Travel has always held a certain appeal to me. Walking is my standard passion, allowing me to feel in control and on the move. Though I have never felt limited by how far my feet can actually take me, bicycles and automobiles offered a second freedom, opening the roads and highways up to endless destinations. Airports, however, have become the ultimate symbol of converging cities, countries and continents. They are a point of potential where everyone is on the brink of some new adventure. My first international flight enchanted me with its multitude of languages and customs. I waited patiently for the English version of the announcements, delighting in the sounds of Flemish, French and Spanish that came before. I secretly loved the fact that my native tongue wasn't first or even most important.
Airports are a place of bringing people together. Even a departing friend or family member suddenly becomes all the more dear and close to heart in the face of an airport goodbye. Strangers are flung together for long hours and uncomfortable circumstances which often results in a sense of camaraderie and unity. People feel more at ease sharing their stories and taking time to talk to those that they may have previously brushed past brusquely on the street. Its kind of a limbo state in between the busyness of everyday life and the quiet contemplation of a retreat. The busyness of an airport is usually of the hurry-up-and-wait variety while the contemplation comes along in sleepy waves as the clock jumps hours trying to keep up with the plane, hurling its passengers back and forth through time. Even those waiting on the ground have gone through their own kind of warp, anticipating the arrival and setting out early to beat traffic. There is the suspense of wondering if the flight has made it in on time and all has passed as it should.
In Kinshasa, the suspense grows a hundred fold. Traffic is legendary. One can sit for hours barely moving, slowly following dusty detours. The alternative is to leave early enough to avoid the rush which allows you to arrive with hours to spare. Hours waiting for the protocol by a roadside gas station or sitting in the parking lot of Ndjili, wondering if your brother will actually make it past customs this time.
The suspense builds because arriving at the airport does not provide any of the reassuring feedback one might receive in the US. There are no electronic flight schedules to monitor or any way to determine delayed or arriving planes. There is not even much sense of getting out of the car as entry into the airport is strictly forbidden.
When I went to pick up Kazadi two years ago, he was flying in from Lubumbashi. It was a local flight and during the day. I spent some time hanging outside the doors where in-country arrivals exit. A man named Mike struck up a conversation with me as we were hustled from our shady waiting spot by humorless painters afraid of dribbling on us. We stood side by side in the narrow line of shade cast by a lamppost awaiting our guests. Turns out Mike, an herbal doctor, and his cousin needed a ride into the city, which I was happy to give them.
Last Wednesday I was sitting in the car observing the airport at night. It had been a long journey, began when the sun was still high in the sky. I'd already witnessed my share of attempted car washers and competent tire changers overseen by a muscular man in fatigues. People were clearing out, cars were leaving and lights were being turned off from within. I wondered where my brother was and if immigration had their clutches sunk too deep. A tall man walked by dodging puddles from the recent downpour and discussing possibilities with the two young boys deftly wheeling his suitcases. I had spotted him earlier as he spoke to a woman just getting into her car. She appeared to be an airport employee leaving for the night. She had driven away and the tall man had disappeared somewhere. As he passed this second time, he noticed me gazing out the open window and I heard him say, almost to himself, "Let me see if I can request some services..." He changed course and made his way over.
Turns out he was also named Mike, a Kenyan from Switzerland working at a local NGO. He'd had his car brought to the airport only to arrive and find it with four flat tires. He was also in search of a ride to the city. We talked a bit in French and English, remarking on the state of the country and the differences one could feel in the air. Our conversation was a mix of history and philosophy peppered with personal revelations. It's amazing how easy it is to strike up a conversation with someone at the airport.
In the midst of this, the protocol--who had all along been assuring me everything was fine this time and my brother was not going to be deported---arrived at the car. Alone. I immediately stepped out and began questioning him. All was not going exactly smoothly and he wanted me to begin making some calls. We had people on alert this time in case of this very thing. I looked at Mike as he loaded his bags into the back of the jeep and shrugged my shoulders. "You see, you've asked for a ride and now you are caught up in this problem." He seemed undeterred by a prolonged wait and was instead determined to offer his help in whatever way possible. Oh the unity inspired by an airport parking lot. We three charged up to the entrance ramp.
The officer there was not happy to see us. He seemed to think the protocol had disrespected him by returning with so many people who thought they were just going to march right in. Mike, being half Congolese though raised with his Kenyan side of the family, was very adamant about gaining entrance or, at the very least, some concrete information. I couldn't really tell if his claim to connections was valid or a mere show of pomp and flashing badges meant to inspire compliance. As I occupied myself with phone calls, Mike gained the ear of an official passing by at just that time. He informed us that all the detainees would be released immediately.
Ousmane came sauntering out minutes later. The protocol went back in to retrieve the passport, an affair that took another half hour or so. Mike and Ousmane became fast friends as they shared tales of their travels and woes. They surveyed the flat tires and commented some more on the state of the country. Mike repeated his vow to make formal complaints when he returned the next morning.
It was near midnight when we finally all piled into the small car, bags stacked high and knees scrunched tight. We made our way through dark and deserted streets back to the main city. I worried a bit about leaving Mike off at Kintambo to search for a taxi to his place in Macompagne. We left with an exchange of numbers I might never use and that sense of camaraderie and unity so often accompanying a travel ordeal.
I seem to have developed a habit of picking up Mikes at the airport.
