It’s easy to be bowled over here when things work. The shortage of skills, equipment and materials is truly depressing. I remember the feeling of astonishment when we went to our first concert at seeing a Bechstein grand piano, one that had escaped the dreadful pillages. It was not pristine, but it sounded pretty good; a rare gem in this world of decay and neglect.
The trouble is that awareness of these difficulties makes one patronising. One’s reactions are coloured by “For the Congo . . .”
It doesn’t have to be like that. Last week end we went to a jazz festival, with bands from Europe and the US, held in a street that had been closed off for the occasion, in a not-very-nice area. Indeed, in the daytime, when driving through the potholes and over dusty stoney bits of ex-road one is a bit intimidated by the sense of decay and desolation that the area exudes. You lurch along the bumpy surface past men leaning against the ex-lampposts, staring vacantly into space. At their side foul smelling smoke comes fires lit in oil-drums. Street kids run past and bang the car.
Tonight that is all transformed: the lights are working and once you’ve paid you $5 entrance fee you’re ushered by ever-so-keen waitresses to a table. They’re obviously on commission, one thinks, but so what. You get the service.
Ahead is the stage – small, but perfectly lit, and a band is playing. The sound is perfect, excellently balanced and loud enough to be powerful, but not totally deafening. As each act ends, the transitions are handled seamlessly. No endless tinkering with microphones and no “1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4 testing, testing”.
Apparently the Festival is an annual event which is the initiative of, and managed by a single individual. He gets sponsorship, of course, lots of it, but it is his event.
One of the sponsors is a brewery. Luckily for beer drinkers, a beer war has broken out within the last two months and the two breweries are fighting ruthlessly for market share. This event was hosted by the brewing underdog, and they were selling their draft beer at cost price: $1 for a half litre. There was also a choice of food ranging from barbecued kebabs to crepes and full-on chicken and chips.
One of the oddities of the area is that it houses the most expensive restaurant in Kinshasa. We went there by mistake once, and once you’re in, it’s a bit awkward to walk out again (which we almost did) when surrounded by a bevy of dinner-suited waiters bowing and scraping. The food is typical of what you get at very expensive restaurants everywhere: strange mixtures of ingredients, assembled in a clever and eye-catching way, served in tiny portions. If you eat a normal quantity of food and drink a decent wine it’s about $150 a head. If you don’t mind the small portions it is good, but being stared at by the waiters is somewhat of an appetite depressant.
To revert to the Jazz Festival: this restaurant has a terrace in front of it which is always deserted: the street is much too unpleasant to want to sit outside and look at it. But tonight it was very different. The restaurant had put out tables two deep, and the patrons were really really enjoying themselves, instead of telling themselves that they should do so. Pink Champagne was on offer to add a bit of zest to the occasion – even for non-diners.
The music was traditional jazz and blues, stuff that everyone could enjoy, and because the entrance price was so low, everyone was there.
Kinshasa did its thing, of course: it had to. Half way through there was a power cut and most of the lights went out. Not the stage: the organisers knew better and all electricity for the music and stage lighting was obviously coming from a generator. But the main area was pretty dark. A night club that had opened its doors for people who needed to spend a penny, was in total darkness. Before long candles were lit, but meanwhile a few men missed their targets with messy results. The power cut was such a non-event that no one even commented on it: a big contrast with what happened next.
As if to compensate for the lack of electricity the music stopped and without any announcement a firework rocket/banger went off. Many people assumed that war had started, but then there were more. Soon the fireworks came thick and fast. This was no toy-town display. They were the huge rockets and falling showers of multi-coloured stars etc that you see at the end of Olympic Games and the like. It went on for about 20 minutes, and each batch of fireworks was bigger and better than the previous ones. Then, as suddenly as it had started the display stopped, a band came on, and life continued . . .
Pretty good for the Congo? Much better than that: probably the best jazz show I’ve ever been to.
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