Displaced (8 page)

“We’re also heading toward Djugu,” said
Therese. “Do you know how far we are?”

“I think about another day away,” Philomene
responded. “We’re going to get off the road. It’s too dangerous
during the day. We can rest when it’s hot and then walk again at
night.”

“Okay, that is good, a good idea,” said
Ibrahim. The five of them traipsed into the forest, the bush was
cooler. They made a place for themselves in the shade and waited
out the heat of the day. In the evening the moon rose and lit their
way and they walked closely together in silence, staying close to
the road and listening intently for any sound in the darkness that
would signal that they weren’t alone. Near dawn as the sky began to
lighten, it grew dark again and a cloudburst caught them in the
open and soaked them. Their progress was slowed as the rain turned
the road muddy and they were made to walk through the muck with the
additional weight of water in their clothes. They got off the road
to wait for the storm to pass and fashioned the plastic sheeting as
a shelter from the rain. Nicole dozed and when Philomene shook her
awake, the sun was up and evaporating the moisture on the road in
clouds of mist. They began walking in irregular lines trying to
avoid the puddles and mud which soon caked their shoes. They walked
most of the day and arrived at the displaced persons camp in Djugu
in the afternoon. There was no one to welcome them on their arrival
and they walked toward what appeared to be the center of the camp
until they were greeted by someone who appeared to be in charge. He
introduced himself as Joseph and carried the clipboard which seemed
to confer authority and told them he would get them sorted out. He
directed Nicole and Philomene toward a hut with a packed dirt floor
covered with mats in part and a blue plastic tarp. Possessions were
stacked against the walls in various arrangements. In one corner
was a ten gallon bucket next to which was a cardboard box with two
pots stacked on top. The interior was dark punctuated with sunlight
from the door and light that came in from holes in the walls and a
series of gaps where the roof met the tops of the walls supporting
it.

Separated from their traveling partners,
Philomene and Nicole were introduced to their new housemates.
Rebecca sat against the wall with her legs crossed supporting two
young children, who lay across her legs, head to toe, like they
were in a hammock. One was her own and the other, the orphaned
child of a friend who had succumbed to diarrhea. Joseph introduced
her and she waived at them offhand and then rested her head back
against the wall. Corine, their other housemate, was more
enthusiastic and although her French was barely intelligible to
Nicole, she drew them both in, grasping first Philomene’s hand with
both of her hands and then the same with Nicole. She was so
grateful to see these two strangers as if they had come to rescue
her. They were also refugees, but Corine’s hope was not diminished.
She welcomed them and made room for them. “Please, please” she
signaled to the space where they could put their things. Nicole
sensed her relief in just having new people around. Maybe it was
just the potential for change, relief from whatever dreariness came
before. Whether relieved or otherwise, Corine, a wisp of a woman
with bony arms and a taut face received them with energy.

“We don’t have much but you are welcome.”

“Thank you, you’re very kind,” responded
Philomene.

“We have some water and some rice, please
help yourself. Have you come far?”

“We were on the road for three days.”

“Ah, you must be tired, I’ll let you wash up
and then you can rest.”

“Thank you again.” Philomene said and she
spread their belongings out against one end of the hut. She
produced cornmeal from a plastic container, which she split with
Nicole before lying down and going to sleep.

****

Nicole woke early, when only a few people
were awake and moving about, and even they were quiet, and in the
grey light of the dawn just before the sun appeared, it was cool
and it was possible to imagine the country as peaceful. The camp
slowly came to life and Nicole felt revived as she passed through
the rows between the little thatched houses. She must have been
exhausted because she slept straight through the night despite the
new surroundings. She walked the camp, watching and listening,
exploring the maze of paths formed by the spaces between the
outside walls of the huts. In another time, the ground under the
camp served as a cornfield, and the ground was littered with stalks
and husks beaten into the earth. People gathered in small bunches
in the entrances to huts, around small cooking fires, and under
shade trees. She watched a woman stoop over a fire with a flat
metal disk supported on top by a cutout piece of aluminum that
formed a stove of sorts in front of a hut formed by clay and
branches. She poured oil from a yellow plastic container with the
top cut off and then ladled batter onto the disk that fried and
blistered with the heat. The batter cooked quickly and she peeled
the finished chapatti from the surface of the disk and placed it to
one side on a plate stacked with chapattis. A man emerged from the
hut behind her and enjoined the woman with a complaint before
quickly retiring again after suffering her rebuke. Nicole was
hungry but did not ask the woman for something to eat or even if
she had something to sell and she continued walking.

To one side across an open path on a small
rise toward the edge of the camp sat a young man, little older than
a boy, on a wooden box. He was baby faced and long limbed with a
short wedge of hair, and his feet were tucked up close to the base
of the box in a position where his knees nearly touched his face.
His face wore a distant expression and his feet and hands seemed
outsized almost as if he were wearing gloves. He sat apart from the
rest of the camp, and Nicole noticed him sitting alone and felt
compelled to greet him.

“Hello” she said.

He looked at her without fully acknowledging
her and mutely raised his eyebrows at her and nodded his head.

“How are you?” she tried again.

“I’m fine,” he said not wanting to be
disturbed. As if in response to the unasked question, she said,
“I’m Nicole.” She did not know what else to say, she wasn’t in the
habit of striking up conversations with strangers.

He recognized her introduction raising his
eyes and nodding his head, but offered no introduction in return,
just a pause and silence.

“Okay then,” she said after a minute. “I’ll
see you later.”

She walked away defeated, but in her retreat
she heard another voice calling to her.

“Hello there,” she heard and looked over her
shoulder to see a young man approaching her, separating himself
from a group of other young men.

“I’m George,” he offered. “I saw you talking
to my cousin over there, Floribert.”

“I just saw him over there, I was just saying
hello.”

“Yeah, I know, Floribert has had a hard time,
he doesn’t talk very much now. He is no longer happy, he just sits
by himself.”

“Oh, well I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay, I’m glad you were talking with
him, he needs someone to talk to. Otherwise he just sits by himself
and I’m worried about him.”

“Well, I tried to talk to him but he didn’t
want to talk.”

“Yeah I know, that’s how he is. The soldiers
killed his family near Nyakunde and ever since then he hasn’t
talked much to anyone. The people here built him the wooden seat
where he sits most of the day. He is in depression whenever he is
alone and thinks of his family.”

“I’m sorry,” Nicole said again.

“No, its okay,” responded George. “I’m glad
you talked with him, he needs someone to talk with. You should talk
with him.”

“Okay, well, I’m happy to talk with him, but
I don’t think he wants to talk with me.”

“It’s not you, you are very nice,” said
George. “He doesn’t talk much with anyone, but it would be good if
you talked with him.”

“Okay,” said Nicole. George was determined
and Nicole found it easier to agree with him. “I have to go now,
but I will see you later,” she promised.

“Okay, I’ll see you later,” George echoed
back to her.

****

Nicole spent her time busying herself with
helping Rebecca take care of the two children and talking with
Corine. Philomene contacted Uncle Mukadi through the use of a
satellite phone for which she had traded for time. Mukadi was
making arrangements for them in Uganda. In two days they would head
to Mahogi. From Mahogi, there were busses running into Uganda to
the towns of Pakwach and Gulu.

Nicole had seen Floribert again later, when
she went to fetch water. He sat alone in his same spot with his
same trancelike expression of remoteness. Nicole felt a kindred
attraction to him as if through a kinship of trauma. They were both
essentially adrift and their respective damages presented their own
point of reference. The next time, she approached him prepared for
his unresponsiveness.

“Hello” she said not waiting for an answer.
“My Aunt made some rice porridge. I was just going to get some,”
she explained to his wide eyed confusion. “Would you like some?”
she asked rhetorically. “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

She reappeared about ten minutes later with
two bowls of the white milky substance. He looked at her as if
surprised that she would reappear and took one of the bowls.

“Thankyou,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” she said as she sat down on
the ground near him.

“I usually like sugar on my rice porridge,”
she offered “but we don’t have any sugar.”

“It’s good,” he said and they ate for a few
moments in silence. A breeze picked up, rustled the palms and died,
but not before inflating a white plastic bag that tumbled past
them, part of the flotsam and jetsam of the camp. Though effaced by
a camp full of people, they sat alone eating their porridge. He
lost in his head and she searching for conversation.

“I met your cousin George,” she said finally.
“He seems very nice.”

“Yeah, George takes care of me,” he said
matter of factly. “Where are you from?” he asked.

“I’m from Bunia.”

“Is it nice there?”

“It used to be nice. We had a house and a
garden, and I had a goat that I kept as a pet. It’s not so nice
there any more,” she said quickly.

“Will you go back there?”

“No, we can’t go back.”

“Where will you go?” he asked.

“Uganda,” she replied.

Peter Lipanda felt the perspiration break out
simultaneously all over his body in waves as the two men held him
by his arms next to the trunk of a tall tree. In his fright, the
capillaries in his nose felt as if they would burst from the
pressure in his skull and tension in his body. The militia men used
a frayed rope, knotted in parts to maintain its length, and made
him embrace the tree and then tied his hands together on the
opposite side. The order had been given, he was to be whipped.
Peter’s boss, Omar Orias, had charged, convicted and declared
sentence. He was guilty of treason or disloyalty or just generally
being a cheat. Mr. Orias, which is what Peter always called him,
peered at him now, in his face, without sympathy.

“Since the first day, I said I would kill you
if you fuck with me – I don’t joke. Today is your lucky day,
consider yourself lucky,” the man told him.

Peter tried to protest, his head lolled
backwards, he gurgled in a delirium of terror. “I didn’t cheat
you,” he managed.

Mr. Orias was Peter’s putative boss. He had
staked Peter and Peter traded with the open pit miners in Durba
with Orias’ money. When his accounts came up short two thousand
dollars and there wasn’t the corresponding amounts of mineral ore
in the balance, Orias accused him. The gold could have been lost or
taken by another employee, but it hardly mattered. Peter would be
held responsible for his stake and his protests were in vain. Peter
nevertheless was opportunistic and he sought to divert his
punishment. “Negusse” he struggled to say loud enough so Orias
could hear him.

“Negusse,” Orias repeated. “What about
Negusse?”

“I saw the daughter” replied Peter and caught
his boss’ attention.

From his base in Aru, Omar Orias extended his
control over Djugu, Durba and Mongbwalu, some of the most
profitable gold producing area in Ituri. Small and unremarkable, he
was most recognizable for the suits he wore like a uniform. Cheap
suits, dark and made mostly of polyester and wholly unsuited for
the tropical climate. Ill fitting, too long in the pants and
jacket, instead of conveying authority they diminished him. An ill
fitting man in an ill fitting suit, uncomfortable in his own skin
and everything else.

Orias ruled over an industry of open pit
mines controlled not by local or national government but by his
militia. For his effort, he collected taxes and fees and determined
concessions. The underground mines, left over from Belgian rule,
had long since been ruined. Miners, pressured to produce more,
mined ore from supporting columns against their own self interest.
Holdover government mining officials could only watch as mines
collapsed or flooded from abuse and neglect.

Not unlike his predecessor, Jean Pierre
Bembe, Orias perceived himself as a businessman first. His actions
though ruthless and physically destructive, were more in line with
running a corporation than with military conquest. Through his
militia, he controlled territory strategically to extract resources
and not to govern.

When Bembe moved to Kinshasa as vice
president, the Saxon Mineral company went to see Orias and he gave
them permission to begin new operations in Mongbwalu. Orias
guaranteed their safety and extracted commissions in return. At the
same time he was negotiating with Saxon Mineral, his combatants
were returning from Drodro, Nizi and Fataki, villages near
Mongbwalu, where they had left the citizenry dead in the streets,
some with their arms tied, sticks in their rectums and body parts
cut off, as a warning to anyone who might oppose them. As he
explained to his “Commissioner of Defense,” Commander Jerome, “the
government is never going to come to Mongbwalu. I am the one who
gave Saxon Mineral permission to come to Mongbwalu, I am the boss
of Mongbwalu. If I want to chase them away, I will. It is not Bembe
who controls there. The contract with Saxon Mineral is with the
government, but we control Mongbwalu so they need to see me if they
want to work there.”