One characteristic of life here is that
even the most seemingly mundane situations can lead to marvelously awkward
adventures.
It was a Saturday morning around 8:00 when
I heard a rattling at my bedroom door. I awoke unalarmed. This was an
occurrence I had grown accustomed to. The oil workers with whom I live work on
Saturdays, but I do not. Even though I have been living in this house for 6
months, the maids have not caught on. Every Saturday, they attempt to enter my
room while I am sleeping, realize I am still in my bed, and close the door. If
I’m not sleeping, I’m usually doing something equally as private, like taking a
shower or changing. They have this uncanny ability to enter my room at the
precise moment when it is the most inappropriate. I’m almost positive that I am
the only one who feels uncomfortable when this happens. On several occassions,
the maid has come into the bathroom to collect my dirty laundry while I’m in
the shower, which, by the way, has a see-through, glass door.
So
on this particulat Saturday, I simply rolled over when I heard the key enter
the lock, turning furiously, the maid finally gave up, or so I thought. I was hovering
somewhere in between sleep and conciousness when I heard a toilet flush, and
then water running. I kept my eyes closed, convinced that the rubmlings were
coming from the room next door. I rolled over again and felt a presence beside
me. I opened my eyes to see the maid standing directly over me, wiping my night
table. With an audible gasp, our eyes met. “Disculpa (excuse me),” she
muttereed matter-of-factly. Not at all embarrassed or affected by this awkward
situation. “Depois! Depois! (later),” I screamed. She slowly exited the room,
taking her cleaning supplies with her, as I caught my breath and attepted to
descrease my heart rate. “Did that really just happen?” I thought. There are 7
other rooms in this house and she needed to clean my bathroom, 3 feet away from
my sleeping body, exactly at this moment? Needless to say, by then I was fully
alert. It wasn’t the best way to start the day, but it was a start nonetheless.
Later
that evening, I went to a BBQ at the marine house. It was a pretty uneventful
night until the ride home. The driver picked me up around 11pm and we started
on our journey home. This driver, let’s call him Mario, is my favorite. Not
only is he competent and punctual, but he is a pleasure to be in the car with.
I genuinely enjoy his company and I like to think that we have become friends
over the past few months.
As
we began chatting, I noticed that he was acting a bit strange – his voice was
an octave higher and he was laughing more heartily than usual. I started to
think that he might be drunk, which was obviously unsettling since this man had
my life in his hands. Also, the streets of Luanda are not exactly safe, even under
the best conditions. We approached my street, which is a wide stretch along the
beach. “We’re almost home, I thought. Its gonna be OK.” Just then, Mario drove
directly into a line of traffic cones in the middle of the street. THUD! This
wouldn’t have been a big deal if there had not been 3 police officers standing on the side of the road. One of them immediately motioned for
us to pull over. This could be bad.
It
must be mentioned that the police in Angola are not like the police in the US.
Their job is not to protect citizens, but to support the ruling party and line
their own pockets while doing so. The transit police are a mainstay of the
Luanda landscape. They stand at every intersection, randomly pulling cars over
and asking drivers for their documents. If the driver does not have the proper
documentation, then he must pay a gasosa
(bribe) and be on his way. Anyone can
be asked for ID at any time, especially foreigners. One time, my car was pulled
over by the immigration police and I was asked for identification. Luckily, I
had a copy of my passport on me. I asked the driver, “What would have happened
if didn’t have my passport?” He answered, “Oh, you would just have to pay a gasosa.” Police encounters here are
nothing short of terrifying, for me anyway. The rules here are not the same,
and I know that they are certainly not on my side.
The
officer directed Mario to get out. They walked to the back of the car and
joined the other 2 officers. So here I am – alone in the backseat of a car
while my drunk driver is interrogated by 3 Angolan policemen. 10 minutes crawled
by. My mind was awash with possible scenarios of how this was going to end,
each one more devastating than the last. I wonder what an Angolan jail is like.
Is it OK to start crying now? Just then, Mario walked over to my door on the
other side of the car. I rolled down the window. Looking into his eyes, I was certain
now that he was intoxicated. Uh oh, crazy thoughts taking over again. “I need 1,000
kwanza.” He says, “Gasosa.”
“Of
course,” I answer as I feverishly rummage through my purse. I hand him the bill
– about $10. He walks back to the policemen, hands one of them the cash, and gets
back in the driver’s seat. The tension in the car was palpable. Mario spent the
rest of the ride home apologizing and explaining that we was at home before he
picked me up and he’s been having problems with his family. He ensures me that he
will pay me back on Monday. “That’s not necessary,” I told him. I was more than
happy to never see that money again. In my mind, that $10 just saved me from
being the star on the next episode of Locked
Up Abroad.
Oh, and then there was the day that I came home
to this….
The area on the left is where the stove
used to be. The wood supporting the sink and stove was completey rotted and
finally just collapsed. Looks like it will be Easy Mac for dinner tonight.
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