The other night we went to a little bar, at a junction with the main Boulevard running though Kinshasa. Nothing remarkable in that, you might think, until you know that the bar is a shack – yes, a rusty corrugated iron shack built literally under a massive 16 storey tower block of offices, raised on stilts in classic 1970s style. Just how the owner managed to negotiate that little corner of the property is something one can only marvel at, but there it is. Inside The Shack – for that is its name – is a main bar with a TV playing in the corner, and bottles of spirits set against a mirrored wall. A couple of posters of Paris give it the necessary sense of chic. Off the main bar are several smaller rooms: some smart – with a wine rack, for example, others just plain, and others more suitable for whispering sweet nothings to your paramour away from prying eyes.
This feat of disguising the pearl of the bar with the sow’s ear of the shack, made me think about the many other little bars one sees. The Congolese have a knack of transforming a grotty space off the pavement into somewhere you want to pass the time. The means at their disposal are minimal, a tree, a beach umbrella or a couple of pot plants, but they have the touch to make it seem special.
I’ve written a lot of critical stuff about the DRC. It’s so in-your-face disastrous in most ways. But in spite of all the adversity and poverty the Congolese have an amazing ability to make the most of a difficult situation.
For example, the poorest women emerge from the mud and grime of their environment wearing the most beautiful, and spotless, traditional outfits: neatly tailored blouses and long bum-hugging skirts.
Main streets are lined with little shops, each of which proclaims its identity with a religious slogan, “Jesus is Lord” or “Lord Bless Us” or “Matthew 3: 14” etc, or maybe the name of a prophet Eben Ezer (always two words), or occasionally something more thought provoking such as Salon Apocalypse. Beneath the name there’s always an optimistic list of what they sell, such as “Clothing, hardware, soft drinks and other goods” but do not be disappointed if the list outside is different from what’s inside. And then, the crowning glory for each shop is the sign-writing. A coquettish girl beckons you into the clothing shop; on the walls of the hardware shop is a rake, each prong painted faithfully, a gleaming shovel, and a hammer which looks indestructible. The pills on the walls of pharmacies, though 50 times life size, look more authentic than the ones for sale inside.
But most amazing of all are the cars and minibuses. A large proportion of them have come from the rubbish heaps of Europe, sold there as being uneconomical to repair. Ten years later, at the hands of untrained, but immensely resourceful mechanics, they still going. How they do it is anyone’s guess. I recently watched in open-mouthed amazement as a pair of grubby mechanics changed the gearbox and engine of a car which one of the office staff had bought. They worked in the office garden, with tools no more special than spanners and screwdrivers – laying the parts apparently haphazardly in the sandy soil – but completed the job in two days. He probably paid them no more than $20 a day each.
Many of the vehicles have had so many bumps that there’s not a flat surface to be found. A lot of them are cast-off tradesmen’s vans, and still have their proprietor’s logos and advertising on the side. There’s something very odd about seeing a German central heating company’s van driving around Kinshasa.
It is truly difficult to understand how people cope. I’ve never been in a place where the basic rules of economics seem so difficult to apply. Where does the money come from and how do people survive?
But a bigger puzzle is how they manage to smile so much.
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