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