As seems common in Kinshasa, you never really know what's going to happen next until it starts happening... This morning I learned that a friend of mine (who shall remain anonymous), was going to Gombe Cemetary to visit a group of homeless sex trade workers to hear their story and offer them some encouragement, maybe some hope. After that the plan was to visit the Grand Marché, "that place that everyone has to see before leaving Kinshasa," and some bird sanctuary which was also apparently an amazing sight.

We started at Gombe Cemetary where my friend decided it would be best if she went in alone so my male presence wouldn't change the dynamic of her conversation with the women. She quickly returned, telling me that a group of men started following her as soon as she went into the cemetary, and she wanted her "husband" (a convenient lie) to protect her. We went into the middle of an amazing labyrinth of tombs and graves of all shapes and sizes squished together in the closest of quarters -- equally crowded in death as the life they must have lived in the overpopulated Kinshasa. There we found a couple of women working, cleaning grave sites. They informed us that the local police had scared the women out of the cemetary last year, and that they had moved just outside of the site; we could be shown where they are if we offer some "assistance" to our guides. Thanks but no thanks, came the reply, we're here to talk earnestly with these women, not pay our way around a cemetary, we'll be leaving now. As with most bartering in Kin, we got our directions, and our guide was quietly slipped a few hundred francs (maybe 50 cents) outside of the view of his cohorts.

Just beyond the wall to the east of the cemetary we found a group of women cooking and doing laundry along the side of the road. My friend made her way over to them, and I stood back a bit and watched. They talked, and gathered, and seemed to be having a decent conversation when I noticed a couple of soldiers walking down the street. Now this is not abnormal in Kinshasa. Soldiers and police regularly stroll about carrying AK-47s and Uzis, so I didn't worry too much. sure enough they turned the corner and let us be. Then one of my new friends informed me that there was a plainclothes general standing under a tree watching us. I carefully watched back.

As I soon garnered a small collection of new friends, curious what this "white" is doing in their neighbourhood, I found myself making a genuine connection to these men and boys. "please don't think all white people are here to rig your elections and steal your country's resources," I told them. "I'm just an independant student who wanted to contribute to your elections process. Oh, and I'm Canadian, not American. I hope that helped.

As our two conversations went on we heard a man approaching from within the cemetary, yelling something in Lingala (the local dominant language, moreso than French), via megaphone. With some horrible translation from my new friends I got the sense we weren't welcome anymore. Corralling my colleauge we started to leave, but he was between us and the end of the street we needed to exit. "where are your papers?" he asked. "you want our passports? Why, have we done something wrong?" Well, according to this particuar policeman we needed permission to talk to people on the street. Now, whether this was because they were homeless sex trade workers, because they had already been kicked out of his cemetary, or because he felt like trying his hand at a little mid-morning extortion, I can't be sure. But we had broken his rule, and he wasn't happy. Thanks to the glorious cell phone revolution (which has completely swept Kinshasa) she was already dialling the Canadian embassy and asking the police oficer's name as she calmly handed him her passport. Voices got louder, and what had been only a partial, weakly translated disagreement quickly turned into an unproductive three language shouting match. Not particularly impressed with the way things were going I offered a half-hearted apology to the police officer (I don't think he could sense my cynicism): we didn't know we needed permission to talk to people on the street. I offered that perhaps we could discuss this paperwork he wanted us to fill out (place your bets, do you think the paperwork actually existed?), or maybe we should just leave. Clearly outnumbered by the solidarity of our new friends and a creative argument that he evidently did not expect, the officer backed down. In a classical authoritative style he built up his escape-plan opportunity to save face; not one to pass up an opening, however subtly presented, I accepted his invitation to return to our car to get "the rest of our paperwork." After an incongruous handshake of thanks (everybody shakes hands for absolutely everything here), we left without acknowledging the fact that everyone knew we weren't coming back.

Now maybe it's just me, but I was totally fine with this encounter. I didn't really feel like there was any major risk of the situation escalating, and the police officer didn't really seem convinced of his own approach. See, everything in Kinshasa is a negotiation. If you want to buy something you barter. If you want to drive through a crowded major intersection you yell to the traffic cop to give you a break (oh yeah, no traffice lights in a city of 8 million. Have I mentionned that the streets of Kinshasa are chaos?).

Even yesterday a soldier was lounging next to the little street vendor stall where I bought minutes for my supervisor's cell phone; Buy me some cigarettes," he said, cradling his AK. "pardon me?" ... "Buy me a cigarette." "smoking's bad for your health," I said, laughing. He laughed back. I walked away. It was the same story last night outside the rooftop purple bar when a man with an AK47 asked me to buy him a drink. Now don't think I'm a total fool, I know when I'm being asked and when I'm being told. But when the guy is relaxed, his gun is loosly draped across his arms, and his request comes across as more of a plea than a demand, I realize our interaction has more to do with poverty than power.

It seems to me that so many people enter these types of encounters with a preconceived notion of how things are going to go, and who these "crazy gunmen" really are. They seem to forget that behind the uniform and the weapon is a human being struggling to survive the staggering conditions of a crippled city. If you want a fight you'll get a fight. But when I'm his brother, just trying to understand this hell as much as he is, there's really no point in getting violent. Of course, I'm still doing my best to stay out of trouble. I won't be visiting Gombe Cemetary any more, but I will be looking all those soldiers in the eye and praying that they understand that I see a human behind those eyes.