25 AUGUST 1994

There is not much for me to do at the airport.  Where there were fifty flights a day, there are now only fifteen.  The Dutch and Irish have everything running smoothly.  I help the Irish unload cargo, but they are only humouring me.  I don't know why Jim asked me to help.  Maybe he thought I needed a break from the camps.  I then come to realise that Jim is just looking out for me.

Being so close to aeroplanes and the gateway home, makes me homesick like never before.  I carry my passport on me at all times.  It would be so easy just to climb in the Illusion and go home.  Peter has offered enough times and this flight is running two to three times a week.  I can almost smell the clean sea air of Durban.  Got to do something soon or I will break and run.

The Irish Army at the airport have offered me a trip into Kigali, Rwanda, delivering new water tankers.  The situation is still tense there, but this is my chance to see the country where it all started- and I have the Irish Army as my escourts.  This seems a safe bet and I am keen.

Diesel shortage. A normal occurance.  Goma is not equipped to deal with the influx of Relief traffic.  Petrol is often bought on the road side in two litre cans and aviation fuel shortages sometimes grounds the aircraft.  Most flights are routed to Entebi or Nairobi for refueling. This diesel shortage has delayed the scheduled trip to Kigali.  That and the high price of return visas into Zaire.  $150! Incensed, the Irish refuse to pay.  This is a Relief mission ordered by the UNHCR.  And we were being extorted!

With the departure date uncertain, I make other plans.  There is a flight leaving for Mombassa with Peter - and I am on it. The flight on the Russian Illussion 76 is exciting.  Sitting once again in the glass navigators' dome, Kilamanjaro rises majestically before us.  Clouds spiral round in perfect ribbons.  Our altitude is only four hundred meters above the peak.  An incredible sight in such a flat land.

We arrive at the hotel at 8:00 p.m.  Peter offers to share his room which is paid for and has two single beds.  A little hesitant, I agree.  I needed to save money and Peter had been such a gentleman.  It should be ok, but I am uncomfortable.  My experiences with men offering to share accommodation, no-strings-attached, has not been good before. The hotel is filled with muscle building characters - the US Army.  Dinner with Peter is good, the service better and the hotel was modern and clean.  Such a difference from the UNHCR tent compound and rations.  As I get ready for bed, Peter make a pass at me.  I was lying in bed, reading letters from home that he had brought for me.  Peter came out of the shower - naked, and asked what I was reading.  Turning my back on him, I showed him a front page article in a local South African newspaper about my exploits and that I was a South African Kickboxing champion, hoping he would cool off.  He smiles and climbs into his bed.

'Goodnight', I said, relieved.

'How about a goodnight kiss, then.' His voice is low and friendly.

I closed my eyes.  'No I don't think so Peter.  Goodnight'

'Well then what about a cuddle?  Come on, come over here,' he ordered firmly, 'just for a minute.'
Silence.  How am I going to handle this?  He has done so much for me.  I don't want to lose a friend and besides, he is in charge of the flight that takes me home.
'Come on.  Fair's fair.' he insisted.

Dammit, Peter.  Why must you spoil things. Taking a deep breath, I said quietly but firmly, 'No!'
An uncomfortable silence enveloped the room.  My muscles tense, my mind is clear.  I waited.

'There.  I told you I was harmless.  Goodnight.'

Sleep never came.  Our wake-up call was for two a.m. for the flight back to Goma.  The minutes dragged by.  I regulated my breathing to sound as if I was in a deep sleep, but all the time - waiting. A couple enter the room next door. The walls are very thin.  Sounds of springs creaking, headboard banging and intense moaning, fill my ears.  I can't take it and climbed out of bed, pulling on my jeans and boots. Peter switches on the light and lights up a cigarette.
'Now what are you doing?' he asks, the smoke lazily floating in the air, a smile on his face.

Can't sleep.  Going downstairs.' I said brusquely, doing up my boots.  'Got some catching up to do in my journal.  Bye.'  And I fled.

Peter invited me to stay another night as they still had another run to do and I could go back to Goma on the next flight.
'The room is paid for.  Might as well use it and see Mombassa in daylight,' he reasoned.

'No.  I want to go home, now.  Thank you anyway.'

The atmosphere on the flight back, was different.  The comfortable comradary with the Russian crew and Peter and me was gone.  
'Nothing happened.  You have got it all wrong,' I heard him laughingly deny.  But they did not believe him.  He was obviously being a "gentleman", saying the honourable thing.

I should never have agreed to share a room.  The cost was too much.

Everything was different now.