Surviving

The second anniversary of the blog has prompted some reflections. Several months ago I had reached the unenviable distinction of having been in the Congo longer than any expatriate at the British Embassy. That’s an indication of how fast things change here.

The two year mark had brought a sense of belonging and familiarity, and like several other people who had reached this watershed we had begun to understand that this isn’t the unspeakable place that it is often made out to be. We found ourselves nodding in agreement when people said “I wouldn’t mind another year here. It’s not so bad, is it?”

One of the sad things about life here, though, is this turnover. No sooner do you make friends with people than they leave, and with it there’s another void in one’s life to fill. Friends are the most important thing here, because without the human dimension there’s not so much to enjoy.

But blasé though we may have become about Kinshasa, we are often reminded how awful it seems to newcomers. Before going further, I think it is important to mention that in the stories below both women are French speakers, so one of the obstacles that many people worry about is not an issue.

A colleague of good friend of ours arrived to take over his job. They had worked overseas for years and years, and their last assignment had been in Papua New Guinea which had given his wife and family the excuse to live in Cairns, Australia – a life of simplicity enriched by the amazing barrier reef and other things oceanic.

The contrast between Cairns and Kinshasa cannot be exaggerated. Add to that, the fact that the newcomer’s wife had made him promise that he would never work in Africa, and without her full knowledge or consent he had signed up for a (highly lucrative, no doubt) stint in Kinshasa. When he had come on a familiarisation trip he had told us about his wife’s fears, so when she arrived we took her, so to speak, under our wing. She who must be obeyed took her shopping, showed her all the interesting places to eat or relax, and introduced her to many people. And? The poor woman was inconsolable, and would just sit at home crying. Even many weeks later, so cannot see the good bits about life here.

Her situation was brought home to us when we recently met a younger woman from Cameroon, which is right next door to the DRC. So culturally and linguistically this is a cousin state. Her husband works in an Embassy but she was not working: they had three children who needed looking after. She said felt very uncomfortable here from the start, but her depression just got worse and worse. She felt trapped by the city of Kinshasa, because she never felt free to do anything without worrying about policemen, traffic and so on. She longed for the sense of personal freedom that she had had in Paris, where you can walk wherever your fancy takes you. It took her six months before she took the (medication free) decision to look on the bright side, and now feels comparatively at home.

If these two stories sound sad, what about the woman from Britain whose husband had come to work in the Embassy? She was living in a gated and guarded compound with many other Embassy wives but was so scared she stayed in bed for a month.

At which point I can only send my best wishes to all blogsters, hoping that wherever you are you feel free to get out of bed.