Wednesday, February 22, 2006
We are a danger to the Democratic Republic of Congo
The Kinshasa side of the border crossing seemed much tidier, more like an airport. Within minutes our car was stamped in and so were we. Immigration and customs washed their hands of us and stood by as the ministry of health stepped in. This affable man was clearly not heartbroken to inform us that our car would have to be disinfected at a cost to us of forty American dollars. All the other cars rolled on by; his accomplice in CDC jumpsuit and surgeon's mask prepared his bogus canister of Stingray disinfectant. Come on, I said, I work with doctors in the Gambia; I scrub the car with detol every week; it is not "a danger to the people of the Democratic Republic of Congo." He assured me that I did not understand microbes and then he agreed not to disinfect the interior. If the microbes are on the outside, I argued, then it is too late. The whole ferry boat is already infected; the people sitting on our car, the people touching it, the three of us! We are already infected. So, this disinfection is useless. He assured me that I did not understand microbes. He refused a gift of ten dollars and dropped his price to twenty. I offered to disinfect the car myself to save money; I volunteered to wear the suit. He assured me that this was not an option, produced a lengthy legal document with scores of clauses about foreign disease, obligatory sanitation and deportation. Then he began to lament how he would have to send us back across the river and started walking away.
As his minion approached our vehicle, a crowd gathered to watch the disinfection, some of them cautioning others to stay away from us. I asked the contented pigswine with our twenty dollar bill if this was our welcome to the DRC. I asked if he was happy to embarrass us in front of one hundred of his countrymen. I asked him if we were disgusting. I asked him if he thought that I was an animal. All affability and apology, so sincerely saddened by the necessity of his duty, he embraced me. He squeezed me tight for too long while explaining that he would not hug me if he thought that I was infected with disease. He begged us not to think he wanted our humiliation; he asked for our phone number so that he could prove to us what a stand up con artist he was. Thanks. We left and tried to reach the US Embassy before their lazy time closing hours-we figured that they would have a real map of Kinshasa and advice about where not to stay or walk around. Friday 1pm. Of course they are all closed up, cell phones off—it can be a cushy job. The marine on the other side of the you-can't-break-into-America-in-fact-you-can't-even-smell-America unbreakable glass photocopied a decent map for us and advised us under no circumstances to show our original passports to DRC officials. I imagine that it must be easy to do that if you are a marine.
We grabbed an old man (old is good) who was selling a collapsing well carved wooden stool. He was willing to show us the way to cheap accommodation. Now that it was essential to drive with the windows down, the Stingray was kind enough to sabotage its fan and ventilation system. The old man took us to a swanky Protestant mission. A room was going to cost fifty dollars a night (absolutely not); but they couldn't make one available. Could we set up our tents? Sure, at twenty dollars per person, yes we could. Thanks. I guess we'll just go find a manger. An earnest appeal to their sympathy for under-resourced much harried, recently disinfected and totally disoriented travelers yielded smirks. Cheers. We found in our guide book from 1989 that this hostel is notorious for trying to rip off travelers.
It had already been a slow going, hard sweating hour in our company, but the old man was patient and hospitable. On the six lane main street of Kinshasa a car was stopped near the center. Three people were leaning into the back seat beating a well dressed black passenger in the face. He appeared to be losing consciousness. Two young men ran in front of our car, gesturing for us to slow; they smiled at Sean, crossed two lanes of traffic and joined in the lopsided broad daylight beating. A crowd surrounded all the other doors. The cops at the intersection 150 meters ahead were doing nothing. It was probably safer that way. Windows up, doors locked, tire iron, sweat soaked, following the old man’s lead far out of the city, past the industrial zone, by the port, the university and the airport. The place that he brought us looked too expensive and we began to fear the long crowded ride back into town. But the price was right. We dropped the old fellow some gratitude and chipped away at our stress behind the bars of the hotel's second story beer veranda. I have never derived more enjoyment from being caged.
The Kinshasa side of the border crossing seemed much tidier, more like an airport. Within minutes our car was stamped in and so were we. Immigration and customs washed their hands of us and stood by as the ministry of health stepped in. This affable man was clearly not heartbroken to inform us that our car would have to be disinfected at a cost to us of forty American dollars. All the other cars rolled on by; his accomplice in CDC jumpsuit and surgeon's mask prepared his bogus canister of Stingray disinfectant. Come on, I said, I work with doctors in the Gambia; I scrub the car with detol every week; it is not "a danger to the people of the Democratic Republic of Congo." He assured me that I did not understand microbes and then he agreed not to disinfect the interior. If the microbes are on the outside, I argued, then it is too late. The whole ferry boat is already infected; the people sitting on our car, the people touching it, the three of us! We are already infected. So, this disinfection is useless. He assured me that I did not understand microbes. He refused a gift of ten dollars and dropped his price to twenty. I offered to disinfect the car myself to save money; I volunteered to wear the suit. He assured me that this was not an option, produced a lengthy legal document with scores of clauses about foreign disease, obligatory sanitation and deportation. Then he began to lament how he would have to send us back across the river and started walking away.
As his minion approached our vehicle, a crowd gathered to watch the disinfection, some of them cautioning others to stay away from us. I asked the contented pigswine with our twenty dollar bill if this was our welcome to the DRC. I asked if he was happy to embarrass us in front of one hundred of his countrymen. I asked him if we were disgusting. I asked him if he thought that I was an animal. All affability and apology, so sincerely saddened by the necessity of his duty, he embraced me. He squeezed me tight for too long while explaining that he would not hug me if he thought that I was infected with disease. He begged us not to think he wanted our humiliation; he asked for our phone number so that he could prove to us what a stand up con artist he was. Thanks. We left and tried to reach the US Embassy before their lazy time closing hours-we figured that they would have a real map of Kinshasa and advice about where not to stay or walk around. Friday 1pm. Of course they are all closed up, cell phones off—it can be a cushy job. The marine on the other side of the you-can't-break-into-America-in-fact-you-can't-even-smell-America unbreakable glass photocopied a decent map for us and advised us under no circumstances to show our original passports to DRC officials. I imagine that it must be easy to do that if you are a marine.
We grabbed an old man (old is good) who was selling a collapsing well carved wooden stool. He was willing to show us the way to cheap accommodation. Now that it was essential to drive with the windows down, the Stingray was kind enough to sabotage its fan and ventilation system. The old man took us to a swanky Protestant mission. A room was going to cost fifty dollars a night (absolutely not); but they couldn't make one available. Could we set up our tents? Sure, at twenty dollars per person, yes we could. Thanks. I guess we'll just go find a manger. An earnest appeal to their sympathy for under-resourced much harried, recently disinfected and totally disoriented travelers yielded smirks. Cheers. We found in our guide book from 1989 that this hostel is notorious for trying to rip off travelers.
It had already been a slow going, hard sweating hour in our company, but the old man was patient and hospitable. On the six lane main street of Kinshasa a car was stopped near the center. Three people were leaning into the back seat beating a well dressed black passenger in the face. He appeared to be losing consciousness. Two young men ran in front of our car, gesturing for us to slow; they smiled at Sean, crossed two lanes of traffic and joined in the lopsided broad daylight beating. A crowd surrounded all the other doors. The cops at the intersection 150 meters ahead were doing nothing. It was probably safer that way. Windows up, doors locked, tire iron, sweat soaked, following the old man’s lead far out of the city, past the industrial zone, by the port, the university and the airport. The place that he brought us looked too expensive and we began to fear the long crowded ride back into town. But the price was right. We dropped the old fellow some gratitude and chipped away at our stress behind the bars of the hotel's second story beer veranda. I have never derived more enjoyment from being caged.
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