Rumble in the rubbish

The scene: an open air amphitheatre which had been the scene for grand concerts in Mobutu’s day. James Brown and other icons of the pop world performed to the glitterati in this very place. It is set in the garden of the former presidential palace, and to this day you have to pass through a military check point to enter. It has now been restored and makes a beautiful setting for a performance.

A classical orchestra is performing Beethoven, Grieg, Strauss and Handel. The audience includes people of all ages, mainly people from the immediate, relatively poor, neighbourhood, attracted by a free concert. A young woman walks listlessly in front of us, noisily dragging her flip-flops. Two young men, seriously cool, jeans falling loosely over their bum and baseball hats the wrong way round amble across the stage, maybe checking the sound system. A baby behind us keeps up a running commentary, mainly, I think, about how hungry it is. But such distractions don’t matter. The orchestra is used to such interruptions and as they finish their party piece, the Halleluya Chorus, the audience comes to its feet clapping furiously many bars before the end. The conductor turns round to take the bow: he’s a famous German who has been here giving music master classes.

The orchestra is the very same one that we saw about nine months ago: the Kimbanguiste orchestra, renowned for the fact that so many musicians are self taught and have even made their own instruments. At that time they had already had been subject of a film which is currently doing the rounds of the art-house circuit and picking up prizes at film festivals.

Thanks to the film, Germany decided to give them support, and sent a conductor to give them master classes. It was at the end of his stay that they gave the final performance we attended. The verdict? The conducting was very good: you could tell how he managed to shape the music, and bring out the musicality of different instruments. But overall, I’m sorry to say, he had killed the enthusiasm and excitement which used to permeate their music. It is as if now they are playing by the book, pedestrianly. Maybe it is a learning stage they have to pass through.

Four days later we were at another Mobutu icon: the stadium built for Mobutu’s biggest triumph: the Rumble in the Jungle boxing match between George Foreman and Muhammad Ali in October 1974.

Word had got around the Embassy that the pop singer, Damon Albam, of Blur/Gorillaz (who is here to record an album with Congolese musicians, the proceeds of which will go to Oxfam) was going to join in a football match between the British Embassy and the United Nations. Don’t scoff: they are quite serious these embassy footballers – they play every Sunday, and have their own red strip with British Embassy Kinshasa neatly printed in white on their chests.

So, curious as to what this celebrity would be really like, we bravely drive to the wrong end of town and arrive at this sad decaying monument. This is very different from the spruced up amphitheatre at the other end of town. It is surrounded by mountainous rubbish dumps between which people have cleared football pitches. Many of the players are in coloured jerseys, so clearly they are not just fooling around.

Inside, the stadium looks deeply forlorn. The once splendid marble floors of the VIP stand are broken, the roofing has vanished, and the smell of the latrines under the stand drives us to stand at the edge of the pitch which is, as it happens, a beautifully constructed astro-turf pitch, carefully graded to drain to the sides and almost brand new.

We stand around, as the teams limber up, vaguely wondering whether HE will turn up. Children play, and the opposing team are putting on their bright blue strip. The officials, two linesmen and a referee, arrive, armed with corner flags. We look at each other with raised eyebrows: this is really getting serious.

Damon Albam doesn’t come, and at half time the UN is winning by one goal to nil. It’s all a bit disappointing.

The referee interests me. He is so thin, with legs like sticks, that it’s hard to imagine him last longer than a few minutes, but he keeps up pretty well. During half time, he takes the British captain to one side. “Get one of your boys to fall over in the penalty area and I’ll give you a penalty,” he says, with a knowing look.

But his ploy comes to naught. We equalize soon after half time, and since this is the first match that Her Majesty’s representatives have not actually lost, honour is restored and spirits are high.

But at the end, the referee shakes his head in disbelief. “They could easily have won,” he said to himself, “how stupid can they be?”