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.