4 Days Later. . .

It's our second night in a regroupement point. Most NGOs evacuated Goma on Friday or Saturday morning. A DRC speciality of 0 to 60 in the blink of an eye. On Thursday night there was heavy fighting outside Goma, but this has been going on and off for a while. I came up the lake on Friday with a friend, discussing this that and the other and how this was more than likely just another yawn. Saturday was strange, on standby from early morning with rumours of 50,000 displaced people making their way towards Goma blocked by the police - fears of Cholera abound and last week the entire Goma water system packed up for 4 days. You wonder what the Congolese make of it all: they've seen it so many times. . . live around our house is surprisingly normal long after you'd expected.

Just after dark the call came: To all United Nations Personnel, this is May Day, May Day, May Day. Go to May Day. It's quite a heart wrench when it comes through. Here we go then. But there is a lot of stress to lose in organisational detail: I throw together the camping kit, Ulrich keeps the phone busy. You swing in the main entrance of the UN base, and there are 2 fully manned, guns bristling armed personnel carriers (small tanks) in your face. Panic mounts, to be firmly squashed.

As it is, a perfectly pleasant evening. Pasta and pesto on our kerosene fire, whisky, and a film by the lake with friends; sleeping under a paillotte (large straw umbrella) on army regulation camp beds with a full mosquito net, with the waves gently lapping beside us. More upper range colonial safari than lockdown.

Sunday is different. We're allowed home for a shower, but within an hour the call comes to return to lock down. This time everyone is panicked: it's mid-morning, so not precautionary, and you can hear the shells clearly. Cars race up, much swearing, and rigorous panicky vetting of people to get into the UN compound.

We have at least picked a better compound this time. There's a bar that briefly has cold beer and sandwiches, there's some grass, friends let us camp in their office and use their kettle etc, and lots of the NGOs rock up. Everyone is worried: it's not been like this before.

It's a surreal day: everyone with contacts constantly on the phone and everyone without contacts picking up loose ends and winding each other up. This is Ul and I escaping for a moment. The West Wing and beer - in our Dungu deck chairs that I managed to persuade Ul were essential evacuation equipment.