Fun and games at the Embassy

Getting into embassies is typically a pain. Elaborate questions about who you want to meet, whether you have an appointment, verifying that the person is in his or her office, and then elaborate security procedures. My worst such experience wasn’t even with an embassy: it was trying to get into the USAID office in South Africa where I was due to give a presentation. Firstly I had to fill in forms, and then they wanted to confiscate my memory stick on which the presentation was stored, as well as confiscating my mobile phone. Then, fifteen minutes later, after all the forms had been completed, and I and everything on me subjected to minute searches, they wouldn’t let me it because none of the people I was supposed to meet – indeed, all the top brass of the mission – were in their offices. It took a lot of persuasion to get the guards to eventually allow me in – fifteen minutes late now, and a full thirty minutes after I had arrived – only to arrive at the conference room and to be greeted with the question “Where have you been?”

Obviously 9-11 had something to do with the US reaction, but it has been a trend for ages and most embassies are following similar procedures. The worst thing about it is that usually there’s nowhere to sit while you are waiting to be allowed in.

Here’s a different embassy experience. The British Embassy in Kinshasa has a social club that anyone can join (with elementary enquiry into your credentials and a personal recommendation from one member). Once you have that card you can go there for lunch every day – they do a nice home-cooked lunch – or sandwiches, or a drink after work. They have quite a few social events, such as quiz nights, big screen sporting events, Royal Weddings etc; and a barbecue every Friday evening. In this way it has become one of the main social fulcrums of Kinshasa.

The other thing about this embassy is that it has a dog mascot, called Dog. No one knows where it came from, but rumour has it that its owner abandoned it about three years ago and it found its way into the Embassy compound. It has a very friendly disposition, and, as you’d expect, has a totally gluttonous time every Friday night. During the week it gets fed in a rather haphazard way by various people in the Embassy.

But it’s never wanted to restrict its life to the Embassy compound, so, of an evening, it likes to take a stroll along the river banks where it enjoys socialising with other dogs.

But life is changing for everyone, Dog included. There are rumours that the securocrats are very worried about the security situation, especially in light of possible troubles around the forthcoming elections. So, the embassy has installed strict new security gates based on an air-lock type of system when you’re entering, with turnstiles when you leave. They are also worried about the risks of the club membership and mutterings about tightening that up as well.

The new security gates pose a big problem to poor Dog. Gone are the days when he could just slip in and out. He can’t use the turnstile, and the double doors of the airlock system are quite scary for him. Now he has to join the queue like everyone else, and try to make his presence known. Unfortunately, he’s not the type to bark, so he just hangs around waiting for someone to do the right thing and say “after you, mon chien”.

If they do tighten up the club membership and entry on Friday nights it’ll be a big loss. But maybe, like Dog, they’ll find a way of adapting to the new rules.

Cow Boys

In these days of factory farming, we often forget what cowboys were for, and that getting cattle to market can be quite a complicated and slow process, especially in a country like the Congo. It’s one thing for the local farmer to put 20 cattle into a truck to take them to the local slaughterhouse ten miles away, but when there’s no slaughterhouse closer than about 250 kilometres it is a different story.

We came across this problem recently: Kolwezi has an ancient slaughterhouse. Though it is still used occasionally, it is truly horrifying in its lack of hygiene and respect for the feelings of the victims. There are no bulk cold storage facilities either. As a result, farmers in that region send their cattle all the way to Lubumbashi, where prices are higher and proper facilities exist.

But how? They may not have horses, but they can get boys, literally boys, whom they can hire for a dollar a day to drive the hapless cattle along the road all the way to Lubumbashi. They get together a gang of about twenty such boys, and tell them they’ll get paid when they reach the other end.

They have a difficult job, the boys, walking along these roads, having to find a village to get food and sleep at during the night, looking after a bunch of cross cattle who can’t see any reason why they should be made to walk so far, with hardly a scrap of grass to graze. They have to watch the cattle every inch of the way – if one goes missing it would be hard to imagine a punishment severe enough in the eyes of the farmer.

I believe it takes about ten days for them to complete the journey. By the time they reach their destination, the cattle have lost a lot of weight but at least there’s a market for them. But you can’t help wondering whether the suffering of both boy and beast is worth it.

Stability

We have a presidential and parliamentary election scheduled for 28^th November. The experts say there is no hope that the electoral Commission will ready for that date, but for now, that’s the date everyone is working towards.

President Kabila’s electoral slogan is – to paraphrase – more of the same, which brings a wry smile to most people’s faces. Kabila’s strategy is to emphasize that political stability is bringing economic growth, and certainly, in the two years I’ve been in Kinshasa, one can see real improvements. The most remarkable changes have been the roads. We even have traffic lights for the first time.

But also, all over Kinshasa buildings that were derelict are being replaced or rebuilt. Construction has started on a new project called “La Cité du Fleuve” which involves building an artificial island in the River Congo on which will be built a Dubai-style exclusive town. There are also glossy skyscrapers being built by middle eastern money, on some of which the American Embassy has placed an official embargo because they say the financiers are linked to Hezballah.

There are new restaurants which would not be out of place in any city in the world, even though the cuisine is perhaps more straightforward.

Outside Kinshasa the development is less obvious, but many main roads are being rebuilt and places that had been inaccessible for decades are suddenly on the map.

This development has taken place in spite of vacillation from the throne, as Kabila’s political power is being tested. But at least there has been political stability for five years.

But is this enough? For example, if you are a civil servant, getting no more than a pittance (around $80 a month at the highest level), which is often paid late, how do you feel? And, nice those these symbols of progress might look to the residents of Kinshasa, for most people in the DRC what has really changed?

For some people things have gone backwards. Our driver went home for his father’s funeral to a village in the north of the country. He was shocked to see that roads which were open and functioning six years ago were now impassable due to broken bridges and encroachment by the jungle.

And as for safety and security, I’ve just seen the fortnightly report from our office in Bukavu which mentions that:

· The offices of the electoral commission in the town (which is the capital of the Province of South Kivu) were burnt down by arson about three weeks ago. No alternative office has been found, so they must survive in the ground floor where the damage was less severe. The fire damage has made the building very unsafe, and the walls are dangerously cracked. And, since there’s no roof, water is dripping through the ceiling.

· Last week the army attacked the troops of a warlord in a nearby rural area which led to mass flight by civilians into the towns.

· Someone who had refused to allow a soldier to “confiscate” his mobile phone had been shot dead by the soldier. The next day the students revolted and the local market was pillaged in the ensuing riots.

· The minibus of a local NGO was attacked by armed men, and seven men suspected of being Tutsi were killed with machetes.

· In another small town the principal of an elementary school principal and her three children were killed, allegedly by Rwandan Hutu militants.

· Two passengers in a car crossing a bridge between two districts which is protected by an armed guard were beaten by armed masked men, and had a substantial sum of money stolen.

That’s two weeks worth of news from the area around one town.

So if Kabila is promising more of the same, you can see why many people won’t vote for him.

Opportunity knocks

Are you under 35? With a degree in something like African Studies, Development Studies, or maybe Sociology? Then there’s an exciting opening for you in the Congo.

There are literally hundreds of development agencies and charities working here, all looking for people who are adventurous. There’s not much need for highly technical skills (Médecins sans Frontières being the obvious exception), just a willingness to take risks and turn your hand to whatever’s needed.

And you can have fun. We were at a music event at the French Cultural Centre last week which was swamped by the said young enthusiasts – and enthusiasts they are, with work, with drink, and with each other. You go to restaurants, to night clubs, to walk along the river: they’re there.

It’s easy to distinguish them from commercial people or spouses. The women (who seem to be in the majority in this game) have straight, shoulder length hair and glasses. The men may have a beard, and will favour a flamboyant type of shirt. Sandals are, of course, the standard footwear. Jeans are predictably normal. Conversation between them (as, I suppose between us oldies) has a formula to it, to allow you to place someone in the right slot: who do you work for? What do you do? How long are you here for?

Mind you, there’s stiff competition. The ones who win are those who live in the most remote and/or dangerous areas, have been here longest, or who have a personal relationship with some dangerous warlord, or Government Minister (any difference?).

There are lots of such people in Kinshasa but the biggest number are in the conflict zones such as Goma. They get paid much more than they would in their home country – that goes without saying. But they’re expected to put up with modest housing and often to survive without any form of personal transport.

Many work in areas which are very rural, interact with villagers, learn a few words of the local language and emerge changed for life by the warmth of the people they work with and help, as well as the atrocities that they see. These are experiences which force them to mature unusually quickly, for better or worse. But they are also opportunities that they wouldn’t have missed for the world.

There’s another sort of person here: the careerist. They are often, but not necessarily, the older ones who are in a long term career in the foreign service and the like. They are very different. They quickly become professional whiners so as to extract the maximum of creature comforts from their employer. If the tiniest thing goes wrong they go ballistic. They make the smallest incident into a catastrophe, and make it sound as if they are being treated like dirt. For example, a single mother with a one year old, who lived in a two room flat in London before coming here, was offered a two bedroom (more than twice the size of her former abode) house at the Embassy. Totally unacceptable, she says, and eventually negotiates a four bedroom house (so that there’s somewhere for her visitors to stay) at, wait for it, $10,000 a month. That’s taxpayers’ money. Oh, and of course, she has to have new curtains . . . And then there’s the case of a man who refused to go to work because that would require him leaving the house. His problem was that the lock on an outside security gate was not working, ignoring the fact that they had a stout main door, that the property was guarded by two security guards and no one had EVER had a burglary. A promise that the lock would be repaired that day was not enough.

One can’t help feeling that these soppy careerists, whose only concern is personal safety and salary maximisation, would be much happier if they learned something from the young ones.

Event Planning

If a project, carefully designed years ago, comes unstuck because the government does not cooperate, the staff of the agency are the ones who will be blamed, not the government. This has allowed a peculiar system of quid pro quo in relationships with the government to emerge in the Congo. It’s based on the extraordinary but accurate perception that donors need their beneficiaries more than the beneficiaries need the donor, so we cannot afford to alienate them.

This sets in train a fascinating series of bargains.

You want to give us money? OK we’ll agree, provided you also rehabilitate our offices. . . and we need computers and a photocopier. You agree? Good. We also need a car. You won’t give us a car? Then we must seriously reconsider our position.

Some days elapse.

Very well, we will accept your offer, but will need you to pay the salary of a secretary to prepare the monthly reports that you are demanding.

This is a true story, and even to this day, the fact that no car was given provides the beneficiaries with a sense of justifiable grievance.

You didn’t give us a car, so we don’t see why we should co-operate. Don’t be surprised if we keep your big cheese waiting when he comes to meet us on one of his visits from London.

Somehow our project has avoided this sort of blackmail, partly because it does not give commodities and partly because our events do not require much money. That was, until last week.

The Government came to us asking for help in disseminating information about decentralization. In particular, they wanted to involve the Universities. We agreed and set about engaging consultants to lead the day-long debates. Terms of reference were prepared which the Universities accepted.

Then came a stand-off.

They said they had only agreed to hosting the event on the basis of the usual arrangements. It is normal, they claimed, for anyone hosting a function at the University to pay for the support which the university must provide. For example, who will pay for the security guards? You must have security guards to protect the premises and make sure that the students don’t get out of hand. Yes, of course security guards are employed by the University, but they should be given a bonus for helping with an important event like that. And, of course, hostesses: people to usher the VIPs such as Professors, to their seats. How can you run an event without hostesses? And since there must be a report, we will need at least two rapporteurs. Then, of course, a University professor must receive an honorarium to be the Chairman of the proceedings. You cannot expect him to sacrifice his valuable time to an event like this without getting paid. What do you mean, they should want to participate of their own free will, in the spirit of promoting learning? Why? That doesn’t make sense unless they will get paid more.

No, we say stiffly, we don’t do that.

But wait, what is this? The University refers us to the terms of reference which, they say, include all these things. Impossible we claim: the terms of reference say nothing about hostesses. You’re wrong, they say, and there it is, in black and white. Hostesses, security guards, the lot.

Gradually the penny drops. After everything had been approved, someone had cunningly changed the terms of reference and added a list of things that we were supposed to provide: you guessed it, hostesses, security guards, rapporteurs etc etc. They can now, with righteous indignation, claim that we have gone back on our word by refusing to provide hostesses, security guards, you name it . . .

I wonder who thought of that trick? Was this the act of someone creeping into the offices, and under the cover of darkness changing the terms of reference, and sending them by a covert email? You never know.

But before I had had a chance to give a Germanic “Nein”, I was warned that this was a battle better ignored. The University would never have given in.

What’s more we had promised it in our Work Plan which had been approved by our respected funding agency. How bad would it look if we failed to do what we promised?

Slumming it with Spaniards

We get an ivory board invitation, beautifully printed in italic script: would we kindly please the Spanish Ambassador by attending a production of The Siege of Leningrad – a play by José Sanchis Sisterra. The blurb attached to the invitation pointed out that he was a playwright who worked in the Samuel Becket/Kafka tradition, and the play was an important, world-renowned piece of theatre.

The venue is called Tarmac des Auteurs. A little map showed us that it was not far. We battled through the hectic traffic for half an hour. During most of that time we were stationary as we competed to get over a bottleneck bridge, now down to one lane due to roadworks. It was a game of chicken: the person who dared, who drove most threateningly and closest to other cars, would win that move. We glare at each other, planning our strategy as we see cars in front beginning to move, promising a space into which we can dart if we’re quick enough. It reminded me of American football – the huddles followed by a brief episode of drama, only to be followed by another huddle. We love it when a particularly aggressive vehicle overtakes on the wrong side but gets blocked by a lamppost, and meekly has to supplicate fellow drivers for a space. After the bridge there’s one turnoff from the main road and we are instantly surrounded by the street life of the African “Cité” – people sitting outside makeshift bars, loud music pumping from stalls selling phone cards, little corner shops with their wares on display outside, and people everywhere. And cars, driving too fast.

Unfortunately the streets didn’t have names and the map wasn’t as accurate as it looked, so it was easy to miss the turnoff. Which is what we did: three times. Finally, we spotted some cars down one unlikely street and someone sitting in a chair at the side of the road confirmed was THE ONE, so we took the plunge. Unfortunately it was no wider than three metres, and further restricted by piles of soil due to some road works. We didn’t get far: after about 100 metres there were cars parked both sides of the road in such a way that it was impossible to go any further. One of the residents told us that the best way was to go round the block and approach it from the other side. After a painful and prolonged reverse, we parked and decided to walk the rest – not easy due to the fact that the “road” was builder’s rubble, and where it wasn’t it was mud – amidst a strong smell of rotting garbage.

We knew we had arrived when we came across quite a few cars with CD plates. But even then we missed the hole in the wall. After feeling pretty silly having to ask again, someone showed us the spot: it was nothing more than a blank doorway above which, in delightfully naïve sign writing, were written the magic words Tarmac des Auteurs.

We were warmly welcomed – you’re just in time, he said – and after they had carefully checked that we had to correct invitation, we were ushered over the little stage into some of the few remaining empty seats.

This was surely the most unlikely theatre we had ever been to. In total it was little bigger than a smallish shop. At one end, on a raised dais, were about 50 plastic chairs, while at the other, was a stage raised to about the same level. The legs of the audience in the front row of seats touched the stage. Behind the stage was a washing line from which some pieces of plastic sacking were hung. On the left, squeezed into the space between the front seats and the wall was the sound and lights man, squatting on the floor.

It was very lucky that it didn’t rain, because although the audience was protected from the rain by a corrugated iron roof, the stage was open to the stars. Under the roof were the few stage lights, suspended from a variety of wooden poles.

And from this extraordinarily deprived environment, and amidst the stink of the surroundings, came a performance that was truly amazing. The acting was flawless, the diction was perfect, and the sounds and lights worked as they should. From the point of view of the audience, the only problem was that since the seats weren’t raked we sometimes couldn’t see what was happening on the stage. But that didn’t trouble any of us very much, and when the end came the applause went on and on. The two actresses were, I think, amazed that they had provoked such enthusiasm, and giggled helplessly as they did their bows.

The proprietor, the one who had welcomed us at the door, ended the evening by an announcement of future attractions. Music shows, poetry, dance, theatre. Performers were to come from all over the DRC, Cameroon and Kenya. Something every week. We were amazed that he, with such a humble venue, could attract such famous talent.

He ended his presentation by pointing out that their programme only went until the middle of November.

“And then,” he ended, “we have our elections. There are many who will dispute the results, so some of us may not be here in January. But for those who are still alive, you will receive our programme at that time.” He was not joking.

The Spanish Ambassador wriggled in his chair with embarrassment. We nodded wisely, half excited to be living in such a volatile and dangerous environment, half dreading the terrible possibility of warfare that has engulfed the Congo so many times before.

Bottomless pit

There’s a standard joke in Kinshasa.

“Why does the fire station in Kinshasa have no roof?”

“I don’t know, why does the fire station in Kinshasa have no roof?”

“Because it burnt down.”

True.

And there it is for all to see, just opposite a small park in the centre of town, its only advertisement being the three faded red fire engines parked amidst the rubble.

The subject of fire is a sensitive one in the office these days. Five representatives from the single nationalised insurance company had come to demand $30,000 for the annual fire insurance policy for our five offices. “And,” the boss asked, “if we have a fire?” The response: helpless laughter, because they know that the point of establishing an insurance company is to collect money, not a pay it out. Why else would they be working there? My boss didn’t see the joke.

A colleague recently had a small traffic accident. It cost about $1,000 to repair the damage, and she was determined to claim. After all, all motorists have to pay about $450 a year for insurance, whether they like it or not, so she was entitled to do so. What follows is a reconstruction of the process concerning my colleague’s claim. Her side of the story is factual; what happened behind the scenes can only be speculation.

The scene: the Kinshasa office of the insurance company. It is 4.30 p.m. in a large office with about 25 simple wooden desks. Only about three are occupied by staff who are idly pushing around sheets of paper waiting for their colleagues to return.

Enter about 15 people, clearly excited. The workers jump to their feet: “How much?”

“Wait: don’t be greedy. Give us time!”

They sit down and count the takings from the road block they have been conducting to trap defaulting customers. The leader of the team gets to his feet, and hushes the expectant crowd with his arms. Silence comes quickly.

“We managed to get $1000 out of someone,” he said, “he was so scared. Most of them only gave $50 or $100 to avoid paying, but we’ve done well.” He consults his notes. “Let’s see . . . we’ve got a total of $18,700. That makes $500 each for today, $3,000 for me for organising everything and paying the police to help us. That’ll leave enough for the people upstairs who are getting so difficult these days. ”

As he’s sitting down to divide up the cash, one of the clerks comes up to him, speaking in an urgent whisper.

“Chief, that woman was in here again today. She’s demanding payment.”

“Send her away to get police statements.”

“We did that.”

“Make her bring photos of both cars.”

“She already had some.”

“Get a letter from immigration to confirm she’s here legally.”

“She even got that, I don’t know how she knew we would ask for it.”

“Tell her we haven’t got any money.”

“We’ve done that too. But she just stands and argues. It’s upsetting our customers.”

“Ok, Here’s the deal. We’ll give her $150 a month for eight months, that’ll keep her out of our hair.”

And so it came to pass, as they say . . . She’s since left the country, so someone else from the office has to collect the money once a month. Five months to go.