| Rwanda/Zaire - August 1994 - Chapter 3 - Irelands GOAL |
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The roads in Zaire leave much to be desired. However the road we were now travelling was surprisingly good. The surface was tarred and there were few pot-holes. As we left the dirty and decaying town behind, I noticed the smell once again ... sweet and acrid all at the same time. Crinkling up my nose I looked to the sides of the road as we passed the airport. There were large areas of black volcanic earth cordoned off with red and white tape. Neatly wrapped parcels of grass mats and cloth dotted the roadside.  An expose body lying in a shallow volcanic ditch Instinctively I held my breath ... then exhaled almost as quickly when I realised what I was holding in my lungs. Visions of parasitic deadly airborne viruses, germs and diseases attaching themselves to the lining of my lungs, swimming into my bloodstream and invading every cell in my body almost made me vomit. But I had to breathe and so I steeled myself, taking tiny shallow breaths. I looked out over the volcanic wasteland. Not a tree in sight; all cut down by the foraging refugees in search of fire-wood. The road was busy with early morning traffic – rush hour in Africa. Aid vehicles carrying water, medicines, food, plastic sheeting and "Expat" personnel, slowly ground their way up the hill, heading for Kibumba. Everything had to be transported each day as nothing, absolutely nothing, was available in the camps. United States soldiers, driving water tankers and low-beds with their giant water bladders, covered their mouths and noses with surgical masks trying in vain to block out the smell and hopefully the germs. People, barefoot and weary, walked the road. Torn and dirty clothing hung from their slender frames; a few pathetic possessions clutched in their hands or balanced on their heads…walking, resting, tired, so tired. An old man sat by the roadside, tall and thin, his coat and pants too short and his feet bare. He sat alone his head resting in his hands. How much misery had this man endured? How much more lay ahead? I wept inside for him. As we neared Kibumba, the largest refugee camp of all, the mists and haze thickened with smoke. People overflowed onto the road, forcing the car to slow down to a snail's pace. A slight rise, a brief parting of the crowds and there it was. Thousands and thousands of makeshift grass and stick shelters packed densely together, stretching as far as I could see ... and beyond. A few were covered in green and blue plastic sheeting. And people. So many people. “We are going to drop off some supplies at K1 before we go on,” said Mick, jumping off the back of the pick-up as it came to a halt. K1 was a watering point for the refugees and the GOAL medical patient sorting camp. I followed Jane through an entrance in a makeshift wall of plastic surrounding a handful of green and white tents. The wall was in tatters with holes cut purposefully to allow breezes to blow through without blowing down the shaky barrier into the chaos outside. Everywhere people were lying in patches of mud, the only comfortable place in this land of hard volcanic lava flows. The misery was palpable. I felt a small hand on my arm and looked down into Jane's dark brown eyes, serious and searching. “Gaynor, have you ever seen a dead body … up close?” she asked quietly. “ “Not really,” I mumbled. “Well then it's time for your Baptism of Fire. Might as well get it over with,” she said and walked purposefully across the road to where the bodies of children lay neatly side by side, wrapped in gray blankets. Looking down at them I thought “strange, I feel no emotion ... almost detached.” A photographer hovered taking pictures of death. Apologetically he removed part of the blankets exposing the children's faces, taut in death masks. I turned away, hiding the sudden revulsion I felt at this intrusion. “They have their job to do,” I tried to reason with myself, “It was the pictures after all, that got me here.” “Mick. We have a problem.” I looked up to see Jane leading Mick into the medical tent. Curiously I followed. On the floor of the tent lay a man in a pool of blood. His emaciated brown body was hacked to pieces, white tissue and bone exposed in a crimson mess. And, he was still alive ... “What the fuck happened,” swore Mick. “Someone accused him of being RPF (Rwandan Patriotic Front). They said he was trying to poison one of the water tanks. His family fought the attackers off and brought him here.” “Better patch him up best you can. Will he live?” asked Mick. “Not if he stays here. The attackers have threatened to gather more people to come and finish him off. We can't let them take him, Mick,” insisted Jane urgently. “Of course not,” replied Mick rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “It is not only him we have to worry about, but the safety of our staff is at stake too. And then there is GOAL itself. We cannot be seen to be embroiled in a political dispute. Jane, you load him onto one of the pick-ups and take him to the Israeli Field Hospital - It's the safest place in this shiite hole, no-one's going to mess with the Israelis.” “We will also leave a couple of the boys here in case those goons pitch up and try to cause any trouble. Gaynor, you can come with me to the Orphanage.” As we drove deeper and deeper into Kibumba, so the press of the crowds increased. The driver honked his horn continuously. At an intersection we turned off onto a dirt road, the main road in Kibumba refugee camp. I stared at the people sitting by the roadside. Their eyes were vacant. I shuddered, it was like being in a world full of zombies. The odd piece of firewood, a handful of potatoes or beans were offered for sale ... food was so scarce. “Mazungu, mazungu,”(White man, white man) shouted a child. I stared back, not sure how to react. (Smiling didn't seem appropriate.) Ahead were a few eucalyptus trees, surprisingly still standing in this human wasteland. A little to the left was a small clearing. Bodies wrapped in blankets lay in rows, adults, children, babies. To the right stood a MSF (Medicines Sans Frontiers) camp. Tents once white were now gray with grime and filth. Alongside the medical tents was the communal latrine. I held my breath, the smell was overpowering. Refugees with hands clutching pieces of cloth to their mouths and noses hurried by. On the outskirts of the camp, the vehicles turned right again and the congestion thankfully lessened. Women and children were more predominant. Children ran alongside the vehicles shouting “Mazungu, mazungu -- biscuit.” (White man, white man -- biscuits). Some smiled. “Bonjour” they called out and waved. Mick and I waved back and the children giggled. This area still had grass and was more pleasant than the squalid overcrowded camp center. Huge white tents with enormous red crosses came into view on the left. To the right was the GOAL Unaccompanied Child Care Center or Orphanage. This was a new camp, the area marked out by the now familiar wall of green plastic. There was a store's tent, two medical tents and on the far side, sixteen smaller childrens’ tents. The nurses having arrived earlier were already hard at work. Orla Byrne, one of the Irish nurses walked towards the stores tent where Mick and I were offloading the supplies. She was carrying a small gray bundle in her arms. I looked up and smiled "hello". Our eyes met but Orla quickly averted her gaze. “Mick,” she said quietly, “seven babies died last night.” Mick's face became grim, tightlipped. Apologetically she continued, “I have to attend to the ‘sickies’. Would you collect the bodies?” “To be sure I will,” he said taking the small bundle in his arms. “But why so many?” “It might be the cold at night. The house mothers say the temperature drops below freezing. The babies are so weak ... “ Mick carefully put the baby down beside the tent, gently covering its face with the blanket. He was visibly upset. Mick Dolan was a Captain in the Irish Army, one of many aiding GOAL. These soldiers wore no insignia, no uniforms and referred to each other by their first names. They also carried no weapons. This was a humanitarian mission. Without another word, he put on a pair of heavy duty gloves. “Mick. Can I help?” I asked. He didn't answer. Without asking a second time, I pulled on my own thinner surgical gloves I had brought with me from South Africa and followed him to the tents. Seeing a dead body covered was one thing. Holding one in you arms is quite another. Teeth grit, I picked up a small bundle from the first baby tent, separating it from the living babies. The gray blanket fell away revealing a tiny brown face, white foam flecks around the mouth and nostrils, tiny hands clenched and raised above its head. Its face was screwed up and angry … even in death. What did this baby do to deserve such a short life full of pain, hunger and thirst? I sadly repositioned the bundle in my arms. Something wet touched my hand. Easing it out I found bloody diarrhea smeared over my wrist and palm. Although the surgical gloves protected me, I carefully wiped the mess off onto the blanket. This was shigella, the high mortality dysentery that was killing those already weakened by cholera. “Gaynor, I will take it from here“, Mick said, carrying the last of the bodies to the stores tent. “Orla could do with your help in ORS.'” I nodded and headed for the medical tents. I took one last look at the stores tent. The supplies unloaded, Mick and a Rwandan were loading the bodies onto the back of the pick-up. “For fucks sake!” Mick swore, “don't bloody well throw them. The least we can do is give them some dignity.” I pulled back the flap of the tent. Inside, Orla was inserting an IV into the arm of a small child. |
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| Last Updated ( Monday, 19 November 2007 ) |
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