There are two countries in Africa named Congo. One is the Democratic Republic of Congo (formerly Zaire) and the other is the Republic of Congo. To distinguish between the two, people generally refer to the former as DR Congo and the latter by the name of its capital, Brazzaville.

On my recent visit to DR Congo, we also scheduled a trip to Congo Brazzaville in order to assist with some of the necessary planning with setting up a new microfinance institution there. Both Congos are desperately poor and HOPE International will be launching a new program in Brazzaville in the near future to meet the unmet demand for financial services there. My assessment is that there will be some challenges (but a forthcoming post will show how to overcome those challenges).

The Congos are separated by the Congo River. It’s quite a large river, about three miles wide at the point where the capital cities lie.

As we left the office and headed for the port to go through customs and on to the boat and over to Brazzaville, I asked my colleagues how the border would crossing would be. “Easy. In five minutes you will be in Brazzaville.”

We pulled up to the border crossing and an armed border official blocked the narrow entrance to the crossing area. He yelled angrily and motioned his hand making it obvious we should turn around. Our driver just glared at him. When the guard turned to stop a person trying to walk in, our driver simply drove around him. The guard looked slightly annoyed but just ignored us.

As we parked, my colleague took our passports, jumped out and said he’d be back in “Five minutes.” Sure enough he was back in five minutes but he did not have our passports. He remarked that there was a “formality” and it would be “five more minutes.”

The sun was blazing and the temperature was hovering around 100. After thirty minutes, I asked again what the hold up was. They shrugged their shoulders and said they would be right back. Thirty minutes later they showed up with nothing. I felt myself melting from the heat and my strength was fading as it was late afternoon and we had skipped lunch in anticipation of having it in Brazzaville.

To pass the time I watched all kinds of craziness transpire before me. There were a couple of guys hunched over and carrying around 30 plastic chairs on their backs. Women carrying containers with live fish on their heads and the like. It was quite interesting but I was interested in getting moving.

Finally, after our five-minute border crossing turned into nearly three hours, they showed up with our passports and told us to run to the boat. We arrived in a rush only to wait 30 more minutes on the boat.

Once we crossed the river in a mere “five minutes”, we started the customs process once again, this time to enter the Republic of Congo. At every step we were accosted by merchants and officials, each explaining the payment due to them. My Congolese colleague was fined for not having his vaccination receipt. Apparently, it doesn’t matter whether or not you’ve been vaccinated if you’ve got money.

Eventually, we made it through. Four hours after starting our “five minutes” were over.

The unfortunate thing is we had to return the following day. We were assured things were “much easier” on this side of the river.

This was not true.

The following day, another Congolese colleague was fined for having a problem with his papers and an American colleague was not allowed to board the boat even though he had paid. He was forced to overnight and try again the next day.

After several hours of haggling we made it across the river only to be ushered into a temporary holding location and told our visas were invalid. We were told they could become valid for $40. When we refused, they returned later with a price of $70.

As it became clear that our colleague was not going to make it across the river and the customs office was closing for the day, we decided to pay the “fine” for the visa. It was $140.

I arrived at our lodging location, exhausted and spent. Our two “five minute” trips had taken a total of nine hours. The toll of the three digit temps, the boiling sun, the insecurity of not understanding, and the surrounding chaos was taking its toll on me.

Every night, people knocked on my door to sell me things. “Tonight I’m not opening the door,” I said to myself. Sure enough, a knock came. I called out in Spanish to see if it was my Dominican traveling companion. I heard a “Sí, señor.”

I was relieved only to open the door and find a Congolese crafts salesman. We had bought some crafts from him and my colleague had taught him two Spanish words which impressively appeared to remember.

As I tried to express my disinterest, he pulled out a six-inch knife, held it up and took a step toward me. As he came closer the stench of alcohol was suffocating. “How did I get here?” The knife was now inches from my neck. I was unsure of his intentions or of what the alcohol might influence him to do.

My door did not shut or lock well, so jumping back in the room would not be a good response to my conundrum. I didn’t want to pull out cash to buy something for fear I would lose it all. Also, I didn’t want to anger him. After a good 3-4 minutes (which felt like hours) I finally talked him into lowering the knife, showing me his other crafts and then persuading him I would not buy anything.

The darkness of night concealed his knife and hid us from the vision of others. As a result I knew I was at risk. Thankfully, I survived. In a similar way, chaos serves as a cover for corruption and millions of Congolese are at risk. To break the cycle of chaos and poverty in Congo, we must bring in order and capital.

Change is not only possible. It is happening through microfinance. Forthcoming blogs will explain the process.