The Kongo Diaries I - Native Son Comes Home

By Mvemba Dizolele

01/08/02

The SABENA plane finally came to a halt at Kinshasa's Ndjili International Airport. It had been a memorably bad flight; one that I will remember for years to come. Service was terrible, perpetuating rumors about SABENA being "Such-A-Bad-Experience-Never-Again." The bad flight heightened my nervousness about the trip.  I had not been home in over 13 years, and was not sure what to expect. Peeking through portholes, I felt even a greater level of agitation as the airport facilities looked foreign to me; I did not recognize the place. It looked like a war zone. Indeed the country was at war against its neighbors Rwanda and Uganda. And yet it was home.

In 1988, after spending 22 days in political detention courtesy of then-President Mobutu's security police, I left Zaire in haste and never returned. I wandered through Scandinavia, attending Birkeland Folkehögskole in Norway, and eventually settled in the United States; attended college, served with the US Marine Corps Reserve and took US citizenship. Over the years I had contemplated going back, visiting family and friends, and reconnecting with the country I loved so much. Yet, the trauma of political detention and the brutality of Mobutu's regime did not lift off. Besides, US citizenship is not always what it is cracked up to be. In parts of the world, like my own - it can make one a prime suspect of just about anything. So, I kept my distance.

Still, now I was off the plane onto a crowded tarmac, grappling with the new reality of my hometown. Kofi Annan, the United Nations Secretary-General, had arrived into town as well to try to hammer out a peace settlement. Security was tight with all those local officials and UN agents who came to meet him. Airport personnel escorted all passengers to the arrival gate.

US passport and vaccination certificate in hand, I slowly lined up with fellow travelers. The checkpoint area was chaotic, filled with passengers and all kinds of security and law enforcement agents dressed in at least half a dozen different types of uniforms. It was hard to make out just who was in charge of security. These agents fought with each other for our papers, every one of them hoping to get a tip from passengers.  

Lining up with foreigners was disheartening. There I was in my hometown, queued up with damned foreigners. Standing on that foreigners' line felt surreal and hopeless. I was a foreigner in my own country - unbelievable. That meant more harassment by security and immigration agents. I quietly stood in line and prayed that all would work out. It was clear that I had returned to a different country. I had left Mobutu's Zaire and returned to Kabila's Democratic Republic of Congo--a new regime, a new era, same land.

While waiting, I spotted a fellow on the other side of the line sporting a polo shirt that said: US Embassy Pretoria. I quickly approached him and asked if he worked for the US embassy; he did. "I am a US citizen," I said, waiving my blue passport. "Will you help me?"  He took my passport and placed it on the clerk's desk, moving me to the front of the line. In a matter of seconds, the clerk landed the right entry stamps on my passport. I took a deep breath and felt a great sense of relief. Soon I would be with my family. The embassy fellow collected my luggage stubs and beckoned me to meet him at the claim area.

It is my opinion that the welfare of a nation can be measured by the state of its capital city's airport. Kinshasa's Ndjili International Airport reflects the general state of the Congo today. Upon landing one could not help but feel a sense of gloom. The bad shape of the facilities faithfully mirrored the collapse of the country's economy. In 1988 when I left Kinshasa, this airport figured on the list of most major airlines servicing Africa - from Air France to Air Gabon to Lufthansa. Ndjili International was a hub to reckon with.

In the time I was gone, it had all changed.   Thirteen years later I felt as though I had traveled back in time, not forward. Ndjili lacked everything - metal detectors, x-ray machines; and very little of every other equipment that makes an airport run smoothly. Just like the country, the airport ran on a defunct infrastructure. Looking back, I marvel that the Congolese make do with so little. They successfully defy adversity everyday. 

I stepped past the immigration clerk and started towards the luggage claim area only to be stopped by a plain-clothed agent. He wanted my health certificate and escorted me to a makeshift office where two health ministry agents waited. They scrutinized both my passport and health papers, checking my immunizations. First, they wanted to know why a US citizen carried a Congolese name. Then they informed me they would have to book and fine me. My yellow fever vaccination was less than ten days old. It takes ten days for the subject to develop immunity and they could not let me into the country. I sighed.

Negotiation ensued. I pointed out that the Congolese embassy in London had approved my immunizations and granted me a visa. "Ça c'est l'ambassade," one of them retorted, "Ici c'est le Congo." I explained that I was a student and had no money. They demanded more. Negotiating in French did not get me very far. So, I took a chance and switched into Swahili, having sensed the senior agent's accent. There had been a shift of ethnic power when Kabila, Sr. came to town. The Swahili of the East became Congo's political and business language, supplanting both French and Lingala (Kinshasa's main language.) Swahili unlocked doorways into any circle of power: armed forces, government, corporations, etc. In fact, Swahili is the only local language on Congolese currency and passport. 

The charm worked. He softened his stance, explaining that they really took health issues seriously and could not let me through. I pursued him in Swahili, asking where in Katanga he was from. I had spent eight years in Katanga as a youngster and knew the region rather well.  He further softened his stance, but bluntly asked for cash. With a big smile, I opened my empty pockets to show how destitute I was. Anticipating trouble in Kinshasa, I made sure I had no cash on me prior to take-off in Brussels. Disappointed, he waved me through.

My guardian angel from the US Embassy had been waiting for me at the baggage claim. I could see my brother and his wife waving on the other side. Every piece of luggage is opened and checked upon arrival at Ndjili Airport. Random search does not exist because there is no adequate detection equipment. I spotted my luggage at the carousel and pointed them to my angel. He ordered porters to put them with embassy pouch and spared me the annoying search. I did not know how to thank him. Different as it now was, I was home. Bienvenue à Kinshasa!

The Kongo Diaries III - Kinshasa La Belle - A Joyful Ride Downtown

By Mvemba Dizolele

02/04/02

Known in its heyday as Kin La Belle, or Kin the beautiful, Kinshasa's fame reached way beyond Congolese borders. A bustling metropolis, the city hosted Muhammad Ali and George Foreman when they rumbled in the jungle in 1974. For the last four decades, Kinshasa has also generated some of the most exquisite rhythms out of Africa: Congolese Rumba, Soukous and Ndombolo to name a few. With such artists as Papa Wemba, Kofi Olomide and the Wenge Family, Congolese music dominates airwaves and the nightclub scenes across much of Africa. Kinshasa has always had a happy feel about it, giving the city yet another name: Kin Kiese, Kin the Joyful. It was this happiness that I missed the most while I was abroad.

I could hardly wait to immerse myself in daily life, to check out my old town. Yet after all that I had seen at Ndjili International Airport and the U.S. Embassy, I particularly did not know what to expect of the city anymore. One thing was clear; it was a different city in more than one way. Now with an estimated six to seven million inhabitants, Kin La Belle had moved on without me. Population growth and collapse of the economy had effectively destroyed the city's infrastructure. Just like its airport, Kinshasa lacked most basic services.

The most evident casualty of the economic collapse was public transportation. Kin La Belle no longer had a public transportation system worth the name.  So instead we walked to a pick-up station, a sort of bus/taxi stop where crowds of commuters waited excitedly for their rides. From any of these stations also known as Ronds-points, one could travel to a number of destinations. The choices would be a taxi, a fula-fula, a kimalu-malu or a taxi-bus. All these vehicles traveled only one route, taking passengers from one rond-point to another with some stops along the way. The course is never diverted.

Fula-fulas, kimalu-malus are pick-up trucks or regular trucks outfitted with hard wood or metal benches, which could carry between 20 to 40 passengers. Taxi-buses are vans and mini-vans converted in a similar manner for effective transportation usage. These vehicles speak of the great entrepreneurial spirit that has helped Congolese fill the gap where the government has been unable to provide services. Entrepreneurs have stepped up and provided health care, education, etc. I know of no other people as determined to make the best of any adversity as these Congolese entrepreneurs.

Not so sure about my bearings in the new environment, I enlisted my brother's help - getting a seat on any one of these vehicles requires good physical condition. One has to run and fight for a space. A taxi is a regular sedan, typically a 1970's era Mercedes, that packs seven passengers at a time, including the chauffeur: three up front and four in the back. We fought our way onto one such taxi and successfully secured a couple of seats. Because I wanted to experience a great view of the city, I sat in the front which, of course, cost more.

So there we were, seven of us boxed up into one sedan: my brother, myself and five strangers. Personally, I enjoyed the experience, a memorable ride. L'Avenue de l'Université, comparable to Chicago's Magnificent Mile, had lost its entire luster. What was once a paved road was now simply an important dirt road. Big holes and crowds of pedestrians made the journey rather perilous. The government could not afford to repair this road or any other road like it.  With only a very few exceptions, the road infrastructure has been seriously damaged.  

On both sides of the road, drivers were determined to avoid holes and protect their vehicles at all costs, which means that they cut into the opposite traffic space at any time and in whichever direction they deemed necessary. Sitting up front, I experienced such risky maneuvers first-hand. During it all, passengers kept their cool.  The drivers managed to remain civil, friendly and courteous with one another. Surprisingly, I did not witness any road rage and no one got hurt.

Along the way, I noticed another important change. Traffic policemen did not harass motorists. I was happily surprised. In Mobutu's days, les policiers de roulage, as these cops were known, would stop taxi-drivers several times for any excuse they could imagine and extort money from them. Other elements of the police force would harass pedestrians, also asking for cash. I had expected worse, not better, from the new regime. It seemed that Kabila had brought a sense of peace and stability for the average Kinois.

As we stopped along the way to drop and collect passengers, I noticed new arrivals would happily greet everyone in the car. One would expect certain bitterness on the part of people living under such hardship. The old joie de vivre survived rough times, though. It sure is hard to break a people's spirit. There were plenty of pedestrians on both sides of the road walking to God knows where. A car is considered a luxury and most people walk almost anywhere their business takes them. Students walk to school, and many professionals walk to work. 

As the ride continued, I got a better sense of the collapse of the State. I saw school buildings in the worst shape and wondered how the Congo would educate the younger generation. I saw children who looked rather weak, and at times not well nourished. Yet their smiles expressed hope. As they waved at passing cars, I sensed a strong desire to enjoy life on their angel faces; I could not help but smile back. In those school children, I saw Congo - the Next Generation.

The piles of rubbish at the corner of the road caught my attention. There too, the State had failed. With its large population, Kin La Belle needs a working public sanitation system. My stomach tightened as I watched all the rubbish that had accumulated along the way. "How long has it been there?" I wondered, "How long would it be before we could clean it up?" A sense of hopelessness enveloped me immediately. I felt overwhelmed by the enormity of the challenge ahead in rebuilding the Congo. My mind drifted back to Spain, Portugal, and Hungary - some of the countries I had visited recently - and asked myself why the Congo could not be like them.

Returning to the present, I heard the music blasting from the shops along the road. I was back in Kin Kiese. Some teenagers were dancing outside, the latest version of Ndombolo. They seemed happy, and I certainly felt happy, too. The tingle in my spine made me move to the rhythm. I wished I had learned those steps, and made a note of it. In the Congo, music is the fiber of life and I wanted to be part of it again. The taxi driver stepped on the brake and pulled me out of mental vagabondage: "Centre-ville, mesdames et messieurs!" 

Kongo Diaries V

By Mvemba Phezo Dizolele

03/06/02

The minivan came to an abrupt halt as we arrived at Ndjili International Airport. A police officer had just asked the driver to stop. We all wondered why. "Security check," he said, "we need to see your papers." The darkness of the night had fallen over Kinshasa, and God knows all forces of evil go to work at sunset in Africa. These days there might be only two or three international flights a week out of Kinshasa. I had a flight to catch and did not want any new troubles. The officer then ordered the chauffeur to join the queue of vehicles in front of us. The entire family looked perplexed. Nothing seems to be easy in Kinshasa anymore. Peeking into the van, the officer asked why so many people had come to the airport. "To see our brother off," someone shouted, clearly irritated. The officer did not care. He asked the chauffeur a series of questions, and then asked his colleagues to let us through the gate. Certain things do not change, of course.

Ndjili looked as sad as it did when I arrived a week earlier. The gloom I had experienced on arrival had not lifted off. As we parked, security agents accosted us. "Only the traveler is allowed inside," they said, pointing to the main building.  They were indeed serious and I was surprised. "Who makes these rules?" I wondered silently. So it was. I said good-bye to my folks in the parking lot.  The experience made me angry. Families should be able to say good-bye in dignity, not in a parking lot.

While the rest of the family stayed in the van, my brother and his wife decided to challenge the rule and successfully accompanied me to the main building. Travelers go through one door, and everybody else goes through a different gate. To my surprise, the ticketing area was far more chaotic than what I experienced at the arrival side. It was extremely hot, crowded and loud, reminding me of Kinshasa's grand marché--the great market.

"Jumping through hoops is a never-ending part of life here," I thought to myself. A police officer directed me to the first checkpoint. They wanted to see my ticket and itinerary. "Ça va!" The airport agent waived me through and directed me to another stop. And there was a long line of unhappy passengers dragging their luggage, while the file moved at a snail's pace. The place was crowded, and the line so convoluted that I could not tell where the next checkpoint was. To help calm my irritation, I started a little chat with the fellow in front of me. He was a Congolese businessman who traveled often to Europe. I asked him what the next stop was for. "Passport check," he said. "Merci, monsieur!" I thanked him.  He explained that it was standard procedure to get your passport checked upon departure at Ndjili, telling me to be patient. I had no choice.

After what seemed like an eternity, I finally made it the next stop. To my surprise, a Belgian man manned the checkpoint. He worked for SABENA, I think. I am not sure. I promptly gave him my US passport and ticket. He scrutinized the passport, checking every detail and meticulously comparing my features with those of the fellow pictured on the first page. I was not sure he could tell the difference. My head was almost bald while the guy on the picture sported a flat top.

There was something unsettling about a Belgian checking passports at Kinshasa's airport. Several travelers in the queue voiced their discontent. It did not look right. "What is happening to the Congo?" I wondered. "Are we slowly reverting to Belgian rule?" The only explanation was Belgium's immigration laws. Belgium would much prefer to stop illegal immigrants before they even left their home country. All the same, I did not like it.

By now, I am sweating. At the next stop a Congolese security agent checked my passport, which the Belgian had just handed him. I did not like it a bit; it was bad symbolism. If anything, the order should have been reversed. The Congolese should have checked my passport first. It is important for the Congo to get the order right, if the country were to progress. A little confused by the order of things, I proceeded to yet another stop--SABENA's ticket counter.

"Sir, you are not scheduled to fly tonight," the desk clerk told me as she looked at my ticket. "Excusez-moi, madame, I am on this flight." I had had enough of the airport experience to go through it again. "Please, check again. I personally confirmed with your office downtown." The lady reluctantly checked her computer. " I am sorry, monsieur, I read the wrong name." So I was confirmed and given a boarding pass. There was hope I would be leaving Kinshasa in a little while. I could see my brother and his wife on the other side and proceeded towards the barriers for one last chat and a dignified good-bye. It had been almost two hours since we arrived at the airport. Following the "Foreigners" sign, I exited the building and boarded the plane.

Over the next several hours, I reflected on my experience in the Congo. I had left the old Zaire under Mobutu as a Zairian, and returned to a new country, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, as a foreigner. The new country was as foreign to me as I was to it. Many things had changed. With its fallen state, Ndjili International Airport had underscored the collapse of a country that, not so long ago, was a rich and powerful state to reckon with.

I thought about my family and old friends and the city we call home--Kinshasa. Once the pearl of Central Africa, Kinshasa la Belle had lost its lustre. Gone were all the attractions that made the city a sought-after tourist destination. Today Kinshasa looks more like a war-torn city that would help sell an issue of National Geographic with some exotic panoramic shot on the front cover. I wondered how it all happened. The University of Kinshasa is home to Africa's only nuclear reactor, yet students there live and study in the most revolting conditions. They have to grow their own food to survive. I was angry and torn inside.

I thought about my identity. Born and raised in the Congo, I will always be a Congolese first, no matter what. Yet, when I returned home a week ago, I needed a visa to enter the country. As a naturalized US citizen, I had become a foreigner. And it can be rather disheartening to be a foreigner in one's home. Several people marveled that I had not changed. They were impressed that I still spoke the language fluently, and remembered all the slang words. Some were impressed I had kept up with the music and the culture. Others thought I had changed too much; that I had become too much of a westerner.

Better yet, to some people I had become a US ambassador. They expected me to explain US policy towards the Congo. "Why don't you Americans leave the Congo alone?" they would often ask. Some demanded to know why the United States had forsaken their old cold war ally that served them so well in their fight against communism. I had become different things to different people.

I had just left my home and family in Kinshasa, yet I was looking forward to getting home to Chicago. Over the few months I spent overseas, I had missed the United States and was eager to get back. My heart was content. The visit to the Congo had replenished my soul with a new sense of my Kongo roots. It felt as though I had been drinking from the fountain of life. A new spirit had taken hold of me to guide me on my journey through this world. I had come full circle. 

My trip home and the anticipated return to the United States made me realize that I was indeed homeless. As I have lived in different parts of the world, I have come to have many homes. What's a passport? What's an identity? Where is home? These questions made me realize that home is where I lay my head.

The enticing smell of Belgian waffles pulled me out of my reverie as a beautiful flight attendant asked whether I wanted any breakfast.  I had had a great trip home and was looking forward to getting home to Chicago. Keeping with its reputation, SABENA lost my luggage. When I landed in Chicago the next day, it was a memorable morning--September 11th, 2001.  I was safely home.

Story Source: Chicago Business