each one, with old rope zigzagging across the top, weighted down by slabs of black volcanic rock.
‘Kibati,’ Emmanuel said, raising his hand from the throttle. Luca had heard of the refugee camp before. Jack Milton had said it was the last place Joshua had been working with
Médecins Sans Frontières
before he had headed north and disappeared.
There was a small hut at the entrance with a sign reading ‘Gendarmes’, but the door was firmly locked and no policeman was in sight. As Emmanuel and his companion went off to try and find one of the MSF doctors, Luca and René stood by the motorbikes, with Rene smiling awkwardly at the few people who bothered to notice them. A small child, dragging a filthy plastic tray, walked past them returning from some errand. He wore a ripped T-shirt and flip-flops of different sizes.
‘
Bonbons? Stylo?
’ he asked, raising a hand towards Luca. He looked to René for a translation.
‘He wants a sweet or a pen,’ René said, patting his pockets. He took out one of his cigarettes and gave it to the boy, gently rubbing the top of his head like a sympathetic father.
‘René, for Christ’s sake, he’s about five years old,’ Luca protested. ‘He can’t smoke that.’
‘I don’t have any sweets and he’ll trade that smoke with one of the older kids. This is the Congo, my boy, and here, everything is worth something.’
Pulling another from the pack and lighting it, he inhaled deeply, letting his eyes scan across the sea of faded white tarpaulin.
‘You know, this is all a hangover from Rwanda,’ he said softly. ‘These camps were originally set up when all the Hutus came across the border after they’d massacred the Tutsis. There were nearly a million of them right here, all trying to escape RPF reprisals. Now, it’s mainly displaced Congolese people, driven out of their farms by all these bloody warring militias.’
René exhaled a huge plume of smoke, eyes taking in the desolation afresh. ‘It’s just never-ending. All these different groups fighting each other … until they forget the bloody reason for fighting in the first place. It’s the biggest damn’ mess on the planet and these are the people who suffer. Nearly six million dead in the last eight years and barely a person outside Africa knows anything about it.’
Luca followed his gaze towards a small group of men sheltering under an open-sided tent. The boy was already there, trading his cigarette. In the distance, there was a roll of thunder and the black skies looked full to bursting.
‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ he said.
René shrugged.
‘You forget, I’m Belgian. This used to be one of our colonies, and I tell you, Luca, we were no better. Back then it was all rubber and ivory. The story of Africa – white man grabbing everything he could. Now, it’s just a bit more complex. But one thing never changes – the number of dead.’
He paused, eyes glassing over as he scanned the innumerable rooftops of tents.
‘First it was us, then thirty years of that bastard kleptomaniac Mobutu, and now an endless mess of militia groups slaughtering everything in sight. What you are looking at here, Luca, are people who have been fucked over for the better part of a century.’ A grim smile appeared on René’s lips. ‘It’s like the devil came up to the Congo one day and decided he’d stay.’
There was a loud whistle; they turned to see Emmanuel gesturing at them. Leaving the bikes, they followed him down the lines of shoddy tents, picking their way carefully over guy ropes and across the rocky ground. Luca followed at the back of the procession, eyes glancing sideways and in at the open doors of the tents they passed. Occasionally people stared back, their eyes locking with his for the briefest of moments. Some were proud, some broken, some just old, but as he passed one after the other, he realised that they all told stories he could never truly understand.
They were led up to a central
‘Kibati,’ Emmanuel said, raising his hand from the throttle. Luca had heard of the refugee camp before. Jack Milton had said it was the last place Joshua had been working with
Médecins Sans Frontières
before he had headed north and disappeared.
There was a small hut at the entrance with a sign reading ‘Gendarmes’, but the door was firmly locked and no policeman was in sight. As Emmanuel and his companion went off to try and find one of the MSF doctors, Luca and René stood by the motorbikes, with Rene smiling awkwardly at the few people who bothered to notice them. A small child, dragging a filthy plastic tray, walked past them returning from some errand. He wore a ripped T-shirt and flip-flops of different sizes.
‘
Bonbons? Stylo?
’ he asked, raising a hand towards Luca. He looked to René for a translation.
‘He wants a sweet or a pen,’ René said, patting his pockets. He took out one of his cigarettes and gave it to the boy, gently rubbing the top of his head like a sympathetic father.
‘René, for Christ’s sake, he’s about five years old,’ Luca protested. ‘He can’t smoke that.’
‘I don’t have any sweets and he’ll trade that smoke with one of the older kids. This is the Congo, my boy, and here, everything is worth something.’
Pulling another from the pack and lighting it, he inhaled deeply, letting his eyes scan across the sea of faded white tarpaulin.
‘You know, this is all a hangover from Rwanda,’ he said softly. ‘These camps were originally set up when all the Hutus came across the border after they’d massacred the Tutsis. There were nearly a million of them right here, all trying to escape RPF reprisals. Now, it’s mainly displaced Congolese people, driven out of their farms by all these bloody warring militias.’
René exhaled a huge plume of smoke, eyes taking in the desolation afresh. ‘It’s just never-ending. All these different groups fighting each other … until they forget the bloody reason for fighting in the first place. It’s the biggest damn’ mess on the planet and these are the people who suffer. Nearly six million dead in the last eight years and barely a person outside Africa knows anything about it.’
Luca followed his gaze towards a small group of men sheltering under an open-sided tent. The boy was already there, trading his cigarette. In the distance, there was a roll of thunder and the black skies looked full to bursting.
‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ he said.
René shrugged.
‘You forget, I’m Belgian. This used to be one of our colonies, and I tell you, Luca, we were no better. Back then it was all rubber and ivory. The story of Africa – white man grabbing everything he could. Now, it’s just a bit more complex. But one thing never changes – the number of dead.’
He paused, eyes glassing over as he scanned the innumerable rooftops of tents.
‘First it was us, then thirty years of that bastard kleptomaniac Mobutu, and now an endless mess of militia groups slaughtering everything in sight. What you are looking at here, Luca, are people who have been fucked over for the better part of a century.’ A grim smile appeared on René’s lips. ‘It’s like the devil came up to the Congo one day and decided he’d stay.’
There was a loud whistle; they turned to see Emmanuel gesturing at them. Leaving the bikes, they followed him down the lines of shoddy tents, picking their way carefully over guy ropes and across the rocky ground. Luca followed at the back of the procession, eyes glancing sideways and in at the open doors of the tents they passed. Occasionally people stared back, their eyes locking with his for the briefest of moments. Some were proud, some broken, some just old, but as he passed one after the other, he realised that they all told stories he could never truly understand.
They were led up to a central
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