It was called Zaire in those days (not Congo) and we arrived in the afternoon. After disembarking from the plane, we were told to wait on the tarmac, rather than going into the terminal and customs. Representatives from the Canadian consulate came up to greet us. Spencer was looking around at all the activity around us and pulled out his camera to take some pictures. “Spencer” I hissed, “Put away the camera.” “What?” he said. “Put away the camera – NOW.” He lowered his camera and looked in the direction I was staring. Three soldiers with machine guns were wildly gesturing at us and yelling. The translator quickly came over and said “No photographs, no photographs!” It took a few minutes of heated discussion and profuse apologizing to convince the soldiers that ‘yes’ -we were sorry and that ‘no’ – we hadn’t taken any photographs. Meanwhile a brouhaha had developed at the side of the plane. Apparently the Canadian staff in their effort to speed the process of customs had taken it upon themselves to unload our suitcases from the trolley to the tarmac (rather than wait for it to be taken to the terminal where we would wait with everyone else to collect our belongings). This ticked off the airport officials. Soon a Canadian staff member and an airport baggage handler began to tousle over a suitcase. The Canadians won.
By this point, we had been on tour for seven weeks, having started this entire adventure in Europe. After the four week mark of any tour – trust me – you start to loose your sense of humor and patience. Just knowing that the tour is winding down, you allow your mind to wander off the present and focus on home. All you want to do at this point is physically survive the final weeks. The Canadian consulate in Zaire decided to give us a special treat. Rather than put us up in a large impersonal hotel, they were each going to “adopt” a dancer and take us home. I’m telling you that this is not a good thing. Impersonal hotels are a godsend. They are one of the few places where you can be yourself for a couple of hours, especially when traveling through foreign countries where politeness and good behavior are essential. We weren’t given a choice in the matter – we were to be farmed out. I however lucked out. I was adopted by Joe and his girlfriend. They lived in an apartment in downtown Kinshasa with two cats and a native servant. They were both young and easy-going. I was shown my room and was given a walkie-talkie. Joe explained that the phones didn’t always work in Zaire and if I needed to get in touch with him, all I had to do was push down on one of the buttons and ask “Is Joe there?” and someone on the other end would go and find him for me. Personally I was a bit skeptical about this system. Brian and Spencer ended up in a house where the wife had obviously reached her mental breaking point. She followed the boys around the house and continually counted the silverware to make sure that they hadn’t absconded with any of it.
On the first night in Kinshasa the Canadian staff decided to take us to a nightclub on outskirts of the city. It was a long drive through pitted dirt and partially paved streets. Most of the light came from buildings along the way. We entered the nightclub, which was a tin roofed, one room shanty. Exhausted from the trip and feeling out of sorts from socializing all day, Brian, Spencer and I made our way to a corner in the room where we could nurse our drinks all night and watch the action. Spencer started quietly crying. He was tired, he was staying with a crazy woman and it was his birthday. What can I say? Everyone has his or her breakdown moments and tonight was Spencer’s. Brian and I did our best to comfort him. It began to rain. Not a light rain – a tropical torrential downpour. The nightclub’s roof was full of holes and we soon found ourselves sitting under a waterfall. We would have moved but on a quick inspection, we saw that the water was pouring in throughout the entire establishment. It was time to bale out. I went with Joe to his car while Spencer and Brian went with their host. As the cars started to pull out, the car that the boys were in fell into a large hole and became flooded. I had never considered this before but as Joe explained – when a hole fills up with water – you really don’t have any idea whether it’s a shallow hole or a deep crevasse. The trick was obviously to avoid water puddles in Kinshasa. Joe pulled up next to the disabled vehicle and rolled down his window. I expected some words of wisdom but Joe looked at the other driver and chuckled, “If you can’t take a joke, you shouldn’t come to Africa” and with that, he rolled up his window. The car was pushed to drier land and Joe waited with them for the car to dry out enough to start again. “Can’t leave it here or we’ll come back to a stripped carcass” he told me. Eventually the car started and Joe drove me back to his place.
We left Zaire by a different route. We were to take a small plane over the Congo River to Brazzaville in what was then Congo. From there we would catch a flight to Paris. We arrived at a small airport and were shown to a plane that was sitting on the tarmac. A 1930’s Nazi warplane, complete with swastikas. This was a little prop plane with a door in the rear side. You would walk up an incline to reach your seat. We settled in and the plane started to roll down the runway to take off. Suddenly the plane is shuddering to a stop. It appears that the control tower decided that they should check the pilot’s license. Joe was right – if you can’t take a joke…