There are people, Advice, adventurers and other map eaters who believe adventure is measured in scars. Always ready to explain that they did reach the mouth of hell. In my experience, in this profile of globetrotters you will find the quick and easy comment, full of prefabricated topics of who thinks that he does not travel like the rest. In a minute they reel off their latest encounters with the others, without understanding them, just for the pleasure of counting. One minute is exactly how long it takes to disconnect from his exploits.
And then, you find characters who almost reluctantly tell you unlikely stories. He tells it for some collateral conversation, interrupting itself, while talking about how cheap a new supermarket is, And having to pull his throat for him to tell you the rest. That is the case of a Grenadian, of which I will not say a name because surely he would not like it, that I have met in Cape Town. A hero, understanding by such the definition of the dictionary in which it is said that "is a person who carries out a heroic action".
He is a disbelieving doctor, honored, disenchanted dreamer, with the "bad fucks" of the land and that spreads tow in abundance to the organizations that bring idealists to Africa to risk their lives and to the players of life who disguise themselves as idealists to earn it. His story, that he told me in the shelter of a pizza from my mythical Posticino, could be a movie. It would certainly be and could be called "the last of ...".
‘The rebels read on the door of the house that it said doctor and they brought me the wounded. I tried to 81 people and only one died. ', recalls.
is that the doctor was working in the Central African Republic when there was a coup. A small and miserable town in which his NGO knew that in the afternoon the rebels would enter. That in Africa means that death comes with machetes and shots of a troop probably as thirsty for alcohol as for blood. All the doctors decided to leave before the palpable threat. All but one, our normal star, who chose them over him. Plural for singular.
"The first shots I heard caught me in the bathroom. Literal, there the arrival of the rebels caught me. I was paralyzed for a few minutes in fear, I couldn't move thinking that they were going to kill me ". But it moved and its movement began to save lives in an endless night. “The rebels read on the door of the house that it said doctor and they brought me the wounded. I tried to 81 people and only one died ", recalls.
"I saw machine gun bursts, I heard shots that I didn't know where they came from ". I was alone, there was no one helping him. In a car came a wounded man who was brought to heal. The rebels saw that it was an army guy and in front of me they took him out of the vehicle and shot him dead.”.
Into the night, Our Spanish doctor realized that in the house he had dozens of injured people that he could not treat. Called a French couple, NGO members, in whose house there was medical supplies. They told him that the only option he had to get there was to walk 800 meters that had to his house between the bullets. An eternity in a night of vomiting ammo. "I thought they could kill us all, but there was no alternative. I made a white flag with a stick and then we went out into the dark, in procession, listening to gunshots. All, the wounded and me ". In the end they reached the house, where he was able to heal more people in one night that was still unfinished. Finally, with the arrival of the light, The rebels withdrew and all the medical companions of the doctor who had been 12 hours being the only person who could heal the wounded. It was not random, it was his choice to gamble that saved quite a few people.
The story was told without fuss, no medals. Then she spent three years in DRC the Congo as a midwife, where he was also close to death. Back without intonation, no patting on the chest. Nothing, just the normal story of a "hero" who came to save lives, not to say that he saved them.
