Troubles at the Border

Yesterday morning Kate befriended Mr. B (his real name has to remain unknown due to security issues) and James and foreign service officer and a pilot for the UN. Kate has been looking for connections with both organizations, so we chatted with them over breakfast, and on a whim decided to stay here another day. Having their own vehicle, they offered to show us around a bit, see some of the Rwandan countryside, tour the Primus brewery, and then meet up with a few of their friends for dinner. Perfect. We set off at 11am, and after securing our DRC exit stamps, walked across the border into Rwanda and waited for the driver to come through. Being diplomats we were waved through, our documents never checked, let alone stamped to indicate we had entered Rwanda. We hung around the border post for a good 20 minutes before the diplomatic vehicle cleared the border, but once it did, we jumped in and drove along the scenic lake shore road towards the Primus Brewery. Lonely Planet noted that the brewery offers frees tours, so we figured we'd show up and see what happens. The security guard denied us at the gate saying to come back on Wednesday. I think he was simply intimidated by the flashing of a diplomatic passport in his face, had it been just Kate and I, I think we could have gotten in no problem. Back in the car, looking at the map, and with no clue as to what to do next, we drove around the hills of eastern Rwanda. Neither Mr. B or James had yet been to Rwanda, so they enjoyed getting to see the endless terraced hills, lakeside villages, and of course, all of the people. Rwanda is such a densely populated country that something as basic as finding a place to pee on the side of a remote, dirt road can be a frustrating challenge. After a few hours of driving, I resorted to peeing on the side of a steep hill, wedged between two trees and the moderate protective anonymity of shrubs, to the sing-song chanting of "Muzungu! Muzungu!" provided compliments of a group of young kids. Hungry, and with no town within moderate driving distance, we headed back to Gisyeni where we stopped at the Stip Hotel for lunch. Prince and Jeanette were working and greeted us with shining smiles and warm embraces. A delicious lunch of grilled cheese and chips was paid for compliments of the daily stipend issued to UN employees, and after filing our stomachs with the nostalgia of classic American food, we drove back to the DRC-Rwanda border. Once again, we were waved through immigration, our passports never even glanced at. Sweet. That was too easy. I thought to myself. At the DRC immigration office however, all of that changed.
"Where are your Rwandan exit stamps?" the cheery border guard questioned. Mr. B explained to him that because of his diplomatic status, entry and exit stamps for Rwanda were never obtained, and that our documents were never even checked. Perplexed, but adamant that we have the appropriate stamps before we could enter the Congo, we were turned away and told to go back to Rwanda. Walking back through the 100m of "no man's land" between the two countries, a strip of land which belongs to neither country, but which typically requires you to have the appropriate stamps to enter or exit, I envisioned us getting stuck, unable to re-enter Rwanda or the DRC simply because of a misunderstanding and lack of proper border control. The embassy's would have to come get us out. Luckily that didn't happen. The immigration officer nearly lost his temper when he realized we had entered his country illegally a few hours before and then left his country without any formal record of our movement. He ranted about how we had broken the law, how we could easily be thrown into jail. I let Mr. B deal with it, tried to keep a low-profile, and stay out of the heated situation which seemed to be gearing up for a bull fight. But again, luckily that didn't happen. After a stern warning and glaring eyes, we filled out the appropriate entry and exit cards, our information was inputted into the computer, our passports were stamped, and we were on our way back to the DR Congo.
Happily the Congolese border guard ushered us through to the immigration officer without checking for the Rwandan stamps he so adamently insisted upon at our last crossing attempt. He smiled and waved, and welcomed us into his country. This is Africa, and I've learned to stop questioning the completely illogical. It's African logic, and mos of the time I don't get it.

The stern faced immigration officer sitting behind a barred window took our passports, immediately stamped Mr. B and Jame's documents, but fumbled through the two remaining passports disgruntled and agitated. The man, who must have had a long, tough day, peered up from his desk and pointed his finger at me, indicating that he needed to have a word with the two of us. Confidently we entered the immigration office, knowing full well that we had the appropriate, valid visas needed for re-entry. The man told us so himself that very morning. In broken English, he methodically explained the difference between a single and a multiple entry visa, and that our visas were 8-day single entry only. I tried my best in both English and Swahili, and with Kate chiming in in French, to remind him that not only did he tell me differently that morning, but that no where on either my receipt or in my passport did it indicate single entry. He refused to listen. Another woman butted in, picking up our passports, inspecting them, and then in sheer disgust slammed both passports onto the desk, "Impossible! No visa, no Congo!," the words flying from her mouth accompanied by sprays of spit. Between Kate and I, we didn't have the $70 to cover the unnecessary, but seemingly absolutely necessary visas. We stepped outside to discuss our options. I suggested we just walk the 200m to our hotel, stay the night, and upon exit in the morning, deal with it then. The immigration officers were too busy to notice us walk out of the room and didn't seem bothered by the face that we'd now begun walking down the road into Goma. I wanted to hedge our bets and hope that new immigration officials would be manning the office in the morning, and hopefully get around paying for an additional visa. Kate on the other hand thought we'd end up in a Congolese jail with my plan, and on the verge of tears and a panic attack, we went back into the immigration office to deal with the situation. Kate sat silently in the corner and let me do the talking. I embellished some story, showed him my shmorgeshboard collection of currencies, and told him that if he took all of it,. I wouldn't be able to eat dinner. Somehow he must have pitied me, took the $25 in US cash, and left me with a few hundred Congolese francs so that we wouldn't go hungry. Despite the fact that we got back into the country for $25 rather than $70, the officer slyly slipped the cash directly into his pocket. We so just gave him a $25 bonus. Corruption once again, and its so frustrating. I hate to be part of such a fundamentally debilitating system that has taken hold of so many African countries, but what choice are you given? I hope he at least feeds his family with that money, or pays his children's school fees rather than pissing it away on a few bottles of Tembo.