The road to Goal Orphanage through Kibumba, was a quagmire.  Mud, two feet deep in places, made it impossible for the water tankers and large supply trucks to reach the Orphanage.  Even the 4 x 4's required pushing and inventive driving.

I spotted Orla at the medical tents briefing the staff about the days work.  She walked over.

'Hi Orla.'

'Good morning Gaynor.  Nice to have you back.  Goodness knows we missed you.'
I blushed.  Orla always made me feel so welcome.

'Thanks. Nice to be back.  Is there anything I can do for you?'

'There's plenty, but you had better check with Jerry O'Flaherty.  He has taken over from Mick.  That's him over there,' she said pointing to a tall slim man standing by the water tank.

'Great.  Thanks.'
Jerry was in deep conversation with a group of Irishmen, so I let him be and instead took a stroll around the camp.  At once I saw a major problem that needed immediate attention.  The Orphanage had been operating for over three weeks and the original latrines, hastily dug, now overflowed.  The children, not wanting to use the pits because of mess and because many were too weak to walk far, defecated right outside the tents creating a minefield of faeces and worms.  Even the designated play area was affected resulting in the children avoiding the only place they could run and play. I had found something I could do.

Jerry broke free from the other Irishman, making his way towards to nurses.  I hurried to intercept him.
'Hi Jerry.  My name is Gaynor.  I believe you have taken over from Mick.'

'Hello.  Yes, well I am doing my best,' he smiled, his Irish brogue soft and self-depreciating.
I shook his hand.

'I am a volunteer aid-worker.  If you could do with an extra pair of hands, I'd like to help.' 

'That is wonderful, but I think you had better wait a while.  I am still new here,' he smiled, 'I've still got to find my feet.  Give me a few days and then we can perhaps talk about you helping out with the camp.'

'She knows more than all of us about this camp,' snapped Orla walking by.
My cheeks burned for Jerry at the rebuke.  The nurses, having been here since the beginning with Mick, obviously had not gotten used to their new Logistition.  The rebuke was unfair.

'Oh, I'm sorry.  I did not know that you had worked here before,' Jerry said hurriedly, confused and anxious to appease the nurse.
Poor guy, I thought.  He wasn't getting a fair break.  The nurses were intimidating the hell out of him.  He seemed like such a nice person, too. 'Would you like to have a look around,' he asked, 'and let me know what you think should be done.'

'I've already had a look.  I thought I could help with sanitation.  New latrines need to be dug and the fouled area especially around the tents, needs to be cleared.'

'Yes that is a priority.  Let me know whatever you need and you will have it,' he said obligingly.
On my request, Jerry hired a team of Rwandans with their own picks, hoes and shovels to dig the new holes.  Each hole was the shape of a large coffin, six foot deep, three feet wide and approximately nine feet long.  Progress was slow as they kept hitting pockets of volcanic rock.  The Rwandans' tools are stronger than those supplied by the aid agencies, but the people are weak and moving the boulders took much of their strength.  It was going to be a few days before we completed our task of twelve new holes. Leaving the diggers to their task, I arranged for three men to clear the grounds of faeces.

'No, no,' refused the three men emphatically. They wanted nothing to do with the foulness all around us. I was frustrated, but I had an idea. Gloves and surgical masks are a status symbol in the camps and you could often see the tatty remains of a glove or two on a Rwandans hands.  They served no protection purpose as the were filthy, reused and torn in places, but you could not explain this to them and besides, it made them feel better about themselves and their sad situation and there was no harm in that. Using this psychology, I kitted them all up with new surgical gloves and got stuck in with them clearing the mine fields.  As they say, it's a shitty job, but someone has to do it.  Conditions like these are what started the cholera off in the first place.  At lunch time, I give my helpers my lunch and a few barley sweets I always carry around for the kids.  Their smiles at the unexpected treat make the day seem brighter.

Our water shortage in the Orphanages is solved with Irish ingenuity.  A kilometer of fire-engine hoses connected from the Orphanage to the OXFAM water tank near the tarred road where the tankers could still get to and drop off water for us .  A generator pumps the water through to us.  It is a temporary measure.  The refugees are sure to dismantle or puncture it to get to the water, but it relieves the hardship for the moment.

I miss home.  Once a week I give my Mom, Dad and sister Ange a call via SATCOM from the UNHCR where I stay, to let them know I am still alive.  I had left South Africa and my family under a cloud of anger and hurt emotion on all sides together with threats of reprisals for my actions, but even though our conversations were strained, it was good to hear their voices.  I had been in the camps for three weeks now.  Jane had gone back to Canada, Mick to Rwanda, Tom to the USA when the American Army pulled out and although there were still plenty of people I knew here, I was starting to reach my limit of what I could take.  I was missing home.

19 AUGUST 1994
Rain the last couple of days have soaked my clothes.  Both pairs of jeans and all my socks are wet. Have to wear shorts.  Not a good idea, but I have no choice.  My boots are not a pretty sight either what with all they've walked through.  Putting bare feet into them gives me the heaves.  It is like inserting my feet into a scraped out bog hole.

Today is Food Distribution Days and this always make me nervous.  Kibumba Camp is like a ghost town compared to its' normal congested self.  The main road is relatively free of people and there is space between the makeshift dwellings where there is normally people.  Many have gone to queue for the day.

Negotiating the last stretch of mud road is interesting as usual, but Max our champion driver, once again gets us through.
Complete the digging of the latrine holes.  Twelve coffin size trenches about five foot deep, depending on whether we hit lava or not.  We have now started nailing down wooden planks over the holes with plastic sheeting on top, with three or four holes cut out per trench.  The children continue to defecate around the tents and on the area designated for a playground.  Each day we clean the mess, cover the spot with lime or HTH and stop the children in the act, walking them immediately to the latrines.  It is taking awhile to train them, but progress is being made.

The murmuring of thousands of voices, not unlike the sound of waves crashing on a distant shore, makes us pause.  The noise grows louder and soon a wall of humanity engulfs us.  Although nerve wracking for the Aid Workers, the refugees ignore us. Returning from Food Distribution, their hands are full of food, the anticipation of a good nights meal hurrying them home.

 Dinner at UNHCR House One, is served at 9:30 p.m. when all the Field Officers and Group Leaders have finished their interminable meetings.  Santino, the housekeeper, has now insisted that I eat with the UN personnel.  I pay $10 a day for my board, happily.  Army /hiking rations are pretty bland after a few weeks and I have had my fill.  Shared luxury items such as savory biscuits and smoked mussels, (emptied from my kitchen cupboard) usually keep our hunger pangs in check until then.  But tonight I am too tired to eat.  I wash away the days dirt and crawl into my sleeping bag.  My thoughts drift.  Now that some of the children are walking, they need to be kept occupied. A playground with a jungle gym would be nice. I decide that this is my next project.

Over the next few days I put the word out that I am looking for old tyres.  Surprisingly, this is not an easy task.  The Zairians use the tyres for making shoes and for cooking fires.  I pay $1 per tyre which is a lot for here .  Well at least Jim Hayles, the UNHCR official in charge at the airport managed to "arrange" two cargo nets for a climbing gym.  Jim is a cynical, outspoken man with a hidden heart of gold.