Peace keeping

Peace Keeping

It’s the first time that we are going on UN flights. With 180,000 people, the UN peace keeping mission can well justify having its own air service, but since their seats are not always full, they allow other humanitarian workers, like us, to fly. Provided, of course, that the seats are not taken by UN people who will always have preference, right up to the last minute. This can be annoying. The flights leave at 8.30 or 9, but check-in is at 6, which means getting up at 4.30. To be told at 8.55 that you seat has been given to a UN person is not a good feeling.

Anyway, on this occasion we are spared this annoyance. The departure lounge reminds me of war films: the no-frills furniture and institutional colour scheme match it perfectly. We look at the departure blackboard: two flights are going to Bukavu. One will get there at 11.00, the other at 5.30 p.m. We are on the second one. The Vol Touristique as someone jokes. A little coffee bar opens which cheers people up.

The plane is painted white, with a huge UN on the front. It looks like, though I’m no judge of these things, a fairly modern small turbojet. Our crew have hard to place accents (Latin American/Bulgarian??). This is the UN, so French is out: all communication is in English.

The first flight lasts an hour, and takes us over hilly, and very pretty green country. None of us know enough about the geography of the country to even recognise the name of the first place we stop. We are asked to kindly disembark, as our flight ends here.

That’s a UN-style joke which we hear five times that day, because there’s another flight taking off to the next place within an hour or two. Meanwhile, they take us to a special UN hut (not, of course not, the public air terminal) where we sit around wondering what’s going to happen, and when. Incongruously there is a television showing a repeat show of a South African provincial rugby match.

The next place looks very important from the air. It is laid out like a miniature Washington DC, with grand malls and imposing buildings at key points, though even from the air we can see that these buildings are crumbling. The terminal is much grander, with posters put up by homesick peacekeepers – Uruguay, Jordan, Morocco. We are protected, as always, by rolls of razor wire, and outside we can see a large Congolese Army barracks set in the midst of a field of head-high grass. Soldiers wander around chatting. We entertain ourselves by looking at the lizards, huge ones, highly coloured, bright reds and blues. They chase each other, hurdling neatly over the razor wire like tiny horses.

Two stops later it is Kalemie, the unreachable place which we chose not to include in our project due to its remoteness. It sits so peacefully next to Lake Tanganyika, a beautiful spot that could be on the Indian Ocean, with sandy beaches and palm trees.

Each time the mix of passengers changes, as does the proportion of military to civilian people. It’s interesting to look at the peace-keepers. They have a standard uniform, but each wears his national colours and country name on his shoulder.

The countryside changes from jungle, to savannah, to lush banana plantations and forests. The crew and aircraft change too. The last one is a full-blown jet, with a Canadian crew. (The service is operated by a Canadian company: that must be a pretty lucrative contract, though not without its dangers).

The fifth stop is our last. It is now 5.30 in the evening, as we land at Bukavu, one of the larger military centres, mostly staffed by Bangladeshis.

We are met by our man in Bukavu, who greets me with the solemn manner of the region: you clunk heads – at the forehead level – first left, then right, then left again. French greeting without the unhygienic kissing bit . . .

While engaged in this interesting pursuit I look over his shoulder and see Indian and Pakistani soldiers shaking hands with apparent warmth. Peace keeping must be having some effect.

Rush hour on the Congo River

We need to get back to Kinshasa early so that we don’t meet the rush hour. It’s an eight hour drive, so we plan to leave at seven in the morning.

There’s a hitch. The ferry across the river[1] doesn’t start until eight – or so they say. There aren’t any timetables.

A delegation is sent to the Captain the night before to ask him to start early. It will, apparently, be a pleasure. They will make their first crossing at seven.

To be honest I don’t altogether buy the story that they don’t start until 8, because when we arrived at the appointed hour, the river banks were already crowded with people who didn’t look as if they were expecting to have to wait an hour. Maybe the word had got out, or maybe the ferry always leaves at about that time.

Anyway, we are duly introduced to the Captain and he proudly shakes our hands. His boat has recently been refitted by the Belgians, and clearly has excellent equipment. We drive on – the only car – but have to be very careful as the deck is already full of people settling down to breakfast. Everyone is munching a bit of breakfast, banana, bread, fish – all sorts.

From the tools they carry they are obviously crossing to get to their fields. But what really impresses me is the other traffic: the dugout canoes. Some are hired and some clearly are owner driven. The water is thick with them, striking hard against the incredibly fast current. What really catches my eye is one which has ten women in it, all with paddles.

Now for a lecture about boats. Fact one: most boats have keels to stop them turning over: dugout canoes have nothing of the sort. Fact 2: if you stand up in a boat without a keel it is much more likely to turn over than if you sit down because your centre of gravity is closer the middle.

So if you were to ask me to paddle a dug-out canoe standing up, I would definitely question your wisdom. But the people of Bandundu have learned an important lesson. If you don’t stand up, you don’t have enough power to push the canoe against the current. And if you can’t balance, that’s your fault. So the normal commercial canoe has three paddlers, one standing in the bow, one in the stern and one in the middle. These women were ten. The grace and speed of their canoe was breathtaking: working in perfect unison, intuitively steering in the counter intuitive direction that the rapid current required, these women were doing what they must do every day – just getting across the water. As soon as they reach the other side, they tie up the boat, and walk to their fields, a wonderful example of self reliance and co-operation.

Our crossing was much more mundane, and no quicker than theirs. As we drove the sandy track to Kinshasa something struck us forcefully: everyone on the ferry, and in the canoes (apart from the hired canoes), was a woman. What were the men doing? Your guess is as good as mine. Being philosophers under the tree, with a beer in one hand and a piece of goat's meat in the other?

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[1] It wasn’t the Congo, actually, but a tributary. It just makes a better headline. Anyway, it was as wide and swifter than the Congo at Kinshasa.

Diner sur l'herbe

Hitherto, dinner in Bandundu has been a somewhat sluggish and unpredictable event. Tonight we have a lot of work, so suggest that since the food at both places we have eaten has been cooked specially for us, why doesn’t the driver order for us, collect the food and bring it to us? He has joined us for dinner the previous three nights, but tonight announces he doesn’t want to.

I give him some money, much more than I think he will need, but just in case things turn out to be more expensive.

It takes a long time, and we turn our mind to opening a bottle of wine I bought earlier in the day. We haven’t got a corkscrew, but the driver has a Chinese version of a Swiss Army knife, and he has lent it to us. Being a barman manqué, I set too. The cork is tight. Very tight. Some sort of tropical gluing seems to have set in. I pull harder and woops: the corkscrew breaks off near the base.

We go to the management, asking them for some pliers, as the stub of the corkscrew is still projecting and we should be able to pull it out. Nothing doing. The manager, who is young and burly, offers to try. Nothing doing. He finds a corkscrew. It is one of the ones with two arms that pull up the cork when you push them down. Unfortunately the mechanism is broken, but this gives up much more to grip with the pliers. Nothing doing. Eventually he takes over, and hacks the cork out bit by bit with a fork which he has bent so that only one spline sticks out. And voilà, a full half hour later, he is nearly through and we can pull out the cork with the pliers and bits of corkscrew.

We have put chairs on the grass in front of our rooms, and sit down gratefully. The ice-cold wine goes down very well. Then the power goes off, leaving us in total darkness, so clearly the gods do not approve of any work being done.

The food arrives – a procession consisting of the driver and two people from the office, carrying massive covered stainless steel trays used in buffet meals to keep food warm. By torchlight we take a peek inside: wow there’s enough for five. Indeed there are five plates. Clearly the food supplied was enlarged to meet the budget rather than the other way around.

Light or no light, tables are hurriedly supplied by the hotel management from various rooms, and our buffet is set up, as in a grand hotel. Finest white plates, knives and forks and napkins, and a choice of six different dishes in huge quantities. Out of nowhere our three colleagues, who had declined to participate earlier, and who were not staying at the hotel, appear and tucked in.

“Bon appétit”, we wish each other in the dark.

Less is more

Bandundu is the capital of a province by the same name. To reach it by road is a six or eight hour drive, and a ferry crossing over a huge river. It’s not that far from Kinshasa – 360kms - but the road scarcely exists in parts. That’s another story.

The interesting think about Bandundu is that people like it. Their voices take on a warm tone when it is mentioned. Which is odd, because there’s very little there.

We arrive in the late afternoon, and are proudly escorted by our staff to the top hotel. It’s existence is proclaimed by a painted sign on a metal gate, Auberge Madame Bugongo. Written in French fairgound lettering, set at a diagonal, the word Bienvenue is written on one side and Welcome on the other. The gate is set in a high, white painted wall, topped with razor wire.

It is locked, but we hear people on the other side, so bang on the door, which is duly opened. We are now in a courtyard. On one side is a row of seven rooms, each with its own door, and on the other a strip of immaculate green grass, about 4 metres wide. So immaculate and fine is the grass that one suspects, at first, that it is Chinese fake grass.

We are sat down at a small plastic table while the management organises the rooms. My colleague’s is identified quickly and her suitcase duly delivered. It is boiling hot outside, so we ask to sit inside the reception area which has a fan. We ask for a beer, which is taken from a huge glass fronted fridge. The request “make sure they’re cold” turns out to be redundant, as they are indeed cold.

As one beer turns into two, my room is also announced. Geographically speaking it is clear that this property has the disadvantage of being rather narrow. The rooms therefore can only have openings on one side – the garden side. But clearly, it is not really decent to have bedrooms opening directly onto the public space. How to solve the problem? Have a grand sitting room, with solid sofa and chair, a small plastic table as a desk, and a television, BUT, behind the bedroom is a small curtained alcove in which there is a double bed.

To one side of the sitting room is a bathroom of vast proportions as it is the same length as the sitting room; and behind the bathroom is another windowless alcove for another bed, maybe.

There’s something quite touching about the lack of skill with which the space is used, but it feels quite grand, and I’ve no complaints.

As the day cools off we are ushered into the garden. Towards the other end is a group of people having a late lunch or early dinner. It is being cooked for them on a double electric ring, placed on a little wooden table in front of one of the rooms. Next to this table is another one which is being used to iron some laundry.

Question: is there a restaurant? What about breakfast? The answer is no, they don’t do breakfast, so if we want it we have to order it in advance, and someone will bring it to the hotel. Who the someone is is not clear, but we are assured that it will be done. We blithely assume that if we say we want it at 7.30 it will be there at 7.30, but later I wonder whether we should have listened to our colleague who suggested 7.00.

Meanwhile there is the subject of dinner. There is, apparently, another hotel which does have a restaurant. We phone them and place an order. What do you want, fish or goat or chicken? The airline-style choices are made. Bandundu lies at the confluence of three rivers, so the fish are plentiful, but I stick to the usual chicken.

We drive the short distance to the other hotel, the Hotel Bondo. It is in the midst of renovation and is terrifying in its stark lack of everything. The once manicured garden onto which the chalet-type rooms look, lies dying and broken under assorted bricks and concrete dust. Most of the rooms are in the hands of the builders which gives it a ghostly look. We choose to sit outside and eat in the semi-darkness.

The next day we are taken on a short tour. The main village street is lined with tiny shops selling a variety of clothing, food drinks and cell phone air time. There are also pharmacies, shoe shops and a photographic studio. Off the main street are dusty but clean earth roads flanked by huge mango trees which half hide modest mud-walled houses. There is an arcadian atmosphere. I’ve no doubt that the houses leak, that men beat their wives, and people are sick, but the atmosphere is so calm and pretty it is hard to think that any bad things happen.

This main shopping street, with government buildings and schools on one side, is tarred, of course. We drive at ceremonial speed to the end, where there is a large statue in the centre of a roundabout, and a notice proclaiming that this is the Place de la Femme.

Half way around the roundabout we stop. I wonder what the driver is thinking. Hoping that we will study the statue more? No, no. It’s a traffic policeman who has stopped him – the second or third car to go around the roundabout today. The policeman stands proud, in an immaculately pressed uniform, his whistle at his mouth. After a suitable interval, he blows his whistle, and we are free to move once more.

In truth this is the perfect post-Copenhagen town. Ten cars and ten thousand bicycles. They are the personal and public transport. For 200 francs, about 20 US cents, you can get a taxi to anywhere, sat on the back of a bicycle. You can easily tell a bicycle taxi because the luggage rack behind the saddle is padded. Women, of course sit side saddle, so relaxed, with or without baby, shopping and a host of other encumbrances.

So is less really more. Honestly, as a visitor it’s tough. Nothing is organised and it takes patience and understanding to get used to it. But if you live there, I think for a lot of people it is the perfect existence. We drive past a Belgian nun. She has probably been here since she was twenty, and now, in her sixties, I would be surprised if she wants to go anywhere else.

Life in the village

We live in a five storey block of flats. It stands in quite spacious grounds surrounded by massive trees. In front is a car park and a large swimming pool screened to some extent by low walls. It is in the embassy quarter, and is largely occupied by embassy staff, mainly Japanese and Swedish. In other words a pretty stuffy place.

But the people who are renting the flats are not the only occupants of the territory. At the front there are the guards and usually a few policemen, casually draped with AK 47s. They sit around all day, very bored, having the occasional chat with passing police and other persons in their social set. Or pass a few salacious remarks to the many women who walk past.

There is also an army of gardeners, caretakers, pool cleaners, sweepers and so on. As far as I know there are only a few who actually live on the property: but whether they live on the property or not, they occupy it. They have parties, they watch television, they sleep, they wander around when they are bored. When they are feeling important they turn up their walkie-talkies to full volume as they inspect the building.

Very respectful mind you, and there’s no occupation of our spaces such as the swimming pool. No, this is apartheid, all right. They have their space at the back, and we have ours at the front.

But how come there are so many? In part it is because wages are so low that it costs very little to employ so many. And in the case of the police, many don’t get paid at all: they inherit the uniform from a brother who has died, and then just pretend. No one minds. They get their income from bribes. In the health service about 50% of the junior staff are not government employees, they work on the basis that they will get enough tips/bribes to survive. This is no secret – its recorded in official documents. So there may be lots of police but only half are real police: the rest are sort of pretend ones.

Back to our compound.

If we look at the way the staff organise their territory, it is clearly a proxy village. Behind the main building is the village fire – a TV set. There are about 20 chairs, enough to seat whoever wants to join them. Near the TV is a deep freeze to chill beers and keep food cold. A woman comes in every day to cater for them – making their lunch and doing some laundry. Most of the day, and every evening, the TV is going full blast but not loud enough to prevent conversation. This is carried on as well, but loudly so that no one thinks they are discussing secrets.

I only really knew it was a village when I was awoken at 2 a.m. by the sound of a terrified goat. Someone had obviously got a bargain, and bought it back. But where to keep it? They parked it under my bedroom window and the poor thing cried at the top of its voice. After an hour or so they decided that was obviously not the best place, so it was moved. Since then there have been more. Sometimes they keep them on the grass verge in front, sometimes at the back. In due course the goats meet the final solution, and are duly cut up and divided among the interested parties. Fortunately I’ve never seen that bit, but our neighbours have, and are naturally very upset.

So we have a moral dilemma. We pay a fortune to live here, but I think the staff are just doing things the way they are used to. They get paid next to nothing, and the facilities of this place, including the electricity, the space, the TV and the deep freeze, are all they have to make a difficult life bearable. Do we have the right to complain? What boundaries should there be? Noise levels? Goats? Slaughtering?

But now there is a new wrinkle: speaking in whispers the word goes around. A government VVIP is living on the top floor, and he is the goat lover. Now our chances of changing the rules of the game are almost zero.

It’s Africa: one should enjoy it for just that.

Documents

I’ve always been rather bolshie when it comes to documents. It’s somehow an insult if people ask you to produce a piece of paper to prove that, to put it simply, you are telling the truth. But documents, for many societies, are sacrosanct: they open the doors, they legitimise you.

I first came across the “permit” mentality in Holland where, to my horror we had to get a permit to live in the house we had bought. This was a legacy of the post war period, when the government had to difficult task of trying to match family size to house size in the face of huge shortages. It was a fine experiment in practical socialism.

You might think that since the Congo has got major administrative problems and has been classified as a failed state they might be rather weak on the documentation side.

Quite the opposite: not only do they require complicated documentation for a whole range of things, the documents themselves look like Royal Charters. For example, I have a permit to live in the flat. It is printed in full colour, with a hologram at the top, and signed by no less than the deputy chief of the commune. Not only does it make you feel special to have something like that, the commune itself is evidently very proud of its ability to produce such an impressive document.

As an aside, the mayor of a commune is not called a Mayor (Maire in French), but Bourgmestre. A title lifted straight from Belgium, and used with a completely straight face, which I think is quite interesting.

Much the same was true when I had to surrender my passport to get a residence permit. The document I was given as a substitute was almost as grand as the passport itself. Now to get a resident’s permit I had to produce other documents, one of which was from the British Embassy, to confirm that I am who I say I am. They have obviously learned by experience that a simple letter will not do the trick. So their form was equally grand, with seals and lots of “whereas” and “heretofore” language (or the French equivalent), and signed with a great flourish by the deputy consul.

Now here’s a nice touch. If, after having gone through all the right channels you have an appointment with a Minister, you will receive, by messenger, a printed (in four colours) official invitation which states the time and day of the meeting and the amount of time allocated for it. That is almost eighteenth century in style.

I was puzzled when I first when on a trip outside Kinshasa to be given a whole sheaf of documents called Ordres de Mission. I say sheaf, because there was an original and about five copies of each one, and a different Ordre de Mission for each place I was to visit.

At first it was quite strange to be stopped at an apparently arbitrary place by an apparently arbitrary person and asked for my Ordres de Mission. And then, of course, I also had to produce my plastic card which proves that I work for a legitimate employer. Sometimes the person would ask to keep a copy of the Ordres de Mission, so that he could complete the details in his office.

Then, of course, it dawned upon me. In a police state – which Zaire was – and in a state at war which the Congo still is, you want to know who is travelling around and why. The fact that the Ordres de Mission are meaningless doesn’t matter. What is important is that I have something to show, and even give, to the police and immigration nosey parkers who ask.

The typical Nazi order in world war two films "Give me your papers" definitely has resonance here.

Two policemen and a princess

It’s not every day that you are driven around by a Princess, but she’s running one of our provincial offices, so I feel no sense of guilt in asking her to take me around. For her part, this is something of a special occasion too, as I am being produced as a demonstration that something is actually happening. Appointments are fixed up with a range of Ministers, Mayors and other dignitaries.

Being a Princess – the daughter of a senior chief who has one of the main roads in the town named after him – has its uses, but is not, apparently enough to protect you from being stopped by traffic police. If I hadn’t been in the front seat, next to her, they say the police wouldn’t have stopped us. As it was they see a rather posh looking white Jeep approaching, with a suited white person in the front seat. Clearly a good target.

What follows next had all the qualities of a half-paced French mime. The policemen stand in the middle of the road – two of them – making it very clear that she could not pass. One goes to her window and demands to see her documents. She behaves politely, but cannot immediately find them all. As I recall they needed to see her driving licence and three other pieces of paper. As she finds them, one in her handbag, two behind the visor on the passenger side, one in the cubby-hole, and hands them to the glowering policemen at her window he pointedly keeps them. He shows them to his boss, who then instructs him to inspect the car. She has to put on the lights and demonstrate the indicators and brake lights, while he walks ponderously around the car.

It is becoming clear that they have picked upon a tough target: everything is in order – until, AHA! – they spot a crack in the mirror on the passenger door. It’s still usable, but the crack gives them the opening they need. Negotiations start in earnest. She says it was broken by her son only three days ago. They say, so what? She says, I don’t have money. We have a meeting with the Mayor in ten minutes, she says, and anyway I’ll get it mended.

Nothing doing. They are now on the passenger side, standing looking at her with expectant eyes, desperately waiting for her to start negotiating. She is so angry she refuses to budge. They say that until this matter has been resolved, they are going to keep the documents.

We drive off, not wanting to be late for the important meeting. She is trembling with anger and a little bit of fear. We all wonder whether they will still be in the same place when we return.

After the meeting she does a lot of telephoning. Our protocol person (i.e. person number two in an office of 2) is summoned. She and the office driver turn up just after us at the scene of the crime where, to our relief, the police are still standing. The protocol then starts the negotiations. Meanwhile, the princess starts serious phone calls. It must have been about ten minutes later when the protocol person takes a phone call and passes the phone to the senior policeman. Quite suddenly, the negotiations stop, and the policemen amble across to give the Princess her documents. “How about a Coke?” they mumble. “Nothing doing,” she says, “have a nice day,” and we drive off.

This is the source of the happy ending: the police are running ads on the television, urging people not to pay bribes, and urging anyone who is being forced to do so to ring a certain number. She doesn’t need that particular number, but using the same principle had rung the Chief of Police whom she knows. He had then rung the protocol who had passed her phone to the police.

The experience had clearly shaken my princess, but it was a nice to know that the monster of corruption can be tamed.

Flying High

Flying in the Congo has got a bad press. The majority of airlines only last a few months before they have a crash and are closed down. That’s why there’s a certain frisson about the whole experience, and why we use the UN when we can.

But there’s something a bit precious about never going public, and I’m quite happy to be put on a normal flight, along with 248 Congolese and one other foreigner.

What I wasn’t quite prepared for was the airport. Without my protocol guy I would surely have got lost in the arcane procedures of going from here to there, in no logical sequence. The first thing is to pay your airport tax. You go to the Bank for that – a good way of stopping misappropriation.

Then in the huge and very gloomy hall you see a mass of people shouting and fighting around piles of luggage. These are not the neat suitcases of London and Paris. Almost without exception they are cardboard boxes or woven plastic bags which are being strapped up with multiple thicknesses of brown scotch tape. Someone comes up to me, and offers to make my Samsonite case with three locks on it, more secure by strapping it up. I decline. Only $1, he insists. “Nothing doing,” I say.

Meanwhile my ticket is being waved in front of someone with a piece of paper with handwritten names on it, and eventually it is approved. Then to the check-in desks, surrounded by heaps of torn paper and goodness knows what. To one side a banner proudly proclaims the name of the airline, and one can’t help wondering whether the operators really know, or care, about the apparent chaos. It is impossible to hear what anyone is saying as everyone is shouting and insisting that they should be heard. But eventually, my bag is weighed, and then my carry-on bag, and duly labelled as cabin baggage.

Now to the departure lounge where my protocol man is told he cannot go. A fierce argument ensues until someone who knows him tells the two guards to let him through. The next thing is for me to go to the police to have my “Ordres de Mission” stamped by them. They wish me bon voyage and thank me for doing good for their country. It seems that foreigners cannot move between provinces – or even towns – without paperwork. I was supposed to have my passport, but just produce a document that shows that the Ministry of the Interior has got it.

It’s only when we are on the bus heading out to the plane that normalcy prevails. The bus is normal, the plane is normal, the hostesses are normal, the procedures are normal – if a little old fashioned. By which I mean they give you a sweet to suck as you take off.

When the pilot announces that we are about to land the normal feeling suddenly drains from the cabin. Conversation stops and knuckles whiten as we remember, against all our better judgement, many stories of planes in the Congo crashing as they land. We are really low now and even the cabin crew look pale and tense. Suddenly the plane accelerates, then slows, then drops, then BUMP. Ouch. Well, we’ve landed – I think the pilot lost concentration somewhere on the way down, but at least . . .WOOPs, there’s a huge backward thrust, and then at last the thing feels under control. Someone in the cabin starts clapping, and gradually the passengers break into spontaneous applause more out of relief than appreciation, I suspect.

A few minutes later, as we walk in a relaxed mood across the tarmac, it all seems quite ordinary again. I am met by the office protocol person – she doesn’t have much trouble spotting me as one of the only two white faces on the plane – and I am ushered into the VIP lounge. Clean, brightly painted, with all the lights working, and a fridge with cold drinks inside. “Welcome to Katanga”, she says.

The experience of normalcy given by the VIP lounge does not evaporate when we leave the airport. We drive along a road without potholes, with bright street lights on both sides. The avenues are grand and the buildings that face onto them are in good shape.

We reach our hotel, and immediately find ourselves in one of the most welcoming environments that I can remember. The reception desk is at the back of an open air dining areas packed with people who are obviously enjoying their food. There is a blackboard written in an obviously Belgian hand showing the specials of the day.

It is not long before we are seated there too. I look around. There is a table of six French people, clearly wealthy (as they are just starting on the second bottle of champagne at about $100 a go, while eating their hors d’oeuvres). Next to them is a table of 13 Indians – Muslims to judge by their dress: the whole family, from toddlers to granny. Behind us are some somewhat corpulent Congolese tucking into their food with gusto. These are clearly not rich people: they look too happy for that, but obviously have enough money to eat well.

I order a beer: the bottle is made, it says, in Zaire. Now there’s a good lesson for the environmentalists. Zaire was renamed The Democratic Republic of the Congo in 2002. That means this bottle has been doing the rounds for almost ten years. They don’t make them like that any more.

Stuff

Anyone who has moved has moved house knows the feeling “Do I really have so much stuff? ”, as box after box is piled into the van. To make matters worse, we like to pride ourselves on being discerning but when it is all unceremoniously heaved out of the house it somehow looks rather grubby and sad, like the teddy with one eye.

Now fortunately us hardy Congo types don’t need all the trappings of bourgeois homes. We live in stylish emptiness: minimalism is de rigueur. At least it has been.

The shippers told us that the container had landed and should be cleared in three weeks. Three weeks later the message was “next week, without doubt.” A week later, and it was “in three or four days.” Finally, tomorrow. Two days later the chilling message “they have looted the container”, which turned out to be French for they had loaded it onto a truck. And there it stuck. Every day a new story. A customs official had demanded another signature, another check. “Tomorrow, for sure,” and then “next week, without doubt.”

After a while it was less a question of getting the container, and more a question of trying to work out why nothing was happening. Maybe they really had looted it, and were trying to concoct an elaborate story around it? Maybe it was half way to Kinshasa from the port (a journey of about 350kms) and the truck broke down.

But we couldn’t help ourselves having little dreams of what it would be like to be normal – such as having a bed, wine glasses, a sound system.

Finally, it was there. A monstrous container, from which a veritable army of men carried a strange array of packages in all shapes, sizes and weights into the house. They dutifully ticked off the packing list, and left. We decided to do the unpacking ourselves.

That’s when the penny dropped. As we stripped off the bubble wrap and cardboard packing material, and tried to find places for everything it felt more and more absurd. Do we really need this?? And that????

But the feeling of being crushed by all these worldly possessions would be lifted by the odd discovery. The potato masher was one such moment. A beautiful painting, another; a forgotten book . . . And I could get my beloved sound system going.

That evening, in spite of all the mess, the joy of eating at a wooden table proved that minimalism has its limits. This combined with the prospect of sleeping in a proper bed felt positively hedonistic.

There was only one problem: we had forgotten to pack any wine glasses.