In the heat of darkness

Our electricity board had been making a weird noise for some time. Sometimes it was loud, and at other times hardly audible, but someone who knows about those things said the noise must be caused by a bad connection, which could start a fire if not attended to. We called the electrician but he didn’t turn up.

A few days later we had been out saying a sad farewell to a colleague who had quite her job because she was in love with someone who lived somewhere else. It was 1.30 a.m. when we rocked up at home slightly worse for wear, to be greeted by a funny smell. One of our Swedish neighbours was on the stairs looking very agitated. He told us that his colleague, who had just that evening got back from some travels, had woken up to find her kitchen on fire. She had a friend visiting from Sweden who was sleeping there also.

I go up stairs with him. The smell is horrible and a noxious white smoke is pouring from the flat. One can see nothing, but it seems to be coming from the fridge. The flat owner has found a fire extinguisher in the stairwell. We shoot it at the bottom of the fridge, but it is dead. Nothing happens. There are other extinguishers on the stair, but none work.

Thank goodness I have a little extinguisher in the car and a powerful little LED torch. The torch helps to show where the smoke is coming from and we use the extinguisher to hit the fire. It seems to go out.

The Swedes decide to ring the UN fire service, asking them to come and check whether everything is now OK. Meanwhile, much to our amazement, a so-called “fire policeman” arrives. This was a truly astonishing event: there is no fire station in Kinshasa, though there are three large red trucks parked at the side of the road not far from us. These trucks look abandoned: there are none of the shiny brass fittings and gleaming paintwork which one associates with a disciplined fire service. Although we had seen these fire engines driving around once or twice, the last thing we expected that night was for one of these mighty machines to visit us, but there it was. It had been called by the security guards.

The fireman, a 5ft 6in master of all he surveyed, tried hard to look important, a job made more difficult by the fact that that his team had neither extinguishers nor water. “I must make a report”, he says, surveying the room with a cooker, sink and burnt fridge, “what room is this?”

The UN fire service hadn’t come and probably wouldn’t, so it seemed that there was not much more to be done. We invite the helpless maidens and their male colleague down for a drink. That takes a while, as the girls decide that their skimpy nighties are not appropriate, and they must change into some more suitable clothes – very baggy shorts and tee shirts which their male colleague lent them.

We drink whisky and discuss the events of the evening. The sense of shock was palpable, and we sat in a bemused trance mulling over events. We wonder what might have happened if the flat’s owner had not come back that day – her guest had heard and smelt nothing and would have slept through it all. She might have been burned alive, not to mention the fact that the whole building might have caught fire.

Then the conversation moves onto the subject of landlords. The Swedes had also been having trouble getting the maintenance done: now we all had a trump card and MUST get our electrical systems checked out. We plan unionized action. It was 4.30 before they left.

The next morning my driver looked at me with admiration. “I hear that you rescued the Swedish women from the burning flat”, he said. I felt it was a bit churlish to spoil his story so said little more than “It was the least I could do.” When we got back that evening we were told that all the Swedes were suffering from smoke inhalation and had been taken to the clinic for oxygen treatment.

I, being the tough guy, of course didn’t need it . . .

Meanwhile we’re still waiting for the electrician.

Another wedding

While we are in the mood for love, this being only one day after St Valentine's, here's another wedding story.

The DRC has managed to make the question of getting married into an elaborate ritual that is so expensive you have to postpone it until you are nearly dead. For example, in the case of the first wedding we attended the bride had five children. The second one had three.

The ritual goes something like this. Wedding 1: traditional; wedding 2: civil; wedding 3: church, wedding 4: party.

This time we’re invited to wedding 3 – except that it was in a garden, not a church and it was called a “benediction”.

Interestingly enough the ritual of the vows, exchange of rings, all that, was a translation of a form of service that would be completely familiar to British ears. So while the form of service, the words and the sermon talked about marriage as if the happy couple were about to have carnal knowledge for the first time that night, and were entering into a completely new commitment, the couple’s three children were playing happily around their mother’s ankles.

Following the fiction that this was the first time that they would share their lives, the priest then went on to give them a lecture about the need for love and responsibility in the long path ahead. But of course, he would be not be doing his duty if he didn’t also admonish the bride to bring up their three children well. No self respecting priest can forgo a little homily about the role of the sexes, so he went on to explain that the husband’s job was to be the master of the household, and look after his wife; while her role was to look after the children, have more of them (what respectable family has only got three?), clean the house and cook for him.

It was all pretty silly in light of the fact that she’s much brighter than he is, not to mention the gender stereotyping, but we held our tongues and smiled sweetly.

We may joke about it, but it was a very nice ceremony. What was challenging about this wedding was the time culture. The invitation said the ceremony would start at 3 p.m. but when we arrived on the dot they were still putting up the marquees. Then there were the chairs to put out, and the food for the reception afterwards etc etc. Eventually it started at 4.30.

Later the same evening was Wedding 4 – the party. It was a completely separate event even though held on the same day as Wedding 3. It was to be held at one of the international hotels, and the invitation said it would start at 8.00. When we asked the bride about what time she thought it would really start she said, with a knowing we Congolese are not very good at time look that it would probably be more like 8.30, so we arrived at 8.45. Nothing doing. Not even the room was ready by then.

By about 9.30 we were allowed into the room. Our hearts sank as we noticed that the centerpiece of the party was a sit down dinner – not at all the casual drinks that we had expected and by ten only about half the seats were occupied. When dinner finally started at 10.30 most seats were occupied, but it was not until midnight that the party really started. Meanwhile, the bride had changed into a different dress so that dancing would be easier, the music warmed up and the married couple started proceedings with a solemn solo, with everyone staring. It ended in a big kiss at which everyone shouted for joy and clapped.

Then they started a dance in which they were the centre-piece while other people did a sort of conga shuffle around them. They were mimicking the sex act and everyone was urging them on to do so with maximum enthusiasm. After that people joined in enthusiastically and before long the little dance floor was packed.

The interesting fact is the degree to which the “white wedding” model has become the norm. It’s as if you have to do it to be accepted socially. The standardization of the world gathers pace – what a pity! But no, I’m wrong. This was definitely different – the world has not standardized on being two and a half hours late.

Love, Congolese style

Here's a special one for St. Valentine's day.

Many observers, i.e. me, wonder at the apparent passivity of the Congolese. Major constitutional changes are made at record speed to further entrench presidential powers but there’s almost no public reaction. Streets decay, there’s no water in the pipes and there’s no electricity, and the oh-so-tolerant public grins and bears it. The police and army are not paid, so what’s new?

There are many explanations for this passivity, of which the most convincing is to do with the country’s dictatorial history which made protest criminal. Better to keep your head below the parapet and at least survive . . .

But in matters of love, laissez-faire is most definitely not the style. As evidence of the power of passion, here’s a story from the local press, cleverly spotted by she who must be obeyed.

Here’s the caste of characters.

1. Heroine: Anne Label, a woman given such beauty, and such charm, that even a saint en route to canonisation could not resist her.

2. Villain: The Pastor Jean Paul of “The church of the faithful bride of Jesus Christ” – that’s right, that is truly the name of the sect over which he presides.

3. Third corner of the triangle: Sophie.

Eight years ago Pastor Jean Paul, married though he was, with three children, fell for Anne and for eight years they shared her concubine’s bed. To the congregation she was a sister of the church who had to be treated with respect. She went everywhere with him (in her capacity as a sister of the church, of course), on missionary trips to the interior, to week-end retreats, and to prayer meetings.

She put everything into their relationship, even putting her money at the disposal of the good Pastor. While sharing her life with him she, goddess of love though she was, she wasted no time in demonising his wife, and finally persuaded him to get a divorce. Once that was done she completed her work by kicking out his indolent daughter who had come to live with them (for reasons not explained in the article).

But she was not the only one to fall for the Pastor’s charms. He not only had the gift of winning souls for Christ, he also charmed the hearts of the faithful. Thus it was that during a seminar on deliverance, when Anne was away on business, he fell in love with a certain Sophie and within a week they had agreed to marry.

Alerted by one of her friends, Anne breaks off her trip and returns to Kinshasa. She confronts the Pastor, but to no avail. The Pastor is in no mood to delay the marriage which is to be held the next week end, and she is helpless in the face of the love which has gripped the Pastor like a leech.

At this stage let us turn to the account of the marriage ceremony, provided by the journalist covering the story:

As the Pastor (not Pastor Jean Paul, but a different one) is about to bless the marriage, people armed with sticks, stones and knives start to make a commotion outside the church. At the head of this gang is the beautiful Anne. The Pastor breaks off his benediction to ask what all the noise was about, and whether there is a need to exorcise a demon.

Too late: the gang had forced its way into the church. The congregation scatters in confusion as Anne heads without hesitation for Sophie, and bites her on her gynaecological lips. Sophie screams out, at which point her lover, Pastor Jean Paul, who had fled, returns to see what is going on and comfort his lover. Before he reaches her, a gang member grabs his phallus, thus immobilising him and he falls to the ground like a ripe fruit. Had it not been for the intervention of some church members who had martial arts training the two would have killed each other.

Thus, in the manner of a pyromaniac Anne decides to embrace the marriage day. Oh! Love, what a hold you have on us.

(With grateful thanks to the matchless writing of Pie Roger Iloko, Le Potentiel, 18 October 2010.)

Rumourville

Friday 4th February 2011

Lubumbashi airport has been closed down!

The Governor of Katanga’s been assassinated!

Katanga has seceded!

These were the rumours buzzing around last Friday. “It’s the beginning of the revolt against President Kabila”, some said, rubbing their hands with glee.

As soon as the first flurry of rumours started, everyone who knew anyone in Lubumbashi phoned to find out what was happening.

Our office was not much help. All they knew was that the town was eerily quiet and the shops had suddenly closed. Shots had definitely been heard from the airport. Two members of staff staying in a hotel had been told not to go out as it was too dangerous.

Two USAID NGOs added their reports to the mix. One confirmed that there was a rumour about the Governor being assassinated, all agreed that there was definitely a problem at the airport.

So what really happened?

There are several versions, each with its own delicious mix of fact and rumour.

One story is that to counter the opposition protests against President Kabila’s changes to the constitution (see earlier blog), “spontaneous” demonstrations had been organised in his support. The Mayor of Lubumbashi rounded up a crowd (all wives of soldiers posted in Lubumbashi), and an impressive demonstration of loyalty had been mounted.

All went well until the women decided to have another demonstration: this time it was to demand pay for participating in the march. The Mayor said “nothing doing” so they went to the Governor, whom everyone knows to be very rich. He said also sent them away empty handed.

This was the last straw, and the story goes that they now had no choice but to ask their husbands, the soldiers, for support. The soldiers wasted no time in demonstrating their devotion by attacking the airport, though much to their dismay, the attack was repulsed by the (mostly non-Congolese) presidential guard.

Another version is that a car being driven too fast had hit one of the women in the march. This ignited their anger, and they marched to the airport to demand action, where they were met by the presidential guard, who shot in the air to calm things down.

Others say that the airport raid was serious, and that it really was the first step in a secession by Katanga, which is the richest province and deeply resents sharing its money with the rest of the country.

As to the Governor – that was clearly pure speculation. Shortly after the rumour about his assassination he came onto the radio to announce that he was alive and well. So that put an end to that story. In response to further questioning about what had been happening, his very unconvincing reply was “Nothing.”

Who knows?

It’s not surprising that people are jittery here. On Friday the emails came thick and fast, giving one the vicarious feeling of being part of the action. For those of us not used to these things it can be quite exciting.

We have to get used to it, they say. Those who’ve been here for a long time recall the horrors of the military lootings in the 1990s, the fighting around the last elections, and numerous more minor disturbances over the years. We are told there is every chance that there will be major violence this election year. The embassies are all preparing evacuation plans, laying in big stocks of emergency rations, and making sure that they have good communication systems with their citizens.

Something to look forward to.

Another wedding

The DRC has managed to make the question of getting married into an elaborate ritual that is so expensive you have to postpone it until you are nearly dead. For example, in the case of the first wedding we attended the bride had five children. The second one had three.

The required ritual follows this sequence: wedding 1: traditional; wedding 2: civil; wedding 3: church, wedding 4: party. These are sometimes conducted over a period of weeks or months, if not years – depending on the finances of the couple concerned.

This time we’re invited to wedding 3 – except that it wasn’t in church, it was called a “benediction” and it was in someone’s garden. Interestingly enough the ritual of the vows, the exchange of rings, and the biblical readings were in a form that would be completely familiar to British ears.

The absurdity of the event was that the service and the sermon talked about marriage as if the happy couple were about to have carnal knowledge for the first time that night, and were entering into a completely new commitment, while the couple’s three children were playing around their mother’s ankles. Following the fiction that this was the first time that they would share their lives, the priest gave them a lecture about love and responsibility.

But, of course, he had to add an admonition to the bride to bring up their three children well. Since no self-respecting priest can forgo a little homily about the role of the sexes, he went on to explain that the husband’s job is to be the master of the household, and look after his wife; while the wife’s is to look after the children, have more of them (what respectable family has only got three?), clean the house and cook for him. Apart from the principle of the thing, this gender stereotyping seemed pretty silly in light of the fact that she’s the careerist, and is much brighter than he is, but we held our tongue and smiled sweetly. Anyway, you get that everywhere in Africa.

What was particularly remarkable about this wedding was the time keeping. The invitation said the ceremony would start at 3 p.m. but when we arrived on the dot they were still putting up the marquees. Then there were the chairs to put out, and the food for the reception afterwards etc etc. Eventually it started at 4.30. But though us time-obsessed creatures from the North were privately tut-tutting about it, (while trying to be desperately polite and not show any distress) no one else seemed to mind in the least.

Later the same evening was Wedding 4 – the party – to be held at one of the international hotels. The invitation said it would start at 8.00. After our experience with wedding 3, we asked the bride what time she thought wedding 4 would really start. She said, with a knowing look, suggesting that we Congolese are not very good at time, that it would probably be about 8.30. So we arrived at 8.45. Nothing doing. Not even the room was ready by then.

By about 9.30 we were allowed into the room. Our hearts sank as we noticed that the centerpiece of the party was a sit-down dinner – not at all the casual drinks that we had expected. By 10.00 only about half the seats were occupied. When dinner finally started at 10.30 most seats were occupied, but it was not until midnight that the party really started. The bride had meanwhile changed into a different dress so that dancing would be easier, the music warmed up and the married couple started proceedings with a solemn solo, with everyone staring. It ended in a big kiss at which everyone shouted for joy and clapped.

Then they started a dance in which they were the centre-piece while other people did a sort of conga shuffle around them. They were mimicking the sex act and everyone was urging them to do so with maximum enthusiasm. After that people joined in enthusiastically and before long the little dance floor was packed.

The interesting fact is the degree to which the “white wedding” model has become the norm. Another sad example of globalization – what a pity! But no, I’m wrong. This was definitely different – the world has not standardized on being two and a half hours late.

Jazzed up and cleaned out

Life for us development types can be pretty stressful. Choosing which sort of wine to buy at the UN duty free store, deciding where to go for the next R&R, and wondering whether to buy an IPad or a Kindle[1] – these are every day struggles which must be faced. And then, of course we must face the exasperations of traffic jams, corrupt police and a bureaucracy that has perfected the pay-per-play system. But, of course, if you can’t handle the heat, get out of the kitchen.

Anyway, of course we’re exhausted, and Friday nights are important. So what to do tonight?

There are two regular spots which compete – the club at the British embassy which does a very nice barbecue and has draft beer. There’s a very mixed crowd there and it’s a good way of meeting new people. And, as a bonus, you can smuggle out a few barbecued sausages for the dogs . . .

Then there is the French Cultural Centre which serves the most delicious barbecued chicken and chips, as much as you can eat, in an open air courtyard under a panoply of acacia trees. The atmosphere there has, dare one say, some je ne sais quoi. Or are we just being snobs?

For late birds, there’s a bar which plays jazz on Friday nights, and it is there that we go at about 11 after a dinner party.

The moment you go through the doors you feel refreshed. The energy of the music and the joy with which people are dancing, instantly make you feel twenty years younger. Looking around at the smiling faces, you know why dancing is outlawed in some strict Presbyterian circles – because it is clearly FUN.

We find our friends who’ve been there for an hour already, and look around at the clientele. Surprisingly there are plenty of fifty and sixty year olds. There are also, of course, some women with dresses that are very short, or tops that are very low, or both. Some have made friends with the said fifty and sixty year old men, who sit with a mixture of bashfulness (at being is caught is such an obviously compromising position) and pride (at having such a cute trophy).

But there are also many married oldies, like us and our friends. Some of the oldies have got adolescent children with them, who sit goggle-eyed, not sure whether to ask one of the spare women for a dance.

Then there are the really young NGO types, for whom the bar is as much part of why they are in the DRC as their work. They move in packs, and this is stage 2 of their Friday night pub crawl. Stage three will be a quieter bar not far away, and four will be one of the desperately loud real night clubs from which they will drag themselves at about five the next morning.

And, there’s a mixture of ordinary locals of all types and ages, white, black and (in small numbers) brown.

The music starts with classic jazz, with a full band. Easy jazz that’s good to dance to. As the night wears on it moves into more local music with a beat that is irresistible.

Our friends haven’t got a car, so have asked for a lift. By two a.m. we are beginning to feel tired. One last dance? Yes, we all agree, that would be great, then we’ll call it a night.

Our friends get up to dance, leaving a nice leather shoulder bag on the table. Their sons get up to dance. We get up to dance – so what to do with the bag? Under the table it goes, and we head to the dance floor. Our friends are celebrating the fact that after more than a year, in which their careers had been split between two different cities, they will be living under the same roof. Tonight is the first night in a new home. They look happier than we have ever seen them. The music gets louder and faster until eventually everyone collapses exhausted, and very sweaty, into their chairs with a silly satisfied grin.

While dancing, we thought it would be important to keep an eye on things because of the bag. We had caught sight of a well-dressed man sitting at our table and talking to one of the sons who has returned to the table. No problem there, but just to be sure, as soon as we return to the table we fish out the bag.

A sickening realisation strikes, stomachs sink and we stare at each other in dumb horror: everything has gone. He tells us what was in the bag: $600, his passport, his credit cards, his I-Phone. Oh noooooooo. . .

The waitress is called, the manager is called and we move outside where we can hear ourselves speak. The doormen, taxis drivers and the like said that the person we had taken to be a friend, or at least an acquaintance, of the young man, had left about ten minutes earlier. He had asked for a taxi, saying that he was in a hurry, and when told that there weren’t any, took off at some speed up the street.

The manager apologises profusely, but asks for our understanding. The culprit was well dressed, and he had no reason to suspect him – he was simply one of hundreds of customers. By way of consolation, he says that sometimes people just take the money and jettison the wallet and passport, so he promises to search the place and the environs carefully the next morning.

We drive home is a state of deepest gloom. Our friend manages to get through to his credit card company in the US to cancel the cards, but the predominant emotion is not so much concern about the money, but guilt. Each blames him- or herself for not taking more care. If only . . .

And then, bubbling through the guilt is amazement that anyone would be so stupid as to bring the crown jewels to a night club, let alone leave them unguarded.

To us, seeing the glances and touches that our friends had been exchanging, it had seemed as if their first night in a new home would be like a honeymoon. That joy was now going to be replaced by mutual blame and gloom.

The only chink of light at the end of the tunnel is that some things might turn up, but nothing will expunge the memory of the terrible moment when the theft was discovered. We just hope that this will not put the place itself in such a negative light that we will never want to go there again. Up to now, it has given an option for Friday nights with pizzazz. To loose that would truly be a shame.

Coda

It is three days later. The victim gets a phone call: “I’ve got your documents. For $1,300 you can have them back.” The victim complains about the cost, but doesn’t say no, playing for time, and not wanting to sound too desperate. He then contacts the embassy security service and they plan to bring in the police and spring a trap on the thief. The thief is persistent, and several days later rings to say “It must be tonight – I’m going away tomorrow.” Our victim knows better than to do such things at night so insists on meeting in daylight, to which the thief reluctantly and blusteringly agrees. The security team, including embassy people and the police, are mobilized; and even though the agreed place requires that he walks alone down a long alley and that he meets the thief in a hidden hut, our victim bravely (according to him) or stupidly (according to his wife) decides to go ahead.

It turns out that the person with the documents is a go-between, but the goods are, at least, the right ones: passport, driving licence, credit cards, cell phone – the whole lot. After duly inspecting them all our victim now says he will produce the money. This is the moment at which it has been agreed he will secretly send a coded message on the phone to alert the police, but to his terror once he’s done so nothing happens. He sits fumbling around for several minutes, ostensibly looking for the money, while desperately wondering what has happened to his SWAT team. Those minutes were, he told us, pure agony, but suddenly the door bursts open and the hapless go-between is arrested. Smiles all round.

Two days after the arrest the victim gets another call. It is the police. “Please sir, we need some money for an incentive. Without that we cannot take the case any further”.

---

[1] Alas, not us – I’m talking of the UN and bilateral agencies . . .

Big men and spivs

Why do rich people get better treatment than poor people? Unfair as it is, that’s one of life’s undeniable facts. Because of this many people try to look as if they’re rich, even if they aren’t. And some of the super rich get tired of the flummery and dress down to show that they’re super-rich – Richard Branson style.

But in the DRC the difference in treatment is even more exaggerated than in other countries I’ve lived in. Being white (= rich) in Africa is an enormous advantage when it comes to shops But the opposite is true when it comes to the forces of kleptocracy, such as the police, customs and taxmen: if they smell money they become even more aggressive and demanding.

But being white doesn’t always help. For example, in the bank I am ushered ostentatiously to the VIP cashier, for which you wait in thickly upholstered armchairs. VIPs are probably carrying massive wads of dollars from their latest deal, or are scared that they will be named and shamed, so discretion is essential and everything is done in a hush. And as one waits one senses a somewhat uncomfortable tension. Unfortunately the VIP cashier is much slower than the ones on the people’s side (counting out all that money??) but the bank hates it when you insist on mingling with the poor. It’s as if they have failed.

But for locals, to look like a Big Man is very important – that way you can get served first, get huge discounts or even give-aways, and even be given a chair and a cup of coffee while your tiresome business is dealt with.

But who actually is a Big Man? How can they tell the difference? If you know how to dress and act like one you should get the same treatment. After careful analysis I have arrived at a formula.

1. You must wear very expensive clothes, and preferably have a label subtly visible so that people can see how expensive the clothes are.

2. Wear fancy cuff links, preferably heavy gold.

3. Wear a strange shirt. It must have something quirky about it such as a white collar on a coloured shirt, gilded collar points, or embroidery on the pocket.

4. Shoes must be very pointy and shiny.

5. Around you neck you MUST have a gold chain. So that people can see it, you do not wear a tie, but you are allowed to have a tie draped casually around your neck.

Now here we get to the important bit.

6. You are never alone. You must have a side-kick who is conspicuously dressed in a badly fitting and shiny suit.

7. His shoes can be obviously worn, and can even have little holes around the small toes or be very worn at the heel. This shows that you pay him very little, but also that he is fiercely loyal to you because you are very powerful.

8. He will carry your briefcase, which must look almost empty. (If it looks bulky that shows that you are not in charge of your affairs, are small minded, or otherwise inadequate). Indeed it can be empty. But the point is that you must show that you have someone to carry it for you.

Now here’s an even more important bit.

9. You never raise you voice. In fact you speak so quietly that people have to get close to you in an attitude of humble deference to even hear you.

10. You do not have to repeat anything – that’s what small people do.

11. You have great patience because you know that everyone is running scared that you will not be satisfied, and therefore they are working as fast as they possibly can.

Drawbacks.

12. You don’t own a big car. If people see that you have a beat-up car they’ll know that you’re a fake big man. Therefore you must park around the corner. Send your briefcase carrier to warn the people that you are coming, and tell them to get everything ready for your arrival. Then you can stride in without questions being asked.

13. You don’t have any money. As often as not they will be only too happy to serve you on the understanding that you can pay next time.

There’s another class of fancy dresser. He’s poor and lives in the low end of town. But he spends all his money on fancy clothes, and dresses like the Big Man but with bling. He wouldn’t be seen dead without a tie, and always wears a gold tie pin. Everything about his attire is designed to attract attention. His suit could be bright yellow in which case he’ll have shoes to match. Or he will have diamond glitter built into his socks, or belt buckle. There is nothing self effacing about him.

But he uses his clothes like a butterfly, to demonstrate that even poor people can be smart. And if it is over the top so much the better. At least he has the satisfaction of a rush of egoistic satisfaction each time he passes the mirror. Look at me – say it out loud, I’m black and I’m proud.

Marine Ball

The US Marines guard embassies wherever they are, and every year, have a ball which commemorates the founding of their regiment. Even for non-Americans and anti-military people these balls can be a nice way of meeting people and having a different type of night out.

The marines themselves take the event very seriously. This is a public relations exercise which matters deeply to them. It’s less fun for the guests as they have to sit through some very stilted ceremonies to do with flags and cakes (yes, they have to cut a cake with a sword and give a slice to the Ambassador), which is accompanied by lots of awkward marching and saluting.

Anyway, deciding that we can sit out the formalities if there are drinks in hand, and in the try-anything-different spirit, we decide to go to the Marine Ball in Kinshasa, 2010.

The invitation was priceless. Tremendous concern was obviously felt by the author of the invitation to explain the momentous events that would take place, and, above all, to ensure that people understood the rules and the need for SECURITY.

We ask all guests to show up a few minutes before 1730 (5:30PM) to avoid getting stuck in traffic and to have more than enough time to be screened. This will preemptively pacify a long wait process to enter in to the room (Le Salon Lubumbashi) where cocktails will be taking place.

The screening process will be before entering the ball room. . . ** Note: All personnel will be screened prior to entering the cocktail room (Le Salon Lubumbashi).**

Animism was alive and well in the text. “Phones and cameras will be allowed to enter in to the room”, and objects are able to serve multiple functions “the doors will be opened back up for smoking and bathroom use”

But the most serious concern was the welfare of children:
**Note: It is understood that we will have a number of family member’s daughters/ sons attending the ball. We want to ask parents to be mindful that even though we are in Kinshasa, the Marine Corps does not condone underage drinking. We can let the bartenders know this information but they may not gain the concept that is known to our society. **

The sense of being in a country where things happen which are not “known to our society” was confirmed by the souvenir tumblers in front of each place setting. They carried the image of a cross-looking gorilla, clutching the Marine emblem above his head, and looking as if he wants to crush it. The menacing nature of the image is confirmed by the slogan written beneath the picture:

“IN THE HEART OF DARKNESS”.

Might the Marines be a bit homesick, or is it a joke? One must wonder.