Garden city

It would be considered stretching a point to call Kinshasa a garden city. That term is supposed to be reserved for the idealistic settlements of the 20^th Century designed to show that cities did not have to be slums. Welwyn Garden City and Kinshasa definitely have little in common.

But one of the interesting by-products of the grandiose way in which the Belgians laid out Kinshasa was the width of the roads. They have names to match too – Avenue this and Avenue that. Mind you, looking at some of them today evokes a very different picture. The roads themselves are potholed, many of the trees are missing, and the buildings are typically a curious mixture of the grandiose and the shack. This gives them quite a homely look. Because cars can’t drive fast, people can stroll along, chatting, while children play in relative safety on the verges.

It is these verges, though, that are the kernel of the garden city. If you work out how wide they are you realise that they are a substantial resource. Now here’s a good news story. The European Union undertook a project to advise people on what to grow on these verges, and when and how. As a result you see neat patches alongside the road, beautifully cultivated, of a variety of vegetables. What is more, the plants do not get stolen.

Verges also serve as excellent locations for plant nurseries. They offer not just a few plants, but a huge variety of flowers, ferns, palms, bougainvilleas – you name it they’ve got it. On some roads, many such one-man nurseries have set up their trade side by side, so you can walk for hundreds of metres to find the best example or best price for what you want.

As well as vegetables and decorative plants there are, of course, goats and hens. The goats wander around looking for patches of nice grass, or trees with hanging leaves. There are many tiny ones, not much bigger than a miniature poodle – pigmy goats you could call them – which look so cute as they go about their business with a sense of self importance, fully convinced that their tiny horns will protect them from all predators. The hens are also very busy, clucking around with their little brood in tow. Somehow they never get run over.

Not all users of verges are quite so rustic. There are many little wooden kiosks selling groceries, hard boiled eggs and bread, cell phone air time, beer and occasionally offering services such as haircutting, milling or shoe repair.

As night falls, the hens go to bed, and most shops are shut. Just as pedestrian traffic seems to be slowing down a new activity starts. Plastic chairs appear from nowhere, and are laid out on the verge in inviting circles. Weary post-work men flop onto them, chilled beer is served and the street becomes a party. The customers chat about this and that, in the good tradition of an English pub. Some stay longer than they intended – or their wives would like – but by ten thirty it is closing time. The chairs disappear, and the men stagger home. The next morning the hens are back, looking for the peanuts and crumbs dropped by last night’s customers.