NOTE: I must apologize for the length of
this entry. But, I can’t help but retell
the day as completely as I can.
Where to
begin? I cannot explain the sensory
overload all of us are experiencing as first time travelers to the Democratic
Republic of Congo. Our journey from
Kinshasa to Mbandaka completed the overload process. Even after spending a full day in Kinshasa
and seeing some of the city, we were not ready for what lay ahead on Day 4 of
this amazing journey.
5:30 AM came
way too early on this day of travel.
After a quick breakfast with our team and Rev. Bonanga, we were ushered
back into our minivan and headed for the airport for our flight to
Mbandaka. What would be a 20 to 30
minute in Oklahoma was much closer to an hour.
It seemed that over half the seven million people who live in Kinshasa
decided to come out and see us early on a Saturday morning.
One traffic
jam after another met us on the drive.
Large transit buses with every seat filled and the aisle packed liked
sardines was the norm. The smaller 15
passenger vans routinely held 25 to 30 people; many times passengers hung out
the windows holding large bundles of produce or clothing on the roof. Conductors stood in the open side doors
hanging off the side and ducking into the van quickly when their van and
another vehicle would come within inches of each other. At one point we passed a truck towing a large
caliber gun behind it; yet no one but us seemed to notice it.
Hundreds of
pedestrians darted across the streets dodging cars and trucks at every turn on
our trip to the airport. Men escorting
children; women with large trays of fruit or bundles of clothes on their heads;
mixed with the Congolese hired by the government to keep the city streets
clean. These street cleaners would move
a barricade into oncoming traffic seemingly on a whim to shut down a lane and
then start sweeping the asphalt roadway with a small kitchen broom.
Quite often
our van came to a stop due to the jam of cars, trucks, buses and pedestrians
all trying to occupy the same spot in the road.
And yet while we were white-knuckling seat backs and the dashboard,
looking at the faces of those in other vehicles and on foot told a different
story. This chaos was normal to
them. This was their life.
These were
sights on this Saturday morning. I
cannot adequately or accurately describe the sounds and smells that accompanied
this early morning drive. A weak attempt
is to say that there was an almost symphonic quality to the constant horn
honking, along with yelling from those trying to cross the road, the sound of
diesel engines, old out of tune engines popping and squeaking their way along,
and the intermittent roar of motorcycles as they passed our van.
The smells were
unique and yet familiar all at the same time.
The acrid smell of pollution from the exhaust pipes of vehicles filled
your nose. The smell of burning leaves
mixed with trash was on fire along the curbs and in the storm drains. Burning tires and smudge pots continued to
burn from the night before.
Even before
we arrived at the airport, we were beginning to feel the experience coming at
us like a tidal wave moving your way; yet still off in the distance. Police officers and soldiers were
everywhere. Standing in the middle of
intersections like conductors in a concert hall, the police managed to keep vehicles
from colliding. This feat in and of
itself was incredibly fascinating to watch.
At one
intersection there was a 15 foot tall robot in the middle of the intersection
directing traffic. It’s hard to imagine,
but the robot would turn and raise its arms showing green LED displays counting
down how long until the robot turns 90 degrees to allow cross traffic to flow.
Passing
monuments and statues of Congolese leaders and heroes, we finally arrived at
the airport. Parking seemed quite modern
as we parked underneath blue sunscreens reminiscent of many American
airports. And this is where our journey
changed dramatically.
Walking past
the doors to the international terminal, we proceeded around the corner of the
building and right into a gauntlet of police officers and soldiers guarding
what appeared to be an alley. In
actuality it was the path to the domestic terminal. We were stopped at the front of the alley by
a police officer wanting to know where we were going. He appeared rather agitated and his voice
quickly got loud. However, the moment
Rev. Bonanga appeared at the front of the group, the officer quickly smiled
spoke a few words to the reverend in French and saluted as we walked into the
alley.
Every 20
feet or so was another officer or soldier and 50 yards down this path stood a
solider with an automatic rifle with a bayonet.
Coming around a bend we came upon a large blue and white building with
hundreds of Congolese either trying to go in or coming out. Once more we were met by a police officer and
just as before Rev. Bonanga took charge of the situation and led us into the
building.
Inside was
not quite what you would expect from an airport terminal. We were in a 160 foot by 70 foot room with a
20 foot ceiling. Painted light blue with
a dark, oil and dirt stained concrete floor, the room was the ticketing center
for CAA, a domestic airline serving the DRC.
Twelve large compact fluorescent bulbs hung some five feet off the
ceiling evenly spaced throughout the room.
The limited amount of light cast an odd glow upon the din of noise and
activity before us.
Protocol
officers sent by Rev. Bonanga to handle our baggage and checking us in greeted
us and escorted us away from the crowd and into a corner of the room. From this vantage point we were able to
observe the many passengers coming into the terminal and leaving with their
baggage.
And baggage
should not be confused with luggage. Many of the passengers’ baggage was little
more than cardboard boxes or large Tupperware containers stuffed with personal
items and completely taped up with packing tape. And by “completely” I mean you could not see
the actual container through the two or three pounds of tape on each package.
The noise
continued to grow louder until such time as it was difficult for us to even
hear each other talk when we were standing next to one another. And then the noise would soften for several
minutes and repeat the pattern once more.
We stood in
the corner for 30 to 45 minutes watching the crowd surge through the area. We also took note of the soldiers standing in
formation behind glass windows in the wall next to us. When we first arrived, there were 3 soldiers
and an officer. By the time we left
there were a dozen standing at attention listening to the officer talk in front
of them.
Throughout
our drive to the airport and our standing around in the terminal we relied
solely on the knowledge and reputation of Rev. Bonanga, his protocol officers,
and the Disciples of Christ Church. We
were questioned when we had our carry-on luggage weighed and baggage tags
affixed to them. We were randomly stopped and asked questions as we went
through one security checkpoint after another.
We finally encountered an x-ray machine where our carry-ons were inspected. And then we had these items weighed again
before we boarded the plane. Each and
every time someone wanted to slow us down, Rev. Bonanga and his team stepped in
to smooth the waters for us.
As we flew
to Mbandaka, we noticed passengers on the plane wearing t-shirts that, even
without a strong understanding of French, appeared to be honoring a female
politician in some manner. One passenger
was a general in the DRC military in full dress uniform. Several of the passengers in the t-shirts moved
about the plane talking in quite tones to others.
We then
reached the pinnacle of our trip when the plane landed. As we pulled in front of the terminal
building, a crowd was waiting. The woman
sitting in front of me began to softly cry.
Then her cries turned to grief-stricken wails of pain and sorrow. She continued her grieving as we exited the
plane and were met by an honor band playing, women dressed in traditional
African patterned and matching dresses and singing above the din of the crowd
which was watching each and every person disembark.
After
walking down the stairs I looked back and saw a mound of floral sprays piled
underneath our Airbus 319 from the front landing gear to the rear. We were arriving to a grand reception. Unfortunately, it was not intended for
us. It was a gathering honoring a fallen
female politician whose body was being returned to Mbandaka.
In addition
to the crowd of mourners, the military was also present in large numbers. Soldiers with automatic weapons were walking
through the crowd. Two watch towers,
complete with sandbags piled three or four feet high on the platforms were
manned by armed soldiers as well.
As each
passenger came off the plane and down the stairs, government health officials
with infrared thermometers were checking people’s temperature as a part of the
DRC’s strategy to keep infected west Africans from bringing the Ebola epidemic
into the country. Additionally, each
passenger entering the terminal building were required to wash their hands with
chlorinated water and soap.
We made our
way through the crowd, across a muddy road and through the crowded terminal
building which mildly resembled the domestic terminal in Kinshasa. Coming out of the terminal building in front
of the airport we found ourselves facing a vision of what many Americans
probably have of Africa. Vendors were sitting
on the sidewalk selling food. Women were
walking about with large trays of fruit on their heads selling them to the
crowd outside.
The drive
from the airport to Rev. Bonanga’s home can only be described as
eye-opening. It is the vision many of us
have of a third-world country. Shacks
with fences made of bamboo and roofs of palm fronds were haphazardly placed
along both sides of the rutted once-paved road.
Many houses made of concrete and block sat abandoned or never finished;
quite often with a shack made of various materials and the same palm frond roof
sitting directly in front of the incomplete structure.
People were
everywhere. Walking, sitting, riding bicycles
and motorcycles seemed to keep the throng moving, albeit in many different
directions. Small huts were also along
the roadway, which were home to many enterprising Congolese’s small businesses. The odd thing about these huts is that they
all sold the same things.
Finally we
arrived at Rev. Bonanga’s house. We were
greeted there by the Disciples of Christ Church in the Congo’s management
team. Lined up in front of the house
they burst into song when we pulled through the gate. After another song and a prayer we all passed
through a receiving line and then entered the house for a small reception which
consisted of Rev. Bonanga introducing his management team to us, and us telling
our stories of who we were, what we do for a living, and why we were here.
Before lunch
with the reverend, his wife and some of his managers, we drove over to the Church’s
guest house to await our luggage.
Sitting on the east bank of the Congo river, this house looks out at an
island in the middle of a river that is nearly two miles across where we were
located. We were told that slightly
farther upstream the river is twelve miles wide.
It is now
pushing 11:00 PM and I am sitting in my bed in the guest house annex in the
incredibly still and hot darkness. Off
in the distance I can hear singing, shouts and wailing. At the end of long and enlightening day,
sleep will do us all good.
Tomorrow we
attend church for the first time in the DRC.
Another experience is waiting!
No comments:
Post a Comment