Five days confined to a hotel in Kinshasa was not the outcome a group of Latin American migrants imagined when they set out to seek asylum in the United States.

Yet their ordeal ran deeper. Speaking to Agence France-Presse (AFP) in late April, several men and women said they were flown to the Congolese capital after a grueling 27-hour journey, spent shackled at the wrists and ankles.

Gabriela, a 30-year-old Colombian with visible tattoos and dressed, like many others, in a plain white T-shirt, captured the weight of their experience in a few stark words.

"I didn't want to go to Congo. I'm scared. I don't know the language," she said.

She only found out where they were headed the day before being expelled from the United States.

The Democratic Republic of the Congo, one of several African nations that have agreed to take in deported migrants, is among the world's 15 poorest countries and lies thousands of kilometers from the Americas.

The first group of deportees arrived in April in the Central African country under a controversial U.S. migration scheme to send undocumented foreign nationals to third countries.

Other destinations include Cameroon, Equatorial Guinea, Eswatini, Ghana, Rwanda and South Sudan.

The scheme has often been accompanied by U.S. financial or logistical support.

Yet scant information is provided by authorities in host countries about the migrants' fate once they arrive.

The International Organization for Migration, which takes charge of them after they obtain short-stay visas, told AFP it can offer "assisted voluntary return to migrants who request it."

Waiting

Since their arrival in Kinshasa, a megacity of more than 17 million people, the 15 South American migrants have been passing time in a complex near the airport.

Rows of neat, white-walled houses stand side by side. The migrants sleep there and say they are forbidden to leave the premises.

Police and army vehicles are parked outside, and at times personnel from a private military firm can be seen, which AFP was unable to identify.

Cast adrift by U.S. President Donald Trump's immigration policy, the migrants spend their days on their mobile phones trying to contact their families.

None speaks French, the DRC's official language.

They say they received about $100 in aid from IOM officials but are not allowed any visitors.

"Several of our friends have taken ill, as have I," said Gabriela.

"We've had fevers, vomiting and stomach problems. But we're told that's normal and that we must adapt."

Some have been given medication, but Gabriela said no health care worker has examined them.

Four residents of the hotel said they were issued seven-day visas, extendable for three months.

But once the seven days were up, they said they were threatened with losing support and being left to fend for themselves.

Gabriela said they felt cornered between accepting a repatriation program or remaining stuck in the DRC.

"That is inhumane and unfair," she said.

Afraid

The noisy chaos of the overcrowded Congolese capital reverberates beyond the hotel walls.

A constant stream of minibuses and cars honk their horns on a potholed road lined with dilapidated buildings.

Most Kinshasa residents lack reliable access to running water or electricity.

Nearly three-quarters of Congolese people live below the poverty line, according to the World Bank.

The arrival of South American migrants has sparked strong reactions among civil society and on Congolese social media.

"I get three meals a day, the hotel staff cleans the rooms, and we're well protected," said Hugo Palencia Ropero, a 25-year-old Colombian who said he spent five months in U.S. detention before being deported to the DRC.

But he added: "I'm more afraid of being here in Africa than in Colombia.

"Things will get very difficult for us, especially since we don't have work permits."

He said he was willing to accept "any travel document" just to "be able to leave this country."