27 AUGUST 1994

At last we are on the road to Kigali.  A UNHCR Toyota Landcruiser vehicle rides point, five tankers and two long trucks with trailers follow.  Refusing to pay the Zairian extortionate visa fees, we have no return visas for Zaire.  The Irish are sure they can talk their way back in.  They all hold UN identity cards which normally does the trick, but nothing is certain.  As the Irish are so fond of saying,  "T.I.A."(This is Africa)  after all. 

As we cross the Rwandan border, I take a good look at my driving companion, Joseph Patrick Flannigan.  His ID states that he is thirty four years old.  He has brown hair, but the gray on his temples makes him look older.  His six foot physique under the loose gym vest shows none of the muscles from hard training I had expected of a soldier.  His eyes, though, are what  captivate me.  Hazel brown, they are soft and kind and when he laughs they dance, the corners crinkling.  When I look at Joe, I know the truth of the phrase "Those Irish eyes are smiling".

Four hours fly by.  We laugh and talk about everything.  I haven't relaxed like this in weeks.  I feel safe.....and human again.  Joe proudly shows me pictures of his two teenage children and wife.  He misses them very much. The Rwandan countryside is beautiful.  We pass fields of potatoes and bananas, waterfalls and mountains.  But something is conspicuous in its absence.  People.  Rwanda is a ghost country.
 
Kigali, the capital of Rwanda, is built on a hill situated in a valley.  As we drive through the valley towards the city, we see a Guinness sign board with the words, 'The power of love,'  -- It is riddled with bullets.  The city itself is like most other African cities -- sprawling, decaying and dirty.  The schools are empty, as are the shops.  Many of these buildings are riddled with bullet and mortar holes.  There are a few modern buildings surrounded by glass windows.  In all this destruction it seems unreal that these windows are untouched.  Not a window broken.

We pass a lamp post so riddled with bullet holes it resembles a sieve.  The Irish are careful not to drive on any dirt roads.  Some have been mined.  In fact, mine detectors are part of the equipment we are transporting for UNIMIR -- the United Nations Peace Corp based in Kigali. We arrive at the UNHCR headquarters in Kigali by midday.  The staff are unfriendly and cold, which surprises us.  Not at all like the UN iin Goma.  The Irish, having just driven four hours to bring them much needed water tankers, are taken aback further when it as all the UN staff can do to grudgingly  point out where the toilets are.  What really cheeses the boys off is that they even resented giving us hot water for the coffee we had brought with us.  The UNHCR staff sit down to a seven course meal  whilst we eat from army rat-packs on the steps outside their offices.  Not that we mind.  We have come prepared.  It is just the feeling of being treated like "the unclean" that wis unpleasant.   We can hardly wait to get back on the road.
 
We leave the water tankers with UNHCR and deliver the two trucks to the airport.  On our way out, we drop off the mine-sweeping equipment at the UNIMIR base.  Sounds of appreciation,eminate from the Irish as they survey all the weaponary there.
'Now this is more like it,' they positively cooed.
The Irish, seconded to UNHCR for this mission and are not allowed to carry weapons because of the missions humanitarian nature.  This is new to them and most feel a little vulnerable without their usual hardware. The drive back to Goma is uncomfortable with all nine people in the Toyota Landcruiser!  As usual, the Irish make the best of it.  There is much singing and telling of jokes, although I think these are censored to a degree for my feminine ears. On one stretch of road we pass a UNIMIR personnel truck.  No flies on the Irish and still a little cheeses off by the UN reception, they lean out of the windows and shout out all sorts of friendly abuse at the bemused driver.

There are many Rwandan checkpoint stops along the road.  These consist of a few well disciplined Rwandan Tutsi soldiers who let our UN marked vehicle through without incident.  At one point our local driver stops to buy a tightly wrapped brown banana leaf parcel.  Turns out it contains a headless chicken.  Dried blood stains the leaves brown.  The Irish are a little dubious about bringing it into the car and when the driver tries to buy a live squalking hen to go with it, that is the last straw!  The whole lot goes out the window.  We make the border half an hour too late. It is dark and the border is closed.  Our driver, bless his heart, manages to talk us through and are pasports are not checked.

28 AUGUST 1994

 It is Sunday today.  A group of refugees, dressed in their Sunday best  gather round in a circle holding hands and singing songs, worshipping together.  Although I believe in a "higher entity" and the collective energy of our Universe, I am not a religeous person.  Seeing the refugees drawing strength from this meeting makes me feel good somehow.  It is a positive sign. The people are indeed on the mend.  Even the orphanage now has a service.

The Irish engineers at a new GOAL childrens camp are a little territorial when I arrive to help.  This camp is situated next to the tarred road for easy access with the vehicles.  The staff are also new and very protective over their turf.  Every time I see where I can be useful and try and get stuck in, they say it is their job and they are going to bloody well do it themselves.  The situation in the camps is now different to when I first arrived. Being an outsider, I am stepping on toes more and more with regard to other peoples 'patches'.

Eventually I take a step back in exasperation, 'Look, I know this is your camp, but really there is so much work to be done and all I want to do is help.  But everytime I try to help, I step on toes.  Tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it.'
 
After a brief consultation, they find a way to get rid of me and yet still be of use to them.  I get the job of retrieving tents abandoned by departing relief agencies.  With a truck and driver I set off to Goma to visiting various NGO's and stores depots where I set about dismantling and loading up tents of various sizes.  We also pick up rolls of plastic for the fencing.  On the way back, I see a GOAL vehicle broken down by the wayside.  It is surrounded by Zairian soldiers.  Aden, one of the Irish EXPAT's is standing alone, a little away from the soldiers.  Quickly we stop to let him in.  Before the soldiers wake up, the driver puts his foot down and we speed away.

'Thanks mate' says the Irishman, wiping his brow.  'The Zairians stood in the road and aimed their guns right at us.  There was nothing else we could do.  We had to stop and let them in.  Then the vehicle broke down.'

This is a normal occurance in Zaire.  The army has few vehicles of its own so it commandeers what it wants, when it wants it.

Back at the second GOAL camp.
 
'O.K. What next I?,' I smile at the Irishmen in charge back at the camp.  They point to a recently erected tent and an area designated for further tent erection. 'What are you waiting for?' they say gruffly.

I don't.  I was really happy to be of asisstance and had a fantastically busy day levelling an aweful site with volcanic gravel and boulders from a nearby quarry and tent erecting.  Two of the backpackers, Louis an Englishman and Greg the New Zealander, bring in the gravel and rocks by the truck load.  The new camp is taking shape fast with everyone's combined efforts.