highway, which followed the edge of the land, hugging mangrove-gnarled inlets, salt flats and pockets of dense forest. Villages clung to the perimeter of the road, their houses made of ochre mud held upright by a cage of wattle. They passed men pulling two-wheeled ox carts with unidentifiable heaps in their wagons covered in jute. Shaded groves of young casuarinas shivered in the breeze.
Moholo was the real resort on this stretch of the ocean, she had gathered. Kilindoni had only two hotels used by package tours from the UK, Italy and Germany. In Moholo there were more than a dozen.
As they approached the town a flurry of billboards appeared at the roadside – Five Islands Hotel, Fitzgerald’s, Marlin Bay Ocean Resort, the Sahara restaurant and bar. They were sun-bleached and tattered, with the exception of Fitzgerald’s, which has its own helicopter pad, someone – it must have been Julia or Margaux – had told her. It was the choice hotel of millionaires, with the best sports fishing north of Durban, and only three hours from Johannesburg by Lear Jet. One South African industrialist flew up in his private plane every week, Margaux had told her, just to hook marlin and billfish off the reefs of the warm ocean.
Storm’s face was a study in concentration as he drove. He negotiated the obstacle course the road generated, the motorbike taxis which appeared from side roads and lanes and whose drivers careened onto the road without looking, the tuk-tuks chugging at twenty kilometres an hour, the wobbling cyclists and gloomy cows on rope leashes tended by children carrying sticks.
‘You never answered my question.’
She darted him a look. ‘What question?’
‘Why you wanted to be a doctor.’
‘I told you, I wanted to be useful.’
‘To whom?’
‘To society. To life.’ She laughed. ‘There aren’t many things you can do in this world which directly contribute to life and not death.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean there is no neutrality in our existences. You can always trace a line from your actions and consequences, and know whether those consequences are good or bad.’
She turned back to watch the life of the road. She didn’t know why she was telling him this. Conversations with him appeared from nowhere and quickly went astray. It made her nervous, how quickly he tempted her into such moral equivalences. She didn’t like the sound of her hazy assertions or her sacrificial offerings of vulnerability. In any case with Storm they failed to provoke intimacy, or even understanding. She had never encountered this before, with another human being – that her well-practiced admissions widened the gulf between them.
‘What about the army. Isn’t that about death?’
‘No, it’s about limiting damage, death included.’
‘So it wasn’t actually about being a doctor?’ he said.
‘No, I love medicine. You can’t make it through medical school without having an affinity for it.’
This wasn’t entirely true – she’d known people at medical school who could just as easily have been stockbrokers, lawyers, army majors. They’d chosen medicine for its social influence, and then had to deal with their recoil when they understood just how much information they had to acquire, how much responsibility travelled with it.
‘What do you think I should do with my life?’
She looked out the window, considering her answer. Stray piebald goats stared back with their yellow eyes.
‘I think you should just follow your instincts.’
He shot her a questioning look. Normally she would have been grateful for any sign of ambivalence from him. But now that it came to her she rebuffed it, and looked out the window instead, seeing the firefly makaa braziers in the forest, the thin boys cycling, tottering on the edge of the asphalt, daring the bus drivers not to kill them.
Ragged memories settled in her like a flock of crows. Gower Street in the rain, cramming on defibrillation from textbooks on the
Moholo was the real resort on this stretch of the ocean, she had gathered. Kilindoni had only two hotels used by package tours from the UK, Italy and Germany. In Moholo there were more than a dozen.
As they approached the town a flurry of billboards appeared at the roadside – Five Islands Hotel, Fitzgerald’s, Marlin Bay Ocean Resort, the Sahara restaurant and bar. They were sun-bleached and tattered, with the exception of Fitzgerald’s, which has its own helicopter pad, someone – it must have been Julia or Margaux – had told her. It was the choice hotel of millionaires, with the best sports fishing north of Durban, and only three hours from Johannesburg by Lear Jet. One South African industrialist flew up in his private plane every week, Margaux had told her, just to hook marlin and billfish off the reefs of the warm ocean.
Storm’s face was a study in concentration as he drove. He negotiated the obstacle course the road generated, the motorbike taxis which appeared from side roads and lanes and whose drivers careened onto the road without looking, the tuk-tuks chugging at twenty kilometres an hour, the wobbling cyclists and gloomy cows on rope leashes tended by children carrying sticks.
‘You never answered my question.’
She darted him a look. ‘What question?’
‘Why you wanted to be a doctor.’
‘I told you, I wanted to be useful.’
‘To whom?’
‘To society. To life.’ She laughed. ‘There aren’t many things you can do in this world which directly contribute to life and not death.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean there is no neutrality in our existences. You can always trace a line from your actions and consequences, and know whether those consequences are good or bad.’
She turned back to watch the life of the road. She didn’t know why she was telling him this. Conversations with him appeared from nowhere and quickly went astray. It made her nervous, how quickly he tempted her into such moral equivalences. She didn’t like the sound of her hazy assertions or her sacrificial offerings of vulnerability. In any case with Storm they failed to provoke intimacy, or even understanding. She had never encountered this before, with another human being – that her well-practiced admissions widened the gulf between them.
‘What about the army. Isn’t that about death?’
‘No, it’s about limiting damage, death included.’
‘So it wasn’t actually about being a doctor?’ he said.
‘No, I love medicine. You can’t make it through medical school without having an affinity for it.’
This wasn’t entirely true – she’d known people at medical school who could just as easily have been stockbrokers, lawyers, army majors. They’d chosen medicine for its social influence, and then had to deal with their recoil when they understood just how much information they had to acquire, how much responsibility travelled with it.
‘What do you think I should do with my life?’
She looked out the window, considering her answer. Stray piebald goats stared back with their yellow eyes.
‘I think you should just follow your instincts.’
He shot her a questioning look. Normally she would have been grateful for any sign of ambivalence from him. But now that it came to her she rebuffed it, and looked out the window instead, seeing the firefly makaa braziers in the forest, the thin boys cycling, tottering on the edge of the asphalt, daring the bus drivers not to kill them.
Ragged memories settled in her like a flock of crows. Gower Street in the rain, cramming on defibrillation from textbooks on the
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