Travel Advisory- a found poem

I found this poem in my inbox

which is filling up with notices.

Email after email on the state of the world
Crime, civil unrest, kidnapping
All the countries that I love
filling up with what seems like unusual levels of
armed robbery, roadblocks, military checkpoints,
demonstrations that turn violent
heavy-handed police tactics
resulting in civilian casualties or death-
but the breathing kind of death
that comes from being shot in a crowd of angry masses
hurling rocks and threatening to overthrow the government.
Not the death that comes from buying candy, or an evening jog
Not the death that comes from selling cigarettes or CDs
Or walking in the rain, talking on the phone
Or sleeping in your very own bed.

My inbox is filling up with notices
Suggesting actions you should take:
Appoint someone to talk to hostage-takers,
media, government agencies, and members of Congress
should you be kidnapped or detained
Establish proof of life protocol
and leave DNA samples with your medical provider
for ease of access in case your family needs it
Most of all, if asked to stop by police,
Stop only in well-lit areas or where many officers are present

I wonder who is sending out the advisory on the US?
Canada, Europe, and the beautiful places.

But even these advisories do not say

the things that need to be said. 

I've been Booted

When I first arrived at school, we were given an interesting orientation task. The staff was divided into groups and each group had to find something that all members had in common. A typical community building, ice breaking type of exercise. In general, groups came up with forgettable responses that did not truly get to the heart of the matter- unifying us as educators, neighbors, and colleagues. However, one group did manage to cross  the boundary and came up with a truly unique bond. They'd all been arrested at one point or another (well, except one person, whom they were willing to overlook in the name of sensationalism.) It was a funny and surprising admission from a group of teachers. One of them addressed us apologetically and said, "Well, when you live in Africa its not really that hard to get arrested." It seemed to change the perspective of trouble with the police from an "if" to a "when."

And so my "when" nearly arrived on this holiday weekend, though I have vowed personally to avoid African police stations if at all possible. Some doors seem likely to open only in one direction (it could also be my avid love of reading all things African or about Africa that has given me a slightly skewed vision of what goes on in some departments...)

We had taken a trip out to the store, as so many adventures seem to begin here. Road work has created a bit of havoc on the main boulevard. Before we knew it, we were coralled downtown much further than we intended to go. There was only one lane of traffic open, going in one direction. Choices were slim. We ended up by a frequented store (of many ex-pats here in Kin) and near the US embassy, a somewhat notorious part of town.

Not surprisingly, we were signaled to pull over. There were a lot of cars being pulled over. I was reminded  of the end-of-the month inspection checks in the U.S. But then my friend pointed out a white SUV with a yellow tire boot. It was empty and on the opposite side of the road, which had become increasingly congested. The Kinshasa gare central is in this area and just after the turn there is a large taxi pick up area. Between the taxis and the long line of cars pulled over, there wasn't a lot of room for other motorists to pass.

We began our dance with the police. They want the windows rolled down, I want to keep them up. They want my documents, I don't want to give my documents. They were asking for the 'card rose' which I didn't appear to have. I did have several letters with official looking titles and stamps however. And while I was carrying on this dispute, my friend and passenger noticed they were trying to boot us. I immeidately began to drive causing the 'booter' to jump back from the car. This also caused the police officer to become quite angry with me and we began something of a yelling exchange. My part went something like this, "Hey! Hey! Hey! You can't do that. What's the problem? We didn't do anything. Hey! Hey! Hey!..." and so on. His part went something like this..."Attention. Who do you think you are? You think this country is for you?!?! You need some discipline." And here all of my novels and travel biographies produced a vivid image of what Congolese police discipline might entail. I demanded pardon but continued to let him know that we had everything we were supposed to. So what was the problem? I let him know we had called someone to "help with the speaking" and he pretended not to hear me so I would roll down my window.

Onlookers and passing cars began to cause a fuss, as we were blocking the path of taxis. One of the orange vested men (the 'booters', I gathered) signed to me that we should pull up and over a bit. Ah, but how? I could go nowhere. He pantomined unlocking the boot so I could move out of the way. I just shook my head. If he unlocked my boot, I was driving away- although, with the traffic condition, I surely wouldn't get far. I figured it was only fair since he had thoughtlessly locked me in an inconvenient place for no apparent reason.

So we sat in the hot car, baking, discussing the benefits of a good sweat bath now and then. We watched the Congolese passing us and laughed at the way they stared at the tire and then stared at us. Doubletakes that caused the eyebrows to crumple in confusion or be raised in sympathetic wonderment. A few street boys even came over to speak some English and offer their advice: we were screwed. This really caused us to crack up in laughter. Everyone seemed to be telling us the obvious. But they did it with such concern and sincerity.

Once the boot has been applied, talking yourself out of the situation seems unlikely. I watched another couple get pulled over. The woman opened her door and stepped outside. (Isn't rule number 1 never to get out of the car? I thought.) I envied the way the breeze seemed to twirl her skirt around. Sweat dripped from my chin. We were waiting for some relief from the embassy. The man from the truck came over to inquire if we were ok...well, aside from being trapped-literally-inside our car. They drove away, no problems it seemed, leaving us contemplate why some mondele  were booted and others were not. Its all arbitrary here.

Our embassy guardian arrived, another Congolese police officer but in plain clothes. Upon sight, I didn't have much faith in him. "I am here for you," he told us and did take our documents and engage in discussion. There seemed hope of a resolution. It just came down to time. Resolutions can be lengthy....and costly. At one point, he snatched the papers from whoever was holding them and threw them in the car. "Don't give them anything!" he said. It didn't seem like things were going all that well. More discussion. Abruptly we were told we could go. The boot was removed. "We are not criminals..." I heard in careful, accented English as we drove away. It was the orange vested booter. Neither are we, I thought. Why the boot? It seemed like such extreme measures. Meanacing measures.

We did eventually make it to our intended destination, and shopped in soaking wet clothes, to the curisoity of those in the store. We even went to lunch to celebrate our freedom. On the way home, we passed the (gas)station in Kintambo and noticed  a group of orange vested men and a pile of yellow boots. Someone else's adventure.....

1 Message Received

It was about 4:30 when I received one text message on my phone. I don't get a lot of phone calls or messges so it was a fairly exciting event. (That statement alone may give a more definitive perspective of Congo than anything else I could write in this blog.)

It was a forwarded message. Unlike FWD: emails, forwarded messages are usually important. They come from the US Embassy. Who was advising Amcits to avoid Ave Justice from Mandela Circle to Lukusa. Police are stopping cars and looking for money.

The equivalent of flashing your lights at oncoming traffic I suppose. Watch out around the bend...
I did have my first experience of being pilfered for money. It didn't go terribly, though I wonder how the outcome would have differed were I alone. I hate the whole feeling of being bullied and can be a bit more stubborn about participating. Just when I was thinking how much fun we three American women were having collecting our weekly groceries, a slightly soaked policeman motioned me to the side. I thought he was directing me around some kind of large hole in the road. I was truly confused. It finally hit me that he wanted me to pull over and I just let the confusion take control. Sometimes it helps.

Being pulled over in Africa is not quite like being pulled over in the US. The first question my friend asked me, and even I myself for a foolish minute, was why? Because he wanted to is the obvious answer. Because I am a white woman driving. Because he can. Because it was raining and he was wet and miserable, wishing to be anywhere but on that street directing traffic. Take your pick.

My first instinct was just to keep driving. I really wanted to. After all, there are no electronic gadgets in which he could track my plate or anything like that. And he was on foot. Then again, I was in a car. I needed to consider the traffic situation in downtown Kinshasa. He could easily overtake me before the next intersection.

After that first decision, it was a series of many more, all fighting my natural inclination to be an upstanding citizen and obey. He motioned for me to roll down the window. I ignored him. It was difficult to stop my hand, but all the while my head was commanding my body in contrary ways.

He asked for my license. I didn't have one. A good thing in this case, I think, since I haven't yet switched over to Congolese. A New York license would surely have incensed him.

In the end, he asked for twenty bucks -we gave him a thousand francs (maybe a dollar fifty.) It hardly seemed worth it, to him or us.

But the latest embassy meetings have been suggesting the financial situation is getting dire, as everywhere. The police and military haven't been paid in months (or was it a year?) The gov't is thinking of just giving them a bunch of thousand franc bills to keep them happy. It seems last time they did that, the shopkeepers wouldn't accept any of it because the bills had no value. It seems last time there was some general looting and rioting over the whole affair.

So they're considering doing it again. Apparently it was 1 message not received.