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The Accidental Do-Gooder

January of 1988 found me in the deep bush along the Zambezi River in the southern part of central Africa. It was the third year of my journey toward self-destruction which stretched over half of the African continent. I and my disreputable associates camped in the bush fifty or sixty kilometers from anywhere. We were a mixed lot. A young blonde German engineer whose lover had flipped him over for a hawker of knockwursts on the streets of Hamburg; a red-haired Dutchman from ... (more)