Martedì mattina atterriamo a Ndjili con un'ora d'anticipo, oppure con ventitré ore di ritardo, a seconda dei punti di vista. Avvertiamo alla svelta Marco con un sms, quando siamo ancora in aereo, per non rischiare di ritrovarci coi bagagli ritirati a dover passare la dogana prima che lui sia arrivato.
Affrontiamo il controllo passaporti con tutta la cirscospezione del caso (credo d'aver fatto una testa così a Samuele e Daniele, dopo i travagli capitati in passato) ma stavolta fortunatamente va tutto liscio. Superiamo tre controlli di passaporto senza che praticamente neanche ci guardino la lettera di invito, ed anche il controllo della vaccinazione contro la febbre gialla è solo una formalità. Ci avevano detto che il governo sta cercando di mettere “ordine” a Ndjili, e qualche cambiamento in effetti si nota, non solo per i cartelli ripitturati.
Superati i controlli siamo all'area bagagli, Marco è già lì che ci aspetta. Anche qua si nota un po' più di ordine: non c'è più la ressa di due anni fa, e in mezzo ai nastri c'è solo gente in uniforme (non so se rallegrarmene in realtà). Rimaniamo più di un'ora a vedere valigie, buste e scatoloni passare... ma dei nostri otto bagagli non c'è traccia. Quando si ferma il nastro e si chiudono i cancelli are undecided whether to laugh or get depressed, and then bet on the latter option. The Sisters of Mauritius who were in Addis Ababa with us are also without their luggage, and also do not know if this is a sign of or even more alarming. There is a strong suspicion that perhaps all'Ethiopian there was a small misunderstanding with the flight yesterday that we lost ... Investigating and asking around a bit 'we end up in the infamous room dell'OFIDA, customs airport. I recognize now a pile of suitcases family arrived the day before, comfortably (my dear boy Ticket Ethiopian airport, if you read these lines know that you were right, an hour of change is more than enough, not only in theory, transfer baggage, even when the flight arrives late origin).
fetch six out of eight, without picking up tips to anyone. There are only the bag with the printer, and the suitcase with all my clothes. Asking again we end up around a man Ethiopian, who was looking for "Monsieur Archangels." He gently put aside those two bags because there were some pockets that were not closed padlock. We go with the six airport baggage, without them there to open up customs checks (after a few tips), and we take them in the car. Then Marco and I go to the second floor of the departure, Ethiopian office to retrieve my two missing. Fate will be that every time I come Ndjili those stairs to let me do I, for one reason or another! I take my bags in impeccable condition, and Marco leave a small tip to the Ethiopian man, without him has claimed.
short, within a couple of hours we are away from the airport, having shelled out a total of pennies, with all eight of our luggage (despite all the adverse variables such as the masses of lost bags at Heathrow these days the missed connections in Addis Ababa, and the Congolese customs).
The first meeting with Congolese officials and police to leave me skin feeling something has changed really. But it's just a feeling, it is also possible that nothing has changed and has simply had bad luck two years ago (so much so that just a couple of policemen trying to break the boxes for a picture taken by Danielle when we were already outside the airport). Or maybe this time it was all a bit 'easier because we were better prepared. Or perhaps, more rational explanation, the crosses that have both really helped.
We leave the airport and take Boulevard Lumumba, on the city, what anyone has passed this way will not forget anymore. The same highway, the same humanity that populates it varies, the same dirty sand. Well before the roundabout with the monument to Lumumba, turn left to Kingasani, the district where located the mission that we hosted. It is the district where we were two years ago to deliver some boxes of medicines to the hospital of the poor man of Bergamo. A quarter of those are not easy to explain in words: an expanse of slums, with narrow streets interspersed with sand and rubbish, full of people. People everywhere, especially children, and here and there even a dog or some chicken. The water is very little, people are going to take a walk with bins and carts "pousse-pousse" walking along a few kilometers. The electrical supply is there, but Mark tells us that is currently disconnected, for some days.
When we enter the part of the district covered by the parish's mission, all the children start to urlarci "Santino! Santino! " (Santino is the missionary who has created out of nothing the parish). This chorus takes us to the entrance of the mission, a true oasis in masonry, where we have beds, toilets, food, a wireless Internet radio to the provider in the city, and a generator that can go on for some the evening hours (the time to pump water from the cans into the tank).
In the middle of the night I wake to the sound of the wind, very strong, followed by a short burst of rain that lasts several hours. This is really the last thing I expected in the middle of the dry season! The rain in Kinshasa, and the streets of wet sand I had never seen. If this is the effect of Cross began to be quite 'impressed. The next morning Father
Santino calms me: in the four-month dry season a "little" rain is forecast, and the combined event has run on the evening that we arrived. It does not rain again until at least mid-September. Maybe.
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