The Congo River

I can never hear the word Congo without feeling the resonance of Joseph Conrad and other tales of the weird and wonderful things which have happened here. I get a similar feeling when we walk along the river, a ritual performed twice daily.

The scale of it is truly inspiring: the water is not dawdling in the way of the great rivers of Europe, but rushing to the sea carrying numerous little islands of grass and other debris which has fallen into it. These grass clumps are a source of constant wonder: where do they all come from? They’re not small, typically I would guess about two or three metres across, and they swirl down the river like kids in one of the waterworld play parks. I picture a mother duck and her ducklings sitting on such a clump staring wild eyed as the river banks flash by.

Our walk takes place along a tarred road, probably about thirty metres from the river itself. On the other side, almost due west and about one kilometre away, is Brazzaville. The river banks slope quite steeply, but are grassy and many of the house owners on the landward side of the road have taken the trouble to cut the grass. Where the grass is uncut there are jungly mounds of wild flowers, creepers and the rustle of . . . frogs? snakes?? Flocks of little birds play around, so tiny that when they sit on grass it hardly bends. The bank is lined with trees, including majestic mango trees, lots of pawpaws, bananas and cassava.

There are a few flat areas. One is big enough for people to play football. In others, especially on Sundays, there are outdoor gyms where trainers goad fatties into doing uncomfortable exercises under the curious eye of passers-by.

Here and there are benches which are occupied either by very keen runners doing stretching exercises or lovers sitting silently, enjoying the bliss of proximity.

If you aren’t scared of the wild life you can walk down to the river’s edge. Most of it is protected by thick reed beds, but here and there the water comes right to the bank. There’s a gentle lapping sound as the little waves hit the shore.

In the morning, the air is filled with enthusiastic bird song, some of it extraordinarily musical. But the best time is the evening. At about 5.30 the sun starts to get red, and cloudy or not, makes displays which, were they not natural, you would have to call bad taste. The reds and yellows and purples that the sun projects colour not just the area around it, but the whole sky and even the landscape. Sometimes there is a thick haze which turns the sky into an exaggerated Turner painting. And in the foreground the slightly turbulent waters of the river somehow pick up different colours. Silhouetted against the vivid reds and blues of the water are a few dugout canoes – pirogues – using the remaining moments of daylight to catch their last fish of the day, completing a timeless scene. They move slowly and silently, now paddling against the strong current, now allowing themselves to be swept downstream.

To add to the mystery there is a dull roar in the background coming from the rapids downstream. The sound, to use a very unglamorous comparison, is like the roar of a distant aeroplane, probably a fighter jet.

As it gets dark you might expect people to scurry to the safety of their homes, but no: they linger. Here it is safe, and why rush away when they can rather participate in the daily miracle of the sunset?

But the scene is not always so sugary sweet.

One evening, we had let the dogs off the lead to scamper around when we heard noises in the dusk. We could pick up the silhouettes of four men slowly coming up a slipway that must have been built many years ago to allow a householder to launch his boat. They were clearly carrying something very heavy. As we approached we could see that this object was a metal box, about a metre square, and about the same height. Much to our surprise the men were dressed in dark suits. When they reached the road they were greeted by two men we took to be Lebanese, ominously flanked by four soldiers, all carrying, very conspicuously, machine guns. Two cars were ready for them: one, a pick up, to carry the box; the other a 4x4 with thickly tinted windows.

We decided we had seen nothing, and calling the dogs gave the scene a wide berth.

Agent Orange

Some enterprising people prepared a guide for newcomers to Kinshasa which advised people to “smother themselves” with anti mosquito cream “at all times”. This suggests a scene where one is surrounded by a cloud of desperate mosquitoes, each looking for a piece of the action. Indeed, in some places I’ve been to, as often as not, one of the said mosquitoes will be sufficiently desperate to overcome the toxic smell of the anti-mosquito cream, or strong enough to insert its proboscis through one’s clothing, and have a suck. So this sounded like good advice.

But, that’s not the real picture. It was a huge surprise to find that there are hardly any mosquitoes in Kinshasa – at least that part where the hotels and restaurants are, and one can often eat outside without even hearing a mosquito.

That’s not to say that there is nothing which bites. There are little things which emerge from the lush vegetation round the swimming pool: they love biting and leave a nasty itch. There are nasty spiders – I’m sure it was a spider which bit my hand and almost paralysed it for several days. There are snakes, which we come across on our walks near the river. AND, there’s a harmless-looking centipede about 30mm long which we found wandering (apparently without any intent to harm) through the kitchen.

I picked it up on a piece of paper with a view to restoring it to its natural habitat, which is presumably the garden. One of the army of police/security guards saw us carrying it out. “Drop that quickly,” he said, “that’s dangerous.” And without further ado he stamped on it with a viciousness not at all required to kill the little thing.

He explained afterwards that their bite is very serious – worse than a scorpion, and as bad as some snakes. If it had bitten us, he said, we would have to go to hospital immediately.

To return to mosquitoes. We had a clue as to why the air isn’t full of them when we were staying in a hotel. As we were having an evening drink someone was walking around the garden area with a huge backpack spray, dousing everything in sight. Maybe this is what is done everywhere.

One Saturday morning some men came to the door of the flat and announced that they had come to fumigate. They showed me an official-looking paper which I took to mean that they were from the city of Kinshasa. I had found a few dead cockroaches, and although we certainly weren’t infested I thought it was good to make sure. So I let them in, and before long all the inside walls house has been saturated with what one had to assume was a toxic substance. Then they started on the cupboards paying particular attention to the kitchen.

“That,” they said, “will be $200.”

“What???”

“Oh yes, and this covers another spraying in two weeks and then you will get a guarantee for three months, and you will have no infestation for a year.”

“Anyway,” they said, “everyone else has paid,” and showed me a school notebook in which my neighbours had apparently signed to confirm their payments. Of course, the signatures could have been faked, but I paid.

They came back a second time and then a third. “This time,” they said, when they had finished, “you must pay another $200”, and showed me the exercise book again to demonstrate that everyone else had paid a total of $400. This was the last straw. By now I had worked out that they were just a private company using the Kinshasa letterhead to legitimise themselves, and my suspicions were aroused. Maybe the spray was just water with a touch of some smell added? Who knows. One thing was sure: this was not what we had agreed.

I refused. “Oh,” they said, “if you pay, and if we spray once more you’ll get a guarantee.”

“What about the guarantee that you gave me last time?”

Then they went into a long explanation about how the $200 was just part of an instalment plan, and actually the price was $400 all along etc etc.

After hours of haggling, for the sake of peace I agreed that I would pay $100 more if they did it once more and I got an official receipt.

Was it worth it? While it’s true to say that there are no mosquitoes in the house, that’s because the windows are covered in mosquito netting. I’ve found only a couple of dead cockroaches which might be because the spraying worked, but using the ordinary household sprays might have been just as good. After all, a can of cockroach spray costs $10, and I can’t see one using 40 of them in a year.

Anyway, that’s water under the bridge. But I’ve got two questions: what is the spray, and when are they going to invent something to deal with lethal centipedes?

The B Word 2

I used the B word earlier – b for baguette, which somehow defines French culture even though it is nothing more than bread.

There’s another B word which defines culture, British this time. Indeed, it’s the only part of British cuisine which is truly special. The American’s try it, but it’s not the same. I’m talking about bacon.

The so-called traditional English breakfast dominates memories of boarding houses, where the incomparable smell of frying bacon permeates everything. Camping – what would it be without that incredible thrill of frying bacon early in the morning? And the little ceremonies we have with the meal of breakfast, so unoriginal, but so special: Sunday breakfast with the papers, bacon and eggs.

Of course, bacon is everywhere these days. Even in places as unlikely as Bali we were treated to bacon and eggs – annoyingly referred to as “full American breakfast”. The international hotels in Addis Ababa, Accra, Dar es Salaam and Lusaka all serve bacon – of a sort. Half cooked, lying in a watery substance at the bottom of a bain marie it is hardly deserves the name bacon. Flaccid and pale, this stuff neither looks like nor tastes like the real thing.

In French speaking countries bacon hasn’t caught on, and Kinshasa is no different. The breakfasts there consist of fruit, baguettes, cheese and salami, croissants and other pastries. And lots of coffee.

Adapting to the culture is surely a GOOD THING. But occasionally, for a treat, it is nice to revert, or is relapse the word? to something really disgusting like a fried breakfast. In Kinshasa there is a supermarket which caters, because of its prices if nothing else, to the international set. They have a huge range of imported produce. Brie? Foie gras? Herring? Strawberries? If it can be imported it is there.

When we first arrived we knew that they would have bacon. It is surely just a matter of finding it. But even after a month, and the exercise of much detective skill, we draw a blank.

It was a couple of weeks later when we came across a much less pretentious place with an equally wide selection of imported cheese and charcuterie. And there, nestling between the saucisson de this, and the salame de that was a chunk of uncut bacon.

People who are as old as me will remember the old-fashioned grocer’s shops where the bacon was cut to order with a hand operated circular slicing machine. As he discussed the weather for the hundredth time that day, the grocer would turn the handle with his right hand, and push the bacon piece with his left, intuitively counting the number of slices as they fell onto the piece of butcher paper on the tray below. With a deft flick of the hands the little package would be wrapped and weighed.

I’VE GOT NEWS FOR YOU! With the exception of feeling the need to discuss the weather, the same tradition survives in Kinshasa.

“I’ll have 200 grams of the bacon,” I say. “And can you make it thin?”

It is unceremoniously taken from the cabinet, plonked on the slicer, and cut so thin that after about 15 slices, I say: “Stop. That’s enough.”

It is weighed – only 155 grams.

We are used to prices in South Africa where bacon is pretty big. No self-respecting boarding house would dream of providing breakfasts without bacon and egg. It’s an industrialised watery product which cooks either as a rubbery sheet or a hard slab. It costs between $3 and $3.50 for 200 grams, which is normally, for some reason, 9 slices. In Kinshasa we paid less than $2! It just goes to show you can’t make assumptions.

Now for the test. It cooks beautifully, crispy, quickly. No watery exudations. And tastes just right.

There’s only one thing missing now: the Sunday papers. I don’t think even Sherlock Holmes would find them.

Vive la difference

I imagine that what is interesting to the readership of this bloglet is to get a feel for what it’s really like in the DRC and Kinshasa. Hopefully this little account will add another dimension to the town’s strange mix of joy and despair. This is the story of a wedding, a summer fete, a debating club and watching the world cup final.

The wedding

A friend’s driver has sent us an invitation to the civil part of his wedding – the church part to follow in several weeks. The invitation is a florid affair. The central point is a slightly misty photo of the happy couple floating in a sea of pink hearts. God is represented by a dove hovering above their heads. Mammon is suggested somewhat more strongly at the bottom of the card by a large red beribboned gift box, and a thick wad of US dollars.

The event is to be held at the offices of his local council (commune – I love that word). Finding it in the maze of streets seems very difficult, but to the driver it is plain sailing. We arrive early, and decide to get some refreshment. The nearest thing to a cappuccino in that area is located under some large trees opposite the town hall. The whole area sits under a thick layer of dust due to roadworks; underfoot is dirty sand. Cappuccino, well, not quite – a coke. It comes, ice-cold, out of a cool box. The owner of the stall also serves omelettes, but we decide that the time is not right for that. To her right is a tyre repair shop, complete with a petrol-operated compressor; to her left is a stall selling cigarettes, sweets and biscuits. During the ten minutes that it takes to drink the coke , both have several customers.

At the due time we walk across, and are greeted by a sign that says due to a strike the commune offices are closed. What is more, there is no sign of the happy couple. We are wondering whether we are at the right place when an earnest young man carrying a briefcase stands at the top of the steps and announces that due to the strike, the marriages will be starting a bit late. And for the same reason, only the couples themselves and their witnesses will be allowed to enter.

A family member identifies us (not too difficult – skin colour is rather a give-away) and explains that the couple will be here soon, and meanwhile would we like to sit down? He leads us to the back of the building where an enterprising person has put out plastic chairs and tables and established a small restaurant operated out of a shipping container. Seats are dusted, and we are sat down, to be joined, in increments, by other family members and the groom’s pastor and assistant pastor.

The conversation drifts, as always, to politics, and how bad things are in terms of the livelihoods and security of the ordinary person. The willingness of people to talk frankly about their problems never ceases to amaze.

Getting slightly exhausted by the heavy conversation in French, we wander back to the front of the building just in time to see the now-wed couple emerge and stand at the top of the steps. Ululations and very noisy whistle blowing greet them as they walk across to meet us. Very embarrassingly, we are put in the centre of most of their photos – the trophy guests from the Embassy. Glitter and Christmas-tree snow from a can are thrown over the assembled company.

Will we be so good as to join them for a drink at a house nearby? Of course, we say. With the wedding photographer getting action shots, the bride and groom are put in the middle seat of our grand 4 x 4 and we drive off to the awe of the assembled crowd.

At the house we are sat down on the ubiquitous plastic chairs, and given the ubiquitous coke to drink. By way of food there are delicious small sponge cakes.

This is clearly not a shotgun wedding: the bride already has five children who have been studiously kept away from the ceremony. But we are truly touched by the welcome and generosity of the family, which clearly has very very little indeed.

The summer Fete

Then to an arts fair to showcase local crafts and give an opportunity to local performers to dance, sing and generally do their thing. An elaborate invitation had been received, providing arrival times for all dignitaries which are spread over three and a quarter hours. Cultural attachés (our category) are two thirds of the way down the list, before the Minister of Agriculture and the UN Peace keeping delegations, but after provincial Ministers and MPs.

Finding the site was not easy. We fought our way through traffic jams, battling hand carts, obstinate drivers and aloof policemen. 20kms in 40 minutes.

The scene when we arrived told a story. Workmen were still building the stalls around a school playground, and though plastic chairs were being lined up for the dignitaries there was no prospect of anything starting soon. We were greeted effusively by the fete manager, who – almost without us saying anything – excused us from staying the several hours we would have to wait before proceedings would begin. One felt that he knew that his social skills were definitely insufficient to cope with keeping us happy that long.

The Debating Club

The following morning we go to an English-language debating club. Formed by Congolese people in 1981 to provide an opportunity for them to improve their English by using it in informal debates, they meet every Sunday in a secondary school in an obscure corner of the city. We arrive in the middle of a debate about the World Cup – refereeing, the octopus and similar themes. This is followed by a discussion about human rights. Passionate positions are taken, but the scene is tempered by skilful chairmanship. The rules of the club are that anyone caught speaking French is fined, and that people spotting mistakes are allowed to comment, but only at the end of the two-hour session. We are struck by the English language skills of the participants, as well as the gentlemanly way in which the proceedings are conducted. Afterwards we were asked to stay for a drink at a nearby small restaurant under huge mango trees. We hear that most of them have taught themselves.

The drinking sessions typically last until nightfall, but beer or no beer, day or night, members of the club are not allowed to speak French while they meet.

World Cup

Someone suggests that we join a big party at a local club to watch the World Cup final.

So that evening we are off to said club in an unlikely location on the heavy-truck route to the airport. We find the spot without difficulty: the Cheetah 2, In God I Trust, Dancing Club[1]. It is set back from the road, easy to identify by the multi-coloured lights, neon signs and, its main advertisement, music at triple volume. In front are tightly packed rows of chairs and tables, while on the wall of the building are several large, though not giant, screens showing the necessary. To one side hang carcasses of goats waiting to be barbecued in a large open-air kitchen.

As we squeeze in at the end of the table I fruitlessly try and get a waitress to turn the music down, but when the match starts it is thankfully turned off, though not replaced by the match commentaries.

Watching the game is rather like sitting in Waterloo station: there is a constant stream of hustlers, selling peanuts, paper handkerchiefs, carpets (yes) and other stuff. Waitresses, the public and said hustlers constantly stand between us and the screen. Fortunately no one seems to mind having insults thrown at them – “who do you think you are? There’s no such thing as an invisible man . . ." etc. Service is quite good if somewhat casual – beer in typical double size bottles, chips, fried plantains and roast goat are plonked down in front of us without ceremony.

A goal is scored by Spain. The place erupts in joy. The waitresses hug each other in an unstable ecstatic clump, mimicking the footballers.

In spite of the irritations, one can’t help enjoying the vibe – it is the Congolese equivalent of the South African vuvuzela. Like most things in Kinshasa, different.

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[1] Truly: the very words.

Clean sweep

Not being much of an early riser myself was somewhat irritated by dogs barking in what seemed to be the middle of the night. After much nudging by she who must be obeyed, paddled along to the front door, from which the sounds of shouting were emanating, to see what was wrong.

Lo and behold, there were three johnnies looking very serious, and demanding to know whether I had left the bath tap on, and had my bath overflowed. What a ridiculous idea. Bathing never was my favourite occupation anyway – something sissy about it – but why should I not turn the tap off?

Then the penny dropped. Water was lapping around my feet. The whole house was awash – probably two inches deep. Damned annoying, if you ask me.

I sat down, naturally, to think about what to do next. The damn maid wasn’t coming until after lunch, and it would be a dreadful bore to have to wait so long before mopping up. Quite a conundrum. Then it struck me – never was very bright before my first gin – had better see whether the water was still leaking, and if so where.

With this very thought in mind was relieved when the better half announced that she had found the problem: a leaking pipe in the bathroom. Paddled along to have a look. Bathroom a disaster movie: pipes positively pissing (excuse the lingo) water.

In different circumstances might have stopped to admire the view, as the interior lake was quite fetching, but felt that this would not look good, so decided to pretend to look busy. Find squeegee thingy and start pushing water out through the door. Doesn’t seem to make much difference so give up and start checking the damage to stuff on the floor. Not a pretty sight: carpets, mattresses, that sort of thing. Sodden.

Now here’s the interesting bit. One of the johnnies comes in and asks for something to collect water with – I get him a plastic box, and blow me down if he doesn’t start bailing out the bathroom floor like a demon, and has the bright idea of throwing the water into the bath. Damned clever chappie: could do with more types like that in the British Government. Anyway, before long you could see he had made a difference. Feel pathetically grateful.

Inspiration strikes: must turn off the water. Water pipes always have a valve thingy to turn off, so go outside to try and find it. Turn off several of the things, but water’s still pissing out.

Obviously couldn’t help much, what with the johnnie fellow bailing and missus having taken dogs for a walk, so made a cup of tea, and sat down to consider situation. Had another eureka moment: should call the plumber.

First call unsuccessful: a stream of foul-mouthed invective about being woken up at the crack of dawn. Second go a bit more convincing: told him that Titanic was nearly under water, me with it, and he had better get someone here pronto.

The plumber’s idea of pronto was different than mine – about two hours. But meanwhile he had explained to the johnnies how to turn the water off and the bailing was working well. The place was nearly dry within an hour. Another fellow – day-shift chappie – takes over and finishes off.

Decided, uncharacteristically, to have a bath which would give one time to think about what to do, but was greatly shocked to find no water. Not a drop. They had turned off the whole shebang! Most inconsiderate.

Well, the plumber johnnie came: very calm, he was. Seemed to be totally unperturbed about the fact that we had nearly been drowned in our beds and there had been disastrous damage to property (actually most will dry out apart from a few cardboard boxes – we were damned lucky, but I didn’t want him to know that, if you see what I mean). He just poked around and then, saying he had solved the problem, just left. Man must be a genius: only took him a few minutes. Leak stopped, not a drop of water to be seen.

Always something new out of Africa!

Shopping (2)

We needed some wire to fix a wooden fence, behind which the dogs would present no danger to our nervous neighbours.

I ask the driver to take me somewhere to buy some steel wire. He doesn’t seem to really understand, but eventually he is satisfied and off we go. There are hundreds of ironmongers in Kinshasa, but none of them seems to have much stock, so it’s to the market that we head.

African markets have much in common with each other – the colours (good), smell (bad), commerce (vigorous), rubbish (everywhere).

The main Kinshasa market is all of these things, though it probably has a higher percentage of rubbish and smell.

We wend our way purposefully through hundreds of little stalls, squeezed together and leaving very little room for the customers to walk around. With evident satisfaction, I am shown a stall that sells wire. But not ordinary wire – electrical copper wire. I try and explain again what I need. We set off again, and this time I am placed in front of a stall which sells more electrical wire – second hand, but they also have some chicken wire fencing which allows me to explain what I want and why.

Aha! Someone is sent off to get some and he comes back triumphantly with a coil of slightly rusty and clearly second-hand, or even third hand wire. Anyway, it’s just the right thickness: easy to bend but strong enough to do the job. I buy ten metres and we are off.

It was at that time that my eye was caught by a stall selling receipts. You name it, they had it. Blank receipts, stamped, in purple or blue: “received with thanks” from fabric shops, hardware shops, electrical shops, general stores and so on. Simple: you are sent to buy something: real price $5, write a fake receipt for $10: profit $5.

Something flashes through my mind: that receipt the driver brought last week. $20 for lampholders suddenly seemed somewhat excessive.

Mail order

There was a time in Africa when catalogue shopping was all the rage. When foreign exchange problems left the shelves of local shops bare, it was still possible to buy an international postal order and send off for what seemed like highly glamorous goods. The experience was heightened by the months of waiting for the parcel to arrive.

The internet and structural adjustment have changed all that. Boringly, you can get most things in most places. Gone is the thrill of having foreign exchange and landing in a place like London to have new shopping experiences.

Kinshasa is a bit different. Supplies are irregular, shops are small and badly run. But that is getting us off the subject.

I am now engaged on mail order, Kinshasa style.

It works like this.

Stage 1: decide what you want to buy. If you have an example, so much the better, if not just describe it.

Stage 2: Driver goes down town. You can join him if you like, but this doesn’t change the fundamental nature of the process. His skill is primarily to know roughly where you might be able to get a certain product.

Stage 3: Driver comes into shopping street and is immediately surrounded by shouting husslers who either have things for sale which they carry in their arms or on their head, or offer to get things.

Stage 4: Driver displays his local knowledge by shouting for someone by name. Said person is duly fetched from somewhere by the husslers, and comes to the driver’s window

Stage 5: Driver tells the person what he wants to buy. Person goes off to various shops and tried to find one. The husslers listen, and will also run off to try and get the same object.

Stage 6: The objects are all produced for the driver to inspect. Prices are mentioned. If I am in the car I will be consulted at this stage.

Stage 7: As likely as not, the objects will not be right so the search starts again, but with more accurate parameters.

Stage 8: Eventually one object/one hussler is selected and money changes hands. The said hussler then goes to the shop that was selling it and get a receipt.

I’m not sure why the driver doesn’t get out of the car and look for himself. Could it be concerns for the security of the car? Very unlikely – cars don’t get stolen much here. Could it be his personal security? Even more unlikely – the guys are pushy, but they don’t hurt you.

Maybe he sees it as being the quickest form of comparison shopping that there is. After all having five people looking for you must be quicker than going from shop to shop. But then time is hardly a factor that he has to worry about. Most of his day is spent sitting around waiting for something to happen.

I think it is something quite different. I think he likes the sense of power. While to me he is disconcertingly humble and self effacing, he is, in fact, by virtue of being a driver, virtually in the middle class. He observes how the big men behave: they are surrounded by minions waiting on the tiniest gesture from him, trying to anticipate his every wish, but living in fear of ever doing something wrong. That’s his role model. Now he’s sitting in a posh car he’s got the chance and the money (even if it isn’t his, and everyone knows it isn’t) to boss people around. And by being in such a car he is, in a sense, an extension of the big man.

And for the husslers? They don’t mind a bit. In fact they like this system because the shops give them a commission. Not much, I’m sure of that, but something. Even the driver probably picks up a commission from time to time.

So everyone’s happy. Remote shopping works.