Beneath African Skies

Into Zaire – Attempt number 2

“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!”

Into Zaire – attempt number1

“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.