“What can I do?” I asked.

Orla gave me a sad smile. “We are losing too many babies to dehydration. The house mothers have to be made to understand that the babies need a lot more fluid than normal. There should also be a bucket of ORS (Oral Rehydration Solution) in each tent. If you can take care of that, it would be a great help,” she said, returning her attention to the child lying in front of her.

Entering the first tent, I found twenty babies laying close together, wrapped in individual gray blankets. A house-mother was holding a baby in her arms, syringing liquid into its mouth. Remembering the diarrhea of the morning’s body removals, I wasn't too keen to pick up the babies. Instead, I got down on my knees and leant over them trying not to touch them. Once chubby and happy, these babies were now more like old, deflated dolls, dry skin hanging in folds. “How could a baby still live when it looked like this?” I thought syringing liquid into a tiny mouth.

The day was filled with endless rehydration, the cries of thirsty babies making it impossible to stop even for lunch. The second day was much the same. A worrying factor was the continuous stream of new arrivals – by the third day there were more children than the tents could accommodate. MSF brought them in by the truck loads, picked up from the roadside or handed in by neighbors unwilling or unable to care for them any longer. These children were alone, orphaned or separated from their parents in the horrifying stampede to get out of Rwanda. The Orphanage was being swamped.

“No, no, Francois. I told you. No more children! We do not have enough tents”, Orla was saying to the handsome MSF worker. I peered out of the babies tent where I was working. A large truck with low sides was parked near the medical tents. In the back, sitting subdued, were about fifty children. Their clothing was ragged, their bodies covered in dirt.

“But these children are healthy. It is not good for them to stay in the medical tents with the sick. They will become infected” said Francois earnestly.

“I am sorry Francois. If the children are left in the open they will die. You have to take them back.”

“Perhaps I can arrange a tent or two from our camps. Will you take the children then?” he appealed, his expression irresistible.

“We don't have enough staff and it is already late. Not today.”

“Please ma'dam. The other facilities are very poor ... Please take the children.”

Orla looked at the Frenchman's handsome face. His concern for the children's welfare was obvious. Throwing up her arms, she gave in. “Make sure we have those tents by four o'clock the latest”, she said. “Marie, tell your cooks we have another fifty mouths to feed tonight ... Gaynor, could you see that these children receive half a blanket each. We will wash them tomorrow. Heaven save us from handsome Frenchmen bearing children!”

The tents arrived at four thirty. Relieved, Mick and the Rwandan helpers quickly erected them. It was late by the time we climbed into the vehicles, far later than advisable to still be in the camps.

Driving in convoy towards the intersection, shots rang out. “Everybody down!” shouted Mick.

The convoy came to a standstill. Zairian soldiers chased a man through the crowds. As they disappeared into the chaos the front vehicle surged forward and the others in the convoy quickly followed. At the intersection a blue pick-up was standing without a driver, its sides raked with bullets.

“What happened?” asked the helpers in Swahili.

“The soldiers wanted the car. The driver would not give it to them. He took the keys and ran off.”

The helpers laughed. It was not often that the soldiers were foiled. They took by force what they wanted, when they wanted it. But this time a civilian had won!

Jane was back on body detail. I joined the GOAL'ies each morning for the journey out to the camps. On the third day I saw my first person actually die in front of me – the woman was younger than me.  Her small children were screaming and crying hysterically, pulling at her arms trying to tug life back into her body. People stared, expressionless. No-one was doing anything to help. I looked at the driver. “Don't we stop?”

The driver ignored me, staring resolutely ahead. Didn't the mazungu realize that it was just another death? The body collectors would come to take the dead woman to one of the big graves ... the mazungu will learn that it is futile to waste her time with those already dead.

But it was not the dead woman that concerned me. It was the children. They were so young, only four to six years old. I suppose someone will take care of them, but their faces, the anguish, the terror. Silent tears rolled down my face.

At the intersection of the tarred and dirt road, a traffic jam of people and aid vehicles brought the pick-up to a standstill.

“I think we need a traffic warden,' said Mick jumping off the back of the pick-up. I watched him stride confidently into the crowd, waving people out of the way. A water-tanker that was trying to make the turn, revved its engine. Children squealed in delight and jumped onto the back, holding precariously onto any protruding piece of metal. The water-tanker lumbered forward, its driver making a wide turn onto the tarred road. Waving his thanks he gunned the engine, heading back to Goma for yet another refill. Cars and people slowly started to move again.

Mick turned to wave the pick-up through. His mouth dropped and then he started to run. Astonished, I saw his expression change to one of anger. He was shouting at me … or ... at someone ... behind me! I swung my head around in time to see boxes of babies’ formulae, biscuits, bowls and blankets disappearing into the crowd.

“Stop ... You are stealing from babies!” Mick shouted, waving his arms. Grabbing my two short fighting sticks from my day pack, I jumped out of the pick-up and threw one to Mick.

The crowd drew back, some laughing. Half the supplies were gone. “Have you no honour?” shouted Mick, “you are stealing from the mouths of children, your own babies ... Manger por l'enfant” he said, struggling to find the words that would make them understand.

The crowd stirred. It was not they who had stolen the food, it was the others. A few of them thought that what the thieves had done was wrong, but most regretted that they themselves had not been quick enough to do the same. What did the mazungu know about honour anyway? He had an endless supply of food, whilst their children cried at night with hunger. What honour was there in watching your children die slowly and painfully of starvation? ... No, they had not been quick enough ... Next time.

Dejected and angry at our loss, Mick and I climbed onto the back of the pick-up. We made our way through the crowds once more, alert for pilfering hands that occasionally dipped into the sides of the bin. “I'm sorry, Mick”, I said, sitting amongst the boxes, “I should have been on the look-out. I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault, Gaynor. We will have to be more careful, that's all” he said patting me on the shoulder.

At the Orphanage I off-loaded the supplies while Mick advised Orla of our loss. The Rwandan stores manager took an inventory of what was saved and made a list of what was still needed.

“Gaynor, I've got to go back to Goma for another load. Can you take care of the tent pitching?”

“Sure. Thanks Mick.” I smiled, happy to do something to make amends for my carelessness. “Emmanuel.” I waved over one of the Rwandan helpers who could speak English. “I need three men with hoes, picks and shovels.”

The ground within the Orphanage wall of plastic was undulating. Although covered in grass, the soil beneath was only a few centimeters deep in places. Underneath that was almost impenetrable volcanic rock. I sweated alongside my team clearing stones, boulders and thorn bush. “Whew”, I breathed leaning on my hoe, “I'm supposed to be fit. Must be the altitude.”

I wiped the sweat from my brow. The Rwandans stopped too and leaned on their tools. Digging into my pockets, I pulled out a handful of barley sweets. Their eyes lit up. “Bon-bons!” they whispered.

I smiled and gave each man one. Delighted, they popped the sweets into their mouths and savoured the almost forgotten taste. “Come on Monsieurs”, I said swinging the pick over my shoulder, “Back to work.”

As with most evenings when the sun drops below the horizon and the heat of the day cools, I found myself sitting on the steps of GOAL House One sipping an ice cold coke, my payment for the day. As I savoured the sweet ice-cold liquid in my mouth, allowing it to flow slowly down my parched throat, I couldn't think of a better moment. How I look forward to this time of the day!

“Gaynor”, said Mick casually finishing a beer beside me, “In a week or so GOAL will be sending a team of three people into Rwanda to set up a base. Would you like to go with us?”

“Would I like to go?" I could hardly believe my ears! I almost burst with pride. Someone thinks I'm worthy of being a member of his team! Rwanda! Wow! ... The place where it all began. Still unstable, the ‘mission’ would be fraught with danger, but what an adventure!

As calmly as I could, I said, “Yes.”