Dispatches from the Congo – A Journey of Love (Part 11)

By Erin Pohland

Greetings from Kinshasa, the city where my baby eats everything he can!

So, today it happened — the DHL plane left from Goma, Reverend Bashaka picked up the Swahili paperwork (with translations — certified and notarized! — in French AND English) and brought it to me. I took it to the Embassy. They now have EVERYTHING, and have no excuse to not issue Andrew’s visa. Given that I’ve provided his official birth certificate listing his mother and father’s name, his mother’s death certificate and his father’s certified and notarized statement of relinquishment in 3 separate languages, I cannot possibly see what is left to investigate. I’m sure I’ll find out tomorrow.

K and I are going to sit in that waiting room and just make them deal with us from 8 until noon (why noon, you ask? Well, because the U.S. Embassy in Kinshasa closes at noon on Fridays. It makes sense, what with Americans waiting around for their visas so they can get out of the country and all.). What’s crazy is this morning, the Embassy told K that her son’s visa had been granted. “Great,” she told them, “so I’ll get it today?” “No,” they replied, “you can pick it up Tuesday after 3.” Why? Well, because that is the day that visas are issued. I am not kidding. These are the people in charge of my son’s future right now. These fools at the Embassy seem to think that rules and regulations trump common sense and logic (like getting Americans out of a fairly dangerous place.)

Although the DHL office promised to have my documents in their office by 10 a.m. today, Reverend Bashaka showed up at my hotel around 12:45. I’d put money on him going out to lunch. He and his Congolese friend arrived and proudly showed me the documents — which I could actually read, a bit of thanks to my Swahili lessons. I was all ready to go, and had been since 10 a.m., stupidly assuming that he’d show up on time. I told him that I didn’t need him to come to the Embassy with me, and he asked if he could get me a taxi. He and his friend (I REALLY should learn his name, but it seems weird after 10 days) were completely shocked that I was going to walk, and even more shocked that I had been walking places the entire time I’ve been here. Apparently, Reverend Bashaka has only taken cars since he’s been here — and he’s the African! I seriously don’t get it. Everywhere I want to go is within a 3 to 5 block radius of my hotel, and even though those blocks are rubble and trash-filled, it’s really not that difficult to walk. Besides, if one of the drivers that I know isn’t outside of my hotel, I really can’t chance getting in the car with someone else. In fact, we’re specifically warned against doing so — it’s fairly common for drivers (there are no official taxis here) to take you out to the middle of nowhere, rob you and leave you stranded. Plus, driving here is FAR more risky that strapping the baby on my hip and dealing with a few dozen people who want to marry me, practice their English, or steal money from me. They insisted on escorting me to the Embassy, despite the fact that Bashaka had no clue where it was in relation to my hotel.

But first, to the copy shop for copies of the documents, where I was amused to see that the guy making my copies was wearing a 3 piece suit. It shouldn’t surprise me, really — the Congolese love to dress up, even when they’re tramping through the dirt and rubble on the streets. I’m totally going to put Andrew in little suits to finger paint. It’s his heritage.

So I led Bashaka and his friend to the Embassy, with Bashaka attempting to narrate what people were saying to me while editing out the more colorful suggestions (he is a man of God, after all.). Ultimately, this meant that he would tell me what the women were saying and nothing of what the men were saying. The women mostly said nice things about me being a saint for adopting my baby (I’m expecting canonization any day now), or asking me to buy stuff/for money. The men….well, I don’t need a translator for that. It amused me to note that the white girl is far more street smart than the two Africans; I noticed that two teenage boys had been following us sort of closely, and I pulled Bashaka and his friend aside to let them pass. When the boys stopped as well, I told them “NO!” and made shooing motions with my hands (it’s hard to tell off potential pickpockets when you don’t speak the language). They ran away. Bashaka looked completely amazed that I had figured out their game — I guess he doesn’t know that teenage boys are the big thing you have to look out for here (that and fake police + soldiers — there are a lot of those out on the street, extorting bribes for imaginary offenses. You can usually tell the real ones by the machine guns.).

I bid adieu to my companions at the Embassy, and went back to the waiting room, but not before smiling VERY nicely at the guard who wants to marry me. I then mentioned to him that my baby wasn’t feeling well, and I really needed to be seen as soon as possible. He nodded and told me that I’d be first in line (nevermind that the room was filled with over 40 Congolese…). When I took a seat, an older woman (or “mama,” as all women are called here unless they’re clearly younger than you are. All men are “papa.” My day consists of saying a lot of “No, merci, mama,” and “No, merci, papa”) started at me in angry French. I didn’t know why she was mad, and frankly, I felt like she should be nice to me in the American Embassy of all places. I just looked at her and said, “Sorry, I don’t speak French.” (Normally, I say that phrase in French so as not to be a total jerk.Today, I said it in English.). The woman next to her then decided to do a rough translation — “you need to put more clothes on your baby because he is cold.” They were lucky that I didn’t speak French. It wasn’t what she said as much as how it was said and the disapproving way she looked at me. Guess what, lady? He’s my kid, and he’s from Goma. This weather may be cold to you in Kinshasa (85 degrees), but it’s hot for my little guy, who grew up by a lake and surrounded by mountains. He was actually sweating when I took him out of the sling. I decided to take the relatively high road and just told her that he’s American and he’s just fine (and he practically is, if they ever give me this damn visa).

The security guard who wants to marry me cracks me up. He’s sweet as pie to me, but I caught some of what he was saying to everyone else in the room (all Congolese)….he’s got little patience for his own people. He told someone that they must have a mental deficiency when they didn’t understand what form they needed for their visa. He yells at people for sitting in what he deems to be the wrong chair. But you know, he holds it down. It’s actually a pretty busy job and he’s running from place to place and taking care of a lot, so I can’t fault him. It would get old dealing with people who don’t pay attention. I aided him in one of his tirades, actually — there were three small children in the waiting room besides Andrew, and their mothers weren’t watching them. At one point, when the guard was trying to explain something, all 3 of the kids ran to the metal detector and were running through it, behind the guard’s desk, etc. I pointed it out to him, mostly because I didn’t want the kids to get hurt, and he was NOT happy about that! Cue angry tirade about taking care of your kids, and lots of glares at the white girl from the rest of the waiting room.

I got called to the window pretty quickly, and handed over my documents. It was pretty uneventful, as far as these things go — the real fun comes in the walk home. First, I have to describe the vendors on the road leading to the Embassy. There is the guy selling SIM cards, which is basically every street corner. There’s the guy selling sheets because…well, why not? There is the tire shop (seriously) at the side of the road — he filled the sewage ditch between the road and his little stand with gravel so cars can pull over, and he had stacks of tires. I imagine he does pretty brisk business with the streets like they are. And then there’s the usual assortment of people selling used clothes, shoes, and pillows — just what I always wanted! As you walk away from the street that the Embassy is on, you come immediately upon the big Jewish/kosher market, with the police guarding it.

Now, I’ve told you all about the wheelchair-bike hybrids, right? Well, the best thing ever happened today. As Andrew and I were walking past the market, I saw people running out of the market and from all over the streets. I heard police whistles and shouting. I figured that this was my clue as the resident white girl to get the hell out of there, but then I saw what was happening….the police had set up a wheelchair race between two guys with no legs (from the war? No idea.) driving those wheelchair bikes. Amazing. People were placing bets, there were cheering sections. I was so sad that I couldn’t stay and watch, but crowds of people really aren’t the best place for me and the little guy. I’m assuming that the participants were voluntary, but who knows….if I were a Congolese cop and had to make money extorting people and helping park cars at the supermarket, maybe I’d force local handicapped people to race each other for money, too.

As we walked away from the spectacle, I noticed a group of darker-skinned (but not African men) filming me. I said hi, and they responded back in kind. I realized that they were probably tourists, and decided to be a good Samaritan. I ran back to them and asked if they spoke English. As it turns out, they’re Spanish. Perfect — finally, a language I know! I explained to them that the Congo is VERY strict about taking any sort of pictures in public — that they’ll be arrested or detained if the police see them. I then told them that there was a group of police straight ahead, and they’d probably at least get extorted if the police saw the camera (they’d likely “confiscate” the camera as well). The Congolese government sincerely believes that people on the street are filming the buildings to get their “secrets.” Yes, because that would be much better than satellite imagery. And secrets of what, exactly? How to neglect your infrastructure until it falls apart? They don’t even let you take pictures of private buildings. I’ve taken a few pictures outside, but have been very, VERY careful in doing it. You certainly can’t walk around with a camera in your hand in plain view. Good deed done, the Spaniards thanked me and put away their camera.

We moved onward to the Boulevard, which is always a bit of a challenge in terms of the people congregating there. Three different men insisted on escorting me across, likely in hopes of a tip, which they didn’t get. It was very welcome, though — the Boulevard is completely insane. It’s 4 lanes of traffic going in each direction with no street lights, traffic signs, or anything of the sort. I feel like I’m in a real life version of Frogger crossing that road. We made it safely across, and I ignored the vendors on the other side of the street until I got close to the hotel. There, an older man who ran a barber shop (with a card table and some plastic lawn chairs) yelled out to me in English, “Hello, Miss Beautiful Mama!” It turns out that he’s seen me passing by every day and saved up to buy a French-English dictionary so he could try to talk to me. So sweet. I stopped and talked to him for a bit, and he felt VERY important as he shouted to the rest of the vendors on the block my story — she’s American, the baby is from Goma, the parents are dead (I just say that they’re both deceased, because I really don’t have the vocabulary for “relinquishment” just yet.). Of course, after he did this, it was open season and a crowd gathered. The old man asked me if I spoke French, and I said no, but I spoke “kidogo” (a little) Swahili. So we had a little chat in Swahili (as far as my rudimentary skills would take me) and I headed off. As I walked away, another street vendor approached me to try out his English. This is where things took a turn for the predictable — one of his friends/customers/hanger-ons started to try out HIS English, which consisted of “I want to love you, pretty lady.” “You marry me?” So then I pantomimed the baby sleeping, and we went back to the hotel. Andrew took a long nap, and we went to dinner with J — who thinks she has malaria AGAIN. I am absolutely religious about taking my anti-malarials, but I guess if you make this place your home, you can’t take them year-round. Poor thing. She did confirm one thing for me, though — I had noticed that there was a lot of nose-picking going on with the Congolese. As in open, blatant, don’t care who is watching nose-picking. I asked about it, and I guess it’s culturally acceptable. That is one part of his heritage that Andrew is NOT allowed to embrace.

Relatively uneventful evening, and it’s time for this mama to head to bed soon. In Andrew news, he’s taking HUGE leaps forward with his walking. He loves to push the elevator button and knock on doors. He’s eating like crazy, and has started to sleep a lot more — probably for his little body to catch up with all of the growing that it needs to do!!

Until tomorrow (unless the electricity and internet gods dictate otherwise), love from Kinshasa–

Erin & Andrew

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