The rainy season is well and truly upon us. On the way back to Kibumba after looking for materials for the playground, we drove into a black storm of hail and rain.  My heart went out to the refugees, cold, wet and shivering beside the road.  Their homes cannot withstand these torrential down pours and they have no way getting dry.  The night ahead is going to be terribly miserable.

For myself, I attended a volcanologist meeting at the UNHCR office. Nyirangongo is set to blow, probably between now and three years. 1977 was the last eruption, with lava flowing to within 3 km of Goma airport.  This lava has an unusual quality. Something about it's silicon content making is very thin and VERY fast flowing.  The lava flows have apparently been clocked at 100 km/h down steep slopes and 40-60 km/h on more gradual ones.  Warnings of  poisonous gasses called "Mazukes" or "death clouds" round the briefing off nicely.  The gist of it is, if the cone begins to crack and lava flows out, head for the high ground.

22AUGUST 1994
A South African backpacker walked into Goma today.  His name is Sean Wilson.  He and three others, a New Zealander and two "Poms"  hitched from Spain through Africa these past seven months.  Sean is tall, blond, strong looking and has an easy going friendly way. He tells stories of corrupt border officials trying to extort money from them, of waiting at borders for days and days before being allowed to cross over, refusing to pay the bribes, of traveling on frighteningly overloaded African "taxis", sometimes hanging onto the outside of a bus with one arm, for the whole night!

They arrived from Burundi yesterday and say the situation is very tense there.  Sean  is keen to stick around for awhile and help out.  A backpacking holiday with a difference.  The four of them are staying in a brothel for now, but need to find somewhere safer.  The Zairian soldiers who patronise the place are a dangerous lot.  I arranged cash US dollars for him, as he was running low.  There are no banks in Goma to exchange travelers cheques.  All the banks were forced out of business by a mismanaged economy with runaway inflation.  UNHCR headquarters occupies what used to be the main bank in town.

The French troops are on the move.  Convoys of trucks and troops travel the road from Rwanda into Goma, Zaire on their way to the airport.  They are being airlifted out.  A small contingent will be left behind to keep the airport secure, a job shared with the US Army.  Can't help feeling deserted.  The Rwandans and Zairians have a lot of respect for the French Army and their willingness to take strong action when necessary.  Will the Tutsi and Hutu tribes start killing each other again?  Will we get caught up in it and be victims like the missionaries of Rwanda before?

An Irishman from the Irish Rwanda Support Group (IRSG) of the Irish Army by the name of Shamus, came to the Orphanage today looking for a project.  He and the army boys have collected about $2000 amongst themselves and are interested in taking over 'my' playground.  Well that will get me off the hook, I try to console myself.  They've got the tools, the money and the manpower.
 
The latrines are as yet unfinished due a delay in finding materials.  GOAL is chasing the other NGO's and UNHCR for help in this
.
Night time.  The locals are restless.  Metal clanging, shots fired, whistles shrilling and the shouting.  Back home the "toyi-toyi-ing" would be concidered dangerous.  Here, it happens almost every night.  Can't stop myself from tensing. Need to sleep.

23 AUGUST 1994
Survived another night.  The road from Goma  to Kibumba is congested as usual with Aid vehicles and refugees.  Slowly we make our way through the crowds, the driver honking the horn.  The press of people is stifling.  A young boy bumps against the car, spins half around and falls to the ground.  This has happened before and instictivily, I jump out to pick him up and see if he is injured.  Jerry follows.  The crowds are shouting.  Angry words are spat in our direction.  One man in particular is trying to work the crowd up into a frenzy.  I try to close my ears to the angry voices, but my eyes scan the crowds and my back is to the car.  The crowd is frighteningly hostile..  The child is shaken and sniffling, but bravely holding back the tears.  A few grazes and a bad fright seem to be the only damage done.  Suddenly, the evil looking character who is inciting the crowd, pulls out a home made knife.  He demands money on behalf of the child.  Strangely calm, but with a deep sadness, I put my hand on his and turn the knife away.  Volatile he may be, but he won't be the first to strike, not whilst I am facing him anyway.  Richard, one of the "Pom" backpackers, speaks French and tries to calm them down.  Jerry picks up the child and his water can and loads them into the back of the truck.  Have to get out of here fast.  We back away.  Another young man in the crowd pulls a knife and makes hacking motions as we retreat. My heart is breaking. This is Africa, my people. When will they learn to accept kindness and humanity for what it is and not a weakness to be despised and taken advantage of.

A medical check at GOAL shows the child has TB, but otherwise well.  He is an orphan, living with friends.  The Rwandan Assistants feed and clothe him and give instructions for him to return each day for medicine and food.
'Are you all right, Gaynor?' Jerry enquires, his soft Irish voice full of concern.

'Yeah, I'm fine,' I replied watching the child being made a fuss of.

'Next time we don't stop.  It's too dangerous,' he said.

'I agree.' We both knew how hard a decision that would be and hoped we could make it when the occasion arose again.

Today I am feeling really depressed.  Shamus, the IRSG man, is taking over the playground.  Hard for me to let go, but I must.  All the scrounging of nets, timber and tyres, the clearing of thorn bushes and faeces from the area, culminating in the image of children’s faces squealing in delight - these are no longer my gifts alone to give. Shamus talks of  a "merry-go-round" made from a car axel.  I can't give the children that.  Better to let go and let him get on with the job.

Sean, Richard and Gerry join my team of Rwandans and help dig more latrines.  Another Irishman, a new arrival, also gets involved.  It is unnecessary.  This is my project!  Why can't he find his own.  Too many "Mazungas" working on one project doesn't make sense.  Testily, I put down my tools and storm off.

Come four o'clock, we find ourselves in a traffic jam, opposite the airport.  The pick-up in front is overloaded as usual with twenty to thirty people.  The tailgate is almost touching the tarmac.  Without warning, it starts backing up.  Our driver blows his horn and people are shouting, hands waving.  From behind a bus, an enormous sand truck squeezes it's way through.  Zairian soldiers, perched on top of the cab, lash out at people on both sides, those ugly rope belts flaying into the cowering people.  A soldier lifts a white cross and hits a man in front of us with it.  Dumbfounded, we watch as they pass by.  In the back is a coffin.  So the stories are true.  Last night, a soldier was accidently shot by one of his own men  Not known for their reasonable natures,  the soldiers are sure to take it out on the locals or the refugees.  We haven't heard the last of  this.