Another day. Another epic bike ride – this time to and from Kawambwa. A certain hunch compelled me to ride to town this morning as opposed to waiting for afternoon transport. I'm glad I did because I later found out that none of the UNHCR vehicles had had room for extra passengers. I made good time on the way up, clocking in at around 1 hr 30 min, a personal best. I was VERY pleasantly surprised to discover that Nice Bite was serving chips, egg sandwiches, and a variety of fruits and biscuits. An Apple Max soda added the finishing touch to my lunch. Carol had planned to meet me later that afternoon but because of the transport situation, she never arrived in town. As I walked towards World Vision to retrieve my bike on the way to finding accommodation for the night, I serendipitously ran into Wakilongo and decided on the spot that it would be better to bike back to Kala that evening with him and two of his friends.
We talked the whole time and rode at a leisurely pace, taking shortcuts through bush paths and greeting friends along the way. The time was approximately 17:30 when we had departed Kawambwa. As we reached the large, open field toward the end of our ride, only a sliver of light remained. My eyes were struggling to see clearly – everything sort of blended together as one, with the fireflies adding the glittering touch to a gradient of blues and greens. The pond looked sublime reflecting the bit of light left in the sky against the darkening landscape. Insects were buzzing and chirping about, conversing in their esoteric language(s). Was I dreaming? I felt so lucky to be right in the middle of this, walking my bike up the large hill in silence, taking it all in.
At the top of hill, it was time to pull out my headlamp. Soon after, we were riding in pitch blackness. Wakilongo mentioned as we were about a quarter mile from the camp that he hadn't eaten anything before the ride and was feeling quite hungry. I dismounted my bike and offered him an apple before I bit into one myself.
"Ah," he remarked. "It's been years since I've tasted one of these. You know, when I fled Congo, I didn't eat any vegetables or nshima during my 100 km walk to Kalemie – only mangoes." He went on to explain that they had decided to leave when they had heard that the Banyamulenge, ethnic Tutsis fighting for control of the region, were coming to Uvira. At first, they had trusted in the government's military presence to protect them. But when they saw soldiers running towards them frantically, shouting, "Go! Go! Go!" amidst the deafening booms of approaching bombs, they hastily grabbed what they could and fled for the Tanzanian border.
"We walked day and night without stopping," Wakilongo explained. "We used to tie our children to ourselves with strings. Walking in the darkness amongst tens of thousands of people, if they had strayed more than even 10 meters, it was quite possible that you'd never see them again. Many parents lost their children forever that way." He went on until we reached the sign announcing the presence of Kala Refugee Camp discussing the origins of the war in Congo – the spill-over of fighting from the genocide in Rwanda. He talked of the importance he placed on educating himself in politics, current events, economics, whatever he could manage. As we reached the police compound, it was time to go our separate ways.
"So I'll see you at the office tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Have a good night, Wakilongo."
I handed him my headlamp – for he still had a ways to go to arrive at his house – and allowed my ears and my feet to guide me to my own, as lightning flashed softly in the distance.
