Bullshit! Navigating the BS factor in the DRC

Goma, Nord Kivu Province Democratic Republic of Congo October 26^th 2011

You are not intelligent! Do you think you can come here and ask me questions? I do not know you! Can you do that in your country? No. If you were intelligent you would understand that.

Our question seems quite straight forward—we are in the office of the Ministry of Youth and Sport in Nord Kivu province in eastern Congo and want to register a boxing club for street youths and get information from the relevant authorities on how to do it. We’ve come half way across the world, from a seminar in Brazil, are keen to apply lessons learned and get moving on everything we have to do to make an impact in the lives of some very poor people; street boys, demobilised soldiers and others at risk or in trouble. But nothing in the Democratic Republic of Congo is ever so easy.

It is I who will ask the questions. Not you. You are in a government office. You think I am being difficult? Yes, you can leave, you can go and speak with someone else. But you will not find them easier and you will have to come back to me, or wish you had.

This is quite true—when dealing with the authorities in Congo it is important to keep in mind that ultimately you have to deal with these gate keepers one way or another; it is better to say little, keep your cool and find out the detail of the procedures involved for whatever it is you want. We begin again and explain as clearly and humbly as possible what it is we wish to know.

Ok, you are not as unintelligent as I thought. But you are not prepared. You must go home and think about what it is you want and then come back to me when you are ready. Here is my number, you can call me and we can speak then.

The outlines of this exchange are a fairly good synopsis of how dealings with government authorities can typically work. First, there is a blast of hostility, pedantic reference to administrative procedures and a search for a reason, any reason, why you have not followed them to the letter. Locally, this is what is known as “the blockage”. Once the blockage is found, or invented, there is a reason to hold up your case. You will be sent to get mountains of supporting documentation, told to go to other offices, to pay fees that may or may not be necessary; your time will be wasted, explicitly so.

These opening rounds un-level the playing field and establish who is in charge, wear you down and unsettle your defences. Anger or frustration do not help, only make things worse; this is a chess game, not a street fight. It is best to keep your wits about you, be patient and play the long game. If you know enough about the procedures then be sure to follow them precisely, come armed with everything possible to parry the blockages, no matter how ridiculous: notarised copies of your passport, accreditation from employers or professional associations back home proving that you are who you say you are. Heck, you might as well bring your degree certificate and University transcripts too. At a minimum though, you are in for a lengthy fight, one you must push back against, with patience and tact, being assertive at times, friendly and cooperative at others.

Ultimately, you will be asked for some gratuity to help this Kafkaesque hell go away, to deliver you from an interminable procedure, typically after having waited hours in government offices, airports, border posts or police stations. By that point you will actually have become quite friendly with your interlocutor, kind of a Stockholm Syndrome of empathy for the person who holds the power to make your life hell or deliver you from it. You will part on good terms, a friendly wave and a thank you for having taken the time to explain to a person as lowly as yourself how the issue at hand should be done properly. The person in front of you is now a friend, someone you will probably deal with again another time.

To travel to the DRC is akin to preparing for combat. There really is no other way to describe it. You need to be prepared and you need to have reserves. Arriving back from Brazil at the end of a 36 hour journey, ending with over-landing it through Rwanda to the border at Goma, Nord Kivu province, the portal to a war zone of conflict and avarice, I should never have assumed smooth sailing. Things just don’t work that way here.

Handing my passport through the guichet window of the border post, the immigration official looks at it, flips a few pages, asks a few questions, pauses, and then orders me inside the guard hut. This is not a good sign, it indicates that there will be a search for “a blockage” and that there is a fight ahead. But I’ve been there before and know what’s coming. He is going to ask why I did not get my DRC visa in my country of origin and claim that the one issued at the Congolese embassy in South Africa is not valid.

Your visa is not valid here, I cannot accept it. You should have got it in your country of origin. I cannot let you in. You must return to Rwanda. If you wish, you can try to purchase a new visa here, it is $275. But you will have to go to the immigration office to ask if they can help you. It is Sunday, they are all at home but I will see if we can find someone to handle this.

At this he reaches for his cell phone. A visit to the immigration bureau will be at least a six hour slog, an interminable hell and the $275 cost is just the list price, you also have to facilitate the other gate keepers there. But not so fast, I’ve thought this one out, can point to having already visited DRC this year and have not returned home since. The visa and exit stamps are right there on page 21.

The immigration officer shoots me a glance that says “touché” and looks at my passport again, but seems to brighten in a few moments.

So, you were in South Africa? What was your status there—you have a tourist visa. It is not allowed for us to issue visas to non-residents in that country. Your visa is not valid, but if you wish I will speak to my office.

When the other side does not pick up, there is a pause. There is a slight tactical shift in the battle at this point but it is a decisive one. People are now backed up in a long queue outside and the other staff in the hut who have been privy to this exchange know exactly what is going on. The payments resulting from a blockage must be made quietly and subtly, they cannot be in front of a room full of people. The immigration officials manning the other desks are shooting glances our way and our guy is beginning to look uncomfortable. He also doesn’t want to send me to the immigration bureau—there is no guarantee that he can get a cut of the payments made there, unless he can find the person he needs in advance and who are not answering their phone.

There is one last chance though—he can find some other reason and make me come back another day, a convenient time when everyone is out of sight. Do I have a letter of invitation from a local organisation? Yes, it’s right here. Do I have professional accreditation from home? Yes. Personal and work references? Of course.

With a weary hand he reaches for his stamp, plunges it onto an open page in my passport and hands it back to me with a resigned look that says: you are lucky to get away this time. I smile, shake his hand, thank him for his understanding. The man whose neck I wanted to ring earlier is now my friend. I will be passing through this border again, it will be useful to be on good terms.

The first days back in the DRC proceed like this. The girl in the office of the mobile phone company who sells me an air time voucher that has already been used, making me come back and then spend an hour having it refunded. People asking for money, the random encounters from people on the street and in passing cars who shout Muzungu! when they see my white face, a simple declarative statement that says: white guy, you have money, I don’t and I wish I could find a way to make you share it.

One person I do feel for is my work partner, the wise and hard working Ferdinand, a gentleman in every sense of the word, who dreams of something better for his country and whose job as a “fixer” is to navigate these pitfalls, get things done, get people out of trouble or through the difficult thickets of opaque procedure, obstructive officials.

Our meeting together is interrupted by a phone call. When he rings off, he leans over and says he has something else to deal with. A client has been arrested by an army colonel and had their vehicle impounded. He must go. This never ends, does not leave you here, no matter what you do and how experienced you are. Having a strong institution behind you that is your employer, the UN or an embassy, will help to some extent. For the rest of us, it is the BS factor.