Journey Part 8: Into Congo, Finally

I arrive in another structure. An official sits behind a counter, on the other side of a window. A well-dressed man (who is somehow completely unharassed) stands at the window. I try to stand behind him, but I am jostled this way and that by my two guides and the new taller gentleman, who keeps demanding my immunization records. I look for my official escort, but he has vanished, never to be seen again. (So much for my momentary triumph.) I appeal to my original two guides, who both nod their heads -- yes, they appear to say, give the tall guy your documents. I hand them over and he tall man says, “I need money for the boss, so he will stamp you.” I had heard that there was an “official” $10 fee to get my passport stamped, so I give the tall man ten bucks. He frowns and says, “That will do nothing.” I realize that the $10 probably will never leave the tall man’s hands. He demands more; I up the ante to $11, but will budge no further. In a huff, he disappears with my immunization records and my money; my passport goes through the window to the official on the other side.

There is a moment of relative peace. Most of my entourage stayed outside this structure, and with various people attending to my documents, I have a moment with my original guide. I hand him $20 as compensation for helping me through. He takes the money, expressionless, and I say, “This is for you and your friend. Thanks for your help.” No response.

The tall man comes back, directing me and my two guides deeper into the building. My three guides and I arrive in a small office. A woman sits at a desk, lording over a massive logbook that tracks immunization records. She speaks to me in French, expresses her annoyance that I don’t understand, and then starts to ask the same familiar questions: “Where are you going?” “Who are you staying with?” My three guides shout at her in unison, telling her to cut it out. It appears that her job is to check my immunization records, but she is asking these other questions in the hopes of soliciting a bribe -- or maybe just to appear important. My guides will have none of it. She frowns, logs my immunizations, and I am whisked back out to the window I was at moments ago.

My stamped passport is waiting. My tall guide grabs it; the other two take my bags, and we walk into the Democratic Republic of Congo.

I am greeted, of course, by a new mob of hawkers and a new cacophony of questions and requests. My guides walk me 40 paces to a “taxi” -- a regular car with no taxi markings whatsoever -- and I sit down. Victory! We’re cruising down the road!

But... we’re not. For one thing, this taxi won’t move until it’s full of people. For another, although my three guides have placed my bags in the trunk, they are not letting me close my door. They are demanding more money. And they are accompanied by at least a half-dozen others, also clamoring for payment, among other things.

I state my case: I already paid my main guide -- I jab at him with my finger -- eleven dollars. That should cover you -- I point at my second guide. And I paid you -- pointing at the tall guide -- eleven dollars. Plus, I gave the first official two dollars, and another official a dollar. That’s a total of $34! “What more do you want?” I ask.

The response is deafening, a collective shout and a frenzy of gestures. Some people are annoyed, others are visibly angry. The tall guy says he didn’t keep any of the $11. The original guides say $20 wasn’t nearly enough. Other people are trying to sell me bananas, drinks, magazines. Still others are waving currency at me. I appeal to the taxi driver for help, but he doesn’t speak English and stares at me with a blank look.

“How much do you want?” I ask, pulling out all the small bills I have -- two fives and four ones. (All my other money is sequestered elsewhere, in my shoes, in my jacket pocket, in a secret pocket on my pants, etc.) “One hundred dollars,” says the tall man. I am flabbergasted. And then the shouting begins. I yell, I gesticulate, I shake my fist, and I point. The entire crowd shouts back, gesticulating with equal fervor. I pull my pockets inside out, indicating that I have no more money. I lie, saying that I have only $100 for one month in the Congo. We go round and round until my original guide snatches the $14 from my hand, disgusted, and walks away with the rest of the mob in tow.

I exhale, pleased that I didn’t pay any more, and slump in my seat. The taxi still has no more passengers. Over the next half-hour, we wait. I receive several more requests for payment (“I am your friend. Are you my friend? Give me five dollars!” “Where you going? I will translate!”). The most frightening demand is from a large, very dark-skinned man in a light blue t-shirt with a full beard. He stomps up to my window, eyes wild, points furiously at a Congolese officer (I think) directing traffic, and says: “Money, NOW! For the boss!” His face is a few inches from mine. I slump further, pull my baseball cap over my eyes, and hope a few more people can make it across the border and into my cab.

Eventually, they do. We drive away from the border and race down the highway at 100 km/hr (the posted limit is 40), passing trucks at every turn. We go past brush fires, trash fires, enormous termite mounds, dilapidated villages, and amazingly overloaded bicyclists until we arrive in sprawling, dusty Lubumbashi about an hour later. Welcome to the Congo.