Arriving at Kinshasa’s Ndolo airport, in the heart of the city just north of my office, the contrasts inherent in life in the DRC immediately became manifest. The Mission Aviation Fellowship (MAF) maintenance crew was busily going over the aircraft, a Cessna 206, and weighing the cargo. Elsewhere on the airport the scene was more familiar (I rarely get to see maintenance done outside my driveway or the embassy compound): people walking around, some aimlessly, some to work or school, some hoping to sell a wide variety of items balanced on their heads. The airport’s emergency services crew were push-starting an ancient Berliot fire truck that wheezed and belched clouds of diesel exhaust before heading off to make several laps of the aircraft parking area, dodging the random people wandering the facility, parked and abandoned aircraft in various states of decay, and ramshackle “offices” that double as living quarters constructed from old shipping containers with doors and windows cut of them. So, there I encountered my old friend again: MAF struggling to impose order in the entropy of Ndolo Airport, and by sheer faith and force of will, succeeding.
Because I was traveling to The Interior and spending the night somewhere other than where the host country told me to spend the night (Kinshasa), I was obliged to go through the drill of les formalités, which every traveler to Africa will immediately recognize. These consisted of two offices: immigration and health. A fellow American was traveling with me, and he had that most valuable of assets provided by the organization with whom he was working: an expeditor. I did not, but I did have my diplomatic credentials, a diplomatic passport, an attitude, the ability to speak French, and a lot of paperwork with official looking stamps on it that declared I could travel when and where I wanted to on official business. After betting the expeditor I could get through the process faster than he could we entered the fray.
In an office no larger than a walk-in closet were two immigration officials behind desks piled with rumpled papers, decaying ledger books, and the all-important travel authorization stamp and ink pad. Also in the office were no fewer than a dozen people, mostly Congolese, waiving papers and money and shouting at the officials. Except for the absence of electricity (or any other technology for that matter), the shabby condition of the office, and the dress and language of the shouters, it resembled a scene from the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. At the door of the office was large man keeping another thirty or so would-be travelers at bay. Spying a small gap, maybe 10 centimeters wide, I showed my diplomatic credentials to the man at the door, stated shui diplomate (“shui” is short for “je suis” and means “I am” in French) and broke for the desk behind the gap. As is often the case when no weapons are present, moving purposefully and asking for forgiveness rather than waiting for permission paid off and I left the expeditor at the door struggling to explain why he was there without the passport’s owner. The harried official at the desk checked my passport, which has a barely legible diplomatic visa in it, and stared at it as intently and uncomprehendingly as a pig might regard a wristwatch. The expeditor was back with the other passenger, so it was time to move on: I showed the immigration official my impressive array of stamped and signed papers and politely reminded him of my position. After reading the documents, his eyes widened and said I needed to see monsieur le directeur. Oh dear.
He sent me to another office of the same size, but with two nattily dressed Congolese officials at desks and one forlorn looking mondele sitting in the corner whose papers were apparently not in order. Unaccountably, this office had electricity and was equipped with functioning computers (solitaire, anyone?), air conditioning, and a refrigerator. I handed my sheaf of documents to one of the “suits” and told him my destination was Kole. At that he looked at my quizzically and, without bothering to inquire into the nature of my business, shrugged and stamped the papers. Too easy, I think, heading to the health office and noting that the expeditor and passenger were in the crowded office being seen by one of the clerks. A Coca-Cola, the price of our bet, was going to be good as this day, like every day in Kinhsasa, was already hot and humid. Incidentally, Cokes taste much better in the Congo, either because they reportedly use cane sugar rather than corn syrup, because they still use glass deposit bottles, or because it’s the Congo and any manufactured product has a special allure here.
The health office was a dingy, unlit room with two tables and a refrigerator, presumably to hold yellow fever shots that are required for travel in the DRC for those who don’t already have them. This will be easy, methinks, as I hand the health official my two volume vaccination record already turned to the yellow fever page. He knits his brow and asks me where I’m going just as my competition enters the office and goes to the other health official. Drat, I guess he didn’t have see monsieur le directeur. “Kole,” says I, at which his face brightens. He informed me he worked in Kole for twelve years and had many friends there, one of which he wanted to send a letter. “Yes, yes, but the other clerk is already stamping my competition’s paperwork, so hand it over,” is what I’m thinking, but at this point I know it’s game over. Once a conversation starts in the Congo, extricating oneself from it is a painstaking and time-consuming process. The expeditor gives me a knowing smile and departs as my health official begins rummaging around for some scrap paper on which he can write a letter for me to deliver.
Fifteen minutes and a request for a visa later I return to the flight line to see my fellow passenger smugly stowing his bags and weighing in for the flight. I do likewise and the expeditor enjoys his Coca-Cola at my expense. No worries, as I am leaving Kinshasa and doing so in the hands of professionals who do not allow entropy to hold sway over their little corner of the world. I watch the pilot, Nate, do his preflight and carefully check the weight of passengers and cargo and know that I am in good hands. He shows us to our seats and briefs us on the flight and asks if we mind if he prays. The praying type myself, especially when traveling around Africa, I wholeheartedly agree and he says a simple and heartfelt prayer for our travel to The Interior.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Leaving Kinshasa
I’m back, and have no excuse for my long absence other than the fact that there is nothing quite like having two foreign armies, one of whom has been a sworn enemy for the past decade, cross the border at the invitation of a host government that can’t seem to manage the presence of several armed groups on its soil. Given the nature of my day job, trying to keep track of developments (let alone the reasons behind them) has been a full time job, and then some. Anyway, I am traveling away from Kinshasa right now, enabling me to escape the phone and emails for a few days and freeing up some time to post.
One of the greatest challenges we have encountered since moving to Kinshasa is that of leaving “Planet Gombé,” as we fondly call our neighborhood, to experience something of the country besides the little corner of it devoted to the business of making, keeping, diverting, and spending money (both public and private). Travel to The Interior or The Bush, as it is invariably and self-importantly known, is uncommon for the diplomatic community with the exception of trips to hot spots such as Goma. Those who get to The Interior (I prefer this term to The Bush after our recently concluded political experiment) gain almost legendary status, and I enjoy being a legend as much as the next bureaucrat. Thus I am constantly plotting ways to leave Kinshasa and see something of this amazing, frustrating, entropic country.
Given that Kinshasa has approximately eight million residents but lacks any viable public transportation system, just leaving the city can be a challenge. Even if one is fortunate enough to have a vehicle, just leaving the city means hours of battling the traffic I have described in previous blogs. Once one successfully negotiates the anarchy of driving in Kinshasa, one is faced with the decayed to nonexistent road infrastructure in the countryside. A particular challenge is the country’s hydrology, which necessitates bridges or fords. The terrain does not lend itself to the latter, and the former require some semblance of upkeep, making either choice a chimera here. Thus, traveling overland any more than 100-200 kilometers in any direction is impractical, even in a 4x4. Given that the DRC is the size of Western Europe or the U.S. east of the Mississippi River, 200 kilometers hardly rates as The Interior. A dirt bike light enough to carry in a pirogue across the many streams and rivers one is bound to encounter remains an option for those with the time and energy, but your chronicler does not have a surfeit of either. Finding fuel for the dirt bike is another challenge, but the “invisible hand of the market” even operates in the bush, and one can, surprisingly, find fuel if one is willing to pay an exorbitant amount for it.
Leaving Kinshasa by boat would be another logical choice, particularly in light of the mythical status traveling the Congo River has achieved since the travels of Henry Morgan Stanley and the publication of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Alas, the would-be escapee from the capital will find this option as daunting as overland travel. Barges do depart from Kinshasa for points in The Interior, but it can take up to two months to travel to the last navigable point on the Congo River, Kisangani, and the trip is rife with dangers and frustrations. These include but are not limited to maintenance issues with the overworked and under-loved water craft, multiple groundings on sandbars, river pirates, extortion by unpaid security forces, the opportunity to come down with a host of tropical diseases, the utter lack of sanitation, and the frustration that will inevitably build from weeks of being asked for things: money, a house, one’s possessions, a wife, a visa to the U.S. (complete with plane ticket, college tuition, and free room and board at a family member’s house), etc. These requests seem outlandish, but at one point or another I have heard them all, and in a society in which the average person has nothing excess, requesting a piece of a wealthy mondele’s excess can seem fairly reasonable and part of the natural order of things. Thus boats are out for now, although I do intend to descend (twice as fast as the ascent) the Congo River from Kisangani at some point in this tour of duty.
That leaves one choice for travel into The Interior besides walking: air travel. The DRC is dotted with air strips, some of them simply flat places with mown grass or scraped dirt, and others Cold War relics capable of handling modern fighter aircraft and, famously in the case of Gbadolite, chartered Concorde jets that once whisked former president Desire Mobutu Sese Soko to Europe on a whim. Of the handful of air carriers serving the interior, even fewer offer much in the way of security and dependability. One of these options is the United Nations Mission in the Congo (MONUC), which offers space-available travel on its aircraft for official business. Since almost all of my travel in the DRC is official, I have exercised this option on several occasions to visit Kisangani and Goma and have described these trips in previous blogs. Dependable and serving a wide variety of locations in the Great Lakes Region, MONUC remains the mainstay of official domestic travel in the DRC and without it the diplomatic community could not function. For all of its worth, however, it logically focuses on areas where it has troops present, so the chance to visit a location that has nothing to do with peacekeeping is a rare one.
My next few blogs will describe a trip to The Interior, to a village called Kole, where we maintain a small research station studying Monkeypox with an eye towards developing a treatment for it. MONUC does not serve Kole, so I had the privilege of using an alternate air service: Mission Aviation Fellowship (MAF). I patronized MAF when we lived in Chad and was impressed with the professionalism, courage, and devotion of its staff and the excellent condition of their aircraft. My recent flight to Kole confirmed my opinion of the organization and the important work it does in a harsh and often unsafe environment.
The DRC is a humbling place on many levels: the power of nature, the scale of greed and corruption, the tyranny of distance, and the allure of violent means to achieve ends make one feel small and vulnerable. MAF, however, manifests another, greater, power: that of a single-minded and selfless service to God and humanity as old as the two Great Commandments. The love they pour forth is no less humbling than the material phenomena described above, yet rather than making one feel small and vulnerable it shows what potential for good there is in humanity when its energy and intellect is directed towards positive and affirming metaphysical ends.
One of the greatest challenges we have encountered since moving to Kinshasa is that of leaving “Planet Gombé,” as we fondly call our neighborhood, to experience something of the country besides the little corner of it devoted to the business of making, keeping, diverting, and spending money (both public and private). Travel to The Interior or The Bush, as it is invariably and self-importantly known, is uncommon for the diplomatic community with the exception of trips to hot spots such as Goma. Those who get to The Interior (I prefer this term to The Bush after our recently concluded political experiment) gain almost legendary status, and I enjoy being a legend as much as the next bureaucrat. Thus I am constantly plotting ways to leave Kinshasa and see something of this amazing, frustrating, entropic country.
Given that Kinshasa has approximately eight million residents but lacks any viable public transportation system, just leaving the city can be a challenge. Even if one is fortunate enough to have a vehicle, just leaving the city means hours of battling the traffic I have described in previous blogs. Once one successfully negotiates the anarchy of driving in Kinshasa, one is faced with the decayed to nonexistent road infrastructure in the countryside. A particular challenge is the country’s hydrology, which necessitates bridges or fords. The terrain does not lend itself to the latter, and the former require some semblance of upkeep, making either choice a chimera here. Thus, traveling overland any more than 100-200 kilometers in any direction is impractical, even in a 4x4. Given that the DRC is the size of Western Europe or the U.S. east of the Mississippi River, 200 kilometers hardly rates as The Interior. A dirt bike light enough to carry in a pirogue across the many streams and rivers one is bound to encounter remains an option for those with the time and energy, but your chronicler does not have a surfeit of either. Finding fuel for the dirt bike is another challenge, but the “invisible hand of the market” even operates in the bush, and one can, surprisingly, find fuel if one is willing to pay an exorbitant amount for it.
Leaving Kinshasa by boat would be another logical choice, particularly in light of the mythical status traveling the Congo River has achieved since the travels of Henry Morgan Stanley and the publication of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Alas, the would-be escapee from the capital will find this option as daunting as overland travel. Barges do depart from Kinshasa for points in The Interior, but it can take up to two months to travel to the last navigable point on the Congo River, Kisangani, and the trip is rife with dangers and frustrations. These include but are not limited to maintenance issues with the overworked and under-loved water craft, multiple groundings on sandbars, river pirates, extortion by unpaid security forces, the opportunity to come down with a host of tropical diseases, the utter lack of sanitation, and the frustration that will inevitably build from weeks of being asked for things: money, a house, one’s possessions, a wife, a visa to the U.S. (complete with plane ticket, college tuition, and free room and board at a family member’s house), etc. These requests seem outlandish, but at one point or another I have heard them all, and in a society in which the average person has nothing excess, requesting a piece of a wealthy mondele’s excess can seem fairly reasonable and part of the natural order of things. Thus boats are out for now, although I do intend to descend (twice as fast as the ascent) the Congo River from Kisangani at some point in this tour of duty.
That leaves one choice for travel into The Interior besides walking: air travel. The DRC is dotted with air strips, some of them simply flat places with mown grass or scraped dirt, and others Cold War relics capable of handling modern fighter aircraft and, famously in the case of Gbadolite, chartered Concorde jets that once whisked former president Desire Mobutu Sese Soko to Europe on a whim. Of the handful of air carriers serving the interior, even fewer offer much in the way of security and dependability. One of these options is the United Nations Mission in the Congo (MONUC), which offers space-available travel on its aircraft for official business. Since almost all of my travel in the DRC is official, I have exercised this option on several occasions to visit Kisangani and Goma and have described these trips in previous blogs. Dependable and serving a wide variety of locations in the Great Lakes Region, MONUC remains the mainstay of official domestic travel in the DRC and without it the diplomatic community could not function. For all of its worth, however, it logically focuses on areas where it has troops present, so the chance to visit a location that has nothing to do with peacekeeping is a rare one.
My next few blogs will describe a trip to The Interior, to a village called Kole, where we maintain a small research station studying Monkeypox with an eye towards developing a treatment for it. MONUC does not serve Kole, so I had the privilege of using an alternate air service: Mission Aviation Fellowship (MAF). I patronized MAF when we lived in Chad and was impressed with the professionalism, courage, and devotion of its staff and the excellent condition of their aircraft. My recent flight to Kole confirmed my opinion of the organization and the important work it does in a harsh and often unsafe environment.
The DRC is a humbling place on many levels: the power of nature, the scale of greed and corruption, the tyranny of distance, and the allure of violent means to achieve ends make one feel small and vulnerable. MAF, however, manifests another, greater, power: that of a single-minded and selfless service to God and humanity as old as the two Great Commandments. The love they pour forth is no less humbling than the material phenomena described above, yet rather than making one feel small and vulnerable it shows what potential for good there is in humanity when its energy and intellect is directed towards positive and affirming metaphysical ends.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
A Tale of Two Airports, Part I
Greetings from Kinshasa. I regret the delay in my posts, but we spent Christmas vacation in Cape Town, South Africa and I made the conscious decision to spend the time “unplugged” since I spend so much of my time on the computer at work and dealing with my dissertation. Compounding the delay are some problems with our home computer, which has recently fallen victim to some kind of mal-ware, and a week’s backlog of email at work. I would just call a computer doctor for the former problem but in Congo these are few and far between, so getting the computer fixed will prove to be an adventure, as is the case with most everything in Kinshasa. In fact, the mundane subject of this post is illustrative of the phenomenon and of the larger qualitative differences between the Congo and South Africa that we recently experienced. Air travel to and from the Congo in the best of circumstances is a journey reminiscent of moving through Dante’s circles of Hell, which I will rename Circles of Chaos out of respect for his more existential work. It’s Chaos in the mathematical sense, by the way, not just human entropy. There is a pattern to the apparent disorder here, I just can’t detect it quite yet. When I do it will be time to move on. . .
First, purchasing the ticket is an adventure, because the airlines serving South Africa do not accept credit cards or personal checks. Solution: request permission to cash a large check at the U.S. Embassy and then hand carry close to $3,000 in cash to the travel agent to receive a paper ticket. For those of you my age or greater, you may remember the paper tickets with the red carbon paper copies of which I write. This sounds simple, but the travel agent works in two different locations depending on the time of day and running around Kinshasa with that amount of cash on hand can be unsettling, at least at first. I now think nothing of large wads of cash in my pocket, since we inhabit the cash-based Circle of Chaos.
Paper tickets in hand, one must now ensure that one gets to the airport in time to avoid getting bumped off the plane. Much of the expatriate and Congolese communities flee Kinshasa to spend the Christmas season in South Africa, and the airlines routinely overbook the flight to ensure a full plane and maximum profits. Thus, it’s on to the airport at 0830 for a 1300 flight. The trip to the airport, which is approximately 30 kilometers from downtown Kinshasa, is one that never becomes routine. Each commune, analogous to a county district or city neighborhood, has its own character and specializes in some product or service. Lining the main road from Kinshasa to the airport is an area that the city’s planners, if there were any, must have intended as park or green space. In a city of eight million with poor transportation infrastructure and little in the way of a formal legal system to regulate property ownership, this land serves as an informal commons for businesses and markets. One passes through the metalworking area, with ersatz grills, hand made gates and racks of all shapes and sizes, and roadside welding stands. RayBans apparently pass for welding goggles here. Next is the used car sales and maintenance section, with everything from sleek Mercedes Benz sedans to used German and Dutch bread delivery trucks and ambulances. The latter will soon be converted into the ubiquitous and over-crowded minibuses that pass for public transportation here by welding seats to the floor and cutting “windows” about the size of portholes but minus the glass in the sides. Consider the heavy rains pouring in the “windows” a free shower. Next is an area devoted to growing produce, decorative plants, and making thatch roofs. Naturally, there is an area chock full of open air bars, with colorful murals adverting Primus, Skol, and Tembo, three of Congo’s most common beers. As interesting and revealing as the trip is, it sometimes takes up to two hours to travel the thirty kilometers thanks to the abysmal road conditions, lack of mass transportation, vehicles that randomly break down or run out of gas, and utter disregard that most drivers have for basic rules such as traveling in a lane or even on the road, yielding, and merging. As much as I try to adapt to Congolese time and not fret about missing the flight, I have yet to achieve the Zen-like state required to overcome my Western notions of time and space, so the worry engendered by the trip itself represents the deeper traffic Circle of Chaos, one to which I have alluded in earlier posts on commuting in the Congo.
U.S. Embassy vehicles are easily identifiable by their “CD” (Corps Diplomatique) plates and, typically, American origin. The moment one pulls in to the airport parking area the normally lethargic atmosphere turns electric as the large group of inevitably young males loitering about the place sprint towards the vehicle. The movement reminds one of the old roller derby competitions that used to air on Channel 17, the “SuperStation,” when I was growing up, as the only rule is to get to the vehicle first and shoving, tripping, and elbowing are just part of the game. Imagine their disappointment when everyone gets out of the vehicle with rolling baggage, which have no doubt become the bane of baggage porters everywhere across the developing world. After establishing the fact that we don’t need any assistance in rolling our bags to the terminal, recriminations, pleas for money, food, a visa to the U.S., a house, a job, a wife, a car, a bicycle, or any number of other requests ensue. These continue for the 200 meter walk from the car to the terminal, after which we show our tickets to a police officer, who lets us enter the inner sanctum after asking for money, food, a visa to the U.S., a house, a job, a wife, a car, a bicycle, or any number of other things. It is here that one encounters another and still deeper Circle of Chaos, that of relative meanings of property, ownership, and wealth. The policeman, who is poorly paid if he is paid at all, and the young men so eager to “help,” who fill no place in the country’s formal economy, view mondele of all stations as extraordinarily wealthy and the surplus wealth we so jealously guard as available on request. After all, what good is wealth that is stored away and not used? If it isn’t being used, it must be available for someone else. We are extraordinarily wealthy in the fiscal and material sense in a relative way, of course, and this Circle of Chaos is born of the cognitive dissonance created as “it’s mine, I earned it” clashes with “from each according to his ability” under the umbrella of “do unto others.”
The main (only) check-in terminal at the airport is a dome-shaped structure about the size of the Pantheon in Rome, but I doubt it will still be standing two millennia from now. At one time a fountain or statue must have stood at the center of the dome, but now all that is left are the decaying remnants of a foundation over which passengers and staff roughly tread. If one is new to the airport and is expecting to find signs or hear announcements indicating check-in times for one’s flight, one will be disappointed. The key, as in many things in the Congo, is to watch those around you for some kind of sign. Sure enough, after loitering around the “Pantheon” for an hour or so, there is a sudden movement towards the check-in counter reminiscent of that towards our vehicle upon entering the airport grounds, with the concomitant elbowing and shoving. One of the many privileges of diplomatic life is the “expeditor,” a host nation employee of the U.S. Embassy whose job is to assist the traveler through the departure and arrival process at the airport. Thus it is the hapless expeditor who joins the fray on your behalf, armed with your tickets, passports, an embassy badge, and a mixture of attitude, knowledge of the local language and culture, and connections. Meanwhile, one waits. This brings one to another Circle of Chaos: helpless waiting. After twenty years as a Ranger-trained cavalryman, paratrooper, and culturally-savvy civil affairs and foreign area officer who speaks the host country’s official language, it is in my professional DNA to act, yet acting in this case would only complicate the expeditor’s job and cause needless delay and frustration. Having been through the drill more than a few times, we have adjusted to waiting as a family fairly well, but I often travel with visitors from the other world: the one of linear time, orderly queues, credit cards, and mass transportation. Helpless waiting is not in the schema of these visitors, particularly senior ones, and as a result I vicariously visit this Circle of Chaos again and again in the course of my professional life.
Once check-in is complete and the nice customs official rifles our bags and requests money, food, a visa to the U.S., a house, a job, a wife, a car, a bicycle, or any number of other things, we can begin the climb out of the Circle of Chaos. In this case are again blessed with the chance to hang out in the Official Visitor’s Lounge, which is full of over-stuffed leather chairs and sofas, a large screen television showing Radio et Television Nationale du Congo, and relieved passengers. Once again, if one expects to be told when one’s plane is boarding one will be mistaken. Rather, the crowd surges to the door at some point and it’s “once more unto the breach” as a hundred “official” passengers attempt to squeeze through a single door to board the aircraft. In Part II I’ll compare and contrast this airport with the one in Johannesburg, South Africa. For now count your blessings the next time you are cooling your heels in some large, impersonal airport with operational bathrooms, coffee shops, and queues. Pax, Scott
First, purchasing the ticket is an adventure, because the airlines serving South Africa do not accept credit cards or personal checks. Solution: request permission to cash a large check at the U.S. Embassy and then hand carry close to $3,000 in cash to the travel agent to receive a paper ticket. For those of you my age or greater, you may remember the paper tickets with the red carbon paper copies of which I write. This sounds simple, but the travel agent works in two different locations depending on the time of day and running around Kinshasa with that amount of cash on hand can be unsettling, at least at first. I now think nothing of large wads of cash in my pocket, since we inhabit the cash-based Circle of Chaos.
Paper tickets in hand, one must now ensure that one gets to the airport in time to avoid getting bumped off the plane. Much of the expatriate and Congolese communities flee Kinshasa to spend the Christmas season in South Africa, and the airlines routinely overbook the flight to ensure a full plane and maximum profits. Thus, it’s on to the airport at 0830 for a 1300 flight. The trip to the airport, which is approximately 30 kilometers from downtown Kinshasa, is one that never becomes routine. Each commune, analogous to a county district or city neighborhood, has its own character and specializes in some product or service. Lining the main road from Kinshasa to the airport is an area that the city’s planners, if there were any, must have intended as park or green space. In a city of eight million with poor transportation infrastructure and little in the way of a formal legal system to regulate property ownership, this land serves as an informal commons for businesses and markets. One passes through the metalworking area, with ersatz grills, hand made gates and racks of all shapes and sizes, and roadside welding stands. RayBans apparently pass for welding goggles here. Next is the used car sales and maintenance section, with everything from sleek Mercedes Benz sedans to used German and Dutch bread delivery trucks and ambulances. The latter will soon be converted into the ubiquitous and over-crowded minibuses that pass for public transportation here by welding seats to the floor and cutting “windows” about the size of portholes but minus the glass in the sides. Consider the heavy rains pouring in the “windows” a free shower. Next is an area devoted to growing produce, decorative plants, and making thatch roofs. Naturally, there is an area chock full of open air bars, with colorful murals adverting Primus, Skol, and Tembo, three of Congo’s most common beers. As interesting and revealing as the trip is, it sometimes takes up to two hours to travel the thirty kilometers thanks to the abysmal road conditions, lack of mass transportation, vehicles that randomly break down or run out of gas, and utter disregard that most drivers have for basic rules such as traveling in a lane or even on the road, yielding, and merging. As much as I try to adapt to Congolese time and not fret about missing the flight, I have yet to achieve the Zen-like state required to overcome my Western notions of time and space, so the worry engendered by the trip itself represents the deeper traffic Circle of Chaos, one to which I have alluded in earlier posts on commuting in the Congo.
U.S. Embassy vehicles are easily identifiable by their “CD” (Corps Diplomatique) plates and, typically, American origin. The moment one pulls in to the airport parking area the normally lethargic atmosphere turns electric as the large group of inevitably young males loitering about the place sprint towards the vehicle. The movement reminds one of the old roller derby competitions that used to air on Channel 17, the “SuperStation,” when I was growing up, as the only rule is to get to the vehicle first and shoving, tripping, and elbowing are just part of the game. Imagine their disappointment when everyone gets out of the vehicle with rolling baggage, which have no doubt become the bane of baggage porters everywhere across the developing world. After establishing the fact that we don’t need any assistance in rolling our bags to the terminal, recriminations, pleas for money, food, a visa to the U.S., a house, a job, a wife, a car, a bicycle, or any number of other requests ensue. These continue for the 200 meter walk from the car to the terminal, after which we show our tickets to a police officer, who lets us enter the inner sanctum after asking for money, food, a visa to the U.S., a house, a job, a wife, a car, a bicycle, or any number of other things. It is here that one encounters another and still deeper Circle of Chaos, that of relative meanings of property, ownership, and wealth. The policeman, who is poorly paid if he is paid at all, and the young men so eager to “help,” who fill no place in the country’s formal economy, view mondele of all stations as extraordinarily wealthy and the surplus wealth we so jealously guard as available on request. After all, what good is wealth that is stored away and not used? If it isn’t being used, it must be available for someone else. We are extraordinarily wealthy in the fiscal and material sense in a relative way, of course, and this Circle of Chaos is born of the cognitive dissonance created as “it’s mine, I earned it” clashes with “from each according to his ability” under the umbrella of “do unto others.”
The main (only) check-in terminal at the airport is a dome-shaped structure about the size of the Pantheon in Rome, but I doubt it will still be standing two millennia from now. At one time a fountain or statue must have stood at the center of the dome, but now all that is left are the decaying remnants of a foundation over which passengers and staff roughly tread. If one is new to the airport and is expecting to find signs or hear announcements indicating check-in times for one’s flight, one will be disappointed. The key, as in many things in the Congo, is to watch those around you for some kind of sign. Sure enough, after loitering around the “Pantheon” for an hour or so, there is a sudden movement towards the check-in counter reminiscent of that towards our vehicle upon entering the airport grounds, with the concomitant elbowing and shoving. One of the many privileges of diplomatic life is the “expeditor,” a host nation employee of the U.S. Embassy whose job is to assist the traveler through the departure and arrival process at the airport. Thus it is the hapless expeditor who joins the fray on your behalf, armed with your tickets, passports, an embassy badge, and a mixture of attitude, knowledge of the local language and culture, and connections. Meanwhile, one waits. This brings one to another Circle of Chaos: helpless waiting. After twenty years as a Ranger-trained cavalryman, paratrooper, and culturally-savvy civil affairs and foreign area officer who speaks the host country’s official language, it is in my professional DNA to act, yet acting in this case would only complicate the expeditor’s job and cause needless delay and frustration. Having been through the drill more than a few times, we have adjusted to waiting as a family fairly well, but I often travel with visitors from the other world: the one of linear time, orderly queues, credit cards, and mass transportation. Helpless waiting is not in the schema of these visitors, particularly senior ones, and as a result I vicariously visit this Circle of Chaos again and again in the course of my professional life.
Once check-in is complete and the nice customs official rifles our bags and requests money, food, a visa to the U.S., a house, a job, a wife, a car, a bicycle, or any number of other things, we can begin the climb out of the Circle of Chaos. In this case are again blessed with the chance to hang out in the Official Visitor’s Lounge, which is full of over-stuffed leather chairs and sofas, a large screen television showing Radio et Television Nationale du Congo, and relieved passengers. Once again, if one expects to be told when one’s plane is boarding one will be mistaken. Rather, the crowd surges to the door at some point and it’s “once more unto the breach” as a hundred “official” passengers attempt to squeeze through a single door to board the aircraft. In Part II I’ll compare and contrast this airport with the one in Johannesburg, South Africa. For now count your blessings the next time you are cooling your heels in some large, impersonal airport with operational bathrooms, coffee shops, and queues. Pax, Scott
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)