Three moments during the journey from New York to Kindu

I looked out the window as the city lights of New York became smaller and disappeared. An hour before I had smiled at the Air France agent who told me I was likely to miss my connection in Paris. Such things really aren’t so important when I think of all the flights I had made and missed in Congo, and the crucial one that got me to Tanzania to be with my family. I also recalled the time I spent at JFK exactly one year before when my flight to Morocco was canceled. It took me a personal record of eight days to journey from NY to Niger. Or maybe the smile was because she had just said that I might have to take a Sunday flight and I had the break the news that the next flight to Congo from Paris would be three days later. She glanced back at her computer, gave me a voucher that could buy food at JFK airport, and told me she would put me at the top of the stand-by list for a flight leaving an hour from then. I pondered getting a glass of wine with the voucher, the decided on a Tuna fish sandwich. My logic was that if I missed the flight I would definitely be needing a glass of wine and would willingly pay for it, and if I did not, I could enjoy one on the plane. Eating a tuna fish sandwich next to the check-in counter seemed like a logical choice. I made the flight.

I stared at Kinshasa from a rooftop Indian restaurant. All cities look better from higher up, but especially cities in third world countries. It’s like standing back from a piece of imperfect art: you can’t see the flaws. The restaurant had a gold glitter toilet seat that seemed especially funny after I had drunk a beer. The elevator operator was Congolese man wearing an ill-fitting bellhop styled uniform. Congolese have a way of being regal amid the grime of cities or the poverty of villages, and the juxtaposition of this man and the dank claustrophobic elevator made for a perfect example. The elevator always stopped on the second floor on its way up and down. “It’s a like a car shifting gears,” said my friend, and we all laughed.

I opened the door of my Kindu apartment. One of our guards, Pappa Donation, stood outside wearing a thinning yellow t-shirt and smiling mischievously. “Bonne fete,” he said and handed me a small plastic sack. Inside were three eggplants - a perfect present.