Surviving Congo's Ninja rebels

Scars of the war are everywhere (photos: Tom Craig)

British writer Joanne Harris, author of Chocolat, has just travelled through the Pool region of Congo, which has been devastated by civil war between the army and Ninja rebels.

She travelled with aid agency Medecins Sans Frontieres (MSF) and wrote this account of her experiences for BBC News Online.

Since October 2002, thousands of displaced people fleeing the fighting in Pool, have ended up Ngangalingolo, and are living in crowded camps.

Pool, once known as the "breadbasket of the Congo" has suffered most from the war.

The women in the food queue, outside the MSF clinic approach us.

They came with machine guns and machetes and torches... I asked God to help us, but He didn't Julienne

Behind their concern, lies an overwhelming need to tell their stories.

Julienne, is in her thirties, with a worn out but still-beautiful face.

"I'm a widow, with four children. My husband was killed during the war," Julienne told me.

Last October, soldiers came to their village. She does not know which army they were from and in any case, it didn't matter.

"They came with machine guns and machetes and torches. They knocked on our doors, demanding money. When we told them we had none, they took the young girls away and raped them. I asked God to help us, but He didn't," she explained

For two months Julienne and the other villagers hid in the forest, searching for food as helicopters passed overhead.

Low supplies

At last, they decided to risk the dangerous three-day journey to this camp.

We drive several hours into Pool to Kinkala, where the military is a large and inescapable presence.

Women have to take risks to deliver food to their children

The roads are near impassable and the people are very poor. Most go barefoot, their clothes falling from their bodies.

Their homes were destroyed by the bombing, and they live in makeshift shelters and abandoned buildings.

Although the worst of the crisis is over, Valentine, a young local nurse who now works for MSF, and the other medics here are still dealing with many casualties: war injuries, malaria, malnutrition, violence and rape.

There are still many people in desperate need of help who simply can't get to the hospital here.

Supplies are low; even basics like suturing thread and paracetamol. MSF does what it can.

The next morning we accompany the team to Kibouende, a rebel village some two hours drive from Kinkala, where a mobile clinic is held every two weeks.

'Bishop with dreadlocks'

There is already a queue in front of the clinic; a roofless building partially covered by a stretched tarpaulin to shelter the patients - many of whom have babies - from the brutal heat.

As the team sets up, the MSF project co-ordinator arranges a meeting with one of the chiefs of the rebel Ninja group to try to gain access deeper into their territory.

It is a delicate piece of negotiation, and she is not sure how such a request will be received, although the Ninjas have also benefited from MSF's medical aid.

The Ninjas belong to a kind of Messianic religious group, led by a spiritual leader who remains hidden in his jungle.

His representative here, Pasteur Oyena, looks like a bishop in his long purple robes - a bishop with dreadlocks and a big machine gun.

There are three other men with him, and a heavily-armed bodyguard in reflector sunglasses who looks about 16.

Gunfire

Meanwhile our presence here, continues to attract attention. People crowd around.

They are hungry; impatient; their villages have been destroyed. The peace agreement has been signed; the Ninjas have honoured their side of it.

Ninja fighters often wear purple

But what of the President?

What of his part in the bargain? Where are the supplies he promised, the food, the repairs to the roads?

Perhaps they have a point. But I can't help thinking of some of the stories I heard from the Ninjas' victims; the rapes, murders, looting, the indiscriminate brutality. One of the Ninjas looks at me.

"Terrible things happened here," he says quietly. It is his only comment.

That night we hear gunfire. Soldiers; a brawl; who knows? We set off late, back to Brazzaville.

Corridor of death

After Kibouende, however, we are no longer as nervous at the sight of purple scarves and machine guns; there are many roadblocks, but no-one takes them really seriously.

Three little boys try to hold us up, using a piece of bamboo and an upside-down American flag; on this road, it seems, everyone wants to be a bandit.

The train through Pool needs a military escort

But our relief is premature.

Less than an hour from Brazzaville, we are stopped at a roadblock.

Half a dozen or more sullen-looking teenagers slouch on machine guns and rifles. We are not afraid; we know the drill.

But this time, there is no smile, no wave. The barrier remains closed.

One of the youths pokes the end of his machine gun through the open window.

The shouting, the angry gestures are enough to tell me that it is not going well.

They want money but MSF does not pay bribes. It occurs to me how easily such a situation could turn.

Adolescent boys are unpredictable enough; add six AK47s, some hash and the complete absence of law and order and the result is anyone's guess. My guess is that they probably won't shoot us.

They really want to. But the driver has called their bluff and just as we are about to turn around they let us pass.

Later I learn that this road - National Highway Number One - has an alternative, more picturesque name. Locals call it the Corridor of Death.