We were more than half way through a long, very bumpy and dusty journey of six hours. My colleague from Mali had drunk a lot of water before leaving and needed a pee. Why not me too? I thought, so I hopped out to do the same, and found a spot where I was semi-hidden by very tall thick grass. I didn’t want to penetrate too deeply because the grass was coated in thick red dust.
Before I could finish, I heard someone shouting “Monsieur.” The voice came closer. “Monsieur, Monsieur.” Someone seemed to be addressing himself to me. I turned around to see an armed policeman advancing towards me – though not a particularly impressive one, I couldn’t help noticing. His blue uniform was crumpled, his face very wrinkled, and he seemed to find the weight of his machine-gun burdensome.
“Monsieur, that’s not allowed,” he said.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I replied, and went to get back into the car.
“Oh no. You must come with me.”
By this time he had been joined by another, younger policeman. I thought he would tell the silly old man to let me go, but no: he stood there in solidarity with him, gripping his machine gun in a menacing way, and saying nothing. I noticed his gun was bigger and newer than the old man’s.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I said, “I’m getting in the car.”
A stern hand grasped my shoulder, and then the lecture began.
“Have you any idea how many of our women and children are dying every year because of people like you? There are public toilets but you are spreading disease and unsanitation (his word, not mine) everywhere you go. No wonder we are suffering so much. No wonder our hospitals are overflowing. It is people like you who bring disease to our country. If you want to go . . .”
He paused for breath, his old eyes bright with his eloquence, as a third policeman turned up also carrying a machine gun.
“If you want to go there’s a toilet over there.” He pointed to a little hut and toll barrier which we had not had to stop at as we are exempted. “There’s a toilet over there, there are toilets everywhere. That is what the government is for, to build toilets. But you, you white people, come here and pollute the landscape in this way. No wonder our women and children are dying. No wonder our hospitals are full . . .” and so it went for what must have been ten minutes. I was so impressed by his eloquence, which even if repetitive seemed to be heartfelt, that I felt like clapping. But I was equally impressed by his total lack of medical knowledge and was inclined to sit him down, or start a conversation on the lines of:
“Didn’t they teach you anything at school? Pee contains no germs. That’s why the Prime Minister of India used to drink it . . . etc etc.”
But somehow I don’t think he would have been interested or impressed, because the point of the spiel was only to emphasise the seriousness of my crime, which was, of course, an essential prelude to the demand for a huge fine.
Much to my relief, my Congolese colleagues now took over. All three policemen were taken to one side, and after much hushed discussion a fine of $5 was eventually paid.
It reminded me of a much worse experience which a Belgian colleague and her husband had had. They had decided to take a ride in a dug-out canoe on a river near Bandundu. Bandundu is a sleepy little town which is the headquarters of the Province, and which we visit frequently. Before setting out, they had carefully asked whether there were any formalities required and the boat’s owner had assured them that there weren’t. But when they got back to the shore they were met by a very officious person from the Immigration service.
“Where is your permit?” he asked.
“What permit?”
“To go on the river. You need authorisation from my office.”
He had obviously spied both money and weakness, because he made them go to his office where they were basically imprisoned as if they were spies. He kept on muttering about it being a very serious matter, which had to be dealt with by higher authorities and stuff like that. Eventually it was getting dark and he accepted $100 in settlement.
These stories are funny, especially in retrospect, but as I’ve too often pointed out it’s not just foreigners who are targeted. The ordinary farmer, market woman and street trader, for example, are constantly being hit on. That’s why a friend of mine came up with a new name for the country: “The Democratic Extortionate of the Congo.”
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