At night the fiery glow of spitting lava can be seen from Goma, the main town on the Democratic Republic of Congo's eastern border. Occasionally the volcanoes that line the frontier with Rwanda and Uganda grumble impatiently, sending villagers scurrying for safer ground. But for now a natural disaster is the least of the region's worries.
"The volcanoes over there don't worry us too much. It's the ones in people's hearts that we fear. Those ones could erupt at any time," said Father Emmanuel Rudacogora, a Catholic priest in Goma.
Goma is headquarters to the largest of the three rebel factions that have been struggling to overthrow Congolese President Laurent Kabila for the last 19 months.
But the one-time rebel liberators, the ethnic Tutsi Rwandans, are now branded as invaders and tensions are running high. A minority ethnic group within the Congo is increasingly being scapegoated for collaboration with these "invaders" and Western observers fear a new bout of ethnic bloodshed.
"Recent events have ratcheted tension and hatred up to a new level. The fear is that the slightest event could trigger violence on an unprecedented scale," said a senior UN official.
The Rwandan-led Rassemblement Congolais pour la Democratie (RCD-Goma) rebel faction never had more than a tenuous following among the Congolese population. But with a collapsing economy and rampant insecurity, any support that may have existed has now completely evaporated.
In Bukavu, on the southern shores of Lake Kivu, a widespread civil disobedience campaign was followed by a deluge of tracts urging Congolese to shun all Tutsis in bars, shops and public transport. A dog was beaten to death and dragged through the streets by young men who proclaimed that "this is how the Tutsis should be dealt with".
The Congo's own ethnic Tutsi minority, the Banyamulenge, are bearing the brunt of some of this discontent. Having led the overthrow of President Mobutu Sese Seko in 1997, their troops now form the backbone of the RCD. To the resentment of others they also hold the top posts in the RCD administration.
Although many have lived in the Congo for generations, the Banyamulenge are quickly becoming a pariah people. One chilling tract claimed that "Tutsi Banyamulenge" had no place in Congo or in Africa and called on the population to "sharpen their machetes in preparation for phase two".
In the event, few Congolese followed such extremist calls. But many were listening. In a barber's shop in the working class area of Kadutu in Bukavu, a group of young men outlined their frustrations.
"We don't know who is Tutsi and who is Banyamulenge anymore. They speak the same language and they have a common cause," said an earnest young man in shirt and tie. "We are very tired of them all. One day the population will rise up and chase them from here with machetes."
The parallels with pre-April 1994 Rwanda, when bubbling ethnic tensions sparked a genocide against an estimated 800,000 Tutsis and moderate Hutus, have not been lost on observers. But if it comes to the worst there will be one big difference - the Banyamulenge will be heavily armed.
Anger with the RCD crystallised last month in the case of the Catholic archbishop, Dr Emmanuel Kataliko, an outspoken critic of the Rwandan forces who was expelled from Bukavu. Since then all church-run schools and hospitals have been closed and there were no church services for three weeks. The RCD said Dr Kataliko had incited ethnic hatred; his supporters claimed he was simply speaking out for justice and human rights.
The archbishop's return to Bukavu is currently being negotiated. He has the authority to either lead a process of reconciliation or to further fuel division and hatred.
Having been unsuccessful militarily and all but collapsed politically the RCD is in crisis in eastern Congo. It retains control only through its soldiers, and most of them have not been paid for months. "They stop you and search you at night. If you refuse, they can kill you," one man said in what has become a common story.
The loyalty of many RCD troops, who are made up of both Banyamulenge and defectors from Kabila's army, is also questionable. Two soldiers told me they would return to the government army in the morning if they could. "He is our true leader," they said.
Before the war tourists used to flock to Bukavu to admire the beautiful views of Lake Kivu and the see the famous gorillas in the nearby national park. Now the forests that surround the town are swarming with bands of armed Interahamwe, the Rwandan Hutu militia, and MayiMayi, an initially tribal-based grouping that has become a focus for anti-Rwandan resistance. In the last two months alone, some 60,000 civilians have been forced from their homes by vicious Interahamwe attacks in a zone covering a 50 km radius around Bukavu. A further 70,000 are hiding in the forests, according to UN estimates.
Some 4,000 frightened civilians have arrived in Kafurumaye, a village 30 km north of Bukavu. All told the same story of the attacks. "They took everything we had, even our underwear," one old man in rags said. "Then they started to kill." The chief of the village said people had resorted to eating roots, while medicines were completely unavailable. Asked why the villagers were so generous in sharing their rough lodgings and meagre food with the displaced, the chief replied: "It's love, we share everything."
Humanitarian agencies in the Congo are under represented and under funded. The turbulent security situation means that most aid agencies are forced to lodge themselves in the major towns. The complex and neverending bad news makes it an unattractive location for donor funds.
Claude Jibidar, the UN World Food Programme co-ordinator for Bukavu, says his organisation is barely able to meet 50 per cent of needs. "We are doing evaluations but we don't have food to give people."
Or, as another American aid worker put it: "Let's face it, the Congo doesn't make good TV."