A Brief Visit to Zaire

Deer in the headlights: that’s what I was.

It was an arduous trip, aided only by the fact that Hoffman had been a great traveling companion … up to that point. We’d flown San Francisco-Paris-Lagos, Nigeria, spent three days in Lagos that felt like a week, then flew to Libreville in Gabon. All was well: we were out of Nigeria.

We had spent the weekend in Libreville at an acceptable hotel near the airport and next to the ocean. We’d walked a couple miles into town and back. Along the way we had gotten more than a little drunk on sneaky-strong local beer. We ate crocodile for dinner at the hotel. We got a reasonable night’s sleep. The next day both of us battled dysentery, thanks to some scrambled eggs from the hotel’s (not very steamy) steam table breakfast. Even that nasty problem resolved itself by mid-afternoon, but we were in bed early that night anyway. We had more traveling to do.

We were to leave the next morning via a chartered, twin-engine turbo-prop plane toward our company’s oilfield in Cabinda, Angola. It was a short flight on a regular route for the charter crew. Weather seemed cooperative -- never a certainty in the tropics.

In the morning we took a taxi to the airport. I did my usual pat-down before leaving: Is the passport in my buttoned pocket where it belongs? Is my Angolan visa application paperwork in my other pocket? Is my billfold in my hip pocket? Yes, yes, and yes. In a few minutes: pat-pat-pat, check again.

Not knowing how long the exit process would take, we arrived at the airport three hours early. Naturally we passed through immigration, customs and security without a major problem despite our not speaking French. That meant we hung out in the airport for two hours before we finally got on the plane with a dozen or so other people heading to Cabinda.

We take off and head south. I watch the ocean below us for a while then jungle as we cross back over the coast. In the air for 30 minutes, a buzz begins in the plane. Someone in front says, “Trouble.” – never a word you want to hear in West Africa. Word filters back to us that the Cabinda airstrip is under mortar attack by the Angolan rebels. We circle. We run low on fuel. We need to land. Nearest strip: “Banana Base” in Zaire … now called Democratic Republic of the Congo.

We’re told we have no problem: land at Banana Base, get some fuel, head back to Libreville or maybe down to Luanda, Angola.

The deer’s ears twitch. It shuffles its feet. Is that the sound of a car in the distance? Are those lights?

We circle a dirt airstrip near the coast then land. It’s hot, it’s humid. There’s no air conditioning on board. I start to sweat. We taxi out and stop near a tin-roofed wooden shack at one end of the landing strip. It’s the only building in sight. Four scowling, heavily armed men in fatigues swagger slowly out towards the aircraft.

The pilot says, “Everyone out. Show your passports and visas to the officials as you exit”.

I look at Hoffman and ask, “We need a visa?”

“I don’t know.”

“You have one for Zaire?”

“Yes.”

I ask, “Why didn’t you tell me to get one before we left the US?”

“I didn’t know we were stopping here.”

“Then why’d you get one?”

Hoffman: “Just to be safe.”

I say, “Thanks a lot.” Well, actually what I said was much more colorful. Hoffman’s rating as my traveling companion dropped to zero, or slightly lower.

The deer clearly sees the car now. The headlights are bright, coming fast. The deer’s eyes are the size of pie plates as it stands statue-like, frozen in the road.

Hoffman got out first, passport (and visa) checked, waved on toward shack.

I’m out next -- passport handed to a gaunt soldier with an AK47 slung over his shoulder. He has tribal scars on both cheeks. He smells like smoke and sweat. First there’s a squinty-eyed glare at the passport then at my face. Hard, calloused fingers flip one-by-one through my passport pages. Then a similar flip from back to front. Dark, angry eyes in a jet black face turn to me. The soldier growls something – French?

I give him a blank, doe-eyed stare.

The soldier steps closer, barks more words – louder. He's missing a couple teeth.

Another silent stare from me. Sweat soaks through my shirt. Sweat soaks through my khaki Dockers and makes an I-wet-my-pants crotch stain.

Still louder words. He waves my passport in my face then slaps the passport into his palm. One of the other soldiers takes his gun off his shoulder and joins the first.

A Representative from my company who has been watching the proceedings from a safe distance sidles over, holding his walkie-talkie. He tells me, “He wants your visa.”

“I don’t have a Zaire visa.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t expect to get diverted to Zaire.”

“Hmm. That’s not good. You’re in Zaire, you know.”

The deer shifts from foot to foot. Its flanks quiver. It looks for an escape route. There is none. It lowers its head submissively.

I ask, “So, now what?”

Representative: “I don’t know. That’s really not good. You’re sure you don’t have a visa.”

I say, “Believe me, if I did, do you think I’d be hiding it?”

The deer thinks: Will someone PLEASE stop this? I’m just a helpless deer. Don’t let that car hit me.

The Rep turns away from me and begins talking in French with the soldiers. The Rep doesn’t look directly at them – no eye contact. No one is smiling. The Rep makes a slight bow to the soldiers and wanders some distance off, his radio pressed to his ear. His free arm waves in my direction. Head shakes … no. More arm waving. He walks back toward me.

The deer thinks: Please, let the car stop.

As the Rep gets within a step or two of me I hear over his walkie-talkie: “He’s going to get his ass thrown in jail, and I’m not going to bail him out.”

Rep says: “That’s the Company Country Manager. He’s not happy.”

Rep re-opens negotiation with the soldiers. Other passengers pass through the document check and head to the potentially air conditioned, certainly shady, shack. I’m left cooling, no, frying my heels in the sun.

Rep asks me, “How much money you got?”

I answer, “Not much: couple of hundred US maybe.”

“They’re saying the fine for entering illegally is $1000.”

“Now what?” I ask.

“I don’t know. This is really not good.”

The headlights are blinding. The deer’s eyes begin to close, anticipating the impact, imagining becoming airborne and crashing through the windshield. Not even the scant comfort of squealing tires as someone tries to stop.

 “… And I’m not going to bail him out.” keeps playing through my mind like a bad song.

And then I see people filing out of the shack and heading toward the plane. The mortar attack on Cabinda has stopped and the airfield is mostly undamaged. We’re going to take off.

My passport is back in my hand then stuffed back in its pocket. I force my way into line to be the next person onto the plane. I flop into my seat near the window.

Hoffman, sits next to me and says, “Looked a little tense there for a second. Want a bottle of water?” His companion rating clawed itself back into the positive range. The door closes and the cabin becomes quite an efficient aluminum oven. The water is warm; I drain it in a gulp. I hear the engines start on one side and then the other.

In five minutes we’re airborne. In another ten were at 8000’ and the air is cool coming in the vents. I slowly return to a semblance of normal body temperature. My hands stop shaking. My clothes even start to dry. In 20 minutes we start our descent toward Cabinda.

The deer peers out at the road from the safety of the bushes – glad to be alive. Wait, is that another car?

I overhear someone say, “I wonder if they’ve cleared the minefield yet.”