Major Kaycee reappears in full military fatiguesâcamouflageâwith his UN badge on broad display. “Okay,” he says. “Shall we go there?”
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MY CHEST TIGHTENS as we follow Major Vikram and Major Kaycee's UN SUV down an increasingly narrow dirt road. We chew clay-dust and hug blind curves for ten kilometers up the road to Kaniola.
Yes,
Kaniola
. The home village one of my sisters was talking about when she commented, “If it was safe to go back home, do you think we would accept to suffer in Bukavu?” The home village Generose swears she will never return to. The village where people are regularly burned alive in their houses.
Fear seeps through my body like a slow adrenaline drip. With every poverty-porn stereotype floating in my mind, I picture charred and barren hills, fresh graves lining the pathways, morbid sounds in the air, decrepit people in rags with smoke slowly rising around them, like refugees in the mist. I ask Maurice for reassurance. “Do you really think this is safe?”
I don't know why I ask. By now, I should know the answer:
Everything
is safe to the Congolese. Maurice is predictably soothing. “Oh, yes. Safe. The Interahamwe only attack here maybe twice a week.”
The UN vehicle in front of us pulls over at a rusty, bullet-riddled road sign. Locals are gathered around and children lug badly beaten-up, five-gallon water jugs. The UN translator accompanying the majors asks for directions while Major Kaycee motions for me to get out.
As I emerge from my unmarked SUV, villagers stare blankly. An old man on crutches watches us suspiciously. Who can blame them? We must be quite a sight and, frankly, hard to place, with the major in combat boots and camouflage, Major Vikram in jeans, a sporty red T-shirt, sunglasses, and tennis shoes (he's dressed more for a casual day at a suburban shopping mall or football match), and me in a long skirt and flip-flops.
I'm not sure which getup will provide us more protection. Nonthreatening, feminine skirt? Major Vikram's sporty casual? Or Major Kaycee's official uniform? I love his pale blue UN cap and the UN ID tag that hangs around his neck; they're the only real protection we've got in the event we come across any evil-doers. We do not have guns.
I follow the majors down a narrow winding path, between a few compounds lined with tropical-plant fences and around a couple of blind corners, then I get my first glimpse of the valley. Some long-buried belief comes into play, lulling me into a sense of security: Bad things happen only on cold and stormy nights with howling, ominous winds. Or in dead-of-Africa-night, during the silent hours that one might expect to be filled with panic and bloodshed.
Bad things can't possibly happen during the dayâor in a placeâlike
this.
I look over the valley and see that Kaniola is nothing like I've pictured. “It's so beautiful,” I say, stunned.
Major Vikram concurs. “Too beautiful.”
Yes, Major Vikram, it is
too beautiful.
These aren't the small undulating hills of Rwanda, but broad, grand hills with room to breathe. Some are solid, saturated green; others are dotted with round, thatch-roofed mud huts
or shaggy igloo-shaped straw huts that might be mistaken for haystacks. I see banana patches. Tidy, sweet rows of cabbages. Sunflowers. Water flowing in gentle streams. Voices of children drifting in the breeze. Birds, who apparently failed to read the memo titled
Kaniola: Very, Very Dangerous Place
, chirp away. The Kaniola valley is mythic-pretty.
Major Kaycee points across a valley to the hills, or perhaps the mountains, just beyond. “That is the hamlet which was attacked. Maybe a twenty-minute walk.”
If you were born here, you wouldn't want to leave. In fact, I don't know if I want to leave. I wonder what a little African compound on the cusp of Kaniola goes for these days. Do they have building codes? Would the village elders allow a permanent structure? Would they welcome a foreigner among them? We'd have to carry supplies in on this path to the far side of the valley, to those grass-covered hills, where I could have a compound all my own, perched on a tiny hilltop. I could grow old and someday say, “I had a farm in Africa . . .”
“You see those forested areas, those small patches?” asks Major Vikram, gesturing at the ridgeline on the far side of the valley. “The Interahamwe is that side. It's from those hills that Interahamwe come across and attack villagers.”
Oh, right. Those Who Kill Together.
Never mind.
Yet it is still impossible to imagine anything bad happening on this quiet, lovely Sunday afternoon in this pristine African countryside. My tension drains away, the soft breeze and sun luring me into a familiar stillness that masquerades as calm. Like the stillness of a room after the respirator has been shut off. Or the calm that descends when you're staring into the eyes of a sociopath and he doesn't
look
crazy. Or the peace I was feeling on a sunny, early autumn morning in Manhattan, after my first summer with Ted, before he rushed up the stairs to our loft, steaming coffee and toasted bagels in hand, and burst in the door to announce that the World Trade Center was on fire. I had suited up for my daily run down the West Side Highway; I planned to run to my turn-around spot, the World Trade Center. But I was feeling lazy, and Ted had gone to pick up breakfast, so I blew off the run. We
scrambled to our roof with a clear view of the North Tower's gaping hole. My first thought spilled out, unfiltered: “That doesn't look like a coffee pot fire.” Without commentary, without a newscaster framing the event's significance, we didn't know what was happening. An hour later, with naked eyes, I saw the North Tower fall. From two miles up the West Side Highway, it simply looked like a cloud of smoke. And then nothing.
Major Vikram and I fill the space with loud chitchat, as though we're hanging out at a local pub. We chat about
Oprah.
Debate the varieties of bananas that grow in North India. I pitch him a long-buried screenplay idea, about a man searching for his daughter, who disappeared in Major Vikram's Himalayan home state.
I talk about running. “I'm out of shape! I haven't been able to run here.”
Major Vikram asks innocently, “Why?”
“Uh, I'm not sure it's safe,” says the white girl going for a casual Sunday stroll next to Interahamwe territory.
“Don't worry about safety.”
We both laugh.
Don't worry about safety.
A woman passes us; she's wearing a bright green African dress, with her hair done and full makeup. I look her in the eye,
“Jambo, Habari!”
She looks at me and nods,
“Bonjour.”
As we walk down this path into the valley, passing villagers, there is no “I've been touched by terror” evidence like I saw in Manhattan on September 11; I remember seeing a dazed bike messenger walking through Union Square, his dreadlocks caked in ash. Here, everyone looks clean and neat. We pass a tall guy, so thin, in a blazer that squares off his hollow frame. Then comes a slim older man in pressed, belted khakis, a blue oxford shirt, and lace-up dress shoes.
Wait, isn't that the uniform for the legislative aids who grab quick power lunches on Pennsylvania Avenue before heading back to a long afternoon on Capitol Hill?
This is officially odd. What's the deal with the well-groomed people of Kaniola? Then I remember: It's Sunday. They're dressed for church.
Generose comes to mind. What is the first thing she said to her children after her home was attacked, burned to the ground, and her family assassinated in her front yard?
Thank God. I'm alive.
A group of young women sees us and steps to the edge of the path, doing their best to avoid us. Major Kaycee calls a command to Maurice. “Papa, ask them if they know about those incidents of the ladies kidnapped.”
Maurice approaches them in his mild-mannered way and speaks in a soft voice. The major shouts from behind him, “Ask any of them!”
Before Maurice can finish, the Major asks another local and calls out, “Okay! They are up there.”
The girls watch suspiciously, as we continue up the path. Only months later, when I review the video, will I see that one of the girls we were looking for was among themâtense, trying to be inconspicuous, hoping her friends don't rat her out.
After hiking for a half hour we are in the middle of the valley. I am waiting for the majors outside a compound when I hear children's voices whispering behind me. I look over my shoulder to discover six wide-eyed children, all in ratty, soiled clothing. I turn my camera on them and they inexplicably flinch and step back.
I flip the viewfinder and call them back so I can show them their photo. They smile, shy but intrigued. “See what beautiful smiles you have,” I say. They giggle and cover their mouths, duck behind one another, and peek out to smile at themselves in the viewfinder.
We enter the compound; a guarded older woman, around sixty, greets us. In New York or Paris, I'm sure her bone structure, cropped silver hair, and thin frame could win her a place as a catalog model. “This woman is their grandmother; we are going to her daughter's house,” Major Kaycee says, then he turns to her and asks, “How far is it? Five minutes? Ten minutes? Are the girls there?”
He is measuring the investment they've made already in what they thought would be a quick walk. I'm not sure any of us thought it would be
this far, especially in the direction of the hills. No one knows if the girls are home. But questions of security aside, I don't want to turn back.
I pipe up, “We'll walk. It's okay.”
We get directions and set out with the troop of children, who serve as our new guides, in tow. Major Vikram pulls the UN badge from his pocket and clips it to the front of his pants, on broad display. One of our newly adopted guides, a little boy, waddles and flops in a grown-up's long-sleeve sweatshirt. Barefoot, he's stepping in time with Major Kaycee, following him the way a child clings to his daddy's leg in a crowd, moving as fast as he can, trying to stay in the thick of the manly men.
Major Vikram turns and sizes him up. The UN translator stops the boy and tells him to go home, but the child is anxious to prove himself essential by showing us the way.
As we round another bend, Major Vikram points back toward the road. “Can you see on that hilltop
something, something, something?”
It is a small collection of tents on the far side of the road, perhaps a mile from our hill, away from the forest. He adds, “That is the mobile unit, the base for opposing security. For the protection of local people.”
“How long has it been there?” I ask.
“Two weeks.”
“Do they patrol over here?”
“No.”
I miss the cue completely. Of course they don't patrol here. They don't patrol where the attacks happen most often because it's too dangerous.
A group of young girls clustered under a big, rainbow-colored umbrella, their ages ranging from five to ten, walks toward us on the path. Some have babies on their backs and each wears a Sunday-best dress with lace trim.
They slow to a stop, trying to place the large African man in camouflage fatigues. The tallest among them takes her little sister's hand and leads them off the trail, her eyes tracking the major and Major Vikram. I recognize that look. It's the same frozen, nowhere-to-hide stare I saw on the streets of the
West Village late on the morning of September 11, when a low-flying government plane passed by. Strangers stopped cold and stared into each other's eyes, as though to ask, “Shouldn't we duck and cover?”
Major Vikram greets the girls as they pass us. They step off the trail, onto a patch of grass, poised to run. I approach them, which alerts them to my presence for the first time. They spot the camera and scatter, lugging the babies on their backs.
It finally dawns on me.
They think the camera is a gun
. I flip the viewfinder over and call them in my cheeriest, most soothing babysitter voice. “It's a camera! Do you want to see a picture of yourself ?”
They approach cautiously, perhaps relieved, but too startled for quick smiles.
They relax for a moment when they see themselves on the mini-viewfinder screen. I ask them, “Did you think it was a gun?” As the Swahili word “gun” crosses Maurice's lips, their slow-growing smiles instantly drop. The children duck and run again. It's not funny or cute. There will be no warming it up now, so I wave goodbye and move on.
We hike toward the forest. Toward the Interahamwe. We wind our way up narrow paths on hillsides, and reach the top, only to recognize we have many more hills to go. I notice a hilltop church with a rusty corrugated metal roof. Banana leaves rustle in the wind. I do not notice the slow, creeping tension, or the cue from my UN escorts who ask, “Are you
sure
you want to go
there
?”
A family spots us and ducks behind bushes, watching us suspiciously. Normally,
Jambo
means “Hello,” and is followed by the response
Jambo sana
, which means “Very hello.” Somewhere between the road and this ridgeline, the translation has changed. As I muster up my chirpiest voice,
Jambo
now means “Relax! We're not here to kill you!”
As they pause, slowly stand up to check us out, even smile, and call back, “
Jambo sana!”
now means “Thank God!” Make that “Very thank God!”
We are much closer to the forest now. It creeps down the hills. Trees are now distinguishable in detail as we follow the last ridgeline running along this valley.
We pass a villager who stands to the side of the path with a haunting look. In an ash-gray sports jacket and pants, he stands with his arms at his side, watching, like an intern standing at attention in a concentration camp.