Nervously, I stood in the customs inspection line to cross from Rwanda to Zaire. I’d been warned about how dangerous it was in the refugee camps in Zaire. Some of the Hutu refugees there had killed and incited others to kill during the genocide. Rumors swirled that these refugees were using the camps to regroup and rearm. Some said the French government financed weapons for them. Other rumors implicated priests in the Catholic Church.
I had no idea if any of that was true, but before me stood a man dressed as a priest in a gray suit with a white clerical collar. He lifted a brown satchel onto the inspection table, his body language tranquil.
The young customs agent unsnapped a silver buckle and pulled the sides of the satchel open. His eyes grew wide. Gingerly putting his hand in the bag, he pulled out a pile of American hundred-dollar bills. I’d never seen such piles of money—stacks of hundreds bound together crisply with rubber bands. The priest had to be carrying, it seemed, at least forty thousand dollars.
I wondered where he’d gotten it and, more than that, how he intended to spend it.
After the satchel had been checked and the money repacked, the priest secured his bag and walked into Zaire, his stride cool, his expression unflustered.
My hiking backpack held a few shirts, film, pens, and notebooks. I passed quickly through customs and headed down the twenty yards of dusty road separating Rwanda from Zaire.
As I crossed the border, I ducked under the arm of a traffic gate. A man sitting on a rickety chair next to a card table stuck out his hand. I gave him my passport.
He looked it over and surveyed me with dull eyes. “Do you have a visa?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t have a visa.”
Shaking his head, he told me, “You must go back to Rwanda to get a visa.”
“Where in Rwanda?”
“In Kigali.”
I’d been told that fifty bucks would get me across the border. I didn’t know if the fee was legitimate or an established bribe.
“I thought I could get my paperwork taken care of here.”
“Well, it is difficult to do, but it is possible.”
“I understand that the fee is fifty dollars, or perhaps you could accept this from me as a thank-you for your help and an apology for the inconvenience I’ve caused.”
“Yes, no problem, sir.”
Using a mangled pen, I scratched my name on a sheet of white “entry point” paper. The official took the paper, spun in his seat, and lifted a rock from atop a stack of stained forms. He put the sheet of paper I had just signed on top and replaced the rock. Welcome to Zaire.
A military jeep came barreling toward me, dust swirling, and ground to a stop. A soldier in a black T-shirt and black beret stood in back, aiming a mounted machine gun at my chest. My nerves sparked, but I forced myself to stand still.
He spat words at me and pointed to a flag being raised behind the customs hut. A scratchy recording of music played in the background. I recognized it as an anthem and relaxed a bit. Now I understood. There was a flag-raising ceremony. I needed to pay my respects.
I stood straight and looked at the flag. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched a bead of sweat trickle down the sharp plane of the soldier’s face. He narrowed his eyes at me. The gun still pointed at my chest, his right index finger an inch from the trigger. Once the flag was raised, the soldier shouted at the driver, the vehicle barreled away, and I stepped with shaking legs into the customs hut.
The soldier inside reeked of alcohol. He pointed to the floor, and I dropped my bag. After unzipping my backpack and pushing my clothes around, he stood and looked at me with glazed, bloodshot eyes. Thrusting his hand under my nose, he rubbed his thumb against his other four fingers. He wanted money. When I just stared dumbly, he made a fist, thumb out, and tilted his head back to mime drinking. He wanted alcohol.
I shook my head. “No, I don’t have any alcohol.”
He made the money and drinking motions again. Again I played dumb.
Three other soldiers carrying AK-47s entered the hut. I stiffened. Every detail of their postures, their weapons, stood out in sharp relief.
Neil had warned me about aid workers who’d been shot and killed in Zaire. I imagined having to wrestle a rifle from one of them. Who would I grab? How? What chance did I have against four armed men?
I sized up the distance between me and the exit, and one of the soldiers moved to block my path. I knew they intended to rob me of something, and my mind raced through the possibilities: how I might bribe, how I might escape.
A Land Rover four-by-four pulled up outside the customs hut, and out jumped a white woman with blond hair the size of Texas and an even bigger smile. Before I’d heard her say a word, I knew: American.
She carried a bag of cookies in one hand and a carton of apple juice in the other. As soon as she said, “Howdy, y’all,” to the Zairean soldiers, I knew I was safe.
She handed out the juice and cookies—“Y’all be good now”—and the soldiers smiled back. I grabbed my bag and jumped in the truck, and we took off down the road.