Leaving: The Attempt

It seems that African travel stories often revolve as much around how you got to your destination as what you did there. This is one such story.

If there is a hell, I believe it is like a never ending check-in at Njili airport in Kinshasa. A never-ending check-in process would be only a slight exaggeration from the actual check-in process at Njili airport in Kinshasa. It may very well be the worst airport in the world. It may also be the only one in which it is standard procedure to hire a protocol, a man (in this case paid $100/person by my employer) whose job it is to get you to the gate with your luggage, and if you're lucky, dignity and sanity in tact. This seems to be accomplished through a shady but apparently legitimate and legal system of bribes from one checkpoint to the next. This particular airport experience was surreal, starting with a good hour of so of milling around the check-in area which is adorned with the scent of stale piss and advertisements for the national airline with has been blacklisted by international airline safety regulators. We were due to take off in 3 hours as are the hundreds of other fellow travelers but none of the dozen security guards laying around has yet even considered positioning themselves at any of the numerous counters and desks. So we mill.

When one security guard finally saunters to a desk and plops down with an elaborate sigh, luggage, elbows and insults went flying as harried passengers jockeyed for a position in the line where they would spend most of their day. Despite trying to not get separated from other teachers, I found myself between 2 giant Congolese,. The bald, pinstriped man in front of me has positioned his elbow one centimeter from my left eyeball. The bejeweled and bearded woman behind me has her disconcertingly large, squishy breasts pressed in the back of my neck. Both of these people look wealthy, yet it appears neither has taken the plunge to purchase deoderant.

The next few hours consisted of being shuffled from desk to desk where official after official would ask for the same documents and handwrite your details each time on forms to be boxed up and left in an office to rot.

After a final official scrutinized my vaccination card which he did not seem to notice he held upside down, I was sent to "security." Last time my carry-on was inspected in this airport, I was detained over having a few corn kernels in a plastic bag left over from my standard traveler's breakfast of popcorn. They demanded to know what the unpopped, black kernels were. I asked my friend how to say garbage in French (I later remembered it's "poubelle") and he said, "poulet." I knew it was wrong but I said it anyway. "It's chicken," I told the guard. They made me hang around until I asked them if they wanted to keep the dud kernels. They did and I carried on my journey through the airport.

This time I remembered to throw away any corn kernels before going through security but it didn't alleviate much. When baggage is inspected, it is not for dangerous objects, but for anything interesting the security guard might like. In fact, he moved razor bland and scissors in my carry-on aside to inquire about a packet of bath salts I hoped to used if I came across any clean bath water during my travels (Kinshasa water is brown). They "inspected" my wallet next, presumably to see what it contained should they find a reason to solicit a bribe from me. In the absence of metal detectors or scanning machines they just grope your chesticles and you on your way.

I was the last teacher to emerge into the gate area. The principal had already opened a bottle Jack Daniels and most of my colleagues were already half-smashed, trying to obliterate the airport from their consciousnesses. The plane should have already taken off, but as always at this airport, the flights don't leave because no one is a the gate- they are all caught in the maze I had just emerged from. We sat around for while longer until round II of groping and carry-on checks where a guard tried to steal my $30 2 liter metal water bottle. I insisted that he dump out the water and give the bottle back but he was stubborn and drunk, partially from our duty free Jack Daniels which he had pilfered from our little party. I finally said "Let me help you" and I gently took it from his hands. He put his fat, greasy ginger in my face and in a wave of liquored breath, told me to never bring a bottle to the airport again. I went to dump it in a plant and he shouted at me to pour it right where everyone was standing. Within 5 seconds we were standing in a 2 L puddle of water and when I boarded shortly after, I left wet footprints from the door to seat 14C.