24 AUGUST 

Peter Baker, the British element of the predominantly Russian Illusion crew, flew in today. He was the man who allowed me to board the aircraft out of South Africa and dropped me off in Uganda three weeks ago.

Jim, who pretty much ran the airport from the UNHCR side of things,  had noticed I was taking strain and invited me to spend a day there.  I agreed.  Considering the escalation of tension in the camps as the people became stronger and the added concern of the volcano blowing and my growing thoughts of home, I felt it was a good call anyway to establish my presence there so if push came to shove, I had a better chance of getting out.

As I helped offload the cargo, Peter invited me to go with them to Mombasa the next day.  He said I looked in need of MARS (Mandatory Absence for Relief of Stress) Three old water tankers are to be returned using the Illusion.  These were flown in at the beginning of the crisis, but are no longer needed.  They would be returning to Goma after that.  Peter is sweet.  He brings me mail from home via Swift Handling Services in Johannesburg.  I  felt guilty about taking time off, but he said if I changed my mind, to pitch up the next day.  I said I would think about it.

MOVCON is the Dutch Army contingent who handle the movement of all personnel on relief flights and it was with them that I was now work with mostly.  Aid workers come in every day wanting to fly to Rwanda, Nairobi, Entebi etc.  This is all done free of charge - like hitching. It is often joked that out-ward-bound journalists are given special preference :-)  Not because they are VIP's, but because there is a distinct lack of fondness for journalists and their tendency to sensationalise news, often criticizing the agencies and soldiers for not doing enough, better or faster.

MOVCON also deals with "idiot" questions.
'Are there any tours of the camps?' a young voice asked innocently.
Jim and I looked up in astonishment.  A young man in his early twenties, bushy haired and wearing a T-shirt and knee length plaid short, stood in front of us.
Jim looked at me, his mouth open in amazement.

'Tours?' he repeated, raising his eyebrows. 'Tours of the refugee camps?'

'Yes.  My name is Jack Scanlyn.  I flew in from Nairobi today and have four hours before I fly back.  I'm writing an paper on genocide in Africa.  I thought this would be a good place to research information first hand.  So.....  Where can I get on a tour?'

Incredulous Jim asks, 'How did you get here?'

'My dad supplies one one of the agencies. He has contacts.'
Now Jim is not known for his diplomacy.  I felt very sorry for the boy and waited for him to unleash a scorcher of  a tongue lashing, loaded with his customary sarcasm.

'Why not!' he said, as if the idea was pure brilliance.  'I've been here for over a month and I haven't even seen a refugee camp.  Let's go.  Gaynor, you know your way around, give us a "tour".'
Speechless, I followed them out.
During the "tour" of Kibumba, Jim remarked, 'I don't know what I expected.  I guess I thought it would be worse than this.'

"Worse than this?" I surveyed the scene, trying to see it through his eyes.  Small mounds of potatoes, spring onions, yams and bananas lay on the earth, together with packets of flour and dirty trays of protein biscuits.  Fried food bubbled away in blackened, hand beaten pots.  "Bars" or rather shanty shacks we would call 'shibeens' back in South Africa were selling Primus beer and homemade brews.  They were doing a roaring trade as were the brothels.  The eyes of the people were the biggest indicators of change - nolonger dull and vacant, instead alive and responsive to the goings on in the "shopping" street.
Children ran alongside and behind the vehicle, jumping onto the back in glee, enjoying a few seconds ride.  Young bucks, the ones to watch out for, stood in groups, drinking and smoking.  Many people were still ill and cowed by life, but there was change.

'Three weeks ago, it wasn't like this,' I said, trying to justify the horror stories he had heard so much about.  But how could I explain the misery and death that stalked this road so long ago.  Long ago...?  It had only been three weeks. It seemed like forever.

'This is Goal Orphanage or Unaccompanied Child Care center as the Irish prefer to call it now.  It is the one ray of sunshine in all this darkness,' I announced proudly, carefully negotiating the last of the mud road.  This was the first time I had been allowed behind a wheel.  The guard lowered the tattered string barracade and I drove in.  Women and children stood quietly outside, either side of the entrance hoping to be chosen for a task within the camp.  Two dollars a day was the going rate.  Sad eyes followed the cars progress into the 'Eden' of Kibumba - Goal Orphanage.

Jerry walked over to greet us, his usual long khaki shorts exposing white knobbly knees.
'Hi Jerry,' I greeted him warmly, shaking his hand.  ' This is Jim Hayles from UNHCR.  He controls the airport.   And this is Jack.'  I decided to leave out the bit about Jack being a tourist.  'Would you mind if they had a look around?'

'Gaynor has said so many good things about the orphanage, I decided I had to come and see for myself,' interjected Jim.

'Not at all,' said Jerry.  'Gaynor knows the camp better than anyone.  She practically built it.' I blushed at the compliment.  It wasn't true by any stretch of the imagination, but the Irish were always lavish with their praise.

Leading the way to the medical tents, I was suddenly swamped by children.  Excited faces looked up into the mazungu's face.  'Bon-bon,' the voices squealed, gleefully.
'No bon-bon,' I said, spreading my empty hands for them to see.
But the children were not easily dissuaded.  'Bon-bon,' they repeated, small hands feeling my pockets and my day pack. More children run up excited and cling to my hands and legs.  They know I usually carry a few sweets hidden on my person or in my day-pack and they want to be close just in case.

The babies' and medical tents make an impression.
'We have to get the children off the floor,' says Jerry, 'or we will be fighting pneumonia soon.  The rain is seeping in through the ground.'

'What about wooden pallets?' Jim asks.

'Sure, that would work, but they are hard to come by.  Two hundred thousand refugees and other Aid-workers also want them.'

'Hmm.'  Jim looks thoughtful, but says nothing.

Half an hour after our return, a French soldier comes into the MOVCON offices and asks, 'Please could you remove the one-a-half tonnes of babies milk that has been sitting in the parking lot.  We cannot be responsible for it any longer.  It has been sitting there for days and no-one has claimed it.  There is no cover and the rain is beginning to damage it.'

Jim looks at me and smiles, 'Well, what are you waiting for?'

Borrowing Jim's radio I call, 'Golf Oscar Base, this Golf Hotel Gaynor, come in please , over.'

'Golf Hotel Gaynor, this is Golf Oscar Four, how  are you doing, Gaynor?' came the Irish reply.

'Great.  Could you please send your biggest truck up to the airport.  We have something for you, but you need to be quick.' 

They were.

Night time. All hell's broken loose.  There is  heavy gunfire in the streets.  We are  sitting in the house with our backs to the wall.  The UNHCR staff appear calm, but I can't help being afraid.  I try to hide it by writing in my journal.  If I am killed at least my family will know what happened. (If that is any concilliation.)

The radios are alive with questions.
'What is going on?'
'What is happening?'
The shooting stops, replaced with the sound of people shouting and banging metal.  It is growing louder.  The voice of Felippo Grandi, the UNHCR Head for Goma, crackles over the airwaves.
'Remain where you are, I repeat, remain where you are!  Town is not calm, I repeat, town is NOT calm!'
Felippo is a master of the understatemant.

Suddenly, a burst of gunfire rips the air - inside our compound! The men investigate.  It is only our Zairian guard, firing in commisseration.  Idiot.  Nervous laughter breaks the tension - sort of. Later I go to my tent in the garden right next the street . Although I chose to sleep fully dressed inside the tent, I felt so naked.  Only the thin canvas and a hedge separating me from a stray bullet.