Peace in our time??

The UN is huge in the Congo. They say that without the peacekeeping forces the country would break into a chaos of multiple conflicts. You can see their point, because even with their presence here (about 160,000 all told, I believe) there are uncontrolled militias and bandits.

In Kinshasa they are loved and hated in equal measure. People hate their arrogance, they way they drive their huge 4x4s without any regard for other road users, and their money. They are loved for much the same reason. Landlords are milking the situation and their incomes unquestionably keep many of the restaurants going, so giving us all more choice. And there’s something about their numbers and ubiquity which is reassuring.

The interesting thing about them is that they are much more than a military operation. I was amazed to discover that they build bridges, repair roads, teach democracy and participate in a number of activities than have nothing to do with the military. For example they have their own radio station which is considered the only reliable source of news, and make films about their co-operation in developing local communities. They played a huge role in organising and monitoring the last elections.

It is said that the government wants to get rid of them so that next year’s elections can be run without “external interference”. That would be disastrous, because besides the military chaos which might ensue, it would put an end to the only safe way of travelling around the country: the UN air services. Our operations, and those of most other aid organisations, would be grounded without them.

It’s tough being a peace keeper. What do you do all day? Their bases speak of efforts to make them homely with carefully tended flower beds, posters of alpine scenes and pretty tablecloths.

But as a peace keeper, you know that one or other of the warring factions will gain huge political kudos from attacking your base and killing some of your people. Every month some of them are killed in attacks which are designed to demonstrate that the bandits can be a problem if they choose. They rejoice, it seems, in the fact that any mortality brings shame and grief to the whole peace-keeping force, and gives the Congolese government the opportunity, as they did recently, to demand the withdrawal of the UN due to their lack of success in controlling the conflicts. In brief they are, as history shows, very vulnerable.

So, in a way, you can’t blame them for letting their hair down in Kinshasa.

Wigs

It’s no secret that many black women don't like their hair, but can’t be bothered, or afford, to change it. I remember a long interview by Larry King on CNN with the talk show host Tyra Banks who was talking about the moment when she admitted that her hair, as seen for years on her show, was a wig. Just to prove the point she had shocked the world by taking it off, live, on air. In the interview, she talked at length about the problems of black hair and the deeply-felt need by many black women to overcome the challenge that nature had given them.

In Africa, if you want to impress the first thing you do is to have elaborate braids. They can look truly stunning, and sometimes are much more than two-dimensional patterns on the scalp – they rise into little arches, are formed into bobbles on stalks, or curl like tentacles around the ears. But a fully-fledged braid job takes 8 hours or more, not something that busy people have time for. So wigs it is.

You would expect receptionists, bar maids, and busy professional women to wear wigs. It’s a quick and easy way to look smart and different.

When I was working in another country we had a colleague who was a professional from the country concerned. She always looked very presentable, in a conservative way. One morning she turned up in a wig which was slightly reddish in tone. One of my colleagues, who doesn’t work often in Africa praised her effusively for the nice hair, and asked how she had had time to go to the hair-dresser when we were working so late. She had no hesitation in telling him that it was a wig which she had just put on that morning. It is not considered a shameful thing to do – no different, I suppose, than wearing a hat.

But what has really interests me in the Congo is that they are so ubiquitous. Even policewomen wear them under their caps. A uniform – they seem to say – is a uniform, but our latent beauty must be allowed to peek through. We are self-respecting women, and mustn’t let this horrible masculine uniform squash our sexuality.

Since everyone knows that everyone is wearing a wig, the need to make it look like real hair is, in a way, academic. In a recent trip to a small town in a rural area we went to dinner at a run-down hotel. The entrance hall had many large armchairs, tattered and dirty, in which were sitting tired and bored NGO types (like us, except that we weren’t bored – it was much too interesting). No doubt they were wondering what they were doing there. In the corner, as always, was a television which no one was watching.

Our preoccupation was how to get a beer and order dinner. Word was sent for the manageress. From a small door emerged a beautifully, if somewhat saucily, dressed, woman probably in her forties wearing the most elaborate wig you can imagine. It had black hair, auburn hair and blonde hair. Some was straight and some was plaited. Some was neatly curled. The overall impression was, in fact, rather nice and at least very decorative. There could never be a question about whether this was a wig, and why should there be? This was just head make-up.

She came up to us smiling broadly, and organised dinner to our specification. A seminar room was cleaned specially for us so that we could eat in peace and privacy. Service wig a smile.

Protecting it, Guiding it, Losing it

Protecting it, Guiding it, Losing it

The police in the DRC are the subject of much discussion at the dinner tables and office corridors of Kinshasa. Not much of the comment is favourable. The conventional analysis is that since they get paid little and late they can only survive through corruption. To legitimise their predatory behaviour they jump on the tiniest infraction and then squeeze the victim to cough up. The amount demanded will be directly proportional to the perceived wealth of the squeezed. But that’s not the full story, and here are three police vignettes to supplement this somewhat one-dimensional picture.

Protecting it

We are in front of the Commune’s modest offices, waiting to meet the Bourgmestre, (a Belgian word to describe the political head of a commune which, in this case, has a population of about 70,000). The problem is that he’s not there, and no one knows where he is. The meeting is due to start any minute now and he’s not answering his phone.

But on the dot he arrives on a little motor bike, belching oily exhaust fumes. He is a small man, and hops off to greet us warmly. He’s dressed in a natty shiny silver (yes, definitely silver) suit, with a scarlet shirt and matching tie.

Formalities over, he walks across to the front door of the Commune offices where three policemen are standing at attention. Abruptly a well-rehearsed play commences. The Bourgmestre stands facing the policemen. The Sergeant Major barks out orders. The policemen present arms. That is to say that one in the squad presents arms as the other doesn’t have a gun. The ritual over they turn round, take one smart step, and then break into a casual amble towards their plastic chairs into which they flop with evident relief. Protecting the Bourgmestre is a tough job.

Guiding it

The scene – a road junction in Bandundu. A town with few cars (about two per hour on normal days) and many bicycles. At this junction are five traffic policemen. One stands in the centre of the road, whistle in mouth, with great precision directing the traffic. Whether the bicycle traffic needs directing or not, he’s there, and takes pride in his job. At the side of the road are his four colleagues, eyes peeled for traffic offenders.

We draw up at the junction, but our vehicle has apparently crossed the place where the white line might have been. We are given a severe talking to, and told to reverse the car until it is in an acceptable position. As we wait the three or four minutes until it is considered fair to allow us to proceed we see a taxi bicycle, with a passenger sitting on the luggage rack, turning left apparently without the approval of the man with the whistle. All hell breaks loose. The bicycle’s luggage rack is seized and the riders are forced to dismount. One policeman embarks on fierce dialogue with the driver, while another takes the bike into custody. That’s all we saw before we were given permission to move and left the scene.

But one hour later we passed the same spot. No sign of the arrested bicycle or its driver; no one with a whistle, and only two policemen remain. They are chatting idly under the trees, eyes fixed on nothing more than the ground beneath their feet. But something catches the eye of one, and he walks over to where a small boy in tattered clothing is waiting to cross the road. My heart melts as I see the policeman taking the little boy by the hand, and walking him across in safety.

Losing it

His eyes flashed, not with righteous indignation, but an evil anger, even hatred. If we had done something wrong it would be different, but our offence? To drive into the Ministry car park without his – the policeman’s – permission. We had only got half way through the gate when he pounced, machine-gun at the ready, to evict us.

“But Monsieur,” I protested, “I have a meeting with the Minister.” Neither that, nor the fact that our car had diplomatic plates, made any impact. He was impervious to all pleading. As he made us reverse out, and to shut us up, he pointed to a notice that stated that the Ministry was closed from 2 – 4 p.m.

Since the time was 2.45 and my meeting was at 3.00 this was A PROBLEM.

Our protestations must have attracted the attention of another policeman. He was taller and seemed to have an even bigger gun, so he could override the first one. Eventually I was ushered in and courteously escorted to the correct room where the meeting took place with not just one Minister but seven, not to mention the World Bank, IMF, EU and the rest of them.

Now what puzzles me is what triggered the first policeman’s bitter anger. Maybe his ultimate nightmare is humiliation, and maybe, at the hands of the hierarchy (superior officer maybe, but most likely the big bosses – Ministers and their cohorts) he is subject to perpetual squashing. So what can he do to purge himself of this humiliation? Why, squash other people, especially people in smart suits and fancy cars. Thus the bullied bully, and the cycle of abuse continues.

It’s a sad fact of social relations in the DRC that verbal abuse of people deemed to be lower in the social order is a matter of routine, and I marvel at the degree of equanimity with which people suffer this nastiness.

One wonders whether the so-called Big Men who abuse their underlings might be sowing the seeds of rebellion, rape and pillage. It has happened before and will probably happen again. For me, the absurdity of this particular man’s behaviour was more annoying than frightening. But one can’t help worrying that one day he will snap, and use that gun which the state has so unnecessarily given him.

French

It’s such a cliché that French is a language of politeness that one hesitates to bring it up. But living in a French-speaking country one is constantly delighted by the archaic phraseology and the implicit graciousness of the language and the people who use it. It is hard to believe that people still end letters with the phrase: Allow me, respected sir, to present you my most distinguished compliments.

Of course, French, much to the annoyance of the establishment, is not what it used to be. Try this:

1000 supporters étaient au match de football. Après, le leader du club a donné les job descriptions au staff.

One of the fascinating things about languages is that translation can only go so far, and that just translating words in no way reflects the values of the society which uses those words.

When I first had to apologize for some minor transgression, I looked up the word sorry in the dictionary. Desolé. Desolated??? That sounds a bit strong. But no, that’s the word, and while so much more apologetic than the mumbled sorry which we are used to, it is also slightly over the top in a lovely latin sense. So you may say that you are sorry, and go into the elaborate excuses of a courtier, but everyone knows that it means very little while enjoying the performance.

And then, when you meet someone for the first time, it’s not just “Hi” but Enchanté. Really. And if you feel a bit of a fool saying it, they’ll say it first and you quickly get into the reflex response.

I love it when a burly man expresses his shock at a piece of news by uttering Oh la la! And it is not just the words which are funny: it is the pitch of the voice, that caricature sing-song Frenchness. Such a contrast with your typical Anglophone monotone.

But there’s another word which I love. Nothing to do with politeness, but a wonderful word to punctuate dialogue. It’s often used in the office when someone is explaining something. His monologue ends, and with all eyes turned on him, he pauses a little, and says, “Voila”.

Changing tacks somewhat there are two words which are quite amusing: rubber stamp = tampon. The last book in the Bible, Revelations = Apocalypse.

I’m sure it romanticises things to assume that the abrupt language of emails and text messaging hasn’t happened in French as well. But you can’t help feeling that their language is a bit more civilised in spite of tampons and apocalypses.

Voila.

Sweeping

There’s a strong tradition in Africa of sweeping the ground. The first thing every housewife does in the morning is to sweep the ground in front of her house. We once used the concept of “swept space” to analyse territory which people treat as their own in squatter settlements. We found it was an excellent indicator – beyond the swept space is common land which individual householders do not claim.

Everyone knows why they sweep. It’s got nothing to do with appearances, and everything to do with snakes. Snakes don’t like being visible, and wide stretches of bare earth are an excellent deterrent to snakes which otherwise might invade houses.

The cleanliness of swept areas is a reflection of the internal cleanliness of the houses themselves. They are always immaculate, even in the most difficult of inner-city settlements.

Now take a leap, not very far, to a government office. The ground outside is unkempt: no sweeping here. Inside, it is the same. The floor has not been swept for weeks. The walls are dirty. Doors will not shut properly, and plaster is falling off the walls. Tables are coated with dust. Do not sit down too quickly in a proffered chair: it is also coated. I recall an embarrassing meeting with a Minister when I did just that, and my dark suit was coated with a rich red gilding of dust. The functionaries were quite embarrassed, and hurried to dust me down and clean the other chairs where our delegation were to sit.

The puzzle is, if we are so clean at home, what happens when we get to the office? Is there no one to clean? That seems unlikely: around and within all government offices are many people, sitting down, looking very bored. One thing is clear, they are not members of the public waiting for service. So why doesn’t someone feel like cleaning? Is it a lack of tools? How come every housewife has the tools – admittedly not always the finest since they can be as simple as tree branches – but no one in the office has? Is that it?

There could be another reason. The civil servants don’t get paid, or if they do get paid it is very little. Making the office dirty could be an act of defiance, a way of drawing attention to the fact that they are not treated with respect. If you don’t think we matter, the argument could run, then we’ll show you that we do matter by not doing our work. It’s not a strike, but something like that.

But there’s a bigger question. If this is indeed the explanation, don’t the bosses want to make a difference, and instruct the minions to do their work? Apparently not. Seeing a woman minister, bedecked in wonderful traditional dress picking her high heels through the dirt of the passageway without showing any sign of distress or acknowledging any mismatch between her personal finery and the public squalor, makes one wonder.

Footnote: This may be changing. Since the celebrations for the 50th anniversary of independence there's been a noticeable trend towards smarter cleaner buildings in Kinshasa. Will this spread to the Provinces? We'll see.

Protocol

The word protocol means different things in different cultures: that is clear. In the DRC it’s not a system but a person.

It’s the person you have to please to get an audience with an important person: the one who has the power, the formal power, to even prevent you from meeting the BIG MAN. Or sometimes the big woman. He loves the power, and lets you know that not only does he have the power to say no, but his boss wants him to say no. So it’s no good going behind his back.

Such is the system. A good protocol will expect to be treated with the same dignity that you will give his boss – so don’t speak down to him and don’t try the “do you know who I am?” trick, as he certainly does.

There is therefore a ritual to be followed. First a phone call, enquiring whether the BIG MAN would be so good as to receive you. If you pass that hurdle you will be telephoned and tentative dates exchanged. Then comes the documentary phase: you need to prove your credentials by producing your travel orders. If these or other documentation passes the test, then you will be given an appointment. The appointment will be confirmed by an invitation (see above), which at first sight you might think is for a wedding or other social event. But no: this is your passport to enter the inner sanctum.

When you arrive for your appointment there will be much two-faced grovelling of respect by the protocol, or occasionally a dismissive “I’ll see whether he can see you, but (the President/Governor/Prime Minister etc) has called him to a meeting so he’s only got a minute.” One thing is for sure, there’s no relationship between the reception you’ll get from the BIG MAN and that which his protocol projects.

After the meeting the protocol will be hanging around to receive your fervent thanks, and will give you that knowing look of people who are within the inner circle.

There’s another group of people who go by the name of protocol. These are the people who facilitate the passage of documents through the bureaucracy, or more importantly protect you from menacing and greedy officials at airports etc. Theirs is a much harder task, and sometimes they have to appear very tough to avoid being cornered in an unpleasant bribery situation. Equally they have to know who to slip a few dollars to if they want to get things done. Watching our office's "protocol" at the airport, as he defends our right not to have our bags searched (knowing full well that searching is preliminary to stealing) one sees that he has to become truly threatening with righteous indignation if he is to succeed. It’s a power game, which a good protocol knows how to win.

Either way, you can’t avoid the protocol, and in many interesting ways they are much more of a solution than a problem. Getting all the documents one needs to legitimise oneself has been far easier here than in Holland, Kenya and South Africa. Because here there's a protocol to do it all for you, and that's simply the way it is done. Everyone wins from the system: for me, I'd much rather have him than me wait in the queues. And for him - well - it's a job.

Art Deco

The other night we were having dinner with a friend who was telling us that although her job is not super-well paid, fortune had thrown her the chance to occupy one of Kinshasa’s truly special homes. This had to be investigated, and we wasted no time in offering to take her home.

A small well-treed drive leading to a modest gate suggests nothing of what is behind: in fact the overgrown vegetation make it look like an empty plot. Once through the gate everything changes – on the one side a cluster of new houses built within the grounds of the house we had come to see, and just round the corner is huge house, a no-holds-barred piece of Art Deco architecture. For people unfamiliar with it, Art Deco was the architecture of the cinema organ, a frivolous expression of new-found freedom which the modern architecture of the Bauhaus and Le Corbusier – its puritan equivalent – had brought. It has plenty of curves, funny eyebrows over windows, and playful throwing of different window sizes and shapes on the facades. It was the architecture of the naughty twenties, the charleston and decadence. Art deco was a short-lived fad, probably because in its home in Central Europe the great crash had made building a luxury.

To return to Kinshasa. No money had been spared in making this building special. One can’t help wondering how the money was made, knowing the Congo’s fearsome past, but has to congratulate the client for choosing something more durable to invest in than wine women and song.

Everything is of the finest materials, but designed in a completely idiosyncratic way. The beautiful hardwood door, with elaborate brass fittings would look good in the Musée D’Orsay. The floors are a magnificent hardwood. The main reception room is double height, with little windows in curious places, cunning window seats, a play fireplace, fun and games everywhere.

As luck would have it we came across another astonishing building a few days later. This is perched high on a hill, and has a series of large semi-circular verandas and a flat roof from which to admire the view. It is another truly impressive example of the style. It is built of concrete, and looks incredibly solid; which is just as well because its grounds are now occupied by huddles of tiny market stalls, and the house itself now houses dozen of impoverished families. A tragic contrast with the elegant life style of its original owners.

Kinshasa probably has one of the best collections of Art Deco buildings in the world, and one can’t help thinking that it must have offered a perfect opportunity for Belgian architects to have the sort of fun they would never have been allowed to have in the native country. No conservative, Prince Charles-type townspeople to protest about the ugly monstrosity here, and the architecture offered a style innately suited to the decadence of Belgian colonial life.

Unfortunately, the top echelons of the Congolese government and society have not realised the importance of this heritage, and buildings are being demolished with increasingly regularity.

Not long ago I was at a meeting in the French Embassy which is housed in a run-down grey concrete skyscraper. The walls are chipped, the carpets frayed and the windows dirty. I couldn’t help raising an eyebrow. “But we are moving,” my host said, “to a refurbished Belgian Villa.” The building is question is not Art Deco, but a very elegant Caribbean version of a grand two storey Italian country house. Kinshasa is holding its breath for the hoardings to come down and the building’s beauty to be exposed.

As part of their cultural mission, the French hope that their building restoration will set an example. More importantly they have commissioned photographs of buildings in Kinshasa of architectural importance which will be published when they open their new embassy. Hopefully this will make people think twice before demolition.

To which one can only say, Vive la France!

Street sellers

The other day, on my way to work, I observed a man hammering two nails into a wall. The following day, there was an orange cloth fixed to the wall, and a piece of rope had been hung between the two nails. On the rope was a hammer, some grinding discs, hanging from string, two pairs of very old looking rubber gloves, and a pair of pliers. A hardware shop was being borne.

Day by day I watch the stock growing. Now there is a sheet on the ground on which there are piles of nails and screws. To the side of the sheet are various pieces of timber. The proprietor has also given himself a chair.

The stock is all obviously used: the question is where does it come from? Has he bought it, been given it on commission, stolen it? How come it has taken so long – almost two weeks – to build up the stock? Or is his business going so well that day by day he adds to the stock from the takings of the previous day?

This makes me realise how poor-friendly the streets of Kinshasa are. It is more or less free for all: set up shop when and where you like.

The typical stall has a small table, often decorated with a table cloth, often beautifully embroidered. On this will be places the wares – maybe hardboiled eggs and bread, fruit, cigarettes or cell-phone air-time cards. In our neighbourhood, being posh, there are curio and flower sellers. Above the table is an umbrella to protect the seller from the sun. If the stall sells food and drink there will be a couple of plastic chairs or a wooden bench as well.

Traders manage to find an accommodating person who can store their goods overnight, and when we walk early in the morning we see people beginning to set up their stalls, carrying their tables and chairs from the properties on the street.

Not everything is as mundane. Every day we drive past someone who is attending to more essential needs than cell phones and fruit. A piece of white cloth the size of a small table is laid on the ground. At the back stand five bottles containing potions. In the middle are small piles of other products, small roots and suchlike, and in front is the proud statement of what is being offered. Sexual problems? TB? Liver troubles? Heart not working well? Headaches? AIDS? Come to me and I will give you what you need to make you strong, happy and healthy again. . . .

To someone from South Africa, where people have a somewhat possessive attitude to other people’s property, it is fascinating to watch the street money changers. They are everywhere. Dollars are used for large transactions but you need Congolese Francs for change, so changing money is a daily necessity for many people. The money changers stand with conspicuous wads of money offering it for sale to the world. Doesn’t anyone try and steal it?

Just see what happens to anyone suspected of being a thief, and you will see why they don’t. Mob justice is not pretty.

Not everyone trades from a fixed spot. There are many itinerant traders. A popular one is the shoe shine boy: he carries a tiny platform on which the customer will put his or her shoes, with which he makes a distinctive clacking sound as he bangs his brush against it.

Everywhere you go there are women selling the half sized baguettes which are the working man’s breakfast and lunch. The women nonchalantly carry them on their head in blue plastic bowls, with some unappetising bits of cardboard box around the edge to prevent them falling out.

Twice a week we have an evening visit from our mobile greengrocers – a woman and her adolescent daughter (see picture above). A few days ago we were blessed by the visit of an altogether superior sort: he was selling what he called imported food – imported, so he said from Brazzaville, which is a kilometre away, of course.

The food? Fish, lobsters, and, wait for it, frogs legs.

Je t'aime

Once I spent a few weeks in Mogadishu. That was before Somalia became what it is today: then it had a dictator (Siad Barre) and things sort-of worked. We were accommodated at the American guest house, and fed wholly imported food straight from the US. But these home comforts were not enough for most of the residents: they typically had only one thought: when will I get out of here? I can’t remember quite why they all thought it was so terrible. I thought parts of Mogadishu were very nice, and one could probably have a life there which was no more unpleasant than many parts of the globe.

But our guest house colleagues lived only for the moment when they would finally board the plane to Nairobi. However, there were two problems. First, that the flights to Nairobi were only once a week, and secondly that they sometimes didn’t come. The plane had broken down, had been commandeered for something else or whatever. But the fact was that this happened regularly. As a result anxiety about when one would leave escalated. You would notice people’s appetite would go, they would sit in the corner to avoid conversation, or would scribble endlessly on tiny scraps of paper, no doubt making notes about what they were going to do when they got out.

When you meet someone in Kinshasa the conversation often starts with establishing your coordinates. How long have you been here and how much longer have you got to go? People at the end of their stay often use words like “I can’t wait,” or “only four weeks to go.” They are often surprised if one says that one is enjoying it, and put it down to inexperience or hopeless optimism.

Recently we met someone who said: “this place is hell on earth.” He was being serious. He pointed to the poverty, the collapse of public services, the abuses of power and the breakdown of law and order.

But is it really like that? Maybe it is how you respond to a situation that is more important than the situation itself.

As time passes we have met an increasing number of old-timers, by which I mean people who’ve been here for ten or twenty years, and who see this as their home. Most have been through some very tough times – seen their property looted or confiscated, and suffered all sorts of maltreatment. But many have learned to cope with the strangenesses of the bureaucracy, and things that don’t work. They love to speculate about what is going to happen and find the tricky politics fascinating. They are willing to take the risks of instability for the sake of a life which, when you analyse it carefully, has much to offer.

Recently we were talking to some such who were waxing positively lyrical about life in Kinshasa. That was made more believable by the fact that we were sitting in the balmy night on an embassy lawn, on the banks of the mighty river, the lights of Brazzaville twinkling on the other side. Drinks flowed and everyone was very amiable.

They told us the story of someone who had just spent a month in Europe – a dream holiday you would say. As the door of the plane opened, and he prepared himself to be immersed in the raucous chaos of the airport, this old-timer stood at the top of the steps, spread his hands out in an embrace and said “Kinshasa, je t’aime.”

Missionaries

The Belgians have had a bad press on relation to the Congo. The atrocities committed under King Leopold can never be forgotten, and have doubtless left scars on the Congolese nation which it will take hundreds of years to erase. But travelling around the Congo today, knowing nothing of the history apart from one or two books of devastating horror, one sees a different side of Belgium. It was primarily the Belgians who decided to “civilise” the Congo by sending out missionaries. We hear some bad stuff about the attitudes of some missionaries, and there’s little doubt that there remain some with whom one would not feel comfortable at the dinner table.

But, to return to our theme, travelling around one sees devastated government schools, hospitals and offices. Some are so dilapidated that it is unthinkable that anyone works there. For example, I recently passed the headquarters of the police at a provincial capital. Part of the roof had caved in, the windows were broken or non existent, walls crumbled: in brief a ruin. But still being used as an office.

On the other side of the street was the main parish church. A majestic Romanesque brick building, built with great care and pride. Nearby was a magnificent two storey Italianate school, in the same brick. The care and effort that went into these buildings is truly amazing, particularly in the middle of such a difficult and inhospitable country. These churches must have been built by Belgian craftsmen, though doubtless the hardest work would have been done by local labour who were paid a pittance. But for now let’s just marvel at the determination and cost required to build such buildings. It’s not fashionable to say this today, but these I think these craftsmen were working for much more than money.

Now fast forward about 80 years. These same buildings are almost as good as new, and by contrast with the government buildings, are still providing services. Wherever you go the mission schools and hospitals remain the only fully functioning services. Occasionally you see a white missionary, but they are few and far between: the church has now institutionalised the system of proper management, maintenance and a strict sense of financial management. Without the help of the Belgian churches, this could not have, and would not continue to survive.

There’s another angle to this. The church provided the only form of operational public services during much of the periods of warfare and dictatorship of the Congo. It is respected for that, and one cannot help asking why it does not today speak with a louder voice against the corruption and militarism of the many factions in Congolese politics.

I think I know the answer. When the expatriate missionaries were operating the churches, hospitals and schools they lived in daily fear of being expelled for saying the wrong thing, or attacked by military factions. To protect themselves and their services they had to keep a zero profile. And that has survived even today. Instead of the church taking a stand against the wrongs of society, it simply exists to serve. Maybe that’s enough.

Taking the plunge

What’s the point of living somewhere if you don’t share in the life of the inhabitants – you know, when you’re in Rome . . . etc. But a lot of people don’t see it like that. For example, I suspect that many, if not most, expatriates are only here because of the money. People get paid extra to live here because it’s not much fun. And expensive. So they live isolated lives moving between work, home and restaurants and that’s it. Maybe a spot of golf or tennis thrown in. There’s another factor: most expatriates don’t join in because they are scared to do so. They (we) receive dire warnings from security experts about life out there, and are told to keep within a so-called security zone. Beyond that, it is simply not safe. But. . . .

The Congo, especially in its former guise of Zaire had a formidable reputation for music. Its band travelled throughout the region to great acclaim, and their records sold everywhere. Their music dominated the airwaves. Today their reputation has waned a little, but the old guard are still playing and have a massive following.

It was a concert given by one such former star, Papa Wemba, that caught our eye, and we resolved to go. During daylight we drove to the spot to make sure we knew the way. But during the afternoon before the concert we began to have should-we, shouldn’t-we moments as we confronted the uncertainties of the idea. Finally, we phoned friends who said they’d love to go, and the die was cast. The advertising banner said “Starts at 8 p.m.” Don’t believe a word of it said all those in the know. He won’t start until 1. So we dawdled and eventually got there at 11 p.m.

It is at times like this that you realise the beauty of a warm climate. The performance took place in a space the size of a small European square, packed with chairs and tables, all in the open air. The square was lined on three sides by tiny bars, raised about three steps above the ground. On the fascias above each bar was its name – “Chez Josephine”, “Les Trois Filles Efficaces,” “Modernité” etc. Next to the name of each one was more information, for example, “Staff: Marie, Grace, Clarice”. Thus all waitresses were named. The bars competed fiercely for custom, and after we paid out $5 entrance fee we were met at the entrance by a waitress who escorted us to her patch, and laid out a table and chairs especially for us.

The fourth side of the square was partially occupied by a stage on which was playing an energetic warm-up band. The music was loud, the singers sang and danced, and people enjoyed themselves. At one stage the band leader welcomed the “whites sitting at the back”.

Looking around one had the sense that this was a family-type night club. Yes there were shorter-than-normal skirts, and lower-than-normal tops, but for most people this was just a normal night out. One of the striking things was how smart everyone was, especially the women. When one thought about the dire housing that most came from it was amazing to see the spotless clothes and soignee appearance. Every detail had been studied and designed.

Almost on the dot, 12.45 to be exact, the great man started. His music had a compulsive rhythm and before long people were standing up to perform little solo dances, singing along, waving hands, their faces lit up in an empty grin.

One of the engaging traditions of Central and East Africa is “patronage” where members of the audience can get up on stage and greet the stars. The customary price for this is a small donation pressed into his or her hand. Why not? So, feeling a bit like adolescent groupies, we join a little queue and are greeted warmly by himself,

One of our party was Congolese and her sister and fiancé joined us. We compete to buy each other beer, and before long the little plastic table is sagging under the weight. Sensibly, the waitress doesn’t open the bottles until they are needed.

At 3.00 we decide to call it a day. We drive through streets still teaming with life, feeling, at last, part of the city in which we live.

Camels of the road

It’s a cliché of African literature: the life of the trucker who must navigate the terrible roads, hostile customs men and bandits to bring his load home. The equivalent of the US road movie I suppose, with a bit of the wild west thrown in.

But until you have seen it first hand you don’t really appreciate the extraordinary life that these men lead. The DRC is not famous for its roads. Even though it is about one quarter of the size of the US, it has only about 2,000kms of engineered roads (not tarmac – the proportion of tarmac is tiny).

On a recent trip we were driving on one of those rare roads, a link between the big city and agricultural areas. Clearly a road where there’s money to be made if you can move the goods around.

Mind you, in parts it’s so bad that it can really be called nothing more than a track. But the problem for truck drivers is not so much the bad road but bad trucks. On a recent trip we passed 10 trucks in the space of less than 100 km which were broken down. Now if you were the driver of such a truck you would, if you have any sense, be a good scout and be prepared, so it’s not surprising that these trucks look more like a mobile camping site than a goods vehicle.

Picture this: if your truck breaks down, what do you do? You can’t leave it to go and get help – you must stay with the truck to protect your cargo. If you’re lucky you’ll have a co-driver, but most don’t. You may have a cell phone, but there’s no coverage along most of the road. When you do get a message to your boss, the chances are he’ll have to send someone to come and diagnose the problem, and then buy spares, and then . . . It could, and probably usually does, take days if not weeks.

So what does “be prepared” mean for this trucker? He needs extra fuel anyway, as he can’t be sure of getting it when he needs it; he needs lots of water, which is carried in yellow plastic jerry cans which hang off the rear of the load. He needs charcoal to make fire to cook his meals with, and of course he needs basic food supplies, at least maize or manioc flour, and probably some dried fish. Then of course he needs the basics to change a tyre and mend a puncture because they keep coming, and a set of tools. And . . . patience. You see the drivers sleeping under the truck with no idea of how long they’ll be there.

It’s not all so uneventful. One of the sidelines of truck drivers is picking up passengers. Charge them a moderate fare and everyone is happy. They climb on the load, which is often packed really high, and have a party on top. When you overtake the truck on which they are perched, they wave enthusiastically as they perilously balance on the shifting load. Some of the young men enjoy showing off by hanging on the back, holding on with only one hand or doing other tricks.

Filth

Driving into Kinshasa from the airport takes one past miles and miles of small shops and markets. They are separated from the road by a space that might, at one time, have been a very broad pavement but is now simply thick filth. This is not the odd piece of litter, but real squelching, rotting filth.

How has it come to get into that state in the first place? It’s an interesting story. In the Mobutu dictatorship people were required, every Saturday, to clean the streets in an activity called Salongo. The result – as documentaries from the period illustrate vividly – was spotless towns and villages. But when Mobutu was overthrown one of the first things to go was Salongo. The shackles of oppression were thrown off in the form of – garbage. And while in most cities there would be some form of service to sweep the streets and remove said garbage, not in Kinshasa. So it just built up and up and up: a future archaeologist’s dream.

To an outsider it is hard to comprehend how the man and woman in the street puts up with such filth, and why shopkeepers seemed to do nothing about it.

Maybe things are changing. In preparation for the 50^th Anniversary of Independence Kinshasa was ordered to clean itself up. And, much to everyone’s surprise, it did. What is more, to emphasise the fact that this was not to be just a flash in the pan, they had a parade of little motor-bike driven litter trucks on the great day.

Indeed, driving to the airport recently for the first time since the celebrations, I was amazed to see that the filth had gone. What is more, shopkeepers were sweeping the ground in front of their premises.

But my heart sank a few days ago when I saw how the little garbage trucks are being used. Less than a month has passed, and the enterprising officials have found a much more fun way of using them. Sitting in the back of the trucklets, they cruise the streets looking for (supposedly illegal) small traders. Those who don’t have the money to pay the bribe have their goods piled into the back of the little trucks and carried away.

So maybe the airport road scene is just a flash in the pan. Let’s hope not.