The morning after . . .

Having an official election observer in the family, we can give an authentic view of what happened in some polling stations. The day before voting starts she is given her official card and an embassy tee shirt to proclaim her role. Armed with two bottles of water, numerous nibbles for sustenance and a large handbag as a weapon, she and her team-mate are driven at 5 a.m. to the first of the polling stations, where the embassy driver will vote.

The first thing they notice is that all the electoral banners and posters, which had until yesterday covered the town from top to toe, have gone. Every one. No one seems to know whose job is was to remove them, but they have been strikingly efficient.

The polling station opens fifteen minutes late, but this creates no problems. In any case there aren’t huge crowds waiting. The station is, like most others, a school, and voters are divided up alphabetically, so that everyone between A and C goes to classroom 1, D and F to classroom 2, etc. The names are on lists stuck onto the wall, so that voters can also check whether they are, in fact, registered to vote at this location. It works well. The staff are courteous, the voting is not as slow as feared, and the queues move smoothly. One of the interesting things was that the format of the voting papers had been changed. Even though all the candidates had been told that the voting papers would be up to 50 pages long, and posters all provided the page number as well as the candidate number, in fact the voting papers were only about 25 pages, printed on tabloid-sized paper. Voters were being told to fold their papers in such a way that their vote was on the outside. Much more sensible.

The driver having voted, they go to another polling station, and a third. Then they try a totally different area, subconsciously hoping to find something a bit more news-worthy than a well-run election. The only untoward thing is that one woman is seen at two stations. Was she voting twice? One can’t be sure.

They meet some official EU observers: very seriously following the 30 page instruction manual that they have been given. And there are party observers too, but since they don’t carry any official badge it’s hard to be sure who is who.

At midday, they decide to have a break, returning in the late afternoon to observe how the closure of the voting stations – supposed to be at 5 p.m. (before nightfall) – is being handled. This typically creates problems if people are shut out before they have voted.

The scene now is totally different. The first school they went to is now the scene of riots. They are told that a large black jeep, without number plates and with darkly tinted windows, had driven into the compound. Armed men (dressed, of course, in black) had then stuffed the ballot boxes with voting papers, and left. You can believe that if you like – but certainly the crowd did, and they were baying for blood. They, in turn, had raided the station and grabbed voting papers which they then tore up and stamped in the mud. There were riot police everywhere, and although fighting seemed to have subsided, it was very tense.

It was at that time that our intrepid election observers heard the rumourville news about the bodyguards of Tshisekedi – Kabila’s main opposition. The story was that when he had arrived at the airport on Saturday for his final rally, his bodyguards had been “arrested”. Today, Monday, their bodies had just been found. Tshisekedi’s followers, who are in the majority in Kinshasa, are likely to get very angry when they find out.

They go to another polling station. This is set in a huge playground which is full of people. They are not queueing, just hanging around. As soon as the Embassy car arrives there is surge of young men, who pack around the car, shouting angrily. The driver opens his window to ask them what is going on. Their issue is simple. The elections are corrupt. They feel helpless, but know that these white people can sort it out. They demand action.

They may have meant well, but clearly this was a situation that was best avoided. Gradually, inch by inch, the driver eases out of the compound and they get away. They try one last station, where they meet another EU observer. She says that the station is just about to close. The rule is that once the doors are closed no one can leave until counting has finished, so they decide to leave the matter in her capable hands and get out before it is too late.

As they drive back they receive a text message on their phones from the Electoral Commission which has accredited them. Voting hours have been extended, and in the case of polling stations that opened late or not at all there will be a second day of voting.

That evening we channel-skip the international news channels, trying to find out what has been happening in our own backyard. The Egyptian elections receive far more coverage, but the DRC gets a small share with pictures of bloody riots, tear gas, anger and confusion. Is it the full story? – of course not, but then it never is.

Waiting for lockdown

It’s two days to go. About half our friends have left, the office is closed until further notice, telephone tree systems for making sure everyone can be contacted have been set up and tested. It’s the last day of campaigning and the two main contenders for president, Tshisekedi and Kabila have organized rallies at the same stadium, thus ensuring that there will be conflict. We get text message warnings to avoid the area. These are followed in rapid succession by warnings that violence has erupted somewhere else, the Governor of Kinshasa has banned both rallies, that Tshisekedi was at the airport, demanding to travel into town, but being blocked by police, that he has gone to the local airport with similar results, that there is fighting on the airport road and 6 people have been killed by Kabila’s armed escort, that all American personnel have been told not to leave their residences, and that a state of emergency is being considered.

The cumulative effect of the messages is quite worrying, but in fact there’s no trouble anywhere near us, and we are not being threatened. We go out for our usual walk with the dogs, and meet US Embassy people who are similarly not worried about the situation; they stroll along in shorts and sandals, enjoying the balmy evening.

But friends who have been here a long time have gone into panic mode. They phone to tell us not to go anywhere: they talk of the risk of being caught unprepared, and the horror of having to spend days on end as a captive somewhere without food or water.

That evening, we’ve been invited to a party given by the Defence Attaché. We know we’re in good company when we see ten military grab-bags on the steps outside the house. Inside are defence attachés from the major embassies and many British soldiers. A Congolese woman who comes from a wealthy family, and now works in a military English language training programme, is very distraught: her family mechanic has been killed in the cross fire when Kabila was attacked on the airport road. But the general mood is far from fearful – indeed as far as the security people are concerned there’s nothing to worry about. The warning messages have made the situation seem worse than it is, because if they didn’t warn people they would be blamed if something bad happened. I chat to an officer who specialises in such situations: his last posting was Libya. Even that, he assures me, was much less bad than it seemed on the TV.

The few remaining fears thus quelled, we go into town to meet two BBC World Service correspondents. They have invited she-who-must-be-obeyed to dinner to thank her for facilitating many of their interviews in Kinshasa. We walk from their hotel to one of the better restaurants: the only people visible are a couple of street kids, who give us a predatory eye, and security guards. Inside the restaurant all is normal, if very quiet. Our hosts talk of the interviews they have broadcast in the past week, and the incredibly good response from their management and the listeners.

The next morning, we go for our walk along the river. There are slightly fewer people than normal, but the sense is that there’s nothing to worry about. The Congolese soldiers manning the check points give us a relaxed “Bonjour”. We bump into a familiar figure, a presidential candidate who is a regular walker, and is generally expected to come in fourth out of the eleven candidates. He has his normal entourage of five bodyguards, and looks more than usually forlorn – or is it worried? Only when he passes our gate and the guards jump to attention does his face light up with a hint of a smile.

Three days to polling day

When you see a truck delivering 150 bottles of water, each containing 20 litres, to the flat of some farsighted people above us, you know that something’s up. And when the Congolese who can afford it are panic-buying tickets to get out – anywhere will do (though South Africa is the favourite with Belgium a close second) – then you know that something’s in the air. They, the Congolese, earnestly tell us that they KNOW (they’ve been here before) things will get bad.

We, living in our expatriate enclave some distance from the political fray, wonder how much we will be affected. It’s different from being in the middle of things, as many of them are.

Of course, preparations for the worst have been going on for ages. We’ve watched in fascination as, everywhere you look, near and far, boundary walls are being raised, metal fences are being covered in sheet steel, all crowned by coils of razor wire. Some pessimistic owners (including our office) have replaced their five year old razor wire, a relic from the previous election, with new stuff. Buildings in the commercial areas that were open to the street have suddenly become enclosed in prison-like fencing.

Embassies, particularly our own, have been stocking up on emergency rations and water for ages, and last week a small army arrived to reinforce the existing Gurkha contingent. A fleet of small boats, Dunkirk style, has been assembled – brought in, in some cases from distant parts, especially for the event – to provide a possible means of escape to Brazzaville, on the opposite side of the river. As always it is the French who are best prepared, and you know that if French citizens are to be attacked, they will be vigorously defended.

When you meet people, the first question is “going or staying?” If you’re staying you can bask in a sort of we’re not chickens like you, gung-ho glory. Of course, in most cases, the people in question have no choice. Whether embassy, NGO, or private company, many employers are taking out their staff simply to avoid any liability in case things should go wrong. The British embassy decided about six weeks ago that all spouses and children and non-essential staff would be evacuated, though most of the others planned to stick it out. Something must have changed, because the Dutch Embassy suddenly decided on Tuesday that all staff must be out within two days. The Swedes also evacuated all but their three senior staff yesterday. We received a notice from our sponsoring international agency stating that although we were not being evacuated for now, they could issue a stop-work order and evacuate us at any time.

Are we worried? Not at all, but that could be famous last words. She who must be obeyed is to be an election observer: armed with two bottles of water and a large handbag, she’ll be in the nether regions of Kinshasa keeping an eye on things. That could be the most dangerous episode.

We received guidance about stocking up on food and duly went to the shops and bought a whole lot of stuff. The only trouble was that we ate it all so had to go a second time. Old timers say that you must expect to have no electricity or water so baked beans seem like a good bet. Flour and, oddly, cereals are now off the shelves, long-life milk is getting low, but for the rest there’s still plenty. All the same, most international agencies have paid their staff early so that they can stock up early, and we have followed suit.

The President is making his own arrangements. He has promised to leave office peacefully if he looses, but has hedged his bets by installing massive guns around his residence, and the tanks protecting his house are seen out on regular exercises. Many say that him loosing is not on the cards: the rumour (“I know it’s true because I heard it from so-and-so”) is that, for example, three million ballots, already marked up, were discovered in South Africa, about to be airlifted to Kinshasa.

The arrangements for the voting are truly chaotic. Many polling stations will have to operate in the open air, as the tents have not arrived. That means that if it rains they will be unable to operate. Some so-called polling stations do not exist at all, and no one believes that supplies to the remote ones will get there on time.

The funniest feature of the election is that there has been such a demand for Congolese Francs, that they have increased 10% in value against the dollar. Why such demand? To pay the voters, silly.

Poppy day services

The symbolism of Poppy Day is quite moving, made more so when one is in very foreign parts.

For years, one’s only contact with poppy day has been a vicarious viewing of the poppies on the lapels of newsreaders and politicians. But this year was different. The British Embassy was selling poppies, and we were expected to attend a remembrance service at the ambassador’s residence.

It was a very hot day, and a tent had been erected in the residence garden to house the small congregation. In front the Union Jack hung limply on a flagpole. To the left were the Gurkhas who guard the Embassy, and a pile of wreaths. Beyond the flagpole was a low wall, over which one could see the Congo River.

The service was short and moving. Members of the military and embassy staff read different parts of the service. There was a degree of self-consciousness as they enounced the familiar religious phrases: but whether they are believers or not everyone shares the sense of grief and regret for the loss of life. One can’t help thinking of similar stilted services which have been held throughout the empire over the years, and how the sentiments have changed. Then there was pride in the unthinking sacrifices made by young men; now many have a more cynical view of the use of military solutions.

There’s an embarrassing moment: as we are about to observe the two minutes’ silence, a button is pressed to play the last post, but technology decides to be difficult and nothing happens. The two minute’s silence ends up as four somewhat awkward ones. No one minds, and the high officials duly lay the wreaths at the base of the flagpole.

Afterwards we have soft drinks on the verandah of the residence. I am duly introduced to all the military officers there: three Lt Colonels and one General. The general and one of the Lt Colonels are with the UN. The general is a small meek man: one can’t help wondering how he would have coped if he were in General Delaire’s position in Rwanda surrounded by manic, machete wielding genocidaires.

These four Officers, and one NCO are, I am told, all the British military in the country – since Britain has obviously got its hands full with Afghanistan it prefers to pay others to be peace keepers in the DRC.

As we finish our warm orange juice, we chat about this and that. Then, with breathtaking frankness one of them confides in me. “Being posted here means only one thing: my career is finished. All prospects of promotion are dead in the water. The funny thing is, that once you’ve got used to the idea, its quite liberating.”

Post script: being several months late in finishing the above, it seemed more topical to wait until the following November to put it out. The ceremony this year was rather different: the Last Post was played by real buglers. The service was attended by the top General of the UN in the Congo from India, UN officers from India, Pakistan, Ghana, Nigeria, Kenya, Malaysia, and Ambassadors from Ghana, Tanzania, India and Kenya. The fact that it had been taken more seriously was confirmed by the serving of cold draft beer after the formalities were over. And instead of boiling sun we were blessed by a European drizzle.

A Rake's Progress

Once upon a time there was a young man who lived in the East of the Congo. His parents were humble people, quite happy to live as they and their parents always had, getting by with their little plots of cassava, maize and bananas. To him this was a dead-end form of existence. He wanted adventure, so when someone came to his village looking for recruits for a rebel army, he joined up in a flash. The word army suggests something different from the life he was to lead for the next few years. Though it started with a rigorous training camp where they were fed very little and intimidated a lot they were, in fact, brigands. They were part of a ruthless machine which killed, raped and pillaged. They didn’t get paid: their only sustenance was whatever they could steal from the villages which were victims of their attention.

It was not clear what they were fighting for, or who they were fighting. But occasionally they would encounter another rebel army and skirmishes would ensue. Some got killed, but that was only to be expected.

After a while things took a turn for the worse. The national army was trying to round up all the rebels, and some bitter battles were fought. But in truth, neither side was winning, so the national army made an offer: anyone who surrenders will be entitled to join the real army and become a proper soldier.

By this time, life on the run had lost its glamour, so our hero decided to join most of his mates and take up the army’s offer.

For the national army, this influx of recruits who had little training and a lot of bad attitude, was a very mixed blessing. With UN support, they decided that since integration was not suitable for everyone, they should offer skills training to help the youngsters find a niche in civilian life.

When he was asked what training he wanted he replied without hesitation: “I want to be a pastor.” No problem. He was sent to an evangelical bible collage, and before you can say Jack Robinson was let loose in the world as a pastor.

Like many countries where people are poor and life in unfair, religion is big in the Congo. Evangelical and charismatic Christianity are making major inroads in what used to be a staunchly Catholic society. So our friend did not need to find a slot in someone else’s church: he started his own.

Why did he want to become a pastor? – because of the Sunday collections, of course. If you’ve got a bit of the demagogue about you, after a fiery sermon people are only too happy to put money in the plate to ensure a safe passage to heaven. And if someone in the family has a nasty accident, or gets very ill, they believe it when their pastor says: “That was because you were not offering enough to God. He is punishing you for being stingy. Open your heart and your purse and you shall be blessed.”

And so it was that our hero became rich. Rich enough to decide to stand for parliament, and that means seriously rich. You’ve got to spend a huge amount on advertising and you’ve got to travel the length and breadth of your constituency. Most importantly, you must get yourself known. And how do you do that? By giving everybody who attends your meetings something to remember you by: typically a bag of sugar and a bag of salt.

And once he is elected, as he expects to be? His career path is clear. Although he’s standing as an independent, he will enthusiastically support any ruling coalition. So his next task will be to buy influence with his seniors: another very expensive activity. But he knows he’ll reach the ultimate prize – as a member of the Cabinet.

Meanwhile, what happens to his congregation? He’s not going to abandon them. After all, where would he be in politics without them?

Revolutionary poets

There’s something rather self-indulgent in poetry evenings, especially when poets read their own work. They wring the maximum emotion from each word while the audience cringes in embarrassment. That was then.

Now, poetry has taken on a totally new meaning. I only realised that when I went a poetry evening in Johannesburg. It was more of a duty call, but we were amazed to find the hall almost full. There was a bit of Wordsworth stuff, but the majority of the items performed were very different: the audience was young black people and the poetry was protest in rhyme.

That was when the penny dropped: rap music (how I dislike it, and the silly outfits that rappers wear) has planted a seed: rap without music is poetry, and can be a powerful vehicle for social protest. The short lines and the urgent rhyming make it an ideal medium for short sharp messages. In South Africa, with its long tradition of protest, the interest was more in the idea that young people were finding a voice, and that poetry was as much a weapon as an art form, than in the protest itself.

In the Congo, where the stakes are so high, and protest is crushed with bullets, any form of public dissent is dangerous. So it was with amazement that when we went to a show that was (we had been told) a dance performance at the French Cultural centre, we found that we had strayed into an evening of revolutionary verse.

The stage was a simple outdoor platform with a single microphone, and a couple of spotlights trained on the speaker. The poets were young, but had no lack of self confidence. They stood on the stage and proclaimed their message with passion and (in most cases) aplomb. In many cases the audience knew the words and would burst into yelps of support or clapping as the good bits were reached.

Once the piece was finished, the poet would leave the stage and someone else would take his or her place. This was not a set programme: people who had something to share, just got onto the stage and did their piece. Sometimes there would be a big show of reluctance, and the person would have to be pushed into the spotlight.

But while the enthusiasm of the poets was infectious, it was their message which was so exciting. It was revolutionary stuff, about the exploitation of the riches of the land by the elite, the corruption, the indifference of politicians to the lot of the poor, of the need to take action. Like the performers, the audience was mostly young but you can be sure that the secret police were there too, taking notes.

But an act of God saved the Government from further embarrassment. Suddenly, the heavens opened and within a matter of seconds audience and performers alike had fled for cover. A couple of the organisers darted out to rescue the microphone and lights from the rain and then it was all over.

The secret police heaved a sigh of relief and went home, wondering just how dangerous the messages were.

Going out with a bang?

What is 15 out of 1464, number 772 and page 29? It is the essential numbers relating to a parliamentary candidate. As it happens she works for me, but has decided that life as a member of the National Assembly would be more fun than being stuck behind a desk.

Maybe some interpretation of the numbers will help. 1462 is the number of candidates standing for parliament in the central constituency of Kinshasa. 15 is the number of seats allocated to that constituency. Because of the huge number of candidates, and the fact that each candidate is identified primarily by a colour photo, the voting papers are, in fact, books: the person I’m referring to has been given the number 772 to identify her, and appears on page 29 of the voting book.

This is partly explained by the fact that party politics mean very little. People don’t seem to like subjecting themselves to the party line or discipline, as a result of which there are over 70 parties in the current parliament. So it is each person for him- or herself.

What remains to be seen is how they will count the votes. It is hard to imagine how long it will take the enumerators to plough through the 50 or so pages to find each magic X. (Maybe they’ve got a system to overcome this problem, but we haven’t heard what it is.)

The official start of campaigning started last week: one month in advance of election day which is the 28^th November. Within hours the streets of Kinshasa had been transformed by banners, posters and billboards. Naturally, the incumbent President has the lion’s share: Everywhere you look there are 30, 40 or even 100 square metre ads for him. Some are hung on the sides of buildings – fully 5 (or even 10 in one case) storeys high. He has the advantage of huge resources, of course, and I would estimate that his ads outnumber his competitors by at least 500 to one. To have this amount of advertising, and mobilize the erection on so many sites within a matter of hours proves what huge resources have been put into his campaign. Dark stories are circulating about the pressure he has brought to bear on certain commercial interests to raise the funds. The television is much the same: his commercials showing happy prosperous people to the sound of popular music go on for several minutes and are repeated too frequently for anyone to be interested.

His campaign is a joke. Each poster has a theme, such as roads, railways, housing, agriculture etc. His somewhat smug picture sits at the bottom left. To his right there are three photos captioned “yesterday”, “today” and “tomorrow”. For example with boats, “yesterday” is represented by dugout canoes; “today” by small motor boats, and “tomorrow” by something that looks like a cruise liner. In the case of railways, "yesterday" is represented by a typical carriage: rusty, windowless and battered; "today" by a new carriage painted in the national colours of which there are about six in service, and “tomorrow” is represented by a bullet train. For the ordinary man in the street even the “today” pictures are a cruel travesty of the truth. Their life is still accurately reflected by the “yesterday” pictures.

He is rumoured to be quite scared that he will loose, and has organised support from the Rwandan army in case things go bad: news which has got people quite worried. People who were in Kinshasa during the last election in 1996 remember the battles which lasted a week between the armies of Kabila and his disgruntled competitor Bemba. It’s unlikely that this will happen again, as there is only one army these days, though there are many disaffected soldiers and the possibility of armed splinter groups is real. But when Rwanda soldiers were last active in the DRC they earned a nasty reputation for their atrocities.

Those responsible for our safety have been making plans to prepare for the worst for months. One Embassy has stocked enough food and tents to feed its fleeing citizens for at least a week. All spouses and children are being evacuated for a month, starting five days before election day. Non-essential staff are being encouraged to go on leave. Plans for emergency airlifts of the key staff have been finalized.

We are not involved in such dramatic plans, but have been given visas for Congo Brazzaville, so that we can slip over to the other side of the river if necessary. But we’ve been told that we must also be prepared for evacuation if matters get very bad. We’ve also been given instructions about how to prepare a safe haven within the house, which must be stocked with emergency supplies of food and water. We must have a grab bag containing passport, money and basic clothing with us in our safe room so that we can leave at a moment’s notice. Telephone tree systems for passing information, SMS and radio links to the embassy are tested to make sure that there are no communication problems.

It’s all quite exciting. I think it is very unlikely that the bomb will go up, but you never know. But if it does, what will happen to the dogs?

Apologies to the Congo

In one sense it’s difficult to describe the gulf which exists between the way things are done in the Congo and, say, South Africa, or Britain. But it’s also tempting, at times, to exaggerate it if it makes a better story.

I haven’t written about the postal service in Kinshasa, because there isn’t one. I have to write repeated letters to service providers such as medical insurance and credit card companies who promise to send cards by post and who pay no attention to my warnings about the lack of a postal system.

It’s such a contrast with Zambia, for example, where letters never took more than four days to go from Lusaka to Britain or vice versa, and often did it in three. Kenya was almost as good. And in both Lusaka and Nairobi, letters have reached me without the proper address: the best was one sent from the US with the only address being my name and “Lusaka” – no P O Box or even country.

Back to the Congo, there’s a certain satisfaction in saying that there’s no postal service. That’s not to say that there aren’t any post offices in the Congo. There are many: all the main towns have one, typically built by the Belgians and never far from the Town Hall and main church. But alas, the buildings may be there, and you can still make out the lettering on the walls, but that’s all. They are usually ghost offices, without windows or doors, abandoned.

Recently I sent a rude letter to the medical insurance people saying that I hadn’t received my membership card, but that if they were to send it they would have to use a courier service. A few days later I had an email informing me that my cards had been posted, as requested. To which, of course, I replied that they should have read my instructions more carefully: THERE’S NO POSTAL SERVICE. To add impact and emphasise that we are truly living in abnormal conditions, I pointed out that there’s no land line telephone service either.

The statement about there being NO postal service was a bit of exaggeration. Someone we knew had posted a card at the Kinshasa post office (which does have windows and doors, and indeed has recently been painted) and it reached its destination in Britain. Anyway, receiving mail is much harder than sending it because it involves delivery, with associated problems of transport, vague addresses and so on. So, I felt quite confident that there was, indeed, no postal service. Until . . .

A few days ago the office secretary brought me an envelope which had clearly been posted in the US, addressed to me using our office’s street address. It was from the very same medical insurance firm that I had so self righteously scolded for its ignorance about the lack of postal service. “How did this get here?” I asked. “I don’t know,” she said, “maybe someone brought it from the US.”

So not only was I sceptical, so was she. I had very good grounds for assuming that it had not come by post. But, to my shame, after a proper examination I must admit that I was definitely wrong. The envelope had been posted – there was not a shadow of doubt about that – in the US, and delivered. And then, just to prove how wrong I was, she who must be obeyed shortly afterwards received a letter at her workplace posted nine months earlier from London. Not a speedy service, to be sure, but definitely a service of sorts.

So, all I can say is: sorry Congo. You’ve got a postal system, at least in parts.