“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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