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“Have we got everything?” I asked, climbing into the Landcruiser and starting the engine. I made a conscious point of checking the fuel gauge as I turned the cruiser toward the big green gates. Towering above us, reminiscent of something out of the “King Kong” movie, the gates protected us from the perils of Kinshasa. I checked the fuel gauge again and hooted on the horn.
With the latches and locks released, the gates swung ponderously inward on well oiled hinges, revealing the bustle of 6th street, Limete. The vibrant colours of clothes contrasted sharply against the drab grey of unmaintained Kinshasa. Street vendors lined the street in all manner of rickety make-shift tin stalls, selling anything from chickens to soap. Little piles of charcoal for cooking, sandstone for pregnant women and peanuts lined the street on little wooden tables. I eased the Landcruiser into the crowded street between an over crowded taxi and a man pushing a “puss puss” piled high with empty oil drums and a bed. Glancing left, I could see a familiar white Peugeot 504 parked 100 meters or so down the road, it’s occupants straightening up in their seats as I nosed the Landcruiser between the potholes and turned right towards the main road.
Kinshasa traffic
At the main road I quickly found a gap in the congestion, and gunning powerful engine made it between a truck and a city bus straight into the “fast” lane. I glanced in the rear view mirror at the white Peugeot trying to copy the same manoeuvre into the chaos, one of the occupants raising a hand out of the window at an oncoming taxi in an effort to secure a place in the never-ending stream of diesel-belching vehicles. “Ouch, that was close!” I cringed on behalf of the white Peugeot as a yellow taxi locked a rear wheel in a puff of blue smoke and slewed towards the sandy curb. I could feel the power of the Landcruiser as I accelerated ahead, swerving back into the left lane ahead of the faded blue and white of the city bus. A cloud of black diesel smoke from its exhaust obscured the white Peugeot for a few seconds as I glanced into the mirror mounted on my door. “I wonder how long this will take,” I sighed, “we’ve got work to do!”
Our work as Jehovah’s Witnesses had recently been banned by the Mobutu regime at the request of the Catholic church, who had cited our political neutrality as a threat to national security. The Pope had visited a few months earlier and had traded Vatican support for the dictatorship of the day for certain “favours”. One such favour was the banning of certain religious organizations that the Church viewed as “competition” and the reason for their dwindling numbers. Sixty or so of our missionaries had already been expelled from the interior of the country so we needed go “underground” as quickly as possible before the authorities decided to close our headquarters in Kinshasa. Going underground involved moving key operations from our headquarters to secret locations around the city. Simon and I had been given the job of renovating these “safe houses”, a job made difficult by fact that we were under constant police surveillance.
kinshasa street
I could see the white Peugeot popping out every now and again from behind a bus, and then swerving back as the driver looked for an opportunity to overtake amid the on coming traffic. On coming horns hooted and breaks squealed as I smiled into the rear view mirror. As the Peugeot’s nose disappeared behind the bus for the third time I braked hard and swung down a side road and, dropping a gear, powered the Landcruiser down the tree lined alley. I sighed as I shot a glance at the mirror and saw the Peugeot bouncing through a pothole in pursuit. “They are still there!” I exclaimed to my companion in the passenger seat. “Let’s go around the block a few more times.”, I suggested as we neared our initial point of departure.
Street traders watched with idle curiosity as we roared past 6th street for the third time, with the white Peugeot in tow. I glanced at the fuel gauge and noted that the needle had dropped a little. “How long is this going to take?” I wondered as I swung the wheel hard into Avenue Yolo and again into Godilias. Changing gear, I glanced up to my rear view mirror again, just time to see what I had been waiting for, the white Peugeot lurching toward the curb, it’s driver hitting the steering wheel in frustration while mouthing obscenities to the man in the passenger seat next to him.
“Yes! They’ve run out of petrol!” I cheered, “Right, now let’s get some work done shall we?”
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A cock crowed, signaling the imminence of the dawn chorus, an event that, from our point of view, couldn’t come quickly enough. Having spent the entire night drenched in sweat and mosquitoes, we were in desperate need of the Saviour form the east, the prince of light, that vanquished blood suckers and other creatures of the night. The friendly chips and twittering of the awakening world saw the evil tormentors crackle and scurry for darker shadows, preparing for their return to inactivity. By the time they ventured out of their crypt again to satisfy their evil lust, we would be far away, heading into other dangers.
But…. the damage had been done, the demons of the darkness had had their fill!
“My feet are swollen! The mozzies have eaten me alive!” I wailed as daylight crept over the horizon. The only way to sleep had been to block one’s ears to the drone of the mosquitoes and leave any uncovered body parts to their mercy, hoping that they would drink their fill and then leave. Wave after wave, squadron after squadron had taken their toll – I naively thought my malaria tablets would stop me from getting that dreaded illness. Two weeks later would find me thinking that death might be welcome relief from the extreme pain and fever that came with malaria.
"Quick, close the door!" Yelled Simon
Our host knocked apologetically at our door – we welcomed him with relief at being liberated from dingy confines of the pest infested hut. “Choo, choo” he said enthusiastically moving his arms backward and forwards past his waist in imitation of a train and pointing towards the village. Yes, we got it, we’re were going by train, whether we liked it or not.
The dilapidated train waited next to the platform as colourful Africa busied herself in the early morning light. Women in brightly patterned dresses, tops and matching head scarfs shouted and bartered with passengers hanging out windows, their plates and buckets piled high with their wares. Last minute trade was reaching fever pitch as desperate mothers with babies strapped to their backs tried to secure a final sale before a green flag replaced the dirty red one which dangled from the window of last carriage. For those whose carefully saved money for the trip was already burning a hole in their pockets, it was a bargain hunter’s paradise, from chickens to pigs, doughnuts to chips, from clothes to coat hangers, everything could be bought at a last minute discount.
We were shown to a small 4 berth cabin in the middle of the train. After much gesticulating and signs we were made to understand that we were to have the conductor’s personal cabin. Even so, in view of the fact that the cabin allocation on the rest or the train seemed to be a disorganised “free for all”, we decided to barricade ourselves in, just in case some undesirable decided to share our cabin and steal all our possessions. “We’re not opening for anyone!” Simon declared as he locked the cabin door and propped his rucksack against it for added security. I eyed the cabin with amusement, remarking on the Afrikaans instructions on the grubby wood paneling over the door. “How on earth did they get this train all the way here from South Africa? So much for trade sanctions!”, I mused, as I made myself comfortable on the shredded red seat next to the window.
“Hey, there is glass in this window” I exclaimed as I heaved it up out of the way so I could stick my head and shoulders outside to say goodbye to the two grinning brothers and their bicycle. “Merci” I said to our new friends, proud of the new word I had learned. They beamed in delight and the train lurched, and then clattered together again as it moved a few centimeters and stopped. A mad scramble ensued as last minute passengers tried to find a berth in the over crowded cabins. “Quick, close the window” warned Simon, anxious to maintain our “private cabin” status and fearing being overrun by masses of unfamiliar culture.
The train lurched again, but this time the momentum was enough to see us out of the station and down the tracks, out of the village. Rusty metal squealed as the brakes fought to release themselves, but at least were were on our way!
After about half an hour there was a knock on our cabin door – someone wanted to share our cabin! Simon, resolute in his decision not to allow anyone in, stood up to barricade the door further. “Here, pass me your rucksack” he said, reaching towards my bag on the seat next to me. “Ce moi, la Chef du train!”, came a voice followed by another knock at the door, “ouvre la porte si vous plait”. “They want to take over!” whispered Simon, images of goats, pigs and fat ladies strengthening his resolve not to allow anyone into our precious space.
The knocking at the door continued for a while until whoever it was gave up and went to find another cabin. It was only much later, early the next morning, we found out who the person was, knocking at our door. It was the chief conductor and all he wanted was his personal belongings from the space above the door. I don’t know where he slept that night. I do hope he forgave us.
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“Don’t ever catch a train in Zaire, they can be up to three weeks late.” Matz’s warning echoed in my mind as a fresh wave of panic surged. “Nooo! We can’t go by train in Zaire!” I protested. But it was no use, the grinning brother did not understand a word of what we were saying. Again he pursed his lips and, while making a “Choo, choo” sound, vigorously moved his arms backwards and forwards against his body. Yes, we got the message, a train! It wasn’t that we didn’t understand, it was that we didn’t want to get on a train, certainly not in Zaire!
Don't ever catch a train in Zaire!
But, the more we shook our heads, the more the elaborate train impressions became. It was becoming apparent that we were going by train whether we liked it or not!
The day before, after the Protestant missionaries had left in the opposite direction, tinted windows of their Landcruiser closed to maximize the effects of the air con, it dawned on us that there was no turning back. We were in the middle of nowhere …no money, no map, no means of communication, following two smiling strangers and a bicycle down a track into the forest.
We might not have had language in common with these brothers, but we did have something, The New World Translation of the Holy Scriptures. And for the next hour or so the conversation went along these lines:
(Judges 19:17) So the old man said: “Where are you going, and where do you come from?
Genesis 29:4 to which they said: “We are from Ha′ran.”
“S O U T H A F R I C A” said Simon loudly and very clearly, drawing a picture in the sand of the continent and prodding the lower part with his stick and then at the word Ha’ran in their well worn French French Bible, which had been produced from the tall brothers bag.
(Isaiah 44:28) ‘She will be rebuilt,’ and of the temple, ‘You will have your foundation laid.’”
“Bethel – Kinshasa” he added, in case they didn’t quite understand
(Deuteronomy 1:28) Where are we going up?
We asked, curious to know where they were taking us.
The beaming brother fumbled in his bible,
(Judges 19:18) and it is to my own house that I am going.
He explained, lifting his finger to indicate that he needed to read some more.
(Matthew 8:11) come and recline at the table
(Hebrews 13:1-2) Let YOUR brotherly love continue. 2Do not forget hospitality.
(John 12:2) Therefore they spread an evening meal .
He added with a smile.
The brother’s abode was humble to say the least, consisting of two huts surrounded by neatly swept sand and scratching chickens. Dozens of children peeped from around the sides of the mud and thatch structures. As we entered the property we were met by a middle aged woman wearing a traditional printed fabric blouse and “wrap around” of the same design, the end of which was twisted and tucked back into the waist band. She bobbed toward us, one hand outstretched while the other hand supported her upper forearm. She bobbed even lower as we shook her hand. A small child wearing nothing but a grubby tee shirt, who, evidently too scared to move, started to cry as we approached. Simon’s efforts to befriend the toddler, was met with even louder howls of terror.
Almost at once we were escorted into the first hut that had been transformed into a banquet hall of note. We stood for a second or two and marveled at the feast that had been laid out on a rickety table in the middle of the floor. Our host waved towards the laden table, “Karibu” he said with a smile. Two chair had been placed either side of the table. Unsure of the seating arrangement and eating protocol, we turned around inquire from our host, who had vanished into thin air. “What are we supposed to do?” I said, turning to an equally puzzled looking Simon. Unsure of cultural etiquette and custom, we decided to eat what we could, suppressing our own cultural urgings to get a few more chairs and invite the whole family to share in the meal. Ice cold beer brought only temporary relief from the heat and humidity of the evening.
After diner we were shown to the other hut, evidently the family’s sleeping quarters. In side we found two beds without mattresses, the wire mesh and springs the only signs of comfort. The drone of mosquitoes filled the room as we unrolled our sub zero quality “you never freeze to death in these” sleeping bags out on to the two beds. “At least we’re off the floor!” I mused, as a creeping thing scurried in the dim light of the candle. My shirt clung damply to my back and the sweat ran like rivers from my brow as I adjusted my sleeping bag, “I can’t sleep in this, I’ll die!” I exclaimed, gingerly lying down on top of my sleeping bag, careful not to get my elbow stuck between the springs of the bed.
The drone of the mosquitoes had reached a crescendo by the time Simon blew out the candle, “My sleeping bag is drenched in sweat” he moaned from the blackness.
“You always said you wanted a water bed!” I yelled over the roar of the mosquitoes.
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It was only when the huts started to rush past the window of the little plane did we realize the we were landing where we were supposed to land. Up until that moment the twin engine plane that belonged to the Protestant missionaries seemed intent on landing in the middle of nowhere. Our pimply pilot had been fiddling with dials and knobs whist talking into his mouth piece for the last 10 minutes or so of the flight from Lubumbashi, thus indicating his intention of putting his craft down somewhere. Where, we just couldn’t see from our cramped position behind the two front seats. It appeared as if we were landing in the bush itself!
Map of the Congo (Zaire)
The wheels of the little plane hit the dirt runway sending a cloud of dust into the air obscuring the huts, pigs and naked running children. A few minutes later the clinking of seat-belts and the flicking of little switches above the pilots head signaled the end of our fight to Kamina. The propeller appeared to spin backwards for a second as it came to a stop.
No sooner had we found the lever that released our seat belts than there were eager ground crew at the cabin door ready to extract us from our confines as quickly as possible. The jostling men at the window had us out of the plane before the pilot could shoo them away, each man eager to carry an item of luggage.
As we emerged from the plane and stretched our stiff limbs we surveyed our surroundings. At the side of the runway stood a brand new white Landcruiser with the Protestant Missions Logo printed on the front doors. Beside the Landcruiser, looking as equally expectant, stood two men and a black bicycle.
It became evident quite quickly that the two men and a bicycle was our reception committee. Their faces beamed full of white teeth as they acknowledged our recognition of the Watchtower they held aloft. We made our way to the waiting delegation and extended our hands to shake theirs, smiling and pointing to the Watchtower held by a tall brother with a field service bag. But, that was as far as the communication went! Yes, we had a lot in common with these brothers, but language, sadly, wasn’t on the list. We looked around in desperation for a translator. One of the Protestant Missionaries, a big American, ambled over, a bemused expression on his face and offered to translate.
“Your people say the truck has left without you.”. The American’s words struck me in the pit of my stomach and a wave of panic flooded up into my chest. “What!” I cried, “Why?”. Our translator turned to the brothers to relay my question, his French strongly accented with an American twang. “They say there is no space.” he returned with the explanation.
“But, what are we supposed to do now?” asked Simon, the panic rising in his voice. Our translator turned once again to the duo with the bike to enquire of their plan, the name badge on his white shirt twinkling as it caught the afternoon sun. There was an interchange, a shrug of the shoulders, followed by a fresh wave of panic. “What did they say! What did they say? ” I bleated, a lump sticking in my throat. “They say you should go with them and they will work something out” translated the American, casting a glance across at the two grinning brothers and their bicycle.“But listen….” he ventured, lowering his voice a little, “we have space at our missionary home, why don’t you come with us and you can catch the plane back tomorrow?” he added, his eyes shining at the sheer brilliance of the idea. After all…. two white boys in the middle of nowhere, can’t speak a word of French, with no money, what else were they going to do? Fait accompli, he reached towards our rucksacks. I shot a glance a Simon and caught his eye, the twinkle said it all!
“Nah, it’s OK, we’re going with our brothers” Simon said, getting to his rucksack before the American.
As we headed off on foot down the bush path leading to nowhere at the end of the runway, flanked by the two beaming brothers and their bicycle, I turned around in time to see the Landcruiser swinging off the runway to head in the opposite direction. The puzzled expressions on the protestant missionaries’ faces inside the air conditioned Cruiser said it all!
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“Don’t ever catch a train in Zaire, they can be up to three weeks late.” Matz warned us, scratching his head trying to figure out a way of getting us up to Kinshasa. While Matz pondered possibilities and logistics we recounted our adventure as far as Lubumbashi to Cathy as she made us lunch. The Swedish missionaries were eager to hear news from the outside world no matter the content.
Ave Kasai, lubumbashi
The missionary home in Lubumbashi was an old Belgian style building with dark tiled floors and dark wooden furniture, screens on the windows kept out the malaria carrying mosquitoes. Shoes outside the each door indicated a different culture and a new way of life. The unfamiliar sounds of central Africa drifted through the humid air – the rhythmic beat of the popular music with its Lingala lyrics blended with the Swahili of the passing street trade. Even the crowing cock sounded foreign, as we watched Cathy lay the table for 6. “It’s our cook day today.” she explained “The others are in their room, they have malaria” she added, offering an explanation for the 6 place settings at the table.
We had managed to get to Lubumbashi on our second attempt at crossing a rather chaotic Kasumbulesa border post. The Zairian customs official who held us up for hours in the hope of a bribe the first time waved us through without so much as a glance at our passports. “What’s the use!” the look on his face said it all, obviously not wanting to haggle for hours without reward.
Matz was still pondering the problem of getting two penniless South Africans to Kinshasa in one piece when Cathy called him to lunch.
“I have an idea” he ventured, half way through the meal, raising his fork aloft. Cathy had been telling us how they had been deported from Iran during the change in government there, and what life was like trying to preach the kingdom Message to those of the Muslim faith, when Matz let us know, by the raising of his fork, that he had been elsewhere, in thought, at least. “There is the society’s truck that left for Kinshasa two days ago, I am sure you will be able to catch up to it at Kamina and get a lift with it the rest of the way to Kin” he offered by way of a partial solution, “the problem is, stopping the truck, and getting you to Kamina.”
While we offered to help Cathy with the dishes and Matz’ share of the house work, the latter climbed into his much loved Land Rover to seek a solution to the rest of the problem. After an optimistic wave and a backfire the Swede swung the old yellow 2 series Landie out into the street and headed towards town along Avenue Kasai
A Yellow Landie
The afternoon’s cleaning activities were interrupted a couple of hours later by enthusiastic hooting at the gate, the running of the watchman, a plume of smoke and a roar of the Land Rover up along the side of the house as Matz returned, breaking hard as he rounded the corner into the back courtyard. The twinkle in his eye suggested that he had found a solution. “The Protestant Missionaries have a plane leaving for Kamina tomorrow morning!” he sung in gleeful triumph as he forced the door of the Land Rover open with a clunk from the sagging hinges.
The next morning, an adolescent looking pilot with teardrop sunglasses that wrapped around his ears, carefully packed our rucksacks into the belly of the twin engine plane that stood in facing the run down buildings that paraded along the side of the tarmac. After a stringent pre-flight check by the pimply pilot and his clip board we were ready to go. Soon our pilot was fiddling with dials and buttons whilst alpha, bravo, charley, deltaring into a mouth piece which extended out from the over sized headphones which now flattened his greasy hair. As he eased the little plane out on to the runway, a bony hand pulled back on a row of levers and we felt the plane gather momentum.
“It’s a good job HE knows where were going!” I shouted to Simon above the roar of the engine nodding in the direction of the seat in front of me, “cos I haven’t a clue!”
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“Quick! They are leaving!” shouted Simon as he vaulted over the barrier into ‘no man’s land’, his heavy rucksack over one shoulder with its unbuckled waist belt flapping. We were panicking! The last transport to Lubumbashi, a military style MAN truck with a canvas roof over the cab, was leaving without us. Black diesel smoke bellowed from the exhaust mounted behind the cab as it belched and rattled its way out of Kasumbulesa towards Lubumbashi to the North West. Chickens flapped and children ran excitedly behind it as we ran in the opposite direction. We didn’t fancy spending a night at the unfriendly border town. The change from English to French across a few hundred metres of scrub and barbed wire was remarkable! The Zairians spoke French, no English, and the Zambians spoke English, no French – and yet they could wave and grin at each other as they fed their chickens or washed their clothes in the river..
Kasumbulesa
“Hey!” I yelled, waving my arms in the direction of the little yellow station wagon that had got us as far as the border, hoping Silas would glance in his rear-view mirror and see our frantic plight. I saw the surprised look on the Zairian immigration officer who had held us up for an hour in the hopes of a bribe as Simon darted past yelling like a banshee, “All that effort to get through without paying a cent, and they are going home again???” was the look on his face.
The sun was setting, and there was no way that Simon was going to be left behind, call it fear of the unknown, call it wisdom beyond his years, but looking back, it was the right choice, after all, we had no money (except useless travelers cheques), we couldn’t speak the language and we hadn’t a clue where Lubumbashi was. Simon thundered on, rucksack now held aloft, as if empty, as he pounded the tar between the two countries. I heaved a sigh of relief as I saw brake lights shine brightly as it reached the halfway point, “They’ve seen us!”.
Zambian Passport Control
Relief started to give way to worry as we left the border towards Kitwe. We hadn’t been through passport control to get back into Zambia, technically we were still in Zaire! “Will there be a problem tomorrow?” we pondered as we reflected on running the gauntlet of Zairian passport control, customs and health inspectors who would surely be delighted to find a legitimate problem with our papers.
The 4 Zambian road blocks between the border and Kitwe were now endured for a second time in worried silence as we anticipated the following day’s border crossing attempt. We stared out the window of the little yellow car as Silas and Martha negotiated with the military at each road block, trying in vain to avoid the full vehicle search. And at each road block we repacked our rucksacks with the contents that lay strewn across the road, politely retrieving the socks or other item of clothing that appealed to the official conducting the search.
8 roadblocks, 2 emigration counters, 2 customs offices, 1 health officer and a partridge in a pear tree! “The same again tomorrow?” we wondered as we lay awake that night, waiting for the 4:30 am departure for attempt number 2.
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We sat wide-eyed on the bus, waiting for it to depart for Ndola. Our rucksacks were clutched against our chests. The din and the colorful blur of the surrounds made it difficult to converse – all we could do was stare around in wonderment at the VERY unfamiliar collage that was nothing like the Africa we knew.
For Simon and me, two South Africa white boys, who thought they came from Africa, it certainly was a culture shock of note! Leaving our cotton wool box that was the apartheid South Africa of the mid-eighties and trekking across darkest Africa was madness …but, we were determined to do it. We didn’t have the money to fly to Kinshasa, so overland was the only other option. “There must be a way!” Simon had said in frustration, after we had spent days trying to find out what was beyond South Africa’s borders. Under the apartheid government information on what was further north was scarce and outdated. We had managed to find out that it it was possible to get to Harare, but further north…. it seemed as if someone had turned out the lights. “Let’s just go and play it by ear”, suggested Simon.
So here we were in Lusaka sitting on bus waiting to depart for Ndola, a mining town in Zambia’s copper belt.
A chicken with a long piece of string attached to its leg pecked hopefully at my ankle. I looked down just in time to see it being unceremoniously jerked away by its owner’s rough tug. Chicken feathers floated to the floor of the bus as the indignant bird squawked and flapped in protest. A pig grunted from beneath someone’s seat as the door of the bus closed with a hiss and the driver grated the gears.
A building with an ANC flag draped from the second floor window reminded me that we were no longer in South Africa. I nudged Simon who was staring transfixed at a womans hairdo in the seat in front of him. “It must be a bit like having TV aerial on your head”, he mused after a few more nudges.
There are advantages and disadvantages of keeping your luggage with you on a bus in Africa. The driver had wanted to put our rucksacks in the hold beneath the bus, but since we were very skeptical about security arrangements, with much negotiating we were able to keep them with us. After all, if he can have a goat on his lap why can’t we have our rucksacks on our laps? And so that is where they stayed for the entire trip.
Zambian Bus
Our first stop was Kabwe. The bus’ arrival saw sandaled traders sprinting from between tin buildings and from wooden stalls on the side of the road leaving an assortment of hats and shoes in their wake as they jockeyed for first place, trying to anticipate our final resting place. The noise of the trading floor reached a crescendo as desperate merchants tried to sell their wares through the tiny sliding windows high above their heads. Cooldrinks in plastic bags, sweets, biscuits, chickens, cooked meat, oranges and loaves of bread all bumped against our window, held high by the shouting vendors. A big woman whose window couldn’t open leaned across our seat and traded noisily for a homemade ice lolly and a packet of biscuits. Once the price had been agreed, the necessary tender was produced from between her ample bosom and passed it through the window to the grabbing hands. We didn’t feel the urge to buy anything ourselves as Mike Thomas, our host in Lusaka had kindly given us a bottle of coke each and a packet of biscuits for the trip.
Simon had spent about twenty minutes trying to open his bottle. After he had unsuccessfully tried every piece of metal within range as an opener, he gave up produced the packet of biscuits from his rucksack. “We might die of thirst, but not of hunger!” he said and offered them to me. “Do you think I should offer her one?” I asked Simon as I took two, nodding towards a girl across the aisle who hadn’t bought anything at the last stop, “ag shame, maybe she can’t afford anything” I whispered. Simon agreed and I offered the biscuits, the girl beamed as she took the open packet from my hand. Simon waited for the packet to be passed back.
And waited and waited. Eventually the biscuits on the girl’s lap diminished over the next hour until there was no more hope. Once the last biscuit had been eaten, the girl, oblivious to his stare, reached into her bag and produced a bottle of coke. “Look!” exclaimed Simon as he dug me in my ribs with his elbow.
We both watched in amazement as the girl lifted the coke bottle to her mouth, then using her teeth as a bottle opener, prised off the cap with a hiss. She gulped noisily while we stared on. “You think I should ask her to open your coke?” I suggested reaching for the neck of Simon’s rucksack.
“Don’t you dare!” said Simon drily.
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“Is that the Landie?” I asked Simon, instinctively taking my foot off the accelerator and slowing down cautiously while peering through the windscreen of the Landcruiser.
“Yep, and that looks like Tim!” replied Simon, concerned.
Don't argue with high caliber weaponry
No one stops on the side of the road near N’Djili International Airport! The area is crawling with a heavily armed detachment of the Presidential guard. And yet here was the Landrover parked on the side of the road surrounded by the “green berret” of the Zairian army, complete with surface to air rocket launchers and flak jackets. Tim the Hollander was standing in the middle of them….
“Do you think we should stop?” asked Simon nervously, “Those guys look like they mean business!”
“I suppose we had better” I replied, not looking forward to the next few minutes. I eased the Landcruiser to the side of the road and started to slow down, trying to read the mood of the soldiers surrounding Landrover. Did it look like they were going to give us any trouble or were they intent on the Hollander? As we drew closer it was clear that they had their prey and weren’t interested in anything else.
Tim was standing a few meters away from the Landrover surrounded by heavily armed men in camouflage. As we drew to a stop we could see the look of worry on Tim’s face. But it was the man facing him that told us what we needed to know – he had slung his weapon over his shoulder and was examining a green and yellow folded piece of card. “He’s let them get hold of his papers!” Simon whispered to me as we approached on foot.
You can keep the Landie!
General rule of thumb when stopped by the military: Don’t get out of the vehicle, keep the doors locked, DO NOT give your papers to anyone – try and talk your way out.
There were a number of factors that played against Tim that day. First, he couldn’t speak a word of French. Secondly there was a gentleman standing, legs apart, a few meters away with a antitank missile launcher on his shoulder pointed directly at the front of the Landrover. General common sense: DO NOT argue with high caliber weaponry.
“Yor, yor” said Tim as we approached, his normally healthy tan had given way to a grey hue.
“Nee, ik heb geen gazoil!” explained Tim in Dutch, shrugging his shoulders and gesturing towards the Landie.
“But didn’t you switch it to the axillary tank?” I asked as I approached the drivers door, trying to ignore the AK47 pointed at my chest.
I climbed in an felt beneath the front seat for the fuel tank switch and turned it to the left. Through the right hand window I could see Simon talking to the man holding Tim’s papers. I turned the key in the ignition and hoped for the best. The engine roared to life after a few tries.
Leaving the engine running I climbed out and made my way through the sun glasses, AK47s and rocket propelled grenades to where Simon stood negotiating. The soldier with Tim’s documents knew he was on to a good thing, “Five Hundred Dollars” he said, immediately getting to the point. “No one is allowed to stop here! Otherwise he goes to prison for a long time.”
“Oh, good, you can have him then” I said with a sweep of my arm “come on Simon let go!” As I turned away I caught a glimpse of Tim, a horrified expression on his face.
“Mais monsiour….” started the soldier, a look of confusion had started to cloud the glint of triumph in his fake “one way” Ray-bans.
“You can have him, OK?” I replied, cutting him short. “We don’t want him. Put him in prison if you must, I am sure you’ll find next of kin details in his passport.”
By this stage Simon had started to realize what was happening, “See you in twenty years, Tim” He said to the ashen faced Dutchman, turning towards the Landcruiser, “Oh, and keep the Landie…., it’s a piece of rubbish anyway” he added as an after thought as we walked past the man with the antitank missile launcher on his shoulder.
We were safely back at the construction site within twenty minutes, anxious to see if our bluff had worked. We needn’t have worried. Tim was back 5 minutes after us, complete with Landrover, papers and a mixed expression, to say the least, on his face.
“Yor, yor” said Tim, accepting the cold beer by way of a peace offering.
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Some road blocks you just have no choice! Be polite, don’t give them your papers and keep your passengers under control – Well, that’s the theory……
There was often a road block between the airport and town, a lucrative little enterprise that was kept ticking over by a handful of inebriated soldiers.
Gregg eased off on the accelerator of the dilapidated Renault 14 and adjusted his position behind the steering wheel.
“Road block guys!” he said as he glanced around at his car load of passengers.
We all instinctively straightened up in our seats, our light hearted banter dwindling into silence.
Mbote na yo, mundele
Click, click, click, click went the sound of a camera from the back of the car.
“Put that thing away!” we all chimed together glaring at the Australian in the back seat.
“What’s the problem mate?” replied the surprised looking Lindsey Cooper from his vantage point nearest the sights and sounds of urban Kinshasa, his camera lens protruding conspicuously from the rear window.
Lindsey Cooper had walked in unexpectedly one day as if he had just been on a walk about. No one knew he was coming, he just turned up one day much to Julian’s surprise. “G’day mate” he had said in his Australian twang stretching out his hand to shake the home overseers hand, “I’ve come to help out”. Julian’s mouth opened and closed, as he tried to find a suitable reply. No one just arrives! “ From where?” he finally stammered. “Ah, the airport, down the road” replied the Australian, jerking his thumb over his shoulder .
“You aren’t allowed to take photos here – put it away, quick” replied Gregg urgently, hoping his car wouldn’t be noticed by the bleary eyed militia slouching at the check point.
“Ah yeah? Why not?” Said Lindsey adjusting focus and taking a few more shots.
Years of practice had taught the military to smell dollars from a great distance, and it galvanized them to action. Despite the dilapidated appearance of Gregg’s Renault, they could sense the five foreigners inside. Their nostrils flared as they anticipated the bounty to be had. We weren’t going to get by this one!
“PUT IT AWAY!” Urged Gregg “Now!”
Click, click, click
“No worries mate” said Lindsey, as he started to take the camera off from around his head. No, hold on, the hat needed to come off first.
A tall skinny soldier wearing a berret, a pair of sunglasses and an AK47 waved us to pull over at the side of the road.
Click, click went Lindsay’s camera.
“For crying out loud Lindsey!” I hissed through the side of my mouth at the Australian sitting next to me.
“Mbote na yo” Gregg greeted the soldier who stood at his window .
By now a group of street urchins had started to gather around the car. “mundele, mundele, mundele” they chanted, delighted to see a car load of white people.
The soldier informed us that we had committed a very serious offense and that he needed to see Gregg’s papers.
“What’s he say?” inquired Lindsey from the back, still waving his camera around.
“Shut up Lindsey” Whispered Gregg as he dug in his bag to find his papers.
“No worries. What’s he after?”
Gregg knew better than to give the soldier at the window his papers, so he wound his window up and pasted his “carte de residance” against the closed window. The soldier at the window bent to peer at the papers.
“Ah yeah, see can’t touch.” jeered Lindsey from the back.
“Whats he say?” demanded the soldier, waving his AK47 in Lindsey’s direction.
“Oh, nothing” smiled Gregg as the window came down again.
“Drivers license!” demanded the soldier.
Up went the window.
“You can see, but you can’t get your grubby paws on them, yeah!” explained Lindsay loudly from the back.
“Please Lindsay” pleaded Gregg, pasting the document onto the window.
The soldier had heard something from the depth of the car and peered past Gregg into the back,trying to make out whether what was being said involved him or not. He still hadn’t seen the camera.
“Give me money!” demanded the soldier, as Gregg wound down the window again, deciding to bypass formalities and get to the point of the roadblock.
Gregg hesitated for a few seconds.
“mbóngo, noki, noki!” Insisted the soldier, extending his open palm towards the window and waving his weapon at Gregg.
“Tell him his mum wears footy boots” came the suggestion from the back seat.
“ mondele, mondele, mondele” Chanted the children, their noses pressed up at the windows.
After successfully negotiating with the soldier, we were allowed on our way – not sure whether to laugh or throw the Australian from the car.
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The blond Hollander sitting in the driver’s seat next to me gripped the huge steering wheel of the 15 ton Mercedes tipper truck and stared down the road. We were stationary in the middle of the road, the trucks massive diesel engine grumbling beneath us as it idled. Down the road, some 300 meters away, was a road block. I glanced across at Tim, his eyes were fixed on the mixture of 44 gallon drums and weapons that signaled yet another tedious encounter with AK47 wielding thugs.
In Zaire, there were many ways to deal with a road block. You could submit to the agonizing interrogation and inevitable “infraction tres grave!”, handing over millions of Zaires in the form grubby bank notes to get your “Carte des Residance” back in one piece. Or, you could try other methods of circumventing the obstacles in the road. And Tim was intent on the later…
Man against beast
I sat uneasily in the passanger seat and looked quickly around for a seatbelt or anything else that would secure my place in the cabin of the monster truck. Tim was playing mind games with the soldiers who were manning the assortment of drums, gum poles and rocks that littered the road ahead, which served as the road block.
Staring ahead, he pressed his steel-capped boot hard on the accelerator, allowing the engine to roar to maximum revs. The long nose of the construction vehicle moved about 5 degrees clockwise as it strained to keep itself from leaping forward. We could see the green uniforms busying themselves behind the drums.
Generally speaking, road blocks in Zaire during the mid eighties were nothing more than a way to pay the unruly and undisciplined military. We had heard many a story of how soldiers at road blocks would choose the prettiest girl on a bus load of peasants on their way to market, hall her off into the bushes to be raped while the occupants waited patiently. Once the frightened, sobbing girl was back on bus they would be allowed to pass.
“Yor, yor” said the tanned Dutchman as he revved the engine again and looked mischievously down the road. He put the truck into 1st gear and let out the clutch. The truck had 6 gears and each gear that was engaged saw the Mercedes gaining momentum. The engine roared, punctuated only by the hiss of the air assisted clutch and the double clunk of the clutch peddle on the floor as Tim engaged the next gear.
It was now a game of chicken, the soldiers behind their barrels taking their weapons off safety, and a 15 ton behemoth bearing down on them, puny in comparison. Tim had now engaged 6th and there was no turning back. I could feel the sweat running down my neck as I looked anxiously through the windshield in front of me, praying that they would back down first. I could see their fake, “one way” Ray-ban sunglasses that protected their drug dilated pupils from the glare of the midday sun. I could almost smell the liquor on their breath. The boot on the accelerator pushed the last few centimeters to the floor..
And then it happened, the drums and poles were pulled aside and Tim hung on the air horn as the truck thundered passed the dismantled road block and the scattering soldiers.
“Great!” I said sarcastically, “We have got to come back this way!”
“Yor, yor” was all I got in reply.
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We hadn’t heard English spoken for a good few days, we didn’t know where we were, and our only means of communication was a bible which we used as a makeshift dictionary. It worked fine, sort of, if the person you were trying to communicate with had one in his own language. Having said that, we got many a blank stare. You could almost see it on their faces, “Your name is Moses, and you are going where?” Oh, and there was the sand, great for drawing pictures in to explain who you were and where you were going. So, what we found when we got to the missionary home in Mbuji-Mayi saw us grateful, to say the least.
How would he get us to the airport on that?
As we neared Mbuji-Mayi, we could see what looked like little factories perched on top of wide barge like boats floating on the river. It took us a while to figure out what they were. It suddenly dawned on us. “They are dredging the river – but why?” said Simon puzzled. “Dimonds! That’s what they are dredging for. Dimonds!” I yelled as Jean hooted his way past an old man creeping his way towards Mbuji-Mayi with a chicken under his arm.
It was at that moment that dread, fear and uncertainly started to filter back into our subconscious. It was something I had read while we were trying to plan our trip. “Simon, there is some region in Zaire, a diamond area, they don’t allow visitors into without a special pass. Are we maybe in that area?” I suggested, thinking back to how we were met on the station by the banker and his jeep, and how the soldiers at the gate had saluted and let us pass without the usual questions and bribe. Did we need some special pass to enter this area? If so, how were we going to explain ourselves if we get caught? These worrying thoughts started to overwhelm us.
The jeep started it precarious penetration of the town of Mbuji-Mayi. Jean seemed oblivious to the pedestrians on the road as he grappled the gears trying to remember the order in which he was to use them. Man and beast alike parted in front of us miraculously as the jeep followed the main road into town.
Road into Mbuji-Mayi
We could sense the ghosts of Zaire’s colonial past as we entered the town – the paint of 30 years ago still clung to the walls of the Belgian architecture in patches. The structures looked somewhat out of place, dressed up in the way of modern Africa. Old buildings competing for the pavement with little wooden stalls and vendors selling selling bush meat. Africa strangely unfamiliar to the two white South Africans in the jeep, the slim women with their brightly coloured clothes and hair braids, small thin men in sandals or on bicycle, the pulsing rhythm of north west and central African music. It certainly wasn’t the Africa we knew or expected to see. And we couldn’t understand a word!
We were starting to wonder if we were the only white people left on the planet as we pulled up to the missionary home, a well maintained colonial style house in what used to be a posh suburb. As we climbed out of the jeep, stretching our bruised limbs and trying to swallow what was left in our parched mouths, the door of the house opened and out came Jenny Bint.
“allo, want a cuppa tay?”.
The missionary home was like a welcome haven in a world of unfamiliar sounds and sights. It was occupied by a English couple and a Swedish couple. Sitting at the kitchen table, eating hamburgers with the missionaries was still a strange mix of cultures, but we could handle that, they spoke English, we could communicate at last! We poured out the events and concerns of the last couple of days.
Tord, the Swede, disappeared off on his moped to see about getting us to Kinshasa. He soon returned with news of a plane leaving that afternoon.
And were were off, perched precariously on the back of Godfrey’s Vespa and Tord’s moped, our rucksacks on our backs.
Yes, we were in the province of Kasai, and yes we did need a pass, we were told by Godfrey. “But don’t worry, this is Zaire” he reassured us, pushing his black rimmed glasses up on his nose, “let me do the talking.”.
Our first stop at the airport was a bare office on the first floor. A fat Official eating part of a chicken looked up from behind his empty desk as Godfrey knocked at his door. After an exchange of the customary greeting and an explanation of the problem, the man behind the desk stroked his throat. We found out later that this meant he was thirsty and that he needed some money to buy a few beers before he could accommodate us. Wiping his greasy hands down the front of his shirt he accepted Godfrey’s offering and stamped our passports.
We boarded the Air Zaire flight to Kinshasa along with a market of people and chickens. We heaved a sigh of relief as the over crowded Russian made plane left the tarmac and turned North West, anticipating the next part of our trip.
Photo of street by http://www.congovision.com
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As we neared Mbuji-Mayi we could see strange boat like contraptions on the river. “Aren’t they for dredging the river?” said Simon, nudging me in the ribs at the exact moment I was weightless, when the jeep left us suspended in mid air, and before being slammed back into the back seat as the next bump brought the jeep up to meet us. The pot holes had become progressively worse since Mwene Ditu to the point that we were no longer diving on the tar dodging the potholes, we were now driving in the pothole trying to avoid the tar.
“Looks like it” I replied, trying to land back in the jeep and not on top of the bicycle piled high with bags of charcoal we were overtaking. “But dredging for what?” And then it dawned on me!
Watch out for Jean's jeep!
The trip from Mwene Ditu had been eventful to say the least. We had left after breakfast with Jean and his mechanic. We soon understood why the man with the vise grip and screw driver had come along. The jeep started jerking and shuddering about 20km out of town. The gears grated as Jean tried to negotiate a lower gear to keep us going. No such luck as we free wheeled to a stop in the middle of “god knows where”!
Soon the mechanic was digging under the bonnet of the dilapidated jeep, trying to find the problem. Jean sat grinning at us, obviously confident that the little man dismantling the engine was going to get us going again. Simon and I, on the other hand, were contemplating the fact that we might never see civilization again. We watched another piece of the tired engine drop onto the side of the road.
We had no idea where we were. Our South African education during the apartheid years taught us that there was nothing further north than Biet Bridge! Not only did, “where ever we were in Zaire”, not appear on any map we had with us, but we couldn’t even ask, since we couldn’t speak French, Swahili, Lingala or whatever. Our fate was in the hands of a mechanic with a vise grip and a screw driver!
After what seemed ages the mechanic appeared from beneath the jeep to raise a greasy thumb into the air as a signal for Jean to start the engine. With a confident, “I told you so” look, he cranked the jeep into life. Our mouths dropped open as the jeep sprang into life – at least the jeep was running, even though petrol was spurting about a metre into the air from behind the open bonnet.
The little man covered in oil and grease pulled his finger across his throat and then Jean killed the engine. The fountain of petrol slowly subsided to a trickle. Panic once again filled our hearts as we watched the mechanic, both hands on his head, stare into the oily bowels of the engine compartment. Everything had been put back, so why the lake of fuel under the vehicle?
The mechanic and Jean started looking for something on the road. We had no idea what they were looking for but we decided to help in the search anyway as it seemed that the illusive “what ever it was” held the key to us reaching civilizational. We spent the next half hour staring at the road surface, wondering what we were looking for. And then I spotted something, a small washer! “Is this what you are looking for?” I asked hopefully. The gleeful reaction of the mechanic confirmed that it was, and very soon we were off on our way.
It seemed that most of Zaire, human and otherwise, had decided to travel the same road that day. So apart from avoiding the pot holes, Jean had to avoid people, goats, chickens, dogs, children and anything that crept the road, or near vicinity or the road.
And that is where a horn comes in handy. Instead of swerving to avoid a child, Jean would simply drive straight at the startled toddler hooting and waving frantically until it’s mother snatched it out of harms way. It soon became apparent that Jean was hooting at any living thing that was within twenty metres of the road. He would hoot until we were well and truly passed the unfortunate creature, just in time to start hooting at the next victim.
This continued until we were within about ten kilometres of Mbuji-Mayi. And then, for some unknown reason Jean started bobbing down beneath the dash board of the jeep. Each time he disappeared the jeep would sway and swerve dangerously across the road.
“What IS he up to?” I wailed to Simon as the jeep headed to wards the ditch.
Simon was sitting behind the mechanic and had a better view of the drivers antics and peered around his shoulder into the front of the jeep.
Did the jeep ever make it home?
Our fear turned to laughter as we realized what was happening. The horn button had started jumping off from the middle of the steering wheel because of the deterioration of the road. Jean would hoot frantically, hit a pothole, bob, muttering below the dashboard to retrieve the horn button, bounce up at the next rut with the thing triumphantly clutched in one hand, replace it, hoot, hit a rut and the whole process would start again. The more we laughed, the more irritated Jean became with the horn button, and, the more we laughed. By the time we reached Mbuji-Mayi tears of laughter had streaked our faces, and our sides ached.
Later, as we waved waved goodbye to a very grumpy Jean, we could see him gesticulating wildly to the mechanic and then to the horn button in the middle of the steering wheel. I wonder if the jeep ever made it home.
To be continued …..
Picture credits – African Child, Old jeep
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Every time he hooted the horn he ducked beneath the dashboard, while we swerved dangerously across the road! “What IS he doing?” I asked Simon, who was sitting next to me in the back of the jeep. Simon craned his neck to see past the mechanic sitting in the front passenger seat.
It had been an interesting trip from Johannesburg to Mwene Ditu in the DRC (or Zaire as it was at the time). And now we were on our way to the missionary home in Mbuji-Mayi, along the only stretch of tar road in the interior of Zaire.
We had arrived by train from Kamina, a 13 hour trip that should have taken about 4 hours.
The local banker met us on the station platform. Not only was the banker standing on the platform, but so was his jeep! It wouldn’t have been so bad if he knew how to drive! The back of the jeep bumped the side of the train as the banker let go the clutch as if it were just about to bite him. Grating the gears we lunged forward toward a tin kiosk – the shop owner dived for cover. The soldiers at the gate leading out of the station area saluted nervously as we lurched and spluttered out on to the road. “Je m’appel Jean” said the banker turning to look at us hanging on for dear life in the back seat. We both nodded enthusiastically not knowing what he had just said, just praying he would just look at the road ahead!
Jeep in the jungle
Jean took us to a little hotel next to the station. Gesturing wildly, he made us understand that we were to spend the night there and that he would come for us later. It was 4am and we wondered what the point was, and since we had no money, we would have rather have been on our way. But there was no way out, Jean just didn’t understand what we were trying to say.
The little hotel room was simple to say the least, one bed, a bucket of cold water and a French style toilet. We tossed a coin to see who was going to “sleep” on the bed. Soon we were both on the floor since the bed was infested with all manner of creatures, living and dead…
The next morning, three hours later, Jean came past to pick us up. We heard the jeep coming down the road, Jean had forgotten to take the jeep out of first gear and the engine was screaming like a banshee at the early morning traders setting up their stalls. Jean gestured to his mouth and we understood we were going to eat something – “Oh, please God, let it be edible!”
Egg on toast! Phew! But how were we gong to pay, our travelers cheques were useless – our host, the banker, had no clue what they were. We ate anyway, hoping the eggs were chicken eggs. Jean pulled a wad of Zaire notes our of his pocket, peeled off a few hundred thousand, letting us know with a wave of is hand that he was paying.
Soon were we back in the jeep, our knuckles hanging onto the sides, white with tension and rucksacks in the back. Jean had another passenger today – a skinny bug eyed man with buck teeth who sat in the front clutching a vise grip and a screw driver. “Mechanic” grinned Jean, seeing our puzzled stare.
And we were off! It dawned on us that the jeep was the only vehicle we had seen in town. “Jean must have run the others off the road” we mused as the jeep lurched into fourth from second and straight back to first.
End of part one …
Pic of jeep by Matoso http://www.sxc.hu/photo/439745
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