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.
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