Debarking the plane at the airport in Kinshasa spilled us onto the tarmac. The sun was hot here, just south of the equator. The concrete was brown with oil and grease. I wondered if it was sticking to the bottom of my sandals. Uniformed officer were reviewing passports and yellow cards.
Unlike the States, diseases like malaria, yellow fever, and typhoid are realistic dangers. We had to show that we had taken precautions. They handed our papers back and stepped aside to allow us up the three steps into the building.
Inside out of the sun, we stood in a second line in front of what looked like an old-fashioned theater box office, wooden with a plate of glass and a slot for papers and cash, if it came to that. Behind it were the immigration officers. At that point, the first set of officers seemed to have no clear purpose, quite unnecessary in fact.
Authorities are ad hoc. Roads are ad hoc. Plans are ad hoc. Meals are ad hoc. In that sense, Congo was a bit like college. Actually, a bit like being a bachelor, too. The immigration officer questioned me in French, and I muddled through as best I could. Each time I simply shrugged when they interrogated me en Francais. Not wanting to hassle with my stupidity, they signed the papers and let me on my way.
It was for the best. Before I knew it, two Africans were directing us past the baggage claim. Men stand around soliciting ad hoc employment from arriving travelers.
