Roger
We had been in the Congo for about four hours when the phone call came to one of the conference coordinators. “We want to see the visitors in our office right away.”
The message was relayed to us, “Our head intelligence officer wants to see you. We must take you to the ‘Security’ office immediately.”
We had already been through the border crossing that morning, met with the city mayor in order to fulfill proper “protocol,” and we had been assured that there were no more hoops to jump through. So, what was this about? This is a country that is still reeling from recent times of war so suspicions can still surface and/or corrupt officials can be looking for a little extra personal income.
Our Congolese team leader, Steven, was dealing with conference details so he sent us to the office with another translator. “Don’t worry,” Steven said. “This is just a formality.” OK, only a slight rise in the beating of the heart and a quick prayer.
Yet, our hearts did race just a bit more as we were ushered through the front door of a concrete building, guided by two men into a small back-room office where a very serious-looking man sat behind a small desk with a set of handcuffs sitting very conspicuously within inches of his left hand.
I have to tell you, this did not feel like just a formality.
He introduced himself through the translator and explained, in so many words, how important his office was. He compared his job with, in his own words, “the FBI.” Brooks and I were both thinking, at this point, that the FBI does not routinely haul people into their office for a chat unless there is something seriously wrong! Our heart rates increased yet another notch. Our prayer life jumped another level.
Then, a long dialogue took place between this man and our translator. We were left out of the loop since we could understand neither the French nor the Swahili that they would alternate speaking with. The man behind the desk was pointing to files on his desk, to paperwork he held in his hand, and was clearly lecturing our translator who was making notes. What was our translator writing? The list of crimes we had committed in the four hours we had been there? How many transgressions had we done?
This little conversation went on long enough that we did start to wonder where it was headed and if we were going to leave that room with our hands free or behind our back (ok, so the imagination begins to run a bit when you cannot understand the conversation and the setting is so ominous).
Our heart rates were now at the pace achieved by a good 30-minute run. Hey, who needs to exercise, just visit the Congo!
Finally, finally, the essence of this important meeting comes to light. In order for this very important man to file the very important documents, he needed $20 from each visitor so that this can be properly done. Our Congolese friends later assured us that this is not an official government fee, just one of the ways that officials find to pad their incomes.
So, yes, we were set free. Not until our translator promised he would return with copies of our passports (the “Security” office did not have a copy machine), the very important forms properly filled out (no need to take this official’s time to do it right there), additional photos of the visitors (none of us could figure out why the passport photos were not sufficient), and, of course, the requisite forty dollars.
Such is the system in the Congo and, indeed, in many African countries.
For our part, the intimidation worked quite well. We would have gladly paid forty dollars and much more just to get out of that small office, away from the “FBI agent,” and to stay clear of those handcuffs!
Thankfully, our hearts are no worse for the wear. At least I am fairly certain of this. Today, several days later as I write this, the pulse in my neck is now only partly visible. Oh, and our prayer life? Much improved still and much gratitude for all of our praying friends back home!
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