The Flight of the Bumble Bee
Feb. 20th, 2006 09:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amalthyaSunday 4:48 pm
I think that, if I told the story of my day to myself, I'm not sure I'd believe it. But, believe it or not, it started off pretty innocently.
Carol and I had the idea that we'd drive around town, taking photographs of things we'd seen during our sojourn here, and visit areas of town previously unexplored. It was a good idea -- the traffic on Sundays is pretty mild, which makes the driving a lot easier. Plus, we couldn't go into Rwanda since Carol's month-long, multiple-entry visa had expired and she was left with a single-entry visa for 8 days until her flight out.
We drove around happily at first -- it was a pretty grim, grey day, as the last couple days have been -- and it was nice to actually stop and take proper photographs of interesting sights. Like the "elephant graveyard" as I started calling it -- the road going through the lava field where all the cars are stuck in the lava like old tarred fossils.
Anyway, we first noticed that there were a lot of bumble bees about -- traffic cops who usually only patrol during the week, and during "business hours" and generally seem to only be good for taking bribes.
Which is, as it were, exactly what they were out in force to do today. Now, Brad and Delphine both had Congolese driver's licenses -- very official -- laminated and procured in Kinshasa (the capital of Congo). Of course, Brad said that they can't make them anymore, because their laminating machine broke, so who knows whether people even can get official driver's licenses anymore. Oh, Teh Africa.
Anyway, Carol does not have one of these official licenses, so we've been warily avoiding the bumble bees since the advent of her driving around Goma. It's a dodgy proposition, considering how far a drive it is, and how many bumblebees one must pass on the way to the Hotel Stella. Today, our luck finally ran out.
As we went through the center of town, we were waved down by a bumblebee and, reluctantly, stopped by the side of the road. He leaned into the car, resting his elbows heavily on the doorjam on Carol's side of the car. Once his breath was inside the car, we realized this was more than BumbleBee Operating Procedure -- he was wickedly, falling-down drunk, and using Carol's vehicle to keep himself erect. As the car proceeded to be filled with his alcoholic fumes, he asked where we were going, and what we were doing, and, without really a solid answer from Carol, became convinced that we were going to the airport.
His French was slurred and lispy, and it's no surprise that it took me two tries to understand that, at the end of our short conversation, he was asking us for milk. Why he needed milk, I have no idea. But I immediately said "Nous n'avons pas du lait!" and he smiled, wishing us a good day and waving us off.
Phew, we thought simultaneously. It wasn't until 20 minutes later that we remembered that it was 11 am on a Sunday morning. What in the world was he doing, drunk? On duty? Wearing a yellow uniform that made him look like a bumble bee?
We continued driving through Goma, thanking our good graces. Ha! If only we'd known.
We stopped at a long stretch of road right before a roundabout to take a picture of an inappropriately funny SIDA (AIDS) sign featuring a talking condom named "Capote." It was a mistake, as our stopping somehow signaled some bumblebees at the roundabout to our presence and they'd had us pegged before we even got close to the roundabout.
Unable to drive around them as they stood in the middle of the road, we were forced to stop. They came over, looking very severe and "official" in their dandy yellow uniforms and demanded that Carol produce her driver's license. Playing dumb, Carol acted like she knew no French at all, and that everything was OK, and that we should be on our way.
These two guys figured that we probably had some money, or something, and weren't about to let us go so easily. After showing them her Massachusetts driver's license, which they handled as if it had been found in a truck full of manure, they decided to come over to my side of the car, convinced that I probably spoke more French, or, more likely, that I was going to give them money.
I too decided to play dumb, acting like I hadn't a clue what they were asking for. I had remembered the time we'd been stopped in this very car by bumble bees while with Brad and Delphine, who knew the Yellow Shakedown all too well. When Delphine provided those bumble bees with all the insurance papers, etc for the car, they had said everything was OK and let us go.
So I figured that, while playing dumb, I would show these bumble bees our papers and that we'd be on our way.
Shit, did I figure wrong. After passing various documents through the window, I realized that perhaps I'd made a mistake. They found some document -- I'm not really entirely sure what it was -- that said it had expired in December of 2005. The documents which they said were "ok" they refused to relinquish. There we were, held hostage by our inability to drive away without our car papers.
Nor could we figure out what this piece of paper was indicating, or rather, failing to indicate since it was "expirée". And, while I played like I spoke no French, the bumble bees pretended to speak no English.
Hopeful that perhaps one of the "ok" documents they were holding was another copy of the expired document that was NOT expired, I asked to be given back the documents the evil bumble bee was clutching. When he refused, I realized that we might be sitting here all day.
The bumble bees kept reiterating this (probably) idle threat, that we would have to go with them to the office. Whether there even IS a bumble bee office, or whether it would be open at 12:30 pm on a Sunday, I can't say. Either way, it's not a desirable conclusion.
Carol seemed to be working magic by telling them that she'd go to OUR office on Monday and get a new, non-expired, document to replace this expired one. I started to think that they'd let us go, save for the fact that Bumble A continued to refuse to return the papers to us.
Through the conversation, and well, since it was obvious, they clearly wanted money to cleanse our Automobile Sin™. Knowing that they probably didn't know the word, I asked them if it was "Bribe Day"
Bumble A, clearly the ringleader of the Yellow Shakedown, demanded that we buy them 20 bottles of beer. I told him that it was Sunday, and that if he drank so much beer on Sunday, he'd clearly go to Hell. On the "Day of God" as I stuttered in my unintentionally awful French, how could he behave like this?
Meanwhile, Bumble B, leered into my car window, leaning in and breathing on my face. Multiple times I requested that he get his hands OUT of the car. At one point, I'm not sure why (I didn't understand the fast-paced French) he attempted to GET INTO the car in the seat behind me. Thankfully, in my paranoia, I had had Carol lock all the car doors earlier in the day. The fact that he even lifted the door handle to get in spooked me sufficiently.
I eventually figured that I might be given a bit of the upper hand. I said that, if he returned the papers for the car to me, that I'd give him $10. He pretended not to know what I was saying (I said it in English) and in the same breath, he insisted I make it $20, and I said I'd make no negotiations until I had the papers for the car returned to me. Thinking that I was honest, white, desperate, or all of the above, he passed the remaining documents back through the window.
Carol took the opportunity as she saw a female bumble bee, most likely their boss, coming over to find out what in the world was going on, to just hit the accelerator. And just like that, without any money passing hands whatsoever, we sped away, giddy with fear and stress and relief and excitement. I didn't even look back.
Carol believes fully that they only passed the documents back through because the Lady Bumble was heading over. Yet, as we discussed the motives for this sudden surrender, none of our solutions included them stopping because what they were doing was "wrong" or they would be punished by their supervisor. Most likely, we think, they just didn't want to share the money or perhaps they were just demanding an exorbitantly high bribe.
Probably, had the guy not been so greedy and agreed on $10 instead of spending the 5 minutes arguing over the $20, his boss-lady wouldn't have come over and we wouldn't have had the opportunity to drive away, forced to give him the $10.
Ahh... the greed. It does you in every time. Even if it's not Sunday and you're not angling for 20 bottles of beer, you big lush. !!
Carol sped back towards the Stella, tense and angry because there's this absolutely helpless feeling when you're a victim of corruption. In most other places, seeing policemen or the military is a sign of reassurance and safety, but anywhere we go, seeing police, or guns, or the military is just nerve-wracking and unsettling and awful. Even if they're not wearing an awful blinding color of yellow.
We decided to have brunch at Le Chalet, which was delicious, buffet, and very calming by the side of Lake Kivu. Carol also decided that she'd like to leave the Stella. Most likely, by the next day, all the bumble bees would have conferred and all been on the lookout for two white ladies in a JGI car by the next morning.
So, as I read my book, Carol packed up her small apartment at the Stella [she refused my help entirely, even to fold her clothes before she stuffed them unceremoniously into her suitcase]. And, as 10 strong hotel employees watched, Carol and I lugged all of her crap into the Expired Document Car, unaided. The only guys who came over were some scammers trying to sell me Congolese Art Crap at muzungu prices.
"No, I don't want to buy your curios. Thanks for not helping us with the car."
And to think that this is a country where they don't even let you rip the safety sheath off the water yourself or pour it into the glass without assistance.
We drove to the Hotel Nyira, tense and worried because, while we could take alternate routes, there was one bumble bee crossing we just couldn't avoid.
As we passed it, unstopped and unharassed, we both breathed an enormous, tense sigh of relief.
What. A. Day.
I think that, if I told the story of my day to myself, I'm not sure I'd believe it. But, believe it or not, it started off pretty innocently.
Carol and I had the idea that we'd drive around town, taking photographs of things we'd seen during our sojourn here, and visit areas of town previously unexplored. It was a good idea -- the traffic on Sundays is pretty mild, which makes the driving a lot easier. Plus, we couldn't go into Rwanda since Carol's month-long, multiple-entry visa had expired and she was left with a single-entry visa for 8 days until her flight out.
We drove around happily at first -- it was a pretty grim, grey day, as the last couple days have been -- and it was nice to actually stop and take proper photographs of interesting sights. Like the "elephant graveyard" as I started calling it -- the road going through the lava field where all the cars are stuck in the lava like old tarred fossils.
Anyway, we first noticed that there were a lot of bumble bees about -- traffic cops who usually only patrol during the week, and during "business hours" and generally seem to only be good for taking bribes.
Which is, as it were, exactly what they were out in force to do today. Now, Brad and Delphine both had Congolese driver's licenses -- very official -- laminated and procured in Kinshasa (the capital of Congo). Of course, Brad said that they can't make them anymore, because their laminating machine broke, so who knows whether people even can get official driver's licenses anymore. Oh, Teh Africa.
Anyway, Carol does not have one of these official licenses, so we've been warily avoiding the bumble bees since the advent of her driving around Goma. It's a dodgy proposition, considering how far a drive it is, and how many bumblebees one must pass on the way to the Hotel Stella. Today, our luck finally ran out.
As we went through the center of town, we were waved down by a bumblebee and, reluctantly, stopped by the side of the road. He leaned into the car, resting his elbows heavily on the doorjam on Carol's side of the car. Once his breath was inside the car, we realized this was more than BumbleBee Operating Procedure -- he was wickedly, falling-down drunk, and using Carol's vehicle to keep himself erect. As the car proceeded to be filled with his alcoholic fumes, he asked where we were going, and what we were doing, and, without really a solid answer from Carol, became convinced that we were going to the airport.
His French was slurred and lispy, and it's no surprise that it took me two tries to understand that, at the end of our short conversation, he was asking us for milk. Why he needed milk, I have no idea. But I immediately said "Nous n'avons pas du lait!" and he smiled, wishing us a good day and waving us off.
Phew, we thought simultaneously. It wasn't until 20 minutes later that we remembered that it was 11 am on a Sunday morning. What in the world was he doing, drunk? On duty? Wearing a yellow uniform that made him look like a bumble bee?
We continued driving through Goma, thanking our good graces. Ha! If only we'd known.
We stopped at a long stretch of road right before a roundabout to take a picture of an inappropriately funny SIDA (AIDS) sign featuring a talking condom named "Capote." It was a mistake, as our stopping somehow signaled some bumblebees at the roundabout to our presence and they'd had us pegged before we even got close to the roundabout.
Unable to drive around them as they stood in the middle of the road, we were forced to stop. They came over, looking very severe and "official" in their dandy yellow uniforms and demanded that Carol produce her driver's license. Playing dumb, Carol acted like she knew no French at all, and that everything was OK, and that we should be on our way.
These two guys figured that we probably had some money, or something, and weren't about to let us go so easily. After showing them her Massachusetts driver's license, which they handled as if it had been found in a truck full of manure, they decided to come over to my side of the car, convinced that I probably spoke more French, or, more likely, that I was going to give them money.
I too decided to play dumb, acting like I hadn't a clue what they were asking for. I had remembered the time we'd been stopped in this very car by bumble bees while with Brad and Delphine, who knew the Yellow Shakedown all too well. When Delphine provided those bumble bees with all the insurance papers, etc for the car, they had said everything was OK and let us go.
So I figured that, while playing dumb, I would show these bumble bees our papers and that we'd be on our way.
Shit, did I figure wrong. After passing various documents through the window, I realized that perhaps I'd made a mistake. They found some document -- I'm not really entirely sure what it was -- that said it had expired in December of 2005. The documents which they said were "ok" they refused to relinquish. There we were, held hostage by our inability to drive away without our car papers.
Nor could we figure out what this piece of paper was indicating, or rather, failing to indicate since it was "expirée". And, while I played like I spoke no French, the bumble bees pretended to speak no English.
Hopeful that perhaps one of the "ok" documents they were holding was another copy of the expired document that was NOT expired, I asked to be given back the documents the evil bumble bee was clutching. When he refused, I realized that we might be sitting here all day.
The bumble bees kept reiterating this (probably) idle threat, that we would have to go with them to the office. Whether there even IS a bumble bee office, or whether it would be open at 12:30 pm on a Sunday, I can't say. Either way, it's not a desirable conclusion.
Carol seemed to be working magic by telling them that she'd go to OUR office on Monday and get a new, non-expired, document to replace this expired one. I started to think that they'd let us go, save for the fact that Bumble A continued to refuse to return the papers to us.
Through the conversation, and well, since it was obvious, they clearly wanted money to cleanse our Automobile Sin™. Knowing that they probably didn't know the word, I asked them if it was "Bribe Day"
Bumble A, clearly the ringleader of the Yellow Shakedown, demanded that we buy them 20 bottles of beer. I told him that it was Sunday, and that if he drank so much beer on Sunday, he'd clearly go to Hell. On the "Day of God" as I stuttered in my unintentionally awful French, how could he behave like this?
Meanwhile, Bumble B, leered into my car window, leaning in and breathing on my face. Multiple times I requested that he get his hands OUT of the car. At one point, I'm not sure why (I didn't understand the fast-paced French) he attempted to GET INTO the car in the seat behind me. Thankfully, in my paranoia, I had had Carol lock all the car doors earlier in the day. The fact that he even lifted the door handle to get in spooked me sufficiently.
I eventually figured that I might be given a bit of the upper hand. I said that, if he returned the papers for the car to me, that I'd give him $10. He pretended not to know what I was saying (I said it in English) and in the same breath, he insisted I make it $20, and I said I'd make no negotiations until I had the papers for the car returned to me. Thinking that I was honest, white, desperate, or all of the above, he passed the remaining documents back through the window.
Carol took the opportunity as she saw a female bumble bee, most likely their boss, coming over to find out what in the world was going on, to just hit the accelerator. And just like that, without any money passing hands whatsoever, we sped away, giddy with fear and stress and relief and excitement. I didn't even look back.
Carol believes fully that they only passed the documents back through because the Lady Bumble was heading over. Yet, as we discussed the motives for this sudden surrender, none of our solutions included them stopping because what they were doing was "wrong" or they would be punished by their supervisor. Most likely, we think, they just didn't want to share the money or perhaps they were just demanding an exorbitantly high bribe.
Probably, had the guy not been so greedy and agreed on $10 instead of spending the 5 minutes arguing over the $20, his boss-lady wouldn't have come over and we wouldn't have had the opportunity to drive away, forced to give him the $10.
Ahh... the greed. It does you in every time. Even if it's not Sunday and you're not angling for 20 bottles of beer, you big lush. !!
Carol sped back towards the Stella, tense and angry because there's this absolutely helpless feeling when you're a victim of corruption. In most other places, seeing policemen or the military is a sign of reassurance and safety, but anywhere we go, seeing police, or guns, or the military is just nerve-wracking and unsettling and awful. Even if they're not wearing an awful blinding color of yellow.
We decided to have brunch at Le Chalet, which was delicious, buffet, and very calming by the side of Lake Kivu. Carol also decided that she'd like to leave the Stella. Most likely, by the next day, all the bumble bees would have conferred and all been on the lookout for two white ladies in a JGI car by the next morning.
So, as I read my book, Carol packed up her small apartment at the Stella [she refused my help entirely, even to fold her clothes before she stuffed them unceremoniously into her suitcase]. And, as 10 strong hotel employees watched, Carol and I lugged all of her crap into the Expired Document Car, unaided. The only guys who came over were some scammers trying to sell me Congolese Art Crap at muzungu prices.
"No, I don't want to buy your curios. Thanks for not helping us with the car."
And to think that this is a country where they don't even let you rip the safety sheath off the water yourself or pour it into the glass without assistance.
We drove to the Hotel Nyira, tense and worried because, while we could take alternate routes, there was one bumble bee crossing we just couldn't avoid.
As we passed it, unstopped and unharassed, we both breathed an enormous, tense sigh of relief.
What. A. Day.
