Journey Part 6: Leaving Zambia

The taxi stops. Within the corridor of trucks, all I can see is cars, people (lots of people), and some makeshift kiosks. There is no sign of an actual border post. The other four people in the taxi, including the driver, get out and seem to disappear. I am left alone in the car, wondering where Kelvin is and how I can find him.

Within seconds, men surround the car. Many have bricks of cash -- francs -- and ask if I want to change money. Others ask if I can speak French. It’s hard to make out questions because everyone is talking at once, surrounding the car, knocking on the windows.

The front door of the taxi opens and one of the men gets in, lays across the front seats, and fires off several questions. The back door opposite me opens and another man sits in the car, asking more questions. My door opens and three more men start talking. The rear hatch opens. I am overwhelmed, but I also find the whole thing a bit comical. Still wondering where Kelvin is (to say nothing of the driver!). And I am concerned that my bags won’t last long in the back of the taxi now that the rear hatch is open. So I take out my camera, which has the effect of a flashlight on vampires. The two men in the car recoil and yell “No!”

“Get out, then,” I respond.

As the men consider my counteroffer, I hear a voice near me, much softer than the others: “My friend said to meet you here.” Skeptical but hopeful, I stare at this man and ask a few verification questions. His name is Kelvin; he knows Kristen’s name and where she works. I decide this is good enough for me and spring out of the car, grabbing hold of Kelvin and planning on never letting go.

I am, by the way, wearing an Obama t-shirt, purchased a couple of days ago on the theory that since Africans seem to really like Obama, the Congolese at the border crossing might give me the benefit of the doubt if they know I like him too. Ultimately, I don't think the shirt helped much at the border post, but it did have one tangible effect: I had the nicknamed “Little Obama” for my march across the border.

Kelvin leads me a few paces away from the car. I am trailed by an entourage of about 15 people, most of whom are shouting at me at any given moment. I thank Kelvin profusely, eager to get going. He says, “I have to go to Chingola. This man will take you.” Another man steps up, wearing opaque shades. He is short and slight, dressed in jeans and an olive jacket, and bears several scars on his face and his hands. His voice is deep and raspy. He snatches my backpack and tent -- immediately handing the tent to another man -- and we are off.

My entourage catches up to me as we walk. “You need francs? Dollars?” “Change kwacha?” “Visa?” “Want a taxi?” “Where you from?” “First time in Congo?” I ignore most and occasionally answer some easy ones, which only encourages more questions.

It is windy. The sun is warm, but the air is cool on this winter day. Huge clouds of dust whip across the dirt road ahead. My phalanx marches onward: My two guides in front, me in the middle flanked by several wanna-be guides peppering me with questions, with a train of additional shady characters bringing up the rear.

We walk into the border post, an average-looking small rundown building. About 15 people -- all black -- are gathered at the counter. My guide says a few words and they part; I walk up to the counter, hand a man my passport, nervously answer a few questions, and betray surprise when he smiles at me and stamps my passport. He hands it back to me as he asks, “You speak French?” I admit that I do not. He raises his eyebrows, but before I can respond, I am pulled away from the counter by my guide and his assistant, and we are back outside, walking fast.

That wasn’t so bad, I thought. But as I look ahead, I see several more structures and hordes of people, and I realize that all I have done is left Zambia. I am inno-man's land, and I have not yet begun to navigate the Congolese bureaucracy.