So, Two Mundeles Walked in a Bar . . .

In my last post, I told you that I would introduce my other travel buddy. Well, his name is James and he is both incredibly intelligent and incredibly diplomatic.  There were several instances when we needed to communicate our slight disapproval of something, or to make a request of someone, and we left it to James to do the "talking".  Each time we got what we needed without any feathers being ruffled.  This, along with his ability to speak French, saved our lives (or at least our flights) on our way out of town.

It was about thirty minutes into our drive to the airport that we noticed we were approaching a street of stopped vehicles.  Oh, a traffic jam! We knew these things happened in the DRC--that is what you usually leave for the airport 4-5 hours before your flight.  Our travel company had been a few minutes late, but we still left our apartment with what we thought was plenty of time.  We looked at the clock in the van, 10:45. No big deal: the airline did not even start check-ins until 11:00 am.  So, we continued to chat and wait.  After about thirty minutes, we noticed our scenery had not changed at all.  We were literally moving 5 yards every 5 minutes.  The traffic was stopped up a hill as far as we could see.

I will stop here, in my first aside, to give a quick cultural lesson.  The DRC is a country that has a long history of being on the wrong side of colonialism.  Until the 1960s, the DRC was a Belgian territory.  Since that time, it has been the victim of attempts by countries (or independent rebel groups) to take over regions of the area.  Currently, China has moved in to develop roads in the capitol and renovate its government buildings.  Why?  I am certain there are some valid, redeemable reasons in the mind of those who move into the region, but it cannot be ignored that the DRC is RICH with resources that would be valuable to any country (currently, a huge store of items needed to build most of the technologies we currently enjoy). When I asked a Congolese person how they felt about the Chinese influence, he said, "Well, people are going to steal from us anyway. We might as well get something in return."

So, with that said, we were stuck on a road that had received a facelift from Chinese  redevelopment. This facelift allowed six lanes of traffic to travel one way--the way we were going--and two lanes of traffic to travel the other.  The problem: a bridge about 400 yards ahead had not yet been renovated, and it only allowed one lane of traffic in either direction.  There was no way we would make it through this traffic before our departure time at 2:00, and perhaps not even before sundown.

Like many other parts of the world, the Congolese traffic does not travel in neat lanes.  Cars move where there is space.  So, there were cars, trucks, van and semi-trucks veering in and out of open spaces to make a colorful jigsaw of stopped cars. Vendors moved in and out of the traffic, selling gum, sodas and water to frustrated travelers.  Our laissez-faire attitudes shifted when we had barely moved in thirty minutes.  I asked James, "Should we say something?"  He nodded, wanting to be sure that a comment was necessary. Around 11:45, he leaned to the driver and said, in French, "So, do you think we will be able to make our flight?"  The driver smiled, and said, "You will be fine!"  James and I did the math.  Fine was a relative term.

Finally, around 12:05, our driver received a call.  He put the phone down and explained to us that we would be walking.  We weren't exactly sure what they meant, but about ten minutes later, we saw three men coming toward us in the traffic.  We were furthest from the sidewalk, so they had to weave and squeeze through a maze of cars.  We jumped out of the van, grabbed our smaller bags while the travel company reps grabbed the bigger bags and started to race through the traffic.  I followed a Congolese man yelling at me, "Come on!" while James graciously stayed behind to protect me from rogue vehicles, a definite possibility.  Sometimes the cars were so close that we had to suck in and squeeze sideways to get through, praying that was not the moment the driver decided to inch forward into a free space in traffic.

We finally reached the sidewalk and the race began. While the others walked briskly and intentionally, I was doing some sort of walk-jog combo.  I became keenly aware of the length of my legs, a deficit in this situation that left my side cramping.  As we pushed and moved past fellow pedestrians, I quietly apologized, praying I would not knock over a child or bump a woman carrying a basket of goods on her head.

I will stop here for my second aside.  The term "mundele" is really another word for "white face".  Over the course of my visits, I have seen that mundele has three meanings.  It can be said in a respectful, excited way: "Oh, look, a mundele", as there honestly aren't too many in the DRC.  It can be said in a derogatory way, "Hey, Mundele, why do you get out of traffic while the rest of us have to sit here?"  And, it can be said in a way, known to construction workers all over the world--"Mundele" (think cat-call).  We heard all forms of the word on our trek through the traffic that day.

After about fifteen minutes of speed-walking, we finally saw the other van waiting for us.  The traffic flowed freely on the streets.  We had made it with thirty minutes to spare.  The men who helped us smiled, sweat pouring down their faces.  James and I laughed about the poor people who had to sit next to us on the plane, as we were likewise drenched.  As we got into the van, I cannot express the deep gratitude we felt for the men who had risked their comfort (and, honestly, in a place where pedestrian accidents are common, to some degree their lives) to help us.

As James and I stood in line to check our bags, we both agreed that was a much better way to spend our time waiting--creating a wonderful memory that will be with me a lifetime.