Postcards From The Edge: DR Congo
Saturday October 25, 2008
Small Fish, Big Swamp
We were huddled up like a walking pack of sardines as we stumbled our way through Kinshasa airport. The long and gruelling process made the headache of Heathrow look nice and easy.
It took 30 minutes to get through customs. The sweltering heat of 29 degrees drained me, and the seven hour turbulent flight did little to help my struggling condition. To my right, an elderly American disputed a matter over with his customs officer - frustration and impatience engrossed the two lost in translation. In the end the Congolese officer demanded: "Ok!Ok! Just give me 20 dollars..." I got off lucky but learnt promptly that bribing is a common asset in the Congo, and like most, the American slipped through a 20 note to avoid any further interrogation.
Baggage claim was hustle bustle, with all preying over the conveyor belt playing the game 'when push comes to shove.' I was actually impressed that only my colleague Rebecca failed to retrieve her luggage – she would have to endure three days without the luxuries of a bendy toothbrush and minted dental floss.
Exiting the building, it was re-affirmed - this was not Hawaii; there were no gorgeous girls awaiting our arrival with flowery necklaces. In the DRC we were greeted by dozens of selling and begging children. They came thick and fast, trying to pick us off one by one, tugging on my shirt and surrounding our getaway van. Though they were never violent, they were certainly persistent, and my mind proclaimed: "Let’s go go go, let’s get out of here!" Call me uncompassionate, but what can I say - I was intimidated. I was nervous.
Praise to the Heavens, I then caught my first glimpse of the beauty of Congo: a woman carrying a hefty box of fruit on her head offered me a free banana. The frivolous sentiment was hard to refuse with her glorious smile that shone through despite the strain of her baby on board; an infant boy with dried - up saliva crusting up his cheeks, resting peacefully on his mother’s back. Nevertheless, I had to deny the offer with a quick reminder of our health and safety regulations - food from the streets was not an option for us.
The drive to our compound was as manic as the airport debacle. We moved with a herd of over-packed vehicles scuttling down the rocky roads of Kinshasa, with children hanging off the outside of vans, no sign of traffic lights and no sign of fear. My mate Teklar defined the 'good drivers' of Congo as "crazy but able." To me, it was
all streamlined anarchy.
Two hours later I moved into my en-suite room, complete with grimy shower and piss-smelling WC. It was expected really.
On my way to dinner (of beef curry, fufu, plantain and rice) I passed four men chatting in a car outside our bedrooms – two of them polishing Rambo machine guns. It was clarified later that they were our guards, although the mere thought of them patrolling beyond my door was more so unnerving than comforting.
It hit midnight before we headed back to our rooms, with handy men Teklar and Ben lending their services, devising ingenious hanger contraptions to hold up our mosquito nets. Inside the mesh I looked like a cross between Sleeping Beauty and the Golden Child. But finally I could settle in, unpack, shower and sleep... that was until my neighbours caused a racket pumping up the volume until 2:00am. Like a frigid nag I marched next door in a mission for shut-eye, finding the culprits to be the four security guards, who looked mightily peeved at being interrupted.
With no wish for suicide, I ambled back to my room. Tom Hanks eat your heart out - this is 'Sleepless in Congo.'
The full article can be sourced from here
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