Ding Dong

There’s one thing you have to know about roads and traffic in the Congo: if you have an accident, don’t stop. Go to a police station and report it there. If you ignore this advice you’ll be lynched by the driver of the car(s) you hit, the passengers, and the bystanders.

It was following this earnest advice given by our security advisers that caused a very senior member of an embassy’s staff to drive off as instructed. It wasn’t a serious accident, and anyway he thought that it was the other car’s fault. Anyway, the dent in his CD car was minimal. What he didn’t know was that the man with whom he had collided was from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

The next morning the embassy received a call from the Ministry demanding to know the name of the driver of the car. Since it had been an embassy car – not registered to an individual – there was no way of knowing who it was. The embassy politely turned down the invitation to share the information. This was like a red rag to a bull. The phone calls became more threatening and frequent: if you don’t tell me, there will be consequences. Then, in a move which tested the limits of good behaviour between a host country and a foreign mission, the Ministry sent an official note of protest. This was serious indeed, but the embassy stuck to its guns, using some convention or other as protection. Eventually the affair blew over – but not until numerous shipments and diplomatic bags had been delayed for months in retaliation.

So when our car was dinged by a minibus, I was inclined to let it go. So too was the offending driver, who took off at speed, obviously hoping to get away unscathed. But our driver would have none of it, and chased him for miles, weaving in and out of the heavy traffic until eventually he caught up and cornered him.

The mini-bus driver was hauled out and given a big dressing down, but since the damage was tiny we decided to forgive him. Once a grovelling apology was given, in full view of the approving passengers, we went on our way.

Last week the same thing happened: a mini-bus side-swiped the offside rear end of our car, causing quite substantial damage. Our driver, who was alone in the car, gave chase once more and managed to get the bus driver to stop. He showed him the damage and demanded that he, the bus driver, should pay to have it repaired. Realising that he had no escape, the reluctant driver agreed, so together they went to the panel beater/body shop to get the car mended.

Meanwhile I was wondering why the driver’s trip had taken so long, and phoned the him. He told me about the accident but assured me that everything was under control.

Under control? That’s an understatement. Two hours later the car arrives back at the office. Mended. Just like that. Dents removed, resprayed, polished. If you don’t know where to look you would never know it had been damaged.

What a wonderful contrast to those weeks of filling in insurance forms, getting quotes, taking the car to the shop etc etc. So, Congo, take a bow: you’ve got it right this time!

Missing Millions (2)

Kabila’s right hand man, Augustin Katumba was killed in a plane crash on the 12^th February. When I say right hand man I use the term almost literally. He had no public office, but without going through him it was impossible to see the President. All the big mining deals and international agreements were managed by him, and like the clever courtier of old, who would whisper in the ears of the monarch, he allegedly had Kabila totally under his thumb. Not that Kabila suffered as a result of this: Katumba was clever enough share the proceeds of his deals with his boss.

Stories about him are rife. The most dramatic was the case of first Quantum Mining company which having invested $750,000 dollars in starting a huge mine had the mine confiscated by the state on the grounds that some paperwork had not been properly completed or approved. The mine was then sold to an Israeli businessman, Dan Gertler, for $5 million. This is one of several such deals with the same businessman, and it goes without saying that Mr Gertler would reward those in power in return for the favour.

The lucrative airline route between Kinshasa and Lubumbashi has suffered similar tricks. South African Airways established a company, Congo Express, which ran an excellent service between the two cities. But before long, their operations were being continuously blocked by demands for ever more absurd compliance requirements and, of course, concomitant payments. It was rumoured that behind this harassment was George Forrest, an elderly Belgian who has immense business interests and who has typically, by hook or by crook, managed to get massive insider deals in the Congo. About two years ago Mr Forrest managed to persuade Brussels Airlines to go into partnership with him to operate the route. So with Congo Express out of the way it seemed like plain sailing to launch their airline. There were several announcements in Brussels about the forthcoming launch and planes with the livery were even seen at Brussels. A hanger with the new logo was built at Lubumbashi. As time dragged on Mr Forrest complained vociferously that there was undue interference in the matter, which was delaying the registration of the airline unfairly.

Two weeks after the death of Mr Katumba – guess what? They got their final authorisation to operate.

The big-time corruption for which this country is renowned has also hit the Alliance Française. This noble organisation had established 26 different teaching centres throughout the DRC. A few years ago they decided that the time had come to end expatriate management, and to hand over to a Congolese. Before long things started to go wrong. Their facilities looked increasingly drab and dilapidated. Even the flagship centre here in Kinshasa had broken windows, filthy classrooms and unreliable opening hours. Of course the French had not given up any responsibility, and raised their concerns with the Congolese manager. There had been no apparent reduction in the number of students, so where was the money going? Their questions were treated as the opening salvo in a war. No one was going to tell him how to run his business. It was racist to ask such questions – would they do that if a Frenchman was in charge? Etc etc. Even annual audits were resisted, by fair means and foul. What is more, the responses became ever more aggressive. He would go to the President and have the man responsible for oversight declared persona non grata. He knew where the man lived. No one could abuse a respectable (and respected) member of the community by demanding an audit and get away with it.

So what could they do? There was no doubt that the mismanagement of the Alliance reflected badly on France and French interests, but the man they had so trustingly installed in the job had powerful friends – of that there was no doubt. There was no other choice: close it. So the Alliance Française will no longer operate in the DRC. The man whose job it had been to oversee that Alliance in the Congo will be on the plane to Paris in May breathing a huge sigh of relief, but also full of regrets that no other solution could be found.

About a month after this decision was made the British Council made a similar announcement, in what could be interpreted as a domino effect. They operated very differently, and had experienced none of the corruption or political pressure. But “reluctantly,” they said, “the risks of operating in the DRC are too great: we should close before we get too involved.”

Sad, isn’t it?

In the name of Christ

Christianity is strong in the Congo. The Catholics have about 60% of the cake, with protestants 25% and other local sects and muslims the rest.

As befits their status and network, Catholics had the biggest electoral observer team by far, with about 60,000 observers. They came out loud and clear in criticism against the conduct of the elections and called a peaceful march on 16^th February, the anniversary of the day when Mobutu’s forces mowed down Christian demonstrators against his government many years before. In keeping with Mobutu’s tactics, the march this year was crushed mercilessly. Since then the church has kept disappointingly quiet.

Besides their tentative criticisms of the government, the Catholic church plays a huge role in terms of running schools and hospitals. They own and operate about 60% of all schools and a substantial number of hospitals. So, in brief, within the context of the Congo they can fairly be described as the good guys.

But they are under attack from the evangelical and charismatic churches and the multitude of one-man churches started more for profit than faith. These, with their promises of riches for the faithful, faith healing and eternal salvation, are growing fast.

A particularly nasty part of these evangelical sects is their obsession with the devil. The fire and brimstone sermons don’t go far enough: what they need is real evidence of evil. So they specialise in identifying witches.

All this was brought home by a recent case in London of a Congolese boy who was murdered by his sister and boyfriend in their flat in the East End of London on Christmas day. They systematically beat and tortured him to death in the (honest, we are told) belief that they HAD to do it to get rid of the devil occupying the poor boy’s body.

This case raised not an eyebrow in Kinshasa. Everybody knows about witches, and whenever you have bad luck you look for a witch to blame. In the old days the accused were always adults, but in the last decade or so (probably linked to the fact that there are too many of them) children are increasingly blamed.

So the scenario goes like this. Your pastor hears about some bad luck – you loose your job, your child dies etc – and asks to meet your family. He picks out one or more of the children and announces that they are a witch, and the bad things must be exorcised from them. For a small fee the poor children are then subjected to a variety of rituals which range from elaborate conjuring tricks whereby offending objects are pulled from from their bodies, to various forms of bodily abuse, including tying up, hitting, cutting, and even killing. Sometimes it’s done in public, sometimes in private; sometimes once is enough, and on other occasions repeat performances are required.

As a direct result of this torture many children run away from home, and end up living a marginal life in the streets. Their only compensation is that they no longer have to fear their parents and other authority figures such as the pastor.

All this in the name of Christ.

But there’s more. If you are a cat, keep clear from Kinshasa: they are also supposed to be linked to witchcraft and if a “witch cat” is caught what is its fate? It is crucified. Seriously: they make a cat-sized cross and nail the poor animal to it in a disgusting parody of the crucifixion.

In the name of Christ . . .

A night at the opera

My dear fellow – you can’t go to the opera dressed like that! Of course not. It must be approached in a smart outfit, with lots of cash and a reverential attitude. But was it always thus? I have a sense that many years ago opera was not the elitist performance that it is today.

Anyway, if you have neither the cash, nor a particular love of music snobs, then come to Kinshasa. Maybe you’ll experience opera as it used to be.

There you can see a show which is about music, but also about fun. And no one really minds if you come in late, or chat on your cell phone during the show. And everyone will clap, whistle, stand up with you if you think the performer has done something special (high notes and very long notes are particularly popular).

We’ve just been to one such show. It consisted of famous excerpts from the opera, and was held in a large school theatre in the town. It has adequate theatrical lighting and curtains and a good sound system had been rigged up to provide the orchestral accompaniment. We, like many people, arrive late (had to go to a very important birthday party). In our case we were 1 ½ hours late, but luckily had only missed half an hour of the show. (And 45 minutes later people were still arriving . . .). The place was 100% full – even the balcony, which is normally never used, was packed, but luckily some staff members kindly give up their seats for us.

I think Puccini and Verdi might have enjoyed the evening as much as we did, because even if the music wasn’t, frankly, top notch, they would have witnessed people who were so overcome with wonder and joy at the music that they couldn’t contain themselves. In fact the performances were often drowned by the yelps of joy and clapping at the good bits. The performers had much the same spirit: smiling and laughing as they performed.

The performance ended with excerpts from Carmina Burana including a moving bit in which a king-like person gave a short political speech about the lack of power of the poor. For the final chorale they put up the house lights thereby including the audience in the performance.

I don’t think I’ve even been so moved and exhilarated by a show as this one, and as the curtain came down there weren’t many dry eyes.

Surprisingly, in view of the naughty bits in Carmina Burana, the show was produced by the Catholic Church. When it was finished they apologised for charging entrance fees, while explaining that they had to pay for the costumes and other costs. Then they went on to give a prayer (with apologies to non-Christians, while asking them to direct the same prayer to their own god) asking for succour to those who had lost their families, their houses and everything in them, in the bomb blast in Brazzaville last week; and a speedy recovery for the thousands of wounded.

Then to make impart the sense of a grand event, there was a final curtain call to the tune of Elgar’s Land of Hope and Glory which somehow seemed to fit the occasion very well.

The cost? $10 each: better value than Covent Garden.

Beauty and the Dress

The Congo is, in accordance with UN statistics, the worst place in the world to be a woman. With more than 1,000 sexual assaults daily, and at least 12% of the female population having experienced rape or other violent assault, it’s obviously a fair label.

What’s almost worse, the country is somewhere around the 1920s in terms of its gender politics: the woman’s role is in the home (though she’s also expected to earn enough money or grow enough food to keep the household going). As an example of this, in the recent elections in two Provinces, with a total of about 25 seats in parliament, not one single woman was elected; in bigger provinces, with about 50 seats each, all except three had less than 5 women (8% was the highest percentage of women candidates). A woman senator I spoke to told me about the time she paid a reporter to interview her on the television (that’s the way it’s done here) during an election campaign. After the usual stuff about what she would do if she was elected, he could restrain himself no longer: “But why do you want to go into politics? Who will look after your husband and children? Who will do the cooking?”

So does this make International Women’s Day a joke, or an important opportunity to make a difference?

Last year I was out of town for it, so I did not know what to expect. But this year I knew something was up when our driver asked for an advance to buy pagne, the highly decorative cloth that women wear here, for his wife and daughters. As a self respecting husband and father he could, clearly, never live it down if he didn’t do so. So another little loan goes down in his pay book and he can proudly go home and do the necessary,

There are certain types of traditional dress that really do something for women. The sari, for example, and the equivalent which is worn in Somalia. In central and southern Africa they wear long skirts and matching blouses, normally with little puffy sleeves and a matching piece of cloth wrapped around the head. It is dying out in many countries, being considered too rustic unless it is for a formal occasion. But here, happily, the tradition survives strongly, especially among the lower middle and working classes. What is absolutely delightful is to see the maids arriving each morning wearing a complete and very beautiful outfit.

When the 8^th March arrived it was clear that the day would be different. All the women in the office wore a traditional outfit, and in the evening one could see crowds congregating outside the Grand Hotel where there was going to be a Women’s Day concert. What was so spectacular was to see so many women all together wearing such a variety of colours and patterns within a style that is almost universal.

Later that evening we drove down the main boulevard, and there was an even bigger showing: hundreds of women in the finest, parading up and down, showing off their latest outfit.

What this mass dressing up seemed to be saying was: “We don’t care about you men. We just want to enjoy ourselves.” Which is a refreshing change from the militant feminism which is associated with the day in some cultures. What a shame that it is only one day of light in a year of darkness for women.

What about the snack's then?

I’ve mentioned snacks before, and talked about the snack food available in Kinshasa. I made the point that each culture has it’s own snack food. I was wrong. There’s a town in the Congo, Likasi, which doesn’t even know what a snack is. OK, let’s exclude two things from this list – peanuts in their shells and maize: if that’s what you want for a snack you can get it, IF you go to the market. (Bananas – sorry, none.)

It’s a town with a population of about 420,000, in which you would expect quite a choice of eating places. Indeed many call themselves restaurants, but serve only basic things, and only in the evening. Eventually we find the only place which ostensibly serves lunch. We are given a neat menu, and ask for several things which turn out not to be available. OK, to save time, and because the waiter confirms that they have them, we choose simple things like chicken and chips. “How long will it take?” we ask, aware that we have a meeting in 1½ hours. “Oh, not long at all. We’ll start it straight away.” One hour later the waiter pops his head round the corner – “nearly ready”, he says. Forty minutes later the food arrives, not very hot, which makes one wonder what had been going on. Here’s my theory:

1. There’s no power in Likasi this particular day (a relatively normal phenonemon), so they have to cook on charcoal. That takes time to light and heat up.

2. Chicken and chips are on the menu, but not in the establishment. When they say “available” it means that they can go and buy it. So they send someone to the market to buy said items.

3. Someone has ordered the local staple – maize meal fufu. That takes almost 30 minutes to cook. However, since they only have one charcoal fire, they must first cook the chicken and chips, then cook the fufu, then try and warm up the chicken and chips.

Much the same had happened to us in Kalemie. There, they had no menu: “We only offer what’s fresh and available,” the waiter said, just like a top chef in Europe might do. Since we are on a massive lake, we order fish and chips. “That,” confirmed the waiter, “is definitely available. It’ll be ready in no time.” After an hour we call the waiter to ask what is happening. “Ah, you see,” he said, “ the cook has gone into town to buy what’s fresh and available. He’ll be back by 12.”

“That’s odd,” we point out, “it’s already 1.30.”

“Oh, really?” he says, “I thought it was about 11.”

The food came just over two hours after we had placed the order. Which brings me back to my original point – how come no snacks? Such as a sandwich, a burger, a pie, a kebab – or to spread the net a bit wider, a tortilla/chapati/wrap thing? Is it really necessary or desirable to go to such trouble when you could make some things quite quickly? And what we might call snack food is not necessarily less fun to eat – indeed it can be more fun.

Who knows? But I’ll say this for the Congo. Because everything takes so long to prepare, you know it is being cooked freshly for you. That’s something isn’t it? And you never hear of people getting food poisoning in spite of the apparently desperately unsanitary environments in which it is being cooked. So it’s not all bad.

Obviously I should be more adjustable. Talk of snacks is probably just another form of cultural imperialism.

The Big Bang

I suppose that when I was little I got used to bombs, being in the middle of a nasty war, but I don’t remember ever ever hearing a bang as loud as the one I heard at about 8 o’clock last Sunday morning. The curtains in our living room blew into a horizontal position, and the noise was followed by the tinkling of glass as some of the windows in the flats above us were shattered. This was followed by another, and then another – five in all, I think it was.

You can imagine the stories that these explosions gave rise to. At last, Tshisekedi is fighting Kabila, and justice will be done; there’s been a coup; the Republic of the Congo (Brazzaville) has declared war on the DRC, etc.

Well, the last rumour was the one that the soldiers who are stationed near us believed. So, happy as a lark, they started up their tanks and took up positions along the river. Then, getting bored, decided to use the guns on their tanks to fire a few salvos across the river as an opening warning.

In retrospect, it was just as well that the people on the other side were so preoccupied with the mayhem that they took no notice.

Our guards told us, and they were clearly well informed, that the bangs had definitely come from Brazzaville: We had a friend staying in Brazzaville so phoned her to find out what she knew. She was working with the military, and told us that she was certain that this was not a coup. The army people had been very calm yesterday. But she said the streets below her window were covered in broken glass, and jammed with cars and fire engines. Her main instinct was to go down to the ground floor where she would feel less vulnerable.

We received warnings from the British Embassy not to go out. The guards closed the huge steel door in front of our entrance lobby, and locked the gate leading onto the street. The British Embassy was particularly worried because one of the tanks that was shooting across the river was parked just outside their property, thus making them a very likely target should there be retaliation. A message from the American system said a mortar shell had landed near the High Court.

Within an hour the news came out that the explosions had been caused by a fire at a munitions dump, so it was just a nasty accident. But in the process hundreds of people had been killed, thousands wounded, and whole areas flattened.

So taking no notice of the security warnings, we took our usual drive with the dogs to the lake, an hour away. Another almost normal Sunday in Kinshasa.

Missing millions

Here’s a strange story. And if you raise an eyebrow in scepticism let me at once assert that the source is reliable: The World Bank.

It is set in Kisangani, the comparatively large town which V S Naipaul used as the location for his book “A Bend in the River”. It is divided into two by the Congo River which is almost a kilometre wide at that point. So there’s a huge demand for ferries to take vehicles and passengers across.

In 2008 the European Union donated a car ferry to the government company that operates such ferries. The boat worked for about 18 months, and then its engine stopped working. The source doesn’t say what was wrong with the engine, (someone forgot to top us the oil??) but accepts that it needs to be replaced.

So now, the engineless vehicle ferry is tied to the pedestrian ferry and hobbles across on borrowed power.

The profits from the ferry crossing at present are between $120,000 and $300,000 a year (details are sketchy as books are not well kept), but with the vehicle ferry operating properly this could be doubled. But it remains as it is: a motorless shadow of its former self, waiting for someone (=European Union) to buy it a new engine. Meanwhile, where do all the receipts from the ferries go? Who knows.

Much the same happens in Kinshasa. The ferry boats between Kinshasa and Brazzaville earn a fortune: the World Bank reckons that their gross profit is around $2,000,000 a year. And where does the money go? One explanation is that they employ 12,500 people and have a similar number of pensioners to pay (the Kinshasa service is not their only operation, but no one could ever justify this number of employees).

Back to Kisangani. Why is the engine of the ferry not being replaced, when all it costs is $20,000, which could be recouped within one month of operations?

Unfortunately, the answer is all too clear. The European Union gave us the ferry, so it’s their job to mend it.

This is such a striking example of the dependency which aid in its current form has created. And let’s have no doubt about it: the dependency is encouraged by the recipients of the aid. The good bureaucrats of the Congo specialise in inventing reasons why nothing can be done unless more money is paid/more cars bought/ more computers donated etc. Many an aid agency in the Congo has been on the point of giving up as these demands mount up. I’ve previously mentioned the trick that bureaucrats have developed of demanding payment to attend official meetings – and, believe it or not, the UN agencies have gone along with that.

So the fault lies on both sides.

The African Development Bank has adopted another approach. We’ll give you money, but only after you’ve met our conditions (such as changing your policies, implemented the agreed projects, etc)

But to me the sad part is that the managers of these services appear not to be concerned about improving their service, and adopt a fatalistic view of management. If it has broken, so be it. We’ll manage somehow.

Is this the consequence of four decades of a kleptocratic dictatorship, aid agencies or something else?