The ferry ride from Brazzerville , Congo to Kinshassa, DRC is a truly lawless and brutal experience. This is where we saw rumored African corruption and intimidation in plain view. Porters in colored smocks (yellow for the Congo side and blue for the DRC side) carried immensely heavy bags on their heads and shoulders. The bags were so bulky that it took two other men just to help load them. The burdened porter would then run staggering down a corridor onto the barge. Uniformed policemen would intentionally push over every third or so porter in the line and demand money before allowing them to get up. One policeman I saw was trying but could not fold his wallet it was so full of money.
Cripples ride the ferry in large numbers (?): on 3-wheeled bicycles, being pushed in carts, the blind holding onto the person ahead of them in chains as long as six. Money changers held out large stacks of worthless DRC money vying for our business. Diesel smoke bellowed from the doorless engine room, raising a rash on my exposed skin. A man tapped on Coke bottles with a metallic opener, advertising that they were for sale. Another man made sandwiches from salami he held in a dirty bag, with hands and a knife he probably never washed. Every flat surface had someone standing on it. Men pissed over the railing when it suited them.
All of the police had the stereotypical bully look: large, fat but not obese, with round faces and evil smiles. Me and my fellow white travelers were massed in a huddle behind our truck transport seeking refuge from the chaos of dangerous activity that existed everywhere around us: people being shoved, knocked down, hit with sharp objects, thrown off the barge. One of the bigger policemen, wearing a green uniform, pushed his way among us, grabbed my wife, Gwynne, by the hand, and pulled her, resisting, towards the gate where another large policeman, this one in a blue uniform waited. The green-uniformed man smiled and called out to the blue-uniformed man. He held Gwynne’s arm in the air and turned her completely around for the blue-uniformed man’s inspection, saying “a gift for you,” to the other man who cooed appreciatively - they both laughed and chortled. I started towards them to do something (?) but the green-uniformed man pushed Gwynne back towards us to make her way unchaperoned through the massed bedlam.
Police on the other side of the river demanded a huge amount of money to “sterilize or vehicle” (throw dirty water over the tires), but our driver had been through the experience before and negotiated down to a smaller bribe.
I was never so glad to be gone from a place.
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