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I can’t help myself. “Who’s ‘they?’ The Congolese people? Last time I checked, they aren’t responsible for most of the mining or timber harvesting here and they don’t seem to benefit. And it’s brought the war.”

“I suppose that’s true,” he says. “But is it different than all of history? We used to all have colonies, only now, we label it bad.”

I can’t disagree: War profiteering. Genocide. Global warming. All generally thought of as “bad.” “We do,” I agree.

The conversation makes me tired, too tired to feel hostile or even annoyed. Beneath the thick Afrikaans accent, here is a man clinging to a dying ideology. The grasping mindset, the moral compromise that won’t even get him big bucks, just a stab at a life’s work that involves travel to exotic corners of Africa. That may be enough for a neocolonialist. I look at him and feel sad.

I ask, “But isn’t it a question about who we are? Choosing the role we will play in this world?”

He chews this over for a moment. “I suppose it is.”

As he gets up to leave, as though offering me some kind of truce, he hands me his card. I realize he thinks we’ve been flirting when he says, “If you ever need a place to stay when you’re in South Africa. . . .”

I WANT TO GET the return visit to Kaniola out of the way immediately, if nothing else to combat my shaky nerves. At Major Vikram and Kaycee’s former station in Walungu, I am greeted by Major Alejandro, a warm, slim South American who is new to this post. I describe the attack and what I’m after: a return trip to Kaniola and any information about the massacre.

“I know nothing about this,” Major Alejandro says, “as I have only been here four days. But there is one man left from that time. He’s in Bukavu today. Come back tomorrow, he will be here. It will be his last day.”

In the meantime, I am directed to the Pakistani Battalion in Walungu to secure permission for a Kaniola visit, which now requires clearance.

I end up on a sunny hilltop, on a patio lined with roses and yellow cosmos that overlooks the vast valleys beyond Walungu, with a handful of Pakistani military commanders. Shared cups of juice served in glass and gold goblets aren’t enough to bridge the massive cultural divide, especially when it comes to their questions about my scant credentials. “You’ve written a book before?”

“No.”

“Who is publishing this book?”

“I don’t know yet.” I cut to the chase. “I don’t need guides. I can go on my own. . . .”

“I’m sorry Madame. You’ll need written permission from HQ in Bukavu.”

BACK IN BUKAVU, I am poised for another “we couldn’t have less in common” meeting as I am led into a grand office at UN headquarters. Instead, Colonel Khan is gracious, carrying himself with restraint and formality. He’s genuinely trying to be helpful. I sip my requisite apple juice while he scans his desktop files for any information about the day of the massacre.

As he scrolls through his reports, I see file names and pictures in the lefthand margin of his screen. I zero in on the thumbnail photos scrawling by: severed heads and limbs, stacks of bodies. Part of me strains to see them, hoping to catch a clue about the massacre. The other half is relieved I can’t make out the details from across the desk, grateful my mind has been spared the gory imprint.

He grants us permission to return to Kaniola and arranges for a security-escort several days from now. Colonel Khan emphasizes, “If there is anything you see there that warrants our attention, anything our people can make improvements on, I hope you will do me the favor of reporting back to me.” He cannot, however, release the reports.

THE DELAY WHILE WAITING for the security-escort is perfect.

So, about singing “Kumbaya” with the people. Snarky swipes aside, there’s something that has bothered me all year. In my pursuit of Congo horror stories, there were a lot of questions I didn’t ask. Like who was lost. I didn’t even ask their names.

THERESE STEPS OUT of a cement building that’s covered in peeling paint, on a private compound in the