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.