Travelling to Kalemie

Kalemie is , or should be, a not inconsiderable port on Lake Tanganyika. Previously called Albertville it was designed to be the Congo’s port to the East.

We thought it would be an interesting opportunity for development, and decided to go and have a look at it. If things worked out it would be one of the 12 places that would have the privilege of receiving our attention . . .

I have a nice vision of it: a compact old-fashioned sort of place, perched on a slight hill, with delightful views of the lake. A small fishing harbour gives it local colour.

The old hand in the office seemed to think it was a good idea, so we put it on the list. But yesterday, a younger person, possibly with a somewhat more objective view of life, related his story to us.

He had been supposed to go to Kalemie in December. He had an air ticket from Lubumbashi, one that, like all airline tickets gave a date and time for the flight.

At the airport he was met with a wry smile. “I don’t think it’s going to fly today, try again tomorrow”.

For many of us this would be like a red rag to a bull. How come you didn’t inform me, I’ve got an essential meeting, how do you expect me to manage – I’ve got no hotel bookings, how will you compensate me, etc etc. The cries of anger which rang round the check-in counters during the dreadful winter in Europe and the US this year. Then the anger turns from the wretched bringer of the bad news to the system: how come they can’t keep us informed, I’ll never fly them again, why can’t they make provision for these problems etc.

Our Congolese colleague tried none of these tactics: he knew such outbursts would not only be futile, but also would hurt the poor woman whose job it was to break the news. He nods, politely and retires to mull over his options.

Tomorrow, the same story.

He asked when the last flight had been. “Oh, about a month ago.” When will the next one be? “I don’t know.” Clearly, many of the options he might have been mulling over yesterday have suddenly become unattainable: he needed to think out of the box.

There is a train. Part of the track is, as they say, severely degraded, so the train goes very very slowly – it takes about two days. Some times it doesn’t get there, because the track is out of order. For a distance of about 300 kilometres that makes about 25 km an hour. The problem is that you don’t know when it’s going to leave. Or, indeed how long it will really take.

Road? You must be joking. The latest figure of surfaced road is something like 1,500km for the WHOLE COUNTRY which is, as a matter of fact almost one quarter the size of the USA. And about half as much gravel roads. To add to the misery, this is about half the amount twenty years ago (though the Chinese have started a huge road-building programme which will make a big difference). Anyway, for now, there’s no road.

Of course there’s MONUC: that’s the UN peace-keeping service which operates planes which certain development agencies may use. BUT there are no reservations: quite properly, UN personnel get priority. One is, in effect, a standby passenger at all times. To and from Kalemie, the chances of getting on, we are told, are tiny.

We’ve all heard these stories of being stranded from time to time, but what boggles the mind is that this isolation is not an occasional event: it’s permanent.

Now this is very interesting. We hear from time to time about self-sufficient communities. Some go so far as to have their own currencies. But we know that they are not really as separate from the world as they pretend to be. But Kalemie is, without any shadow of doubt, really isolated, and whether it likes it or not has to be self sufficient. The people there effectively live in a world of their own, and they might as well have their own currency as far as the rest of the Congo is concerned. If I were an economist, I would love to track how their economy works.

Of course it has one life-line: the lake. There is presumably some trade with Tanzania and other countries round the lake. But being so cut off from the rest of the Congo, the trade must be pretty limited.

In fact what it reminds me of most is the little villages the huddled on the fierce Atlantic coast of western England and France which, until the 20^th century were isolated as much by the fearsome waves of the ocean as the steep cliffs and tortuous little donkey tracks which were the only means of reaching the decent roads. The difference with them is that their isolation was a few miles – let’s say half a day’s journey at the most. Not days.