12 October 2009

The political temperature had gone up sharpely the day before, when news spread that the previous evening someone had been killed in the streets by bandits. We were warned not to be out late. We thought nothing of it: after all people get killed all over the world, and why would anyone want to kill us. Nevertheless, we did as we were told and ate early to be back at the hotel by eight.

The next day we were horrified to see the place crawling with riot police. Crawling may be an exaggeration – but in front of the Town Hall there must have been at least fifteen, in full kit including special armour, shields and machine guns. As we drove to our appointment at the offices of the commune we saw a church surrounded by riot police – that was even more creepy. “What’s going on?” we asked. “Oh, it’s the funeral of the boy who was killed two days ago, they’re afraid of trouble.”

It all seemed somewhat over the top to an outsider. OK bandits are not a good thing, but do you need riot police for a funeral?

That question was answered when we arrived at the offices. Two once quite grand buildings stood completely gutted – buildings that proudly carried the name “Commune de Kikula”. Behind them were two smaller buildings had been similarly vandalised.

To get to see the bourgmestre we had to push through another phalanx of riot police. They showed no interest in us, which was a relief, but one cannot get close to such people without feeling intimidated. The room in which we waited to see him was occupied by three clerks. They were making lists on loose pieces of paper, carefully drawing lines with rulers, just like school children doing a school exam, and then carefully writing details of who knows what in the columns.

The Bourgmestre apologised for the terrible office accommodation: basically all their services had to be provided from three tiny rooms, the temporary offices after their premises were destroyed. The trigger for that destruction has been that a student had been killed by a taxi. Apparently this was the last straw (we were not told exactly why). The people blamed the local administration, and rose up as a man to destroy the offices which to them represented corruption, negligence and indifference. On the day of the funeral, 12 October 2009, the crowd marched on the town hall. The staff sensibly fled and within three hours the buildings were nothing but shells. Everything had been stripped: roofs, windows, doors, the lot, leaving nothing at all behind. What was not stolen or destroyed was burned.

You can repair buildings, but the worst part was that all the records such as birth, marriage and death certificates had been destroyed. No copies existed anywhere else so someone needing to prove their identity or civil status has nothing to fall back on. Similarly, the books of accounts were all lost, so they have no idea of what was received or spent during the years preceding the event.

“Today,” said the Bourgmestre, “the family of the slain boy is blaming us for his death. They have threatened mass demonstrations. So we must be careful. What is worse,” he added, “the same thing happened in 1990”.

Coincidentally making the point was the Commune’s register of births which lay on the desk in front of us. This is a magnificent bound volume, supplied as a gift of UNICEF, in which all births are registered. Behind him, on the bookshelf was another volume – no longer in use because it is full.

Twice they have lost all their records. Today there is a real possibility that it might be the third time. One can’t help thinking about the vulnerability of the record books. Obviously they should be kept in a fire-proof cabinet? Or maybe some central archive? Why not make digital copies? No? The book lies there, on the desk, like a lamb waiting for the slaughter.

Once is an accident, twice is careless, three times???

A guided tour

A guided tour

We promise to help a commune to develop its facilities. (This commune is one of nine into which the City of Lubumbashi is divided, giving it a population of about half a million). Communes share responsibility for providing services with the City. They are led by a bourgmestre, while the city is headed by a Mayor. Both men are appointed by the President.

At the first meeting the bourgmestre is dressed in a short sleeved short and jeans. His only symbol of authority is a pair of extremely long, sharply pointed black shoes. His style is relaxed and friendly; he is full of smiles, and is clearly not interested in the niceties of protocol. But when he brings in the heads of his divisions they only speak when spoken to, which suggests that his management style is a rougher than his demeanour with international donors would suggest.

They have two proposals – to rehabilitate a multi-purpose hall behind the town hall, and construct a modern market. It is agreed we will come back on Saturday morning to look at the existing market. “But make it early,” he says, “as I have a wedding to conduct at 10.”

Saturday morning arrives and we are annoyed with our driver because he doesn’t collect us until 8.45. But even when we arrive fifteen minutes later there’s no sign of the chief. We are sat down to wait in the “Secretariat” (one of their four offices). It has three desks on one of which is a typewriter, now being used with blue carbon paper to complete an official form. The tap tap brings back strange memories. When was the last time I saw a typewriter being used? I can’t even remember.

At about 9.15 the big man emerges from his office. He’s transformed himself by dressing in a striking khaki suit with brass buttons. On his shoulders there are epaulettes on which he has sewn silk flashes in the national colours. To add to the effect he has a national tie in the same colours (predominantly pale blue) and a dark blue shirt.

As soon as we are at the market it is clear why he has adopted such striking clothing. He is recognised instantly, and women burst into ululations and little dances. Even some school boys do the same. We pick our way through the mud, and are introduced to the market manager who has a tiny office in a small mud hut at the edge of the compound. On his desk is a tablecloth on which is embroidered in English Home Sweet Home. A shame it is upside down so you cannot read the motto.

Next we are taken to see another market which is roofed, has concrete floors and fixed concrete stalls as a model of what they want. It is little different from markets throughout Africa, but one thing was really striking. There were many second-hand clothing stalls offering garments for as little as 10 US cents each. Even then the clientele were very picky about what they bought.

We were shown around by the woman manager, and then, as a highlight, were taken to the toilet block. Memories of the stinks and filth of similar places elsewhere made me drag my feet, but that was totally misplaced. It was spotlessly clean. She said the women of the market had saved the cash to build the toilets and the takings went to the market committee. A large plaque on the side of the building advertised her role in conceptualising and organising the construction.

Afterwards we sat in her little office, and asked her about the economics of the market: how many traders were there on a typical day, how many stalls, how much did they pay? As our line of questioning became more obvious she became increasingly uneasy. Then in response to our punch line – “What are your takings per typical day?” she became very evasive. She pretended to have no idea, then produced a figure far higher than anything that could be generated from the data she had given us. It seemed a shame that the cloud of suspicion should hover over someone who seemed such a good model at first.

All this had taken time, as you would expect. We are becoming very aware of the fact that ten o’clock has long since passed and ask about the wedding M. Le Bourgmestre was supposed to conduct at that hour. As he takes us to another part of his empire in no hurry – wetlands in use for rice cultivation – he shrugs his shoulders. “You only get married once. Do you think they’ll give up and leave just because I am late?”

How an innocent frolic in the sand led to a dastardly crime

One of the must-do things of Kinshasa is to take a trip up the river and have a picnic on a sand bank. You can even have a swim if you like, though you have to be careful as the current is very fast.

We were invited to do this very thing by the manager of a large security firm which has its own boats. Excitedly we prepare by putting on our bikinis, making a thermos of tea and plenty of egg sandwiches. Oh, and we mustn’t forget the bottle of wine, and should bring the dogs: they’ll enjoy it.

As the agreed time of departure draws near, the sky gets darker and darker and, exactly at the said time it starts to pour. Really pour, as only the West African tropics and Queensland skies know how.

We agree to wait for an hour, by which time it has been reduced to a mild drizzle, and, since it seems to be getting brighter, we decide to go. The boats do not have windscreen wipers, so yellow-clad men are stationed in front to wipe the glass with their hands as we drive.

The view from the river of Kinshasa’s port area is bizarre. Huge rusty hulks obscure what signs of life there may be; derelict cranes and battered containers complete the picture which is like nothing so much as a Chernobyl scene of chilling lifelessness.

We buzz on, our little speedboat carefully avoiding the obstacles, and before long, cold and wet, we arrive.

What followed reminded me of the times when my parents insisted on having a picnic in freezing Scotland: we erect a tent without walls and huddle under it. It may be the tropics, but when you are wet and it is still drizzling you feel quite cold.

Our tiny contribution of sandwiches is totally dwarfed by the host’s spread. Cocktail sticks with cheese and frankfurters, samusas, spring rolls, sausage rolls, quiches, meat balls, cheese spread and cream cheese with chilli sauce; and enough baguette sandwiches to feed an army. Two cool boxes of wine, beer and soft drinks complete the feast.

Before long the optimists could raise a cocky I told-you-so eyebrow: the rain stopped and it began to brighten up. So did our mood as the wine and beer did the necessary. The dogs were enjoying themselves too, racing up and down, frolicking in the water, playing hide and seek among the reeds. We didn’t worry about them, knowing that this was just an uninhabited sand spit.

In retrospect we should have been a bit more careful. Someone interrupted our raucous chatter to ask us to listen: what was that noise? And where were the dogs? The answer to the first question was that it sounded very much like a very upset pig; and we did not have to wait long for the answer to the second question. The playful barking coming from the same direction as the pig said it all.

We rushed across, but found that one of the crew had already run off to investigate. He managed to chase the dogs away and restore the pig to . . . its very cross owners. It was only then that we noticed the roof of a tiny hut on stilts, just over the dune.

And that, we thought, was that. Until, about fifteen minutes later a dugout canoe edges slowly along the shore. In it is a pig and two very serious-looking men.

They demand “at least $500” for the damage done to the pig. We go and look at it: poor thing, it’s only small, and is obviously very scared (wouldn’t you be?) but actually, apart from a few scratches is unhurt. No blood or anything.

The bargaining starts, with the crew members as the negotiators and the manager of the security company handling matters from our end. He starts at $20. The pig people are totally shocked, but come down to $100 rather too quickly. We stick to $20, after all it’s only got scratches. We’re not even sure that the scratches were made by our dogs (although one dog lost its collar, so something must have happened). The pig owners are adamant that they have to take the poor animal for “treatment”: $60 minimum. After half an hour of ceaseless argument – who knows what was said, as it was all in Lingala – we concede, simply for a quiet life, that we’ll give them $40. They push off, very happy. We joke about how they’ve done so well. They’ve got enough money to have a big party as well as a pig to eat.

It is now afternoon. The sun comes out, and other people arrive. Thankfully there is plenty of room, so they are quite a long way off. One party has a dog, which starts to run around, as ours had done.

We start to pack up, wanting to avoid getting home late, but something catches the corner of our eye. In the distance we see the pig, being chaperoned carefully into the sight and smell of the new dog.

Have we been had?

Village Hall with a difference

We’ve been in Lubumbashi for four days, staying at a guest house that also serves dinner. So there’s really been no need to go into town. Saturday gives us a chance to change all that.

We start with the French Cultural Centre which, like its counterpart in Kinshasa, has an amazing programme of events, though there is nothing on today, except an incongruous trade show from Kenya in a side hall. The walls are totally covered in a display of Kenyan clothing, but the impact is somewhat reduced by trays of truly dreadful plastic beads and other rubbish from China. The sales team are simple market women from Kenya, and one has to admire their adventurousness to have come so far at great expense. Outside a man sings a Kenyan karaoke song, greatly amplified, about the virtues of visiting the show.

The French people suggest a visit to an art gallery. It’s located in a domestic house slightly out of town, and we are greeted with tremendous enthusiasm and asked sit down, as a mark of respect. No, sorry, the show doesn’t open until next week, but we are offered beautiful guilt-edged invitations to the event. I’m struck by the fact that the gallery also houses a substantial library of art books.

Next we visit the Lubumbashi Art Market – sponsored by the famous Governor of the Province. Unfortunately its name is a misnomer: it’s craft, not art, and it is located in a remote corner of the town. Maybe that was why only two other customers were there. The stuff was typical of the region: malachite beads and boxes; copper bracelets and pictures; coasters made from soapstone, etc. There were two good things: the prices were reasonable, and no one hassled us.

In the evening we decided to throw caution to the wind and try some night spots. The manager of the hotel thought we should go to a resort by the lake, or one of the older hotels. Clearly she thought we wanted peace and quiet. The taxi driver had much better ideas, and took us around to check out the action. Unfortunately, we were rather early so things were only just warming up. One place he recommended had walls tiled entirely with broken pieces of mirror. The tables were covered with the same material, and the lights were either bright green and flourescent blue. We decided that that was rather over the top, but luckily there was plenty of choice as every single shop in that street was a bar, restaurant or night club. The driver found a bar which was less glitzy than the previous one, the music was marginally less loud, the beer was cheap, and there was no admission charge. We took the plunge.

The place was quite small, with leather-covered bench seating at tables around a sunken dance floor. As we took stock of the situation what was striking was that people were not in their glad rags. It was in big contrast to the Papa Wemba concert we had attended where the girls had taken infinite pains with their make-up. This was more like a pub, where ordinary people drift in and out. There was one big difference: the bling. The roof and walls were covered with every conceivable type of light and surface. Flashing lights, strings of lights, revolving mirror balls, laser lights, purple, red, green, yellow – it was all there. When the disc jockey got particularly enthusiastic he turned on his piece de resistance: four orange flashing emergency lights of the type that ambulances use, and played a piercing police siren over the music. Not my idea of fun.

The music was clearly well known to the clientele. During particularly popular items they would join in at the top of their voices, flinging arms around in joy. At one stage a conga developed and people shuffled round the little dance floor with vacuous grins. It reminded me of the strong feeling I had had before in this country, that without the release provided by music the people would never have been able to bear the horrors to which they have been subjected.

At one stage the power went off and everything went black. My immediate reaction was to put my hand over the pocket where my money was, then to get hold of my beer bottle, but as the few lights from cell phones went on one could see that people were not in the least disturbed. To prove it they continued to sing the music which had been playing and danced until the lights came back about five minutes later.

When we were thinking of leaving, a group of six men sat down at our table who just sat there morosely. They ordered big bottles of beer, 750ml each, and within ten minutes were onto their second round. One couldn’t help wondering what sort of fun they thought they were having.

Most of the music was not much to our taste, so there wasn’t much dancing by us, but it was fun to feel part of the city in a way that you cannot do from driving around. More than anything else it reminded me of a village hall with bling.

Glitz and Gloom

In the goldfish bowl of Kinshasa society, we meet a lot of diplomats and ambassadors. How privileged to be a diplomat, and how glamorous to be driving one of those cars with a flag! And those glittering balls! All that champagne!

The reality for some is very different. When a regime is running into hard times, the first thing to go is finance for diplomatic missions. The DRC’s Embassy in London has to rely on visa fees for its survival. As a result they have routinely done a midnight flit from the premises they are renting because they cannot pay the rent. For politicians for many countries in Africa, being made an ambassador is the equivalent of being sent into exile, often an exile where you are scrimping and saving just to survive.

It’s not just Africa. Greece had hard times in 2009, and the Greek ambassador – a man who is friendly enough, though he could never be called joyous – told us that he hadn’t been paid for three months. The protruding ribs of his dog proved that he was telling the truth. The crumbling walls of some other embassy residences in our street (Tanzania, Czech, Guinea) reinforce the message that diplomacy can be less than glam.

And income? Surely diplomats get huge salaries? We have three Japanese embassy people living above us. They represent the second biggest economy in the world (well, third now, thanks to China), but live in a state of deprivation. They have to hire the furniture for their flats from the embassy; none have got the money to own a car, and the embassy cars they drive are ten year olds, just good enough to get around in.

It so happens that we got to know a very nice young couple from an embassy of a country in Asia Minor, the identity of which cannot be revealed for reasons which will become clear. He was number 2 in an Embassy of three. He lives with his wife in a tiny and grubby flat just opposite the embassy. Their water supply is erratic and the drains undesirable. Their income is so tiny that they can afford nothing better. They do not speak French and feel totally isolated. Their only fun is the occasional shopping trip into town in one of the three embassy cars.

When they first arrived, life in the Embassy was tense. He and the Ambassador did not get on. The situation was not helped by the fact that Madam Ambassador hated Kinshasa and the embassy, which also serves as the residence. It is a very attractive Islamic style building with a large colonnaded entrance, so that even though it is shabby it has some grandeur. She didn’t see it that way and set about preparing plans to “modernise” it, by removing the obviously Asia-minor features and converting it into a chilly air-conditioned cell.

Then she turned her attention to the young family. On one occasion Madam Ambassador wanted to visit a friend, but couldn’t do so because the embassy car was being used by the number 2’s wife. She exploded with rage. The next day an instruction was issued that under no circumstances was he, number 2, or his wife allowed to use any embassy car for private purposes.

The Ambassador and his malicious wife were transferred about a year later. The departing chief left a note for his successor which criticised the performance of Number 2. One of the new ambassador’s first acts (before even seeing how true the assessment was) was cruelly to show the note to the hapless young man and warn him that he was being watched.

This was surely the last straw. Our bullied young man tried to apply himself to his work in an effort to forget the misery of his life, while his wife’s only solace was the monthly meetings of the international women’s club.

A few days ago, she who must be obeyed had a phone call from the chairwoman of the international women’s club to say that the young diplomat’s wife been asked to leave their meeting and return to the embassy immediately, as her husband was seriously ill. We soon found out that it was a cruel euphemism for the fact that he had shot himself twice in the head and died on the spot.

The tragedy was heightened by the fact that he was his parents’ only surviving child. Both his siblings had died young. Could one ever grasp the extent of the pain that they must be feeling?

Meanwhile, how is the Ambassador reacting?

Is the embassy flag at half mast? Are you joking?

Judicial bargaining

Petty corruption is very annoying, and for the poor it is often the last straw in the battle for survival. Corrupt taxation and customs harassment cripple businesses but most survive, somehow. The quixotic application of rules of the road is infuriating. But these tests of daily life in the DRC pale in significance in the face of the greatest threat: the courts.

Everyone sues everyone here. For example, a worker on a building site adjacent to our office, (where a private entrepreneur is hoping to make a killing building offices) was electrocuted by touching some razor wire which had been erected on the wall surrounding that property. The razor wire had been made live by a sloppy illegal connection to the main electrical lines in the street, which had somehow shorted onto the razor wire. So, what happens next? The family of the deceased sue us, an American company (presumably of limitless wealth), blaming the death on us. After all, we occupy the plot next door, so why not try?

Another case: participants in one of our training events are being driven home in a hired minibus. It so happens that it had been hired from a Provincial MP – a fact that might have some bearing on the outcome of the case. The vehicle crashes after leaving the road driving at speed, even after the driver had been warned by the passengers that he was going too fast. One of the people is killed, and another is seriously injured. Others suffers cuts and bruises. Although it was not their vehicle or driver, the said American company feels morally bound to assist the seriously injured passenger who is said to have a brain injury. You do not try and treat brain injuries in the Congo, so she is immediately evacuated to South Africa at a cost of $100,000. The fact that once she is there it is discovered that she didn’t have a brain injury, and the whole thing was a misunderstanding, makes matters only worse.

Knowing that the company has enough money to evacuate victims for medical treatment encourages the rest. Others suddenly develop life threatening symptoms and demand evacuation too. The family of the deceased sues us for $5 million. The news spreads, and shortly afterwards we are sued in connection with a totally separate incident, also involving a hired car transporting participants. In that case no one seemed to have had anything but minor injuries: it had happened earlier and they had seemed happy to have received necessary medical care. But once news of the other law suit reached them they sued us for millions as well. The snowball effect is such that at the present time there are four such major cases.

Obviously it would be extremely difficult, if not impossible, to place liability on us, the American company, in any of these cases. First in line would be the driver, then the owner, then the insurance company, etc. But everyone knows that these either have no money or will not pay up. So we have to spend a fortune on lawyers to defend ourselves, which is very unfair.

In the $5 million case a meeting was arranged with the judge assigned to the case. This is normal practice in the French system.

“I don’t think this matter needs to take us very long,” the judge said. His job is to weigh up the case and decide whether there is any merit in it. He can also act as a mediator between the two sides. We wait for the magic words – “you as defendants have no liability – this case should not proceed to trial.” But he will say no such thing, Indeed such abstruse matters do not concern him today. With an absolutely straight face he asked: “How much are you willing to pay to have the case settled in your favour?”

It’s not just the judges who are untrustworthy. By chance, we discovered that our first lawyer in the $5 million case, was advising the claimant how to draft and maximise the claim. Then he decided to change sides, hoping for a huge contingency fee.

I recently discovered an even more shocking fact. Judges are very poorly paid, but are eligible for bonuses. The bonuses are paid out by the government at the end of the year. These are no criteria against which their performance is to be measured other than that judges who have pleased the government and all its functionaries will receive a substantial reward, while those who have displeased anyone in power, whether in their public or private capacity, will get very little or nothing.

Maybe the law is not an ass, just greedy.

Getting wet

Looking at the massive Congo River as it eases past Kinshasa it doesn’t look threatening at all. But in Congolese folklore the ancestral spirit of water is the most dangerous of them all. It stands to reason (?), therefore, that the rivers of this country are treated with a great deal of respect. The bandits of the Congo, who are definitely not wimps, call themselves Mai Mai, which simply means much water, to terrify their victims.

It’s just because people can’t swim, one thinks, dismissively. After all, there are hardly even many crocodiles. What's more, most rivers here, far from being rushing torrents, are comparatively placid. But recently we’ve experienced something which puts water into a somewhat different light.

On Sundays one of our favourite trips is to go to an artificial lake in the tropical jungle. Around the lake is a very nice path around it along which the dogs can gambol while we stroll.

Not long ago we set out for this lake in bright sunshine. “So nice to see the sun” we agree, “after all the cloud and rain of the past few weeks”. By the time we get there, about one hour later, clouds have started to gather. By the end of our hour-long walk the sky is looking decidedly grey.

“So nice that’s it’s not too hot” we agree, and set about ordering our lunch of chicken and chips. We are half way through our first beers when we hear thunder, and within a few minutes a light rain has started. Soon it gets much heavier and the staff bring umbrellas to protect us while they escort us to the main building which has a large veranda. “No need for that, we’re fine,” we say, dismissively, “we don’t mind a bit of rain”.

We are sitting under a straw roof, supported on bamboo poles next to the lake. A very tropical sight and pleasant environment. But that was before the rain really started.

Suddenly there was a gale force wind: plastic chairs were picked up and hurled into the lake. Then the rain really came. Within seconds our table, with its place settings and neatly folded paper napkins was awash. We had only one choice: to stand on our plastic chairs, heads under the straw roof, and try and keep a modicum of dryness. You start to worry about your cell phone, books and the things in one’s handbag: everything seems to have been soaked within the space of a few minutes.

We were a silly sight, standing on our chairs, soaked clothes clinging to our bodies, giggling helplessly as the storm got worse and worse. It was hard to believe that rain could be so heavy and completely horizontal. Or that it would go on for so long. After a while, when the rain seemed to have developed a propensity to go upwards, we decided to make a dash for the veranda. As we arrived there, shivering and dripping, we were met by the somewhat superior gaze of everyone who had taken the advice of the staff in the first place.

This being the tropics, of course, the rain stopped as suddenly as it had started. We managed to find a few blankets and things from the cars and warmed up enough to eat lunch. Recovering from the shock took a bit longer.

A couple of weeks later we were half way back from the same lake when a similar storm struck. We were driving along a narrow tarred road, through the outskirts of Kinshasa. The road ran along the side of a hill, and at regular intervals there were junctions with roads that went upwards.

Each of these “tributary” roads had drains, and within a few minutes they were overflowing with tempestuous water, which then hit the road on which we were driving. UNFORTUNATELY, the drains on our road were no bigger than the ones of the tributary roads, of which there were maybe ten. So, we had, as they say, a situation.

Our road ran gently down hill. At first the overflow water merely covered the surface of the road, but very quickly the water level rose until we were literally in a fast-flowing river. There was no way of seeing the edge of the road or any features. The water swept everything before it – heaps of garbage, little wooden kiosks, advertising boards, anything in its way was removed. Traffic snarled up.

We were quite scared, even though we were in a massive 4 wheel-drive tank of a car. But what truly amazed me was that the other road users seemed unconcerned. Pedestrians managed to find higher ground and watched it all with some amusement. Little saloon cars, often doubling as taxis, were up to their windows in water, but seemed to be able to plough on. One had stalled, but incredibly the passengers got out and managed to push start it against the flood. At its peak the water was more than half a metre deep, and flowing at a horrendous speed, but even so traffic was moving. There’s only one explanation: they are used to it, and fix their cars so that they are relatively waterproof around the electric parts.

In the office the next day, I told people in graphic detail about the unbelievable storm. “So?” they said, wondering what all the fuss was about.

They may be used to it, but the experience gave us a new respect for the people of this country. The god of water can, indeed, be pretty fierce.

Clean up your act

By now the subject of litter, garbage, filth – call it what you like – will have become rather too familiar to the readers. But kindly suppress your yawn for a minute or two to read a success story for a change.

The trouble is that streets covered in garbage is a symbol of (choose your phrase) a breakdown of government, the collapse of society, crumbling of the economy, lawlessness, laziness, and so on. One cannot but remark on it.

It was, we are told, just such a analysis, combined with a massive level of malaria made worse by drains blocked by garbage, that triggered a decision by the Governor of Katanga to launch his clean-up campaign. Some background: Katanga is the location of massive and very profitable mines and is the richest province in the Congo. The Governor, who is very wealthy (we do not ask where the money came from) leads the province with energy and charisma.

He decided it was time to take action. With the mayor of Lubumbashi, the capital city, he launches operation clean up. So important is this to them that the first thing you see when you enter the town hall is a large yellow neon proclaiming OPERATION USAFI. The launch was marked by the Governor himself, the Mayor and many Ministers participating in street clean-ups. To put his money where his mouth is, the Governor buys large litter bins on which is clearly and indelibly proclaimed “Gift of Moise Katumbi” (himself, of course). The city bought a fleet of refuse trucks and the Mayor proclaimed penalties for littering which are enforced by the “Sanitary Police.” We stumbled across a meeting of the sanitary police, who were clearly chosen for their mean expressions and bad tempers. They wear flourescent yellow jackets and bright yellow hard hats to protect themselves from attack by litterers.

Social control and good examples by the leadership are not enough: until there is an efficient garbage removal service the system will not work properly. As chance would have it, we met a British company which is proposing to enter into partnership with the Katanga authorities to provide just such a service, and which was looking for additional funding. They gave us an enthusiastic presentation, promising to have a modern, efficient and cost-effective system in place within 5 years. The Minister who accompanied them sat with hands folded over stomach, grunting periodically with satisfaction.

The results are already remarkable. There are still a few plastic bags and bits of paper blowing around which even the hygiene police couldn’t prevent, but the contrast with Kinshasa is breathtaking. Everywhere looks relatively clean, even in and around the local markets which are so often generate mounds of rubbish. The stormwater drains are clean, and flooding caused by blockages has become something of the past. The only loosers are the mosquitoes who are now very frustrated by the lack of water to have babies in, and frankly I don’t care.

Save the Children? or kill them?

One of the embassies, which will be nameless for reasons which will soon become clear, decided to celebrate a major national holiday differently. Instead of spending money on an expensive reception, the staff would “volunteer” to start a clean-up campaign in one of the major streets of Kinshasa. They would thus demonstrate how, in a comparatively short period, and with comparatively few people, it was possible to make a difference. This would act as an incentive to the local people to follow their example, to be helped by the embassy’s donation of plastic sacks into which to put the garbage.

Regular readers will not have missed frequent references to the state of many streets in Kinshasa, so will know that this project was, indeed, serving a great need. They will also recall several rhetorical questions about how people can conduct their daily business in such a filthy environment, and why nothing is done about it.

On the appointed day the embassy staff were given gloves and plastic bags. Each was allocated a section of the road and set to work. It was truly disgusting in terms of both the contents, which included rotting entrails, human faeces and the like, and the stench.

They soldiered on. An important part of the project was that this would send a message to the local population who would, seeing how effective the whole thing was, have a light-bulb moment: “Oh, it’s so easy, let’s join in”.

They did indeed join in, but not quite according to plan.

The boys enjoyed it most. They would follow the garbage picker and gibe at him or her:

“Hey, diplomat, you missed this one”, or

“What about this, are you blind?” and so on.

Then someone had a more fun idea. After a section had been cleaned up, they would get a bucket, fill it with garbage and empty it on the clean bit. This gave them the chance to taunt the pickers even more:

“What sort of a job are you doing? Call this clean?”

“Look at this. Come back and pick up this!”

This initiative gathered pace, and before long all their good work was almost invisible.

This was almost the last straw and it was not long before the poor, heroic saviours of Kinshasa’s streets gave up and went home to lick their wounds.

The truly last straw was that our informant caught typhoid from her work. Her gloves had got torn, and she had not washed her hands with the thoroughness that was necessary.

As she endured the cracking headache and stiff neck that typhoid brings she made a vow: NEVER AGAIN.

Getting paid

I was shocked when I read, in an official government report about the state of education in the DRC, a statement deploring volunteer teachers in schools. Surely, that’s a wonderful example of public spirit to bolster the standard of education?

But no, it’s another example of how the public service has collapsed. This needs some explanation. There are teachers who are on the official payroll of the state – registered civil servants you could call them. But because central government will not or cannot enrol enough teachers to fill the need, individual schools also employ their own teachers. Such teachers are considered official employees and have to be paid from school fees – this in a country where primary education is officially free. But even with these additional teachers, there may be a need for more, or if there isn’t, head teachers can often be persuaded or even bribed to make a position available. These are the so-called volunteers. How do they survive? They use the children to till their fields, in class time; they get token allowances from the school fees; they extort bribes from pupils in return for giving high marks in tests and exams, and so on. Quite simple really.

Much the same system has developed in the hospitals and clinics. In that case it is not pay per term, but pay per treatment. There are horrible stories of surgeons breaking off an operation to demand more money from the relatives before they will finish it, and midwives refusing to deliver a breach baby without a special bonus.

The pay system in the military is even more unreliable. In their case wages are channelled down from the senior officers. In other words the generals receive the bulk payment, and it is up to them to distribute it among their troops. So it’s not surprising that generals often pretend to their men that the money “hasn’t arrived”, or that they only received part of the money.

Of course, the jobs which are most competed for are the police and the customs, as they can extract the most money from people. I heard recently that recruits in Indonesia must pay $5000 to be accepted as a policeman: money well spent when you consider the lifelong income that such a position provides. In the DRC the uniform is greatly cherished: when a policeman dies his brother or son takes the uniform and passes himself off as a policeman (without having to pay a bribe to be enrolled as one).

A colleague got a shock recently when they were paying out living allowances after a course she had been presenting. The recipients, without any sense of wrongdoing, immediately shared half their allowance with the senior officer, sitting on the platform. When she tackled them about it afterwards, they explained that he had nominated them for the course, so, of course, had to receive some of the benefits. 50% – that was the deal.

She had another story about a training course. This was a six week course to be held at a very remote police training centre, so they had to buy all their provisions in Kinshasa and take them down by lorry. The staff doing the buying were insistent that it was essential to take a cat with them to prevent rats eating all the food. They found one for her, at $50.

How was she to put a cat down in the books? In the end she decided that she would pay for it from her pocket, but got the price down to $30.

The cat did its job, and she felt that the suggestion might have been a sensible one.

When the course was over, and they were packing everything up to return she asked where the cat was. “Ah, Madam,” came the reply, “we were hungry.”

Middle class murmurings

She had the soft skin and bearing of someone who has escaped hardship, and the accomplished smile of a professional public relations person.

“Are you enjoying the show?” was her predictable opening gambit.

We were at an extraordinarily good exhibition of contemporary art hosted by one of the banks in Kinshasa. The drinks table showed that no expense had been spared – French Champagne beckoned; or if you liked Whisky, some of the finer malts.

Once one got past the formulaic comments, our young host became very interesting. Like many Congolese, she had no reluctance to criticise her own people or her Government. We got onto the subject, as everyone seems to do these days, of what is happening in North Africa and the Middle East. Is revolution going to come here? To answer that question she gave us some of her personal history.

She was brought up in a conventional middle class family. Her father is an architect, and presumably did quite well in the Mobutu years – “à l’époque”, as everyone says. They lived in one of the formerly very desirable areas on a hill overlooking the centre of the city, with delightful views and cooling breezes. Unfortunately the area has since lost its status due to the horrendous traffic jams which make getting there a nightmare.

After completing her baccalauréat she went to university in Belgium, as many of her friends were doing. She was away from home for seven years. She described her homecoming in detail, about how, although she knew where her parents’ home was, she had lost all her bearings. Familiar streets and landmarks had vanished, and it took her ages to find her former home.

What had happened? Everywhere you looked there were little shops, so that rather than seeing a residential neighbourhood you saw a shopping street. The shops had been erected in front of the houses, with the front wall of the house the back wall of the shoplet; erected either by the owners of the houses themselves, or with their consent (for a price) in a desperate effort to supplement their income. Formerly neat neighbourhoods had been allowed to fall into decay; houses showed obvious signs of dilapidation such as falling gutters and crumbling plaster. Clean paintwork was a rarity. The roads were full of potholes and the drains choked with garbage. Every available space had been filled with shacks.

It was like living in a highly congested village, and the people with whom they now had to share their neighbourhood were dirty, noisy and poor.

She blamed it all on the various pillages which had taken place and ruined what had been a fairly vibrant (though very corrupt) economy, and the subsequent flight to the city caused by warfare. Since then, the hopes which had been generated by the peace talks, and the election of a new government almost five years ago, had come to naught. Things were simply getting no better.

She spent last Christmas in South Africa – Durban – with her children. It was her first trip. She couldn’t find the words to communicate how much they had enjoyed it. The wonderful beaches, the sights, the restaurants – everything had been amazing.

“What says it all,” she said, “was that my children cried and cried and cried when they had to leave. They simply didn’t want to come back here.”

Her husband has joined a “reflection” group, one of many. This consists of about 200 people who meet every two weeks and reflect on what is happening to the DRC. I’ve no doubt that the conversation goes beyond reflection to consider how they can bring about change.

“So,” we ask, “are they going to start a revolution?”

“Maybe,” she said, “but if they do, I’m getting out of here.”

School of hard knocks

Is this a country of failures or is it a country of superhuman effort in the face of adversity?

Both.

A little while ago, at the invitation of an ambassador we went to a concert given by an orchestra which consists of members of the Kimbanguiste church. This is the third largest church in the country and has its origins in the DRC. Its founder believed that men and women are all equal, whether black or white. He preached respect for law and the ten commandments, hard work, and love for fellow humans. For that (especially the black/white equality message) he was locked up for 30 years by the Belgians.

As we drive to the performance in a little convoy – the ambassador’s car first, flying the flag and looking quite impressive, and us – we have a sense of getting deeper and deeper into unknown territory. None of us has the faintest idea where we are, or how to get back, but we have our driver for that very purpose. We are surprised by the lack of interest in our posh motorcade. The only person who seems to take any notice is a schoolboy who delights in touching the ambassador’s car.

It is clear that we are expected. As soon as we arrive we are ushered into a posh portico, and thence into a Louis 14^th style living room where we are given a history of the orchestra, which has recently been the subject of a film. A large flat screen TV behind us is showing a British football match. In due course word arrives that all is ready and we walk across a muddy little street to a community hall. A tiny generator buzzes outside to power the few strip lights in the cavernous space which is more like a warehouse than anything else – metal beams support a corrugated iron roof. The floor is rough, dusty concrete. A row of seats has been prepared for us, each of which has a name on it so there is no doubt about the protocol of the seating. There are speeches of welcome, with lots of emphasis on the respect due to an ambassador.

The orchestra is led and conducted by our host who is the grandson of the church’s founder. It has about 200 members, the majority of whom are self taught. What is more, many of their instruments – violins, cellos, flutes, etc are home made.

The music begins. That’s when we realize that everyone else in this vast space, apart from us six, is in the orchestra or choir. They totally fill the hall, and the noise they make is deafening.

If I were to be honest I would say that as musicians they have a long way to go. There were moments of dischord, fluffed entries etc, and the conducting was heavy and somewhat mechanistic. But those tiny flaws could never obscure what really mattered: the players truly loved music, and to them it was an opportunity to enter a different plane. You could see in their faces the happiness that comes from doing something that you really love, and the peace that comes from being involved in something beautiful. I couldn’t help comparing the performance with a school orchestra, where the musicians are working so hard to do it right that there is no real joy: this was the opposite – the music took charge, and the few mistakes didn’t matter.

We were told that they practice together three times a week, and many also practice alone whenever they get the chance. When you think of the struggles of daily life in Kinshasa and problems of transport, water, electricity and all the rest, this is truly amazing. Their clothes talk of their poverty and it is clear that this is amateurism of the best sort.

The concert ends with extracts from Handel’s Messiah. The choir is truly fantastic: absolutely beautiful voices, especially the sopranos, and have perfect delivery. The English words strike an interesting chord, and I find my eyes filling with tears, not only because of the strange coincidence that English music should be their favourite piece (well Handel is an honorary Englishman), but also the sense of privilege of attending this performance just for us.

At a completely different level I am deeply moved by the sheer heroism of these people in getting it all together, and as we leave, after some soft drinks and snacks, feel completely humbled by the achievements of people who have come from absolutely nothing.

A curious afternoon

Episode 1: A Pearl in a sow’s ear

It was just as well as we had taken a lift to lunch as we would never have found it. Our route took us along the dilapidated road used by heavy trucks coming into Kinshasa from the airport. It’s not a pretty one – semi derelict factories, grubby kiosks, litter. Here and there a newly painted wall speaks of optimism.

Our friends know this area well and think they know exactly where to turn. So does the driver. “Here it is,” he says, as he edges into a narrow turning between two factory walls. A vast pothole covers more than half of it. “We’ve gone wrong,” says the wife, “we should have taken the other turning”. So we turn round. The previous road leads to a factory and seems to match the directions given by our hostess. A few workers are wandering in and out of the entrance. “Oh yes,” they say, “there are houses inside”. We look at the overgrown yard and shudder. Time to phone the hostess to get the directions again.

She explained the turning again, and we realise that we were probably right the first time. As we drive along we have a sense of ever-rising disbelief. Can this really be right? It is lined with little shacks nestling in piles of garbage. Behind the shacks are factories – mostly deserted ones. We come to the end of the road. Even the driver is getting scared and keeps muttering about how this must be the wrong road. We are at the point of giving up when we notice a small road going down the hill. “Go that way,” says our guide excitedly, “that’s how she described it”. This leads past shacks which are even more grotty, surrounded by even higher heaps of rubbish until voila there’s a very wide rusty gate, on which are written the names of two enterprises: one making reinforcing bars, and one plastic pipes. Our destination.

We enter this strange compound. All around are huge derelict looking warehouses and workshops. Between the sheds is waist high grass and mechanical graveyards of rusty machine parts, railway wheels, engines and much else besides. If we didn’t know that our hostess was a wealthy woman with houses in Canada, Tanzania, Kenya and Dubai we might have turned round there and then. But amazingly the track ends at a delightful colonnaded single storey house sitting in a beautiful tropical jungle of a garden. At the entrance there two white clad waiters, welcoming us with a nice smile.

Episode 2: Presidential wobbles

We were tucking in to our first course when the Brazilian Ambassador’s phone rang. Two minutes later the Indian Ambassador’s phone rang too. They both had received the same information. Seven armed rebels had climbed over the wall of the Swiss Ambassador’s house (“Oh my God,” shrieks our hostess, “he was supposed to have been here too, but left a few days ago.”) and had attacked the adjacent property which is the official residence of the President. The rebels had all been shot.

The phones rang at regular intervals as more news trickled in. Some fighting had taken place near the Parliament Building, and around the government owned TV station. A military camp had been attacked – they thought they had been trying to raid the armoury. Tanks were driving down the main streets. Road blocks had been set up by the military. The area around the Grand Hotel (where the President’s house is) had been blocked off. Our host phoned his contacts at the airport – all seemed quiet there.

While this was going on the Indian Ambassador had organized his own security staff to meet him at the UN army depot close by, and had left in a great hurry.

Luckily, the Brazilian Ambassador had two bodyguards with him. He said he would bring in another car with two more bodyguards, together with heavy arms. So it was that within an hour we had organised a convoy. The Brazilian Ambassador and his two henchmen, all with bullet-proof vests in the front car – flying the flag and driving very fast. Then us, then another Brazilian Embassy car, with two more bodyguards (“aren’t they gorgeous?” remarked she who must be obeyed) and our host and hostess, finally the host’s car driver by a chauffeur. The plan was to go to the Brazilian Embassy which was well protected, and assess the situation from there.

As he welcomed us the Ambassador said he had food and water for five days, beds and everything we might need. But as an environment it was not ideal – very hot and dark inside – and we decided the best thing was to get home as soon as possible. He agreed to take us home in embassy cars, but first his security people should look around and assess the risk. They returned after half an hour to confirm that the coast was clear, but said they would accompany us home.

The streets were deathly quiet. The gates to the river port to Brazzaville were locked, and the supermarkets firmly closed. There was not a single policeman in sight. We passed two tanks and a few groups of soldiers. At home, the gate was locked and the guards had taken refuge out of sight of the road. That evening they hid behind the huge anti-riot steel door in the entrance to the flats.

In itself, the event was, to me, pleasantly thrilling, and a small object lesson. It made one realise how important it is to be prepared for the BIG ONE, which can happen at any time. Being prepared includes having enough airtime for cell phones, fuel for the car, food at home, money. Was it scary? – not for a second.

But for our host, who had lived through all the looting of the 1990s and other disturbances, it was truly terrifying. On hearing the news, he began to tremble and sweat profusely. He was gulping alcohol to calm his nerves. He hardly knew what language he was speaking. But he said he was not scared for himself, but for his wife. They had to get out immediately. They hurriedly packed overnight bags before leaving the house and stayed behind in the Brazilian Embassy, he making plans to evacuate her the next morning. The friend we had gone with was affected similarly. His cool machismo vanished as he thought about the terrible things that could happen, and he too started to panic. Clearly, their experiences had been truly terrifying.

So what had actually happened? It was, according to the government, an attempted coup. Pretty half hearted, if you ask me. Or maybe just an excuse to introduce a state of emergency?