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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