You must have seen them. Groups of them waiting for their heavy silver metal boxes to come off the luggage carousel at Heathrow, Rome, Paris, Tel Aviv, Johannesburg. They carry huge amounts of equipment into the world's worst hellholes. They are always trying to get into a place when everyone else is trying to get out. They sit, red-eyed and exhausted, staring out of the windows of a plane as it circles over yet another burning African capital, wondering what will greet them when they arrive at an airport filled with soldiers in camouflage uniform. They are journalists - the fragile uncertain antennae of our electronic civilisation.

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Hamilton Wende

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