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.
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