“Remember what Bilbo used to say: ‘It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”” — J.R.R. TolkienAs a child, I followed Bilbo's adventures never knowing that I might be closer to his reality one day than I could ever imagine. Stepping out the door in Congo is always certain to lead to one sort of adventure or another. But, as with any long vacation sequestered here on campus, I tend to get led into a foggy haze and my thinking becomes otherworldly. It was in this dream like, slightly confused state that I set out to the closest store to get a few things. Nothing important, just some small unnecessary items. Completely forgetting there's no such thing as a quick run to the store.
I stopped to get cash at the ATM not far from school. The ATM spits out hundreds like an angry llama. I am always intrigued by the idea that you can spend US dollars on the street in Congo...anything bigger than a $5. No one will even look a single dollar bill. When I've received one as change in a bank or supermarket, even I have shaken my head in disbelief as though it were play money. "Can you give me francs? What am I going to do with that?" I say, knowing there's nowhere to spend a dollar. Its amazing how quickly our paper system becomes devalued. And to think, I used to collect change.
With a crisp brand new one hundred dollar bill, I continued on to the "corner store." Once inside, I picked up a few things totaling slightly less than $5 and was promptly told they would not accept my overzealous payment. I've had problems of this sort before in this store. A slight tear, too many wrinkles. They are very particular about American money. Crisp, clean and wrinkle free. But my hundred was fresh from the machine and so I didn't really see the problem. Too big, I guess. I just shook my head, muttering that only in a country such as Congo would they refuse to accept money. It happens all the time. Refusal to bargain to a fair price, refusal to sell, refusal to accept money for a just exchange. Bizarre. In my fugue state, I went out to the car.
There is a "point of no return" in Kinshasa and for me it lies just after the first round about leading to the boulevard and downtown. Once you drive past that, returning traffic could take hours and its definitely a no man's land out there. At the parking entrance, I looked to my left, saw the endless line of cars and decided to turn back towards Kintambo, the busy market area I had just come through. Traffic is often horrendous through there and the streets crowded with pedestrians and sellers make it something o f an obstacle course. However, I figured I could go to a cozy little store tucked on a side street and pick up some cheese, maybe some onions and get change for my oppressive one hundred dollar bill. It's an interesting store that always has a side of goat hanging to the left of the entrance. I guess they are also a butcher. I usually turn my head when I enter to avoid the graphic image. Once inside, it actually seemed like a good plan until, just as I was about to pay, someone came in and asked me to move my car. I was apparently blocking an exit from the driveway. I moved the car and drove away empty handed, albeit for that crisp, useless American money.
I headed downtown weaving through darting pedestrians, trying to heed traffic cop signals and ignoring the street boys that wanted me to perform crazy maneuvers in order to let the taxi buses through. The holiday season in Kinshasa, as in any big city, impossibly adds to the number of cars and confusion on the road. About halfway down, I came to a stop as directed by the officiating officer. He was motioning for a large truck to make a left hand turn from the oncoming lane. However, the cross lane the truck was turning into was not actually moving. The truck could not make it across the boulevard without completely blocking our way forward. At times like these I think of the simple rules of NYC driving, 'Don't block the box.' It seems obvious.
Predictably, the cars in my lane began shouting, gesturing and honking. What was happening before us simply didn't make sense. Our road was open but we were being made to wait for.....well, it wasn't quite clear. I guess it should also be predictable by now but I was taken a bit by surprise when cars started to go around the huge truck....to my left. Which meant they were now on the wrong side of the road traveling against oncoming traffic. "I am NOT doing that," I thought. But I did. I was swept up in the flow of moving vehicles and soon found myself on the wrong side of the road, immediately aware of two distinct problems. First, obviously, I was on the wrong side of the road. Second, and more importantly, the line behind the truck stretched on for quite a distance. There was no immediate access back to my correct driving lane. With safety (and perhaps a bit of mob mentality) in numbers, we all proceeded to drive defying traffic rules and common sense. Think of a car chase scene in your favorite action adventure film...though somewhat slower and with a bit more control. Just as panic began to set in, I saw an opening that would allow me to cross over into the land of sanity. I veered to my right and was soon merging into the world of correct driving laws.
With all of the traffic surrounding me and now coming in a variety of directions, things were hectic and a bit confusing. I had to come to a sudden halt just before a crosswalk where another traffic cop had given the signal. (There are no 'yellow' hand signals that I am aware of here. It's simply a turn of the body and outstretched arms that let you know if you should stop or go...slowing down is for cowards I guess.) I had passed the 'line' a bit and immediately caught the eye of the policeman. He walked up to the front of my car with large gestures. I made my own gestures in return, apologising and recognizing that I was ill placed. I even reversed a bit into an oncoming truck in an attempt to rectify the oversight. Upon reaching my front grill, he made a somewhat hilarious motion of throwing himself on top of my car as though I had hit him. No, no I shook my head. I wasn't even close to you. There were no pedestrians in sight and I had crossed the line ever so slightly. I realized the radio was on and turned it down so I could hear what he had to say.
He began pointing at me and then pointing next to him. He wanted me to get out of the car. I've never had this request before. Usually they approach the window and ask to see your license. If he moved from the front of my car however, I would be free to drive off. He continued pointing and motioning while I continued shaking my head and apologizing, trying to explain the mass of cars and confusion I had just driven through. He put his hands to his lips, Italian style. It was not the hunger sign but the get out of your car and kiss me sign. Or maybe it was my hazy head and confusion that led me to this translation. I simply didn't know what he was asking for. I tilted my head and raised my eyebrows. Was he serious? Someone on the street shouted at him and he turned. He stepped aside from the car, pointed his finger at me and told me not to drive off even as he watched me slowly pulling away.
I had nearly arrived at my destination and so pulled into the lot and purchased a few items. The downtown area was packed with people and events and general holiday commotion. It's like confetti on the eyes trying to discern if there is a real situation or just a crowd of people waiting for transport. A bunch of police seemed to be surrounding a pushcart. I couldn't tell if the man emerging from underneath it had been hit or was repairing something. It's always that way with people under vehicles.
My return trip was equally eventful in that children seemed to be dashing from one side of the street to the other in a crazy game of 'red light, green light.' This was no game of course, just the ordinary day to day of trying to get somewhere in Kinshasa on foot. I stopped to let a young street vendor escort two little boys most of the way across the street, happy they'd had some help in their personal adventure. He went two- thirds of the way with them and then gave them a slight push as he threw his hands up in the air. "Off with you," he seemed to be saying, as he returned to his post and his friends by the side of the road. I was almost feeling hopeful.
The thing that really stops my heart is the way the smallest of boys who are selling water run after the large taxi buses and cars. The taxi buses don't slow down for them and in order to make the sale they run along side throwing bags into the windows and hoping to catch the bills tossed back to them. Because the taxis tend to create an ominous third lane down the middle of the road, the boys are often caught between rows of traffic. I drive holding my breath for them with a foot on the brake. I was a bit distracted by the scene as several other street kids came up to my window on the right. 'Tis the season and everyone is looking for some holiday cash. I shook my head at them as I eyed a young girl looking to make a quick dash across the road. Anticipating her run, I slowed down. The boys on my right formed a little posse and one of them even stepped in front of my car, policeman style. Really? Accosted by a band of seven year olds. I steered around him cautiously, in wonder at this new boldness. They banged the back of my car a few times as I made my way past them.
I finally arrived at the house with some bread and cheese in tow, still laughing about kissing the policeman. I just can't get enough of these traffic stories. It's a dangerous business, stepping out of your door.
