1. What happens when government targets the "rich" (I'll put that first since our own US government is having an affair with that idea right now)
2. What it's like when government prints an endless supply of worthless money creating runaway inflation
3. What it's like when government tries to "protect" workers by treating employers as if they were ATM's or money machines.
TARGETING THE RICH? ONCE WE WERE THE "RICH" THEY TARGETED
The definition of "rich"
I first learned I was rich in a discussion with a Zairean friend. We lived mostly on the level of the people around us, especially during our second term. When we chose our new mission site, there were no buildings there, although it was near a village. We knew that eventually we would build a cement house, but we did not want the first thing we did to be to build a house for ourselves. As it worked out, we lived for six years in a mud hut with dirt floors and a thatch roof.
Our home in Congo from 1990 to 1996
We had no electricity in our home and we used to joke that our running water was the water carriers running up the hill with a bucket. We bathed in nearby lake and kept a simple bucket of water by the back door for clean up in-between. Our clothes were permanently kept in the suitcases they came in, held up by rough sticks lashed together with vine. We used a pit latrine outhouse. In the beginning we cooked our meals over a campfire and for a long time baked bread in a hollowed out termite mound, a skill we learned from the Zaireans.
Our bread going into a termite mound
Our "rich" kitchen
We bought greens and mushrooms from the local kids and dressed simply. So I was surprised, in light of all this, that my friend still considered us rich.
"You think we are rich?" I asked.
"Oh, yes, Madam. Very, very rich."
"Why do you think that?" I asked.
"Because you have a truck," he answered matter of factly.
The truck did not belong to us personally, of course. It was a mission truck, but we had use of it, so we were rich.
Our mission truck stuck on Zairean superhighway
When we first went to Zaire, being "rich" did not cause us any trouble, except that wherever we went the village chief & elders always wanted to talk with us. Always they wanted us to build them a hospital and a school. In every village.
The roadblocks
In the early days, we created friendship with the police at the few barriers before the towns we visited often. We used to prepare little bags of coffee and sugar. Before they could ask for a bribe, we began chatting with them in the local language and pulled out the baggies along with Bibles or booklets as goodwill gestures. We always left as "bampangi ya luzolo"--beloved relatives.
As the country's bankruptcy became more and more complete, things began to change, however. The government was out of money so it was not paying its workers. Insistence on bribes became greater and greater. We had to reduce the number of trips we could take because we could not afford the high price demanded at the roadblocks, and the number of them was multiplying. The police began sneering at the coffee, sugar and Bibles. They wanted $10. Then $25. Then $100. At that point we were effectively grounded.
The mail
We had always paid for a post office box, since there never was mail delivery in Zaire. The price on that quadrupled. Then they also began charging us for each piece of mail we received. We were livid at first, but then we realized that the postal workers were not being paid, and charging the few "rich" people who could afford the service was the only way they could make ends meet. We paid for each letter.
The "infractions" and the taxes
Staying home did not solve the problem, however, The government began coming to us. The big Zairean holiday was New Year's. Everyone hoped for a "bonne fete", a good celebration, which included eating plenty of meat and getting a new suit of clothes, and maybe drinking liquor for some. The government was rarely if ever paying its workers, but many continued in their positions, perhaps because of the authority they could wield. The only ones left in the country capable of making sure they got their "bonne fete" were the "rich". The parade of government wokers began in September and continued in an unmitigated parade through New Year's Day. Every conceivable department of government found a reason to visit the mission, each of them looking for some "infraction" for which they could levy a fine against us. Of course, we were also expected to provide hospitality for them for as long as they stayed.
The infractions were totally unreasonable. One, I remember, was a supposed tax on dangerous places. We had built a storage shed called a "depot". It was a dangerous establishment, they said. Our controller had already spent most of the day arguing with them when I got involved.
"What is dangerous about it?" I asked.
"Someone could get locked in there and suffocate," they responded.
"No, that cannot happen. We have designed it very carefully with more than adequate ventilation. Even if someone gets locked in, they cannot suffocate," I argued. "Come, I'll show you the ventilation system and you can see what you think."
"Well, it doesn't matter whether anyone could suffocate or not or whether there is any danger or not. By definition, a depot is a dangerous establishmnet, and you have a depot, so therefore you have to pay a tax."
We ended up paying the tax just to get rid of the guy. Our funds were limited, so we had to decrease what we were doing in ministry.
The Environmental Protection Agency came out and declared that we had to pay an environmental tax because the generator that we used at the Bible school created vibrations that shook the ground. It disturbed the termites, it seems. So THAT'S why the termites were always so avidly attacking our house! My husband, Papa John, tried to argue with that guy about the reasonability of what he was demanding. "You just want your bonne fete," John said, hitting the nail on the head.
The guy began feigning offense. Papa John had insulted him, he said. Before he could levy another tax on us for that, one of the pastors took him by the arm. "Papa John must be getting hungry," he said. "You know, the sun beats down on his bald head and he can say crazy things. You must be getting hungry, too. Let's go get something to eat."
We can laugh about it now, but it was truly difficult at the time. The creativity for coming up with new infractions for which one could be taxed was truly amazing, dealing with the officials was both exhausting and discouraging, and the loss of funds cut very deeply into our accounts, making it difficult to help anyone else.
The situation got worse and worse as more and more people left the country, until toward the end even I longed to leave the country I loved so much, the place I had planned to live and minister for the rest of my life. We spent most of our time trying to figure out how to get by, and we swore they spent most of their time trying to find new ways to take from us the ministry funds we had brought to help the people of their country.
Reflections
I suppose my experiences in Zaire affect my thinking about our current situation in America. No one really got any long term help by government officials targeting the rich. A few elite got a bonne fete for a day. The government did not address any of the issues that had caused the deterioration of the economy until mass chaos erupted and the country crumbled. They have never really recovered from the damage that was done. I fear America may be headed in a very similar direction. We may have been rich by Zairean standards, but by American standards? We've certainly never made anything even approaching $250,000 a year, so I am not trying to protect myself or the majority of my friends. I just see the "taxing the rich" idea as a symptom of much deeper problems. Would to God we would begin to address those! I don't want to live through the collapse of a country for the second time.
Next time: Living with Wild Inflation in the Congo
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