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.