We were up, washed, dressed and breakfasted by 9 o’clock ready for our taxi at 9:30. I wanted to visit Fr. Marius, a Cameroonian and most recent addition to the Mill Hill Missionaries team in Congo. Judith had kindly offered to accompany me. Marius and Fr. Otto live quite a way out of Kinshasa – past the airport, on a notoriously congested road. I decided to call the taxi-driver to remind him.
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| Judith Bondjembo and Francis Hannaway |
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| A standard yellow Kinshasa taxi (copyright: Rahul Tilak) |
- $50, he said.
- I’m not paying $50! I said in a raised voice.
He agreed to $30. Judith still reckoned that was high. I agreed it could be high, but I knew that a taxi to the airport would be between $20 and $30 – and we were late. Off we went.
We soon hit heavy traffic. It’s been a problem on certain roads for many years and was being rectified by a series of flyovers being built all over Kinshasa. The result so far – as they’re being built – is absolute chaos, often grid-lock, on the roads. The midday sun beat down; sweat trickled down my back and into my waistband. Hoards of people pushed their way across the road, bangingtheir hands on the struggling cars, lorries and busses. Motorbikes – a lot of them taxis - wove their way like a swarm of wasps through any gap they could find, even mounting the crowded pavements to get past the traffic-jam.
Judith wasn’t happy. “They could have come to us!” she said.
“Who could?”
“Otto and Marius – they have a car. They could’ve come to Procure St. Anne to meet us. Why do we have to suffer this? It’s impossible!”
“Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “I knew the road would be like this, but look …” I showed her the journey on Google Maps. The slow moving traffic would end in a few miles.” That seemed to calm her a little and she chatted with the driver – who told her that the only way to travel nicely on this road was to go at 4 in the morning. We came to a halt again. A succession of hawkers passed the window, selling banana chips, clothes, soft-drinks and water. We bought a small bottle of cold water each and continued slowly on our way. It was 12 noon.
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| Congested road in Kinshasa |
Eventually, the road cleared; there was a little diversion through the middle of a large market and, after that, a clear run to the airport and beyond.
It turned out that the driver didn’t know the exact place we were going – and, come to that, neither did Google. We decided to ask at the side of the road. The crowds along the roadside had gone down in size, but there were still plenty of people about. The driver tried asking one or two – but they ignored him. It was around 12:45 as we crept along to a petrol station, which was just ahead, and the driver asked again.
Suddenly, the front passenger door of the taxi flew open! A burly, policeman with flack-jacket and automatic rifle threw himself into the seat and grabbed hold of the driver. We realised the car was surrounded by police – all with rifles of varying kinds – and other police were in the back of a pickup. Our door was opened and we were asked to get out. The driver also got out and they started shouting at him. We started to walk into the crowd – after all, it was nothing to do with us!
We were called back and told to report to the front of the pickup. A young officer – perhaps a colonel – ordered us to approach. He started to explain that, unfortunately, we’d been imprudent in stopping within 10 metres of a petrol station. I felt we were being accused of terrorism or some such thing. “I’m very sorry,” I said. “But, we’re just passengers.” He paused for a second and said, “That’s fine. You can go.”
Judith gave our fair to the police who’d taken the taxi. People in the crowd started shouting that the two policemen in the car would steal it. However, a bit later, Judith said she’d already seen them hand it over to the driver.
“I feel sorry for the driver,” she said. “They’ll beat him up because he wasn’t apologetic enough. Then they’ll let him go”
A few motorbike-taxis buzzed about at the side of the petrol station. I explained that we needed to go to CENCO, and that it’s a Catholic place. “I know exactly where it is,” replied on driver, and within seconds, we’d set off again. Judith sat behind the driver, with me hanging on behind. “Yes,” the driver told her as he skilfully skidded through muddy ruts on the sand road, “it’s just a little way from here.”
Bibwa is one of Kinshasa’s new suburbs. In the past, we would have considered the airport to be outside Kinshasa – Bibwa is further, and the inhabitants think of it as a part of Kinshasa. We passed lots of partly built houses, and little businesses with freshly painted signs. The roads were pure sand – but we noticed that mains electricity was connected to each house. In just under 15 minutes, we arrived at a new church, in a big enclosure. It was very neat and tidy and there was a man sweeping up leaves a little way into the grounds of the church. Our motorbike left us outside and then went back the way he’d come. I approached the man. It was 10 past 1.
“We’re looking for Fr. Marius,” I said.
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t know him,” came the reply. At that moment I got a call on Messenger; it was Marius.
“We’ve arrived!” I declared. “Where are you?” I expected to see him striding from one of the newly built buildings to greet us.
“But where are you?” Marius answered. “We’ve got no power here and my phone is about to shut down.” I described the church. “Oh, no – we’re not there! That’s a long way from us. Just take a motorbike-taxi and you’ll be able to find us near the main road.”
We’d been quite close when we’d arrived at the petrol station. Compared to the crowds of people along much of the main roads, this newly built (and only partially built at that) suburb was so quiet, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see tumble-weed roll by.
A group of 3 youths sat in the shade of a tree, opposite the church. We asked directions and they quickly volunteered one of the group. “I’ll take you if you buy me a beer,” he said as we set off. He was a very pleasant young man and said he was only joking about the beer. We chatted along the way. Not so, Judith, who was about to explode!
“What are we doing here, Francis? You know this is a dangerous area! Why couldn’t they send someone to get us? Where’s Fr. Otto and his car? This is ridiculous!”
“Look. It’s a pleasant place to be. We’re not in a hurry, you know. Fr. Otto’s probably out at a meeting, or something.” I tried to calm her down a bit. She lagged behind. Now and then we stopped to wait for her, struggling on the loose sand in her wedged sandals. The sun beat down harder and I could feel my skin starting to burn. I fished about in my bag and put on a wide brimmed hat. We turned around to wait for Judith again and saw that she’d bought a pair of pink flip-flops along the way.
Our guide knew all the little short-cuts, taking us through broken-down walls to cross empty plots of sandy land until eventually, after about 25 minutes, we could see traffic passing on the main arterial road, near the place we’d had the run-in with the police. It was 20 to 2.
And there was Marius, standing tall, in the shade. And with a big smile he greeted us in his warm baritone voice, “Francis, Judith, welcome!”
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| Fr Marius Tapang mhm |
1 comment:
Thanks Dave! 😊
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