Don't Mess with Me Messinger

Here I am, with the World Health Organization Toyota, studying monkeypox disease on the road in remote Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of the Congo). I am wearing my flying-geese-with-yoke-embroidery dress to present myself to the immigration officials in a regional governmental district. I usually wore flip flops (to ward off fungus), but here I must have kicked them off in favor of being barefoot.

I am also wearing my "just make my day" scowl used to face down Zairian authorities, both fake and authentic, who tried to threaten, intimidate, or coerce me into giving them something. The guns were real and there were plenty of stories of people being jailed or manhandled over trumped up charges. I don't know why, but, over the years, keeping myself out of trouble had become one of my favorite games.

In the above scenario, I gathered up my papers signed by the central government, put on my flip flops, and presented myself to the office of the local immigration official. Rarely would they see me, but they would hold my passport for "approval." I would call their bluff, saying that they had better stamp my papers and deliver them, because our team was already behind on our important health work and we needed to start immediately.

That was the beginning of a dance that was short or long, simple or complex, based on the artfulness of my dance partner, (the official), and his minions. I looked forward to the testing and refining of my techniques and in the Africa art of getting by, I believe that the officials also enjoyed the exercise.

In the end, I always won. One thing about the game was that, although the end goals were serious, everyone recognized that it was a game, and the losers were (usually) good sports.