Or, at least, this was our attitude when we stumbled upon the DRC embassy in Kigoma, TZ. 90 minutes and fifty bucks apiece later, and we had official visas! ...And I left specific instructions with a trusted friend to start watching the news if I failed to email her with news of my whereabouts within a week.
We crossed from Gisenye in western Rwanda into the yet-traumatized town of Goma. While Goma is pretty much a UN protectorate now, it hasn't had the best luck with humans or nature in the recent past, and aside from genocide refugees and the LRA it suffered an eruption from one of its two volcanoes just a few years ago. Apparently the twin is now set to erupt too, "sometime this month". What with all the peace and security here, it was getting a bit boring.. nothing like a little lava to spice things up.Crossing onto the somewhat-paved road, I noticed right away that the first roundabout was painted vivid fuchsia and turquoise. In Africa, where towns and territories are battlegrounds for a series of cell-network hegemons, this indicated that we were officially in Zain territory. I got excited - as it happened, we had just purchased Zain credit in Tanzania on our almost-functional Sudanese cell phone with the assurance that it would work in both Burundi and Rwanda. It did not in either - neither one had Zain coverage. Here, however, as declared in several languages by the fuchsia frescoes, Zain was king! I pointed out the relevance excitedly to David, who got similarly excited for a brief moment, before we both remembered that we don't actually have anyone to call.
He suggested we just make up a random number, call it and say "SALUT!", but ultimately we didn't. (We're boring like that.)
Goma seems either blessed or afflicted with an abundance of old planes that fly extremely low over the city - we heard four within our first hour of walking around, and more as we sat in a small restaurant waiting for lunch. Each one startled me with its sudden overwhelming roar, prompting me to joke playfully to David, "Jeez, I feel like we're about to be bombed!"
It occurred to me after that perhaps that wasn't entirely a remote possibility.
("You mean since we're in a war zone?" David added.)
As I was processing this thought, there was a sudden bustle among the three restaurant personnel lounging behind us, and they all leapt up as a policeman and two men in fancy suits walked in. Both men (we speculated from the patriotic DRC flag pins on their lapels) seemed to be fancy politicians, and said "Bonjour" quite magnanimously to us as they passed. As yet another plane roared by overhead, I wondered how the presence of these suits and their bodyguard affected my chances of getting bombed.
A few minutes later, my ego was gratified in its fantasies of sharing the restaurant with someone "d'importance" when I heard the biggest (both in stature and magnanimosity) suit flip open his Motorola Razor phone and declare in bold tones, "Bonjour Monsieur le Président..."
Shame does not figure high on the list of when it comes to talking to strangers, and if I don't meet my death by curiosity it'll be a bit of a surprise to my mother. I couldn't help myself. David busted out a business card and the two of us __ over to their table to find out who they were under the pretense of me asking their autograph.
They were more than happy to oblige. Monsieur le Grand Suit was, as we found out, Monsieur le Maire de Goma, the Mayor; his suited cohort was the Deputy Mayor, and their policeman was no bodyguard but the Commandant de la Police himself. The three seemed to be having lunch to celebrate and discuss what I think (my French eavesdropping abilities are exceptionally poor, which on this occasion was no less than tragic) was the unexpected capture of an important rebel. While relatively secure in itself, Goma is unfortunately situated vis-a-vis what David aptly calls "the trash can of Africa". Between the lingering genocidaires from Rwanda and the LRA religious psychopaths from Uganda, I imagine there's a variety of interesting personages to attraper, as the mayor gloated to Monsieur le Président.
The meeting was jovial all around; I was enchanted to discover their respectably important identity, and they were enchanted at the rare opportunity to show off their respectable importance to Westerners. David was enchanted to hand out his business card. The Deputy Mayor was enchanted to very impressively interpret between English-speaking David and the French-speaking Mayor ('Il est professeur aux Etats-Unis!' 'Ohhh, professeur..'). The Mayor was enchanted that I knew right away he was the most important, the Chief of Police less so; the former was in fact so enchanted, however, that he eagerly reached for the journal I held out to him, requesting his autograph, and wrote his entire contact information - complete with both cell and work numbers - right into the book. Determined to follow the big fish's example, the Deputy Mayor then took my notebook and proudly wrote all his digits, finally giving it to the Police Commandant to finish off my V.I.P. address book. It occurred me that perhaps I did not properly explain "autograph" in French. True to our respectableness, however, we all acted as though handing out all your personal cell phone number to anyone who asked, no matter who they were or how dirty, was the most normal thing to do, and shook hands again all around as another plane zoomed overhead.
Leaving the restaurant, both a little stunned, David turns to me and says cheerfully: "Hey, now we have someone to call!"
..Though it probably wouldn't be the best idea to prank the Mayor.
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