Before our airplane can push away from the gate at the
Brazzaville airport for the flight to Paris, the cabin crew announces that “due
to health regulations,” the cabin crew must first spray the entire cabin with
insecticide. A crew member walks up and down the aisles, holding two cans of
the product that he sprays directly up into the air, while the voice over the
intercom assures us that this substance is “completely safe” for human beings.
The strongly perfumed mist falls gently on all the passengers, reminding us
once again – if we needed a reminder – that the place we are leaving is categorized
very differently from the place we are going to. Congo is a potential source of
health hazards, and Paris is part of the world that must be protected from
these hazards, according to the logic of global air travel.
It is difficult to leave, and at the same time I am anxious
to be home. Nothing feels finished in the work I came here to do – it would be
amazing if it did – but I am also exhausted and ill from a stomach bug I picked
up on my last day in Brazzaville. As one new friend sympathized, “Sometimes
Africa kicks your ass.” It is almost Christmas, and all of me wants colder
temperatures, crisp air, and the scent of evergreen. This almost physical
desire has gotten stronger in the last few days, as I struggled to get back to
Brazzaville in time to catch my scheduled flight out.
Getting to – and from – the northern town Impfondo turns out
to be a more difficult task than I had realized, although people had tried,
sort of, to explain this reality to me. One day before we were due to fly back
to Brazzaville, our flight was canceled. The next commercial flight was not for
five days. Impfondo is not connected by road to any part of the Republic of
Congo. To get there, and back, one must either fly or travel by river, a method
of transport that is fickle and prone to irregular and unpredictable shifts. It
also takes at least three weeks to get to Brazzaville that way…and I didn’t
have three weeks. Flights to Impfondo are often canceled due to low bookings,
or for whatever reason the airline feels like giving. The UNHCR operates a sort
of air taxi service between various far-flung parts of both ROC and DRC,
including Brazzaville and Kinshasa, but priority is given to UN project workers
and other humanitarian workers, for obvious reasons, so one’s seat is never
guaranteed.
Now, this experience of frustration, anxiety, and travel
disruption is not, I should stress, a
special or unique experience. In fact, it is commonplace, even mundane. In this
case, I was the only person upset by the whole thing. That’s just the way it
goes. An experience that, for me, required the cultivation of some seriously
Job-like patience (not something I am good at), was nothing remarkable for any
of the INCEF staff, missionaries, or other people trying to get back to
Brazzaville at the same time. More than anything, really, this experience was
one of the most important reasons I needed to do this pilot study: both to test
my research questions and theories, and to have the kinds of experiences that,
as a researcher, I will need to cope with more gracefully than I managed this
time. Towards that end, I have already made a note to pack more high-octane
instant coffee for the next trip. You can even mix that stuff cold in a water
bottle. It helps a lot.
