I SAW BUNIA from the sky, dazzled by the sun bouncing off the blue tents of the refugees and displaced persons scattered over the hills. The Tupolev, its engine coughing, made a low-altitude fly-by of the city. In his South African accent, the pilot said, “Welcome to Bunia” over the scratchy PA system. Bunia is just a main street in the centre of a spider web that weaves its threads out to infinity. Josué pointed to a hill. That was where he lived. No huts, no houses, just endless blue canvas. “It’s pretty with the hills around the town,” Myriam said. I was wrong; there is no airport in Bunia, just a dirt landing strip with prefabs and white metal containers branded with MONUC letters and the blue UN logo. Terrorized by the plane’s squealing metal, Josué grabbed my arm and held on for dear life during the final approach. The landing was brutal. Josué dug his nails into my arm and turned to me as if the plane was going to fall to pieces around us, and I would be his saviour, his last resort. Such terror in his eyes, and such letting go as his head fell upon my shoulder and his body slipped closer to mine. I put an unsure hand on his, and he squeezed mine as if it were a life preserver. I turned and looked him in the eye. “Don’t be afraid, I’m here.” Then I took him in my arms. His body was hot, he stank of the sweat of fear, and choked back his tears when the plane slowed on the bumpy strip full of holes, then taxied with a more gentle rhythm until our progress was like an African trail that he knows the feel of. He pulled his nails out of my flesh, but did not leave my arms. He started breathing again, relaxed a little, and raised his head. “Now I won’t be afraid of planes anymore.”