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Save the Children
| Article
# : |
10731 |
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Section : |
LIFE
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| Issue
Date : |
6 / 1993 |
3,359 Words |
| Author
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David Sears
David Sears is an American journalist living in Denmark who
has published recently in Geo and the Guardian of London. |
The border guard, a lonely man with the ultimate power of Stop or Go, appears miserable, bored beyond belief. His brown shirt is soaked with sweat, his dark brown tie looks more like a noose. He sits alone in a little wooden box at the head of a long queue of semi-trailers, where a hundred stalled truckers smoke and sweat and curse their fate amid the stink of motor oil on asphalt. On this cloudless day, they expect to stew in the unnatural quiet of idle diesel engines for maybe eighteen hours before their turn at Czech customs. But we don't.
The guard's glistening face stares curiously at barely readable photocopies of memoranda bearing the seal of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees, as our piratical-looking trucker in a baggy tank top and striped satin running shorts explains, in pidgin German that we're carrying aid parcels for Red Barnet, the Danish arm of Save the Children Foundation, to desperate, starving people in former Yugoslavia. Danny, the trucker, as a rule would say anything if it might get us around the wretched line--though this time he thinks he is telling the truth.
Our cargo--thousands of boxes containing rations of canned meat, cooking oil, and soaps--is bound for war-ravaged Bosnia, where the population of entire regions has been reduced to eating pets, tree bark, and grass. Suffering itself doesn't discriminate between Serbs and Muslims; nor does the UN, which will distribute the "family parcels" without "prejudice."
Comprehending practically none of Danny's spiel, the bemused guard finally shrugs. Save the Children? It's a slow day: "Warum nicht?"
Pitiable youth
On the other side of the Czech frontier, our convoy crawls down a winding fifteen-degree incline like caterpillars down a tree branch. The Volvo's restrained diesel roars in low gear past the upturned, charred iron ribs of a lorry that overshot one hairpin turn, a gross warning. We're not in such a hurry. Ten miles per hour is just fine.
Up ahead, a crusty white Lada is parked in the first turnoff since customs. A family appears to have finished a roadside picnic: The swarthy, middle-aged father leans against the car, distractedly picking his teeth as his two pretty teenage daughters wave amiably at the passing trucks. Friendly country! As we approach, one girl smiles broadly and rubs her breasts. "Uh, Danny…"
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