I won't hide that I was a bit nervous about the border crossing into Goma.
After a lovely, almost idyllic 3+ hour ride through carefully landscaped and tiered Rwandan gardens, passing people on motorcycles who actually dutifully wear helmets, and watching lovely Rwandans glide in colorful outfits along the road, the driver stopped the car and said, "the border is up there".
I could see a crumbled road ahead, with people standing quietly, no one really moving. It was eerily quiet. The driver indicated which line we needed to get into at a small office, and he got back into the car to wait with our baggage. After getting our passport stamped and Visa reviewed, we got our baggage, politely declined help from some teen boys, and started the long walk across the line, baggage bumping and skidding beside us.
As we neared the small crowd, it was apparent that this country was in deep pain. Drawn faces, weary body posture, and just an overall heaviness permeated the surroundings. We were approaching DRC.
We tried to scan faces to find someone who might be looking for us, but for about 30 seconds we could not find anyone. That 30 seconds felt like years.
Finally we saw a welcoming face and Luke, Mercy Corps' DRC country leader, extended his hand to us. He asked us which bags had the least amount of camera equipment and my mind raced to decide which camera I was willing to lose. He took those bags into a small office and, with restrained and respectful vigor, set out to negotiate our arrival.
After several "no" answers and slight elevation of tones during their exchange in French, Luke's kind gaze fixated on the young girl's eyes, and she permitted us to go on.
This was the first of negotiated exchanges that we experienced during our time there.
Post a Comment