Open Sesame

When you drive up to the gate of an exclusive residence with a posted guard in Lusaka, the whiteness of your skin alone is enough to get you in. I have not been here long, of course, but this has held true both times I’ve approached the gate of a compound where I was neither known to the guards nor specifically expected by the residents. It has also been confirmed as a general rule by my hostess here. When you pull up and honk, the black gatekeeper peeps out, and your relative lack of pigmentation is all the assurance he needs to throw open the gate and usher you in amid a fanfare of enthusiastic waves. “Hello baas!” I would not be surprised if this circumstance were someday exploited with great success by criminal white travelers with a Land Rover and the gall to pull it off.

Vous Etes Deja Au Congo

Yesterday: I get up early to go to the embassy to see about a visa. Actually what I do is leave early, having been up with jet lag and malaria pill jitters since three. I take a coffee in the strong sun and get my items together: 2 passport photos, the passport itself, my yellow fever immunization certificate, and a forged letter of introduction from a publisher claiming that my proposed entry into the Congo will be in order to undertake an official literary assignment for which I’m under contract. The publisher’s name is Benjamin Hornigold, chief copy officer of TransDyn press, 8 Van Rensselaer St., New York—purveyors of absurdity to the world.

Walking down Great Northern Road to the city center, I see the sidewalk is littered with all sorts of enterprises: Women stoking cookfires in the wells of discarded wheels; blacksmiths hammering out sparks and shapes right down there in the gutter; patches of lawn being trimmed slowly down to the root in lazy swings of a machete. I can’t tell for sure, but the end of the machete, catching the light in a double gleam, seems forked like the old swords you see from this area in ethnographic exhibits. There is a vendor of mobile phone plans whose ruse is to situate his shack square in the middle of the sidewalk. Closer to town there is a dirt yard sectioned into lanes by stone markers. In these lanes neophyte drivers are learning how to control their vehicles. Later I see a group of youngish men sitting on a curb, looking bored as another man stands over them, waving his arms and exhorting them to some enterprise.

Great Northern Road becomes Cairo Road. I take a left and proceed over the hump of the Church Road flyover. Flyover means overpass in Commonwealth English. A few wrong turns later I am in a cab with a man named Jack. He is a nice and articulate guy, and I am glad to be out of the sun. The Congolese embassy is in the classical compound format. It sits inside white walls and is accessed through a sheet iron gate painted the same shade of blue as the Windows taskbar. The DRC’s flag stands limp sentry over the scene. I peek my head through and Jack accompanies me, eager to extend his usefulness. Inside is a dusty courtyard with a tamarind tree and a couple of guards sitting in the shade of the compound wall. Next to them is an open ledger. I greet them and state my business. They urge me to sign in, so I do. Jack tells me he’ll wait in the car and makes for the gate, but the guards say he must sign in. Jack responds that he’s not pursuing any business here, so signing up would be pointless. The guard explains gravely: Because you are in the Congo now. You must sign in.

I am stirringly reminded of Paul Theroux’s anecdote about traveling with V.S. Naipaul to the Congo in the 1960’s. They were approaching from the Ugandan jungle, with VS internalizing and reproducing the gloom under the canopy. Nothing but miles and miles of dirt road under that unchanging canopy. Suddenly there are a few shabby men in uniform standing in the road. Where is the Congo, asks Theroux. Mais messieurs, vous etes deja au Congo! Bienvenue!

In the embassy building, which is shabby in an unremarkable way, I get my hands on an application form and inquire about the requirements. The man behind the partition is young, neat, professional. He explains what I’ll need. I check his list against mine, and I have everything but the copy of my passport and 785,000 Kwacha. Lacking the first was an oversight, I’ll admit. But 785,000 Kwacha is nearly $200. This is the most expensive visa I have ever sought. Granted, there are cheaper options, but I want to be able to stay for two months, and to re-enter. Before heading back through the courtyard to see about the money and the copy, I take a good look around the waiting room. There is a notice posted above the clerk’s partition saying that visa fees are non-refundable in the event of rejection. Opposite this are what pass for tourist posters. They are old, but of this era. There is a poster of elephants and tourists put out by the Congolese Tourist Board. Another proudly features the industrial and mining installations of Gecamines in Lubumbashi (this is my first destination in Congo, and I count it an auspicious sign that they advertise this area unabashedly). Finally there is a poster of a statue presiding over a square in Kinshasa and seeming to direct traffic with a magisterially extended arm. The man thus sculpted has a hulking, military bearing. Laurent Desire Kabila, it reads, Heros de Congo.

Having taken stock of the environs for your benefit, dear readers, I proceed back through the courtyard and sign out of this little patch of Congo. Jack then drives me around to make copies and find a bank that will accept my ATM card. This done, I manage to make it back to the embassy with two minutes to spare before the staff breaks for lunch at noon. The guard at the ledger seems to understand my hurry, indicating that I can sign into the Congo when I sign out. When I hand in my money and the photocopy, the clerk scans my application form with a critical eye. He pauses at the line demanding the reason for my visit to the Congo. I have written that I am being sent there on a writing assignment. This raises an eyebrow, and he begins to question me. No sooner is the word reference out of his mouth than I reach into my valise and hand him the letter of introduction penned by Hornigold. After a few minutes, and after I have assured the clerk that I am prepared to submit a sample of the work of fiction that is bringing me to the Congo, the question is resolved to his satisfaction. And who better than a Congolese to be the first judge of the work? I may return at three for their decision, he says.

At which point I decided that it would be best to return the next day, feeling spent for lack of sleep. Before going home, Jack and I shared a lunch of Nshima, which is a cornmeal porridge that the diner works into a number of little receptacles with which to scoop up the ‘relish,’ which in our case was okra, stewed pumpkin leaves and beans. The waitresses were startlingly pretty, and we spoke about many things.

I will go back to the embassy today to learn of their decision. I am aware of the maddening circumstance that even if I manage to get a visa here in Lusaka, the guards at the border, or at Lubumbashi airport, will almost certainly refuse to recognize it and wheedle another application and its fee out of me. But when one is animated by the spirit of having one’s ducks in a row, having a visa seems better than not.