility, which I grandly called the 'West Ruandan General', WRG for short, was in fact a break from my surgical stays at MSF facilities in Afghanistan and Syria. Patching up wounded combatants or civilians and intricate surgeries to repair battlefield wounds, only to have the patient expire on the table is only something I could handle for a few months at a time before I have to get out of the war zones. I could only deal with badly wounded people, particularly children for so long before I went into a deep funk. Going back to a cushy surgical job in the West didn't work well either. I tried that but the reverse culture shock was a difficult transition as well. Ruanda was a middle ground R&R gig.
Off in the distance, on the jeep track from the village, the roar of a vehicle, followed by a babble of voices, broke the relative quiet of the facility compound. I yelled to Charles, my trusty second in command, a highly competent and well trained Ruandan nurse, to go see what was up. He came out of the staff office and headed over to the hubbub. I could see a man being lifted out of the back of the jeep. It didn't look good.
Charles came running back, a look of alarm on his face. "Boss, boss, bad stomach bullet wound. Many blood vessels damaged. Much blood ..." Gunshot wounds were infrequent at WRG but guerrillas from the Congo sometimes came over the border for medical aid and to escape pursuers. This appeared to be a war wound.
I hustled across the compound to check out the situation. It was bad. I grabbed a sterile top and started to scrub. Charles began to administer anaesthesia and I began to cut away clothing from the young man's body.
Fifteen minutes into the emergency surgery I realized I was in trouble. I had seen enough bullet and shrapnel injuries to know that this young guy needed more blood and a team of surgeons to control the bleeding. He might not make it if I didn't get him to more intensive care. His buddies or maybe family members were circling outside getting more and more agitated as Charles and I did what we could to keep this kid alive. I really didn't have much hope,
And if shit doesn't happen all at once the 'wup wup wup' of a helicopter sounded over the noise of the wheezing oxygen machine and monitors. "What the hell?" I shot over at Charles who was administering anaesthesia and monitoring vitals.
"Bad timing Boss. That must be the UNHCR chopper."
"What the hell do they want?"
"Boss, remember? You agreed to take some officials on a tour and have your picture taken with a celebrity."
"I did? What for?"
"Funding my man. This woman is a big shot star and raises a lot of money for facilities like ours." Why am I always the last to know these things.
Focusing in on some severed arteries and doing some delicate connections I spat out, "Get some of the other guys to get rid of them. No time for tourists or dog and pony shows."
"Hey, how about we get this guy a ride back to Kigali on their chopper. They could probably fix him up there."
I stopped in mid suture and stared at Charles. Brilliant. We had to commandeer the helicopter. "My friend that is brilliant. Now I know why we pay you so much."
Charles laughed and replied, "Hey man, when do I get to see this big money."
"Later pal. I'm going to finish getting him ready for travel. I'll clamp off the big ones while you go out and tell them they are evacuating a wounded soldier. Like right now. The tour is off. If they don't start winding that thing up again for take off get some of his buddies to muscle them a bit. A Kalashnikov or two should do the trick."
"Yeah Boss, leave it to me." Charles hurried out in the direction of the courtyard and the helicopter that was now sitting on the LZ. People were stepping out.
Rounding up crew including some of his buddies I put the wounded fighter on a stretcher and we started carrying him out towards the machine.
The scene around the chopper was utterly chaotic. Everyone was yelling at someone. The UN people were obviously pissed about their propaganda tour being hijacked and were not giving in easily. I left my bloody scrubs on for dramatic effect and rushed up to the passenger door, opening it, while ignoring to the best of my ability the irate staffers.
One of them yelled at me, "You can't do this! We've waited three weeks for the use of this helicopter and it wont be available again for weeks." I just gave Mr. Head of Mission, I presumed, a hard stare and quickly waived the stretcher bearers towards the open door. They began loading him in.
Once I was sure he was settled I yelled over at Charles that he was going with the guy. I didn't like losing him for who knows how long but the guy needed care and fluids from the IV in his arm and I trusted Charles to handle any in flight emergencies.
Once the patient was in the machine I turned to the spluttering UN guy and slowly but firmly explained what the choices were. The other passengers leaned in to hear what I had to say.
"You have two choices. One, you can take this guy immediately back to Kigali, stopping off at the hospital, where they might be able to save him if you get going right now, or two, we can do the tour and interview and we can bag some nice photos for the UN and then we can have lunch and some more photos and then we can unload the dead body out of the chopper.
I let that sink in for a few seconds and then added, "And you can then explain to those agitated and well armed guys over there why you didn't evac their friend immediately."
I backed off to let them decide and they circled around each other with a lot of excited talk and arm waving. When it became evident that they had chosen correctly, that is option 1 - get the wounded boy on his way - I backed off over to his friends and explained what was happening. Without a lot of English to be had in the group I still got the message across that taking their guy to Kigali was his best chance. They seemed resigned to that and began to disperse. I then ran back to gather supplies that Charles would need for the ride and an extra bag of fluid. I shoved them on the floor of the revving machine and then yelled and waved my arms pointing at the sky, the meaning clear.
The pilot seemed to be telling them that they couldn't all return on the flight and someone had to be bumped.
Moving away and back to the chair on the covered veranda I watched as they debated who was the unlucky staffer, hoping that they would decide quickly and get out of here. Two women were the last remaining and they seemed to be in a heated debate. One was yelling into the machine and trying to drag what appeared to be the younger of the two into the last remaining seat. The younger woman was resisting. 'Cmon guys,' I thought, decide and get the hell out of here.
Finally, the one woman started backing away, shaking her head and then the other woman threw her hands up into the air in obvious exasperation and boarded the machine. With a whirlpool of dust and noise the chopper lifted off and headed off towards Kigali.
I breathed a sigh of relief and picked up my now cold cup of tea from the floor beside the chair and revelled in the quiet. That was interesting. And just a bit crazy but I knew that was the best chance the wounded warrior had. I trusted Charles would get him to the hospital in Kigali alive.
Still standing in the middle of the compound was the staffer who got kicked off. It seemed that I had a guest for who knows how long. I told Charles to email as soon as he knew when he would return. I would fire up my sat phone internet link in a few hours to find out when they would bring him back and pick up the UN staffer. Hopefully, not long. She was looking around, clearly a bit bewildered so I yelled over to come up to the medical personal quarters. She blinked a few times and then made her way over towards me.
As she walked up the steps the first thing I noticed was that she was very young, early twenties at most and secondly that she was very good looking. Somebody over at the UNHCR office was cherry picking the pretty ones I guessed. I was a bit surprised though at her age. Most of the UN people I had dealt with seemed to be tough veterans of the NGO Aid game. This one looked like she was fresh out of orientation school.
I stood up and offered my hand adding, "Welcome to the West Ruandan General." She smirked and looking around at the shabby building took my hand and shook it. "I'm Adrian Kinnear by the way."
She looked at me kind of strangely but didn't respond so I added, "And you would be ..."
She seemed to startle at what I thought was an obvious and simple question. And then she told me her name in a slow deliberate way like she was talking to a child. I didn't get what the fuss was about.
So to digress for just a moment, I'm not going to use her real name for reasons that will become apparent as my tale unfolds. However, for the purposes of this story, I'm going to call her Ella.
"Nice to meet you Ella. I trust your stay in our humble facility will be comfortable but short and by the way, thank you for offering the use of your helicopter to evac that guy. We weren't capable of saving him here because of the seriousness of the wounds. His chances are much better in a full service hospital."
She huffed back, in what I came to enjoy as a delightful English accent, "Volunteer hardly. You didn't leave us much choice. Your people literally threw him into the helicopter."
"Well ... yes. But there wasn't a lot of time to negotiate."
Pulling up a chair, I offered her a tea which she readily accepted. Returning from the kitchen where Matilda, the housekeeper, took the order for tea and treats, I sat down beside the girl. She was eyeing me with an obvious frown. Not sure what the problem was I asked, "Is something the matter? What can I do to help?"
"Umm .. not to be picky about attire but your top ... Umm ..."
