by Mike Farrell

Ntarma

introduction

1/21

1/22

1/23

1/24

1/25

1/26

1/27

1/28

1/29

1/30

1/31

2/1

coda

what now?

human rights

A surprisingly good night's sleep ends with the early morning light coming through the mesh windows. There is something magical about the African morning. Outside, a vast panorama of undulating hills and valleys stretches out before us: a sleeping woman, her contours defined by banks of gray mist as the sun peeks through broken clouds above. Burgeoning. Life inspiring. Africa.

David has found a shower tent just above us on the hill, so I wander up there to discover men heating water in large barrels. At request, they fill a rubber reservoir with the heated water and presto!, a hot shower is available. It's a great and unexpected luxury and in spite of having to do an interesting two-step to get out of one's clothes and into the shower tent without dragging everything in the mud, a wonderful treat. It's much like being back in the service, or the Scouts, or being a kid at camp - whatever your experience. There's a great sense of accomplishment associated with scrubbing off the dust with hot water in the fresh air and then scraping off whiskers before a scrap of mirror over a collapsible rubber basin. You seem to appreciate everything so much more.

We grab some breakfast with the staff and hear a security announcement over the two-way: "There was a shooting in the village next to Benaco Camp last night. Upon investigation it appears to have been an incident between individuals. Nevertheless, the situation remains Amber. Anyone going into the camps today should be sure to stay near a radio."

Discussion ranges at breakfast - they're trying to figure out how to deal with the phenomenon of forged ration cards, latest in the "nightmare" of scams they've had to face regarding equitable distribution of supplies, food, etc. Those who control large amounts of food and supplies, of course, have an additional hold over the population in the camps.

One person recounts a story told about a development presaging the outbreak of the violence in Rwanda - a week before the plane crash in which the president was killed a number of trucks full of women were spotted heading toward Kigali from the south (where Interahamwe camps were rumored to be providing training). The trucks were stopped and searched by UNAMIR forces, who discovered that the "women" were actually young men in drag, carrying machine guns.

Rita, a German nurse, has offered to give up her Sunday morning to drive us down to the camps. Bouncing down the red dirt road again we pass a few small groups of new refugees making their way to the camps.

Inside Lomasi Camp we find the same classic refugee camp configuration, with wide roads around blocks of carefully laid out structures. There has been some concern expressed about "permanence" in the camps, suggesting that there is an intention either on the parts of the UNHCR or the refugees themselves to stay here and never return to Rwanda. One of the reports I heard suggested that structures in these camps were being made of concrete, or laid on concrete, which is taken as evidence of such a plan. Asked about that, Rita points out that the only concrete anywhere around is used for official structures where food and supplies are to be stored. They've tried plastic, wood, bricks and mud, she says, but concrete is best because it's easiest and fastest to put in, simplest to maintain and keep clean. Other than those structures, the only concrete we see is used for the base of the water tank (for the same reasons) and in constructing latrines (for purposes of sanitation).

We meet a Tanzanian man who works for UNHCR in the camps. He gets out a small motorcycle and leads our jeep around to various sites.

Rita points out a number of meetings being held in the open, from which our vehicle is regarded with some suspicion. These gatherings are described as "church" and "educational" groups, but in fact, she says, are used for political strategizing. As we pass one, the man leading the session waves in a friendly way and Rita grimaces, identifying him as a "conniving guy," known to be a hustler and a liar.

We stop at a water tank set up by Oxfam, where people are lining up to load buckets, jugs and jerry cans with their family's water supply. Many kids are here and it's soon a replay of the scene at Kitale Camp north of Goma, with kids hanging all over us and Daryl, Caroline, David and Bobby shooting pictures of them, to their delight.

Back in the wagon Rita says she feels OK when among the people here because she makes it a practice to walk around a lot and they're used to her. Barbara asks her if it's the same in Benaco Camp - she says, "No."

We stop for a minute to look at a CONCERN distribution site. Rita refers to it as "Fort Laramie" and says she's talking to them about trying to dress it down a bit. Fenced to protect the supplies inside from being raided by needy refugees, they've gone overboard, in her view, by lining the fence with canvas or plastic sheeting, thereby making it hard to see into and know what's going on in there. This causes worry on the parts of the people, who are suspicious anyway, and provides grist for the mill of the troublemakers who want to foment distrust. She's urging them to take down the sheeting and bring kids inside to look around, so that they'll tell others what's going on and thereby discourage rumors.

As an example of the kinds of rumors that get started and can cause trouble, she tells of people getting some of the ration cards, which are numbered, and adding up the numbers. When a card adds up to 666, the refugees won't take them because they're fearful it's connected with the Devil.

Traditional folk medicine practices are continuing with some of the people, which can cause problems. There has been a recent flurry of still-births due to the ingestion of a certain herb which is given to ease labor. What it does, she says, is to prolong the labor and has thereby caused the death of many newborns by suffocation.

These are some of the problems she's trying to figure out ways to deal with.

We visit a clinic and are approached and escorted through by a good looking young man who acts as our guide. The fact that he's wearing army boots suggests that his interest in what we see and who we talk to is not casual.

An interesting custom: Rwandese hospitals don't provide food for patients, so a friend or family member stays with each patient to help, feed and provide attention. They're called "Guardians du Malade."

Rita takes us through a child health clinic, a pediatric clinic and a maternity ward. All are fairly rudimentary, but clean. Concrete floors are swept regularly. Flies are everywhere, of course.

They've had a problem here with a discrepancy between the numbers of deaths reported and the number of corpses buried. It's another way to jigger the numbers, as I get it, but I can't figure out how that works to their benefit. In any case, she tells us they have designated "grave watchers" to help deal with the problem.

Many of the nurse-midwives and assistants at this clinic are Kenyan and Tanzanian women. A measure of the paranoia and distrust is that a big security problem developed earlier when some spread it around that these women were part of a conspiracy to kill the children and wipe out the Hutu.

Finally, when we're about the head out of this camp, I get the opening I've been waiting for when our guide on the motorcycle asks if anyone wants to ride with him. I'm on the back before he has time to reconsider his offer. It's great!! We race over the dirt roads ahead of the jeep, stop to talk to a couple of his friends, and are on our way back to the marketplace when we sputter to a stop, out of gas. Oh, well, it was fun.

We flag down the jeep and leave the bike by the side of the road. Rita takes us into the center of Lomasi Camp and we stop to look into the marketplace. It's a bit like being back at Mugunga Camp, but not quite as openly hostile. We walk and look, hear some mutterings about "Muzungu," and shop at the wooden stalls arranged in line at the open air market. Caroline and Barbara end up buying some colorful cloth, and I wonder aloud (though not overly so) about the possibility of buying an automatic weapon, then we head back to the wagon.

It's not a particularly comfortable place, I must say, but Rita seems fearless.

Finally, Rita has arranged a meeting with a young man who, she says, is one of the leaders here. What he'll say she isn't sure, but the chance to talk to him is ours.

We drive to one of the camp meeting houses just as a light rain is beginning to fall, climb out and file in. Soon he comes. John Paul is, I would guess, in his early to mid-thirties and is introduced as the leader of the Ngarama Commune.

I dislike him immediately, I will admit. He has an arrogant attitude, an insolent grin and a manner that says he's going to toy with us. Rita begins by asking him:

Q. - What are the main problems here, from your perspective? In the camps and with the refugees in general.

A. - Water.

Q. - What do you think is the biggest problem?

A. - The UNHCR knows them.

Q. - Can you give us a bit more help with your response, please?

A. - There is a water problem.

Q. - Anything else?

A. - There is a logistics problem. We arrived in April. Part of the population has not gotten plastic sheeting and other non-food items. (Rita points out that all the registered refugees have received their allotted supplies. If he knows people who have not gotten things he should bring them to her for registration and they will be given the appropriate items.)

Q. - What did you do before coming here?

A. - Born in 1963 in Abyumba, near the Ugandan border. In 1972, moved to Ngarama. Spent 12 years there, went through school. Studied at the school of Pedagogy and became a teacher. Taught young children for 3 years, then teenagers for 2 years. Taught Kinyaruanda language and science. Then worked in the Ministry of Interior Affairs and Communal Development - was in charge of the commune (village) as Administration Representative. In 1989 was elected Burgomestre (mayor) of Agarama Commune. Eight months later the war broke out right next to us and we fled.

Q. - What are the prospects of going back home?

A. - Good chance.

(Rita then explains the DP situation - he was a DP [displaced person, one who is has left his home because of danger or calamity, but has not crossed an international border, so is not technically a refugee] for a long time [probably in the French Protected Zone] and is now an official refugee.)

Q. - Will you go back to the same place?

A. - (He goes into a long dissertation which says, in essence, that a commune is not only a place, but is people and a structure.)

Q. - What will have to happen before you go back?

A. - I had a place, a home, land, belongings. One of my conditions is that everyone goes back to the same place, gets the same land and belongings. It's also important to look into why we had to leave. In October we had to flee from the killings. Now we are here because we had to flee again from killings. Have they stopped? Information from the radio, international organizations, human rights groups and from people who have come out more recently suggest the killings are still going on. So we have come to the conclusion that the killings are still going on.

Unable to resist, I offer that the information that we have from the same sources suggests that whatever killings are now going on, if any at all, are few in number and certainly pale in comparison to the massacres that took place in the Spring. "What", I ask, "is the justification for the massacres that everyone now acknowledges did take place?"

His answer is to the effect that the claims of massacre are magnified by those who have an interest in placing blame. Those killing that did take place, he says, was "provoked."

This is not a nice guy, in my view, and this interview is going nowhere, so it is not unhappy news to have Rita say that it's time for us to head out.

As we head back up the mountain over the red dirt road the light rain continues, causing some concern. We're scheduled to go out this afternoon on a small plane to Dar Es Salaam and that won't be possible if the weather gets too bad. By the time we get back to the compound, however, things are looking a bit more promising, so we grab a quick lunch and get our bags into the cars. We're waiting, Rita says, for one of the pilots to show up - a good idea, it seems to me - so there is time for some quick good-byes before he shows up and we head out once again.

Rita, sweet woman, comes along to say good-bye.

The plane is a Piper Chieftain. Normally a 10 seater, this one has had two seats removed because of some load they had to bring in, so has only 8 seats. I'm a bit anxious as to whether or not the old claustrophobia will kick in, but load my bags in with the rest and grab the seat at the rear next to the door. No problem so far. Daryl sits to my right and has his own concerns, due to his tendency toward motion sickness, but utters not a peep. Barbara and Caroline are in the row directly in front of us and Bobby and David sit facing them just behind the pilot and co-pilot, who climb in, lock the door and fire it up.

Still no claustrophobia. What a lift! I'm beginning to think the Bosnia/Somalia experience has cured me of that, if such a thing is possible. Whatever the case, happy day!

The pilots waste no time and we roar down the red dirt strip until the heroic little plane pulls us into the African sky. The lush green rolling hills of Tanzania spread out below and we tip our wings to the east and head toward Dar es Salaam on the Indian Ocean.

The land below is gorgeous, fascinating. The vast expanse of land is dotted only by the occasional hut or cultivated patch and looks untouched, primarily uninhabited, virginal. There is something simply extraordinary about the pungent vitality of this continent. I've read about it, heard others sing its praises, but am surprised to find myself so affected by its beauty.

I keep hoping we'll see some wildlife, as we don't appear to be all that high, but nothing moves that I can spot. All seems to be well with everyone and I try to keep Daryl talking, attempting to keep his mind occupied, hoping to serve the same purpose my friend Jonathan Estrin did for me when I was verging on panic during one of our plane trips in Kenya two years ago. He seems to be doing OK.

Bobby, David, Caroline and Barbara are playing some kind of game, telling jokes, passing the time. (It's only later I find out that they were uncomfortable about the small plane, too, and trying to divert themselves to stay calm.)

After about an hour and a half in the air we come down in a little spot in the countryside - almost literally a spot - to refuel. It's perfect, out of another time. A little man comes out with a hand-operated pump to refill the tank. We find a rather nasty, very primitive restroom, to our relief, load up again and head off into the blue.

After another hour and a half we're coming into Dar Es Salaam. It's prettier from the air than it is when we get onto the ground. A dirty, crowded old port city is what we find once we've gotten our stuff together and are headed to the hotel.

The hotel itself is OK, with a large, open, marble-floored lobby, shops on the perimeter and a kind of modern colonial feeling. The rooms are typical, except there's a sign on the door of each room urging us to use the safe-deposit facilities at the desk and to not go out walking at night. At all times, it warns, we should "beware of tricksters."

I've been dying for an Indian meal since we were robbed of it in Kigali and everyone else is agreeable, so we find out about one and jump in two small cabs which take us through the crowded and dirty streets. The restaurant is fairly straightforward and apparently popular. The food is great. There is a noticeable lightness to everyone due to the fact that except for one meeting tomorrow and some long flights ahead, the adventure is essentially over. It's a loose and relaxed, very happy meal.

Afterward, Bobby, Daryl and Caroline decide they want to investigate the night life in "Dar," so I leave them to it, head back and turn in.