The next day we set off to go look for cheaper accommodation. We were finely settled and reasonably comfortable little hotel the taxi driver, Guy, and his brother-in-law, the senior policeman, had found for us, but on our budget --- remembering that whatever money we spend in the pursuit of elusive visas, come out of the pockets of each one in the group --- did not stretch anywhere near to the expensive cost of living in Kinshasa. It was clear that the standards of everyone in the group have to be lowered when you look for accommodation in such an expensive city. Proof in the reaction of us all when we, by a stroke of luck, got turned down at the Anglican Church's St Anne's - accommodation because you have to book a day in advance and this rule is carved in stone. I say a stroke of luck, for this is supposed to be some of the cheapest accommodation in Kin -- very simple rooms and dorms a la church youth hostel style, but at $40 per night per person, if there are four of you and if you are living on the money provided by a group of trans-travellers and you are going to end up staying nine days -- well, work it out for yourself -- that is a lot of money! By another stroke of luck, a young man who is map-seller, took us to an apartment not far off the Boulevard which we could rent per day, and even though this was our 'own space' with kitchen and bathroom, lounge and two bedrooms, with bad tv, sporadic internet, more often than not no water, a flush toilet that does not flush, frequent and prolonged electricity cuts which means a walk up four floors - and carrying buckets of water up four floors -- it was heaven and sheer luxury. Yes, most certainly my standards seems to have dropped!
So -- back to Kinshasa and back to visa stories.
Getting past the policeman at the gate of the Angolan Consulate, past the man who takes down every detail of your life as well as any items you might have on you for the duration of your visit, then waiting (under the continuing falling and exploding mangoes) and occasionally getting into the inner sanctum of Monsieur Emile's office, was quite an interesting experience. On the first day we were running around the city of Kinshasa collecting letters from all our embassies that declared that we were who we said we were. This resulted in personal experiences of varying degrees of emotions; Randy was excited -- it was the first time he stepped into an American Embassy on foreign soil. Unfortunately the section where you go for these letters did not resemble anything that he had obviously hoped to see, the staff in this section were anything but fellow-American and all round, it was disappointing. Graham was thrilled, on the other hand. His embassy was beautiful, friendly, helpful - and offered to provide the Australian passport holders with their letters as well (as Australia does not have a delegation in the DRC and they are part of the Commonwealth) so that was a good experience. The Swedish Embassy was next for David's letter and they could not be nicer. Offered to give Elisa a letter as well as the Fins also did not have a delegation -- and hei! they just happened to like her!, and everyone agreed that David would have been the proudest of his own embassy. Next was the British Embassy -- or should I say "British Country Club and Resort, DRC". Flood lit tennis courts, swimming pools, manicured lawns, we suspect there is probably even a golf course on the banks of the Congo, glass and polished brass and high white walls and solid teak doors -- quite, quite impressive, and the Scottish, heavily tattooed burly builders working on the building and decorating of this elaborate flash five star resort/embassy, reckoned this was the cushiest job they had ever had. I don't know that the tax payers back in the UK know what their money is paying for -- or perhaps it is the GBP 50 we had to pay for each of Andrew and Ben's letters that pays for these extravagances, but one does wonder what the political reasoning is behind it all. The South African embassy for my letter came last -- well, perhaps I should say no more... Let's just say that as a South African I was not made to feel welcome on what is, in effect, South African soil, and I made this fact known. The urge to sit down and write a letter to my government is strong.
But my fighting spirit was not only awakened at the SA Embassy. Back at the Angolan Consulate I had been told by M. Emile to be back at 1pm with the letters and the final documents needed for the processing of our passports. I arrived at the gate at 12:55. There were several people there, trying to speak to the policeman lounging on a chair on the other side of the slightly open gate, one foot against the gate to prevent it from being opened further, telling everyone to go away, the consulate is closed.
I pushed my way through and popped my head through the opening and told him I had an appointment with M. Emile. "Go away" he said. "The consulate is closed. Anyway, your visas have not arrived yet." This got my hackles rising. This young insolent man may be an AK47 bearing DRC policeman, but by this time I had had more than enough of people being disrespectful, rude and unpleasant for absolutely no apparent reason.
I pushed the gate open. He lifted his foot higher to stop me. I pushed harder and got my whole self in through the gap. He jumped up - and found he was a head shorter than me, which, as we all know, is not a good feeling - especially when you had planned to show who was boss in the situation. "You can't come in. Your visas are not here. Everyone went home at midday. The Consulate is closed. There is nobody here. They have all gone home. Come back tomorrow," he shouted in my face.
I stepped even close to him -- right into his bubble of self-aggrandisement. And to make sure that this bubble would pop for good, I even used a finger -- an index finger -- under his nose.
"Don't you tell me about my business here. You are not an employee of the Consulate and not even Angolan, so what makes you think you can be an expert on my visas? And don't you sit on your back while you talk to me - or to any other person who comes to the gate. You get up and show them respect when you speak to them. And as for me, don't you "tu-toyer" me either. I am old enough to be your mother and I am a woman, so you "vous-voyer" me, young man, and you show the respect to you would show your mother." (the familiar form in French is the second person singular, as opposed to the formal respectful form of address which is the second person plural)"I have an appointment with M. Emile and your ridiculous behaviour is going to cause me to be late for that appointment. So you let me in this very minute or I will make sure this is your last day in this very comfortable job."
He teetered backwards under the onslaught. The poor man could not have known that we have been fighting this same attitude for the last two months. We have stood on dirty dusty pavements in several African cities and been told to go away when all we wanted was to see someone to whom we could apply for the right to travel through their country. We have been turned away, we have been told we are white and therefore not welcome, we have been abused and insulted and humiliated. This young soldier could not have known that his conduct and his attitude was going to be the last straw that was going to break the camel's back. He got the full onslaught of my wrath.
He stepped back, told me quietly and politely that he will go call M.Emile. I stepped back, he closed the gate and I waited. A few minutes laterhe reappeared, M.Emile in his wake who was waving his finger at him, severely and sternly reprimanding him for not allowing Madame enter the premises when she had told him that she had an appointment with M Emile.
It was not a good day for this policeman. But the one thing I realised then and there was that, as intimidating as these police and military people can be – i.e. young, often non-educated men and women who have been put in a uniform, been given a fire-arm – with ammunition, been given a carte blanche to practise their authority as they see fit – they are also – and probably first and formost, young people straight out of the countryside where they had been raised with love and discipline in equal measure, where they had been taught respect for their elders, respect for women, values that many of our western young people often seem to have discarded and ignored a long time ago.
I would not assume that I am right in this and that every one of them, as they strut importantly up to you and demand to see your papers, as they brandish their fire arms and bully the people in the street, is really a very nice, polite and well mannered young person deep at heart. That would be as ridiculous as to maintain that a lion would never attack you if you just walk quietly past him and not bother him. But I do believe that unless he is drunk or stoned – in which case you stand no chance whatsoever, you would be able to appeal to his basic good solid upbringing and the foundation of decency his heritage has instilled in him.
Let us hope I am never called upon to test that premise...
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