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”.
No comments:
Post a Comment