A study in contrasts

There are two social outcasts in our office, the untouchables of office society. One makes the coffee, washes the cups and cleans the main building. The other cleans the smaller buildings and does the garden. Both are subjected to the arrogance of secretaries and clerks who rudely instruct them to buy food and drinks from the kiosks outside, with never a please or thank you.

If I was one such person I would have a chip on my shoulder. I would resent the card that life has drawn for me, putting me at the bottom of the pile, with no chance of getting higher, to be spoken down to, and abused, by all and sundry. I would do my job but would resent the fact that I have no money for the fancy clothes worn by the people who boss me around. I would not get out of bed with a spring in my step.

Such is the attitude of the coffee maker. In fact it’s worse than that. He does his job with an absolute minimum of dedication. As often as not he is very late. He regularly “forgets” to make coffee for those working in the annex. He forgets to order new coffee when his supply is running out. He has a particularly irritating attitude to washing up: he will wait until all mugs are dirty, and will then wash them all at once and leave them to dry for many hours.

When he has the chance he will engage any member of staff in one of his complaints about life. He stands in the large verandah and catches people as they enter or leave the main office. I have no idea what he says but he has, as they say, attitude. He scowls and raises his voice in anger. His arms thrash around to make the point. Each day there appears to be a new grievance which must be shared with some hapless bystander.

I was the object of his derision on one occasion. I had been on a visit to the head office in the USA. I had returned with a company mug which I passed on to my deputy as she was employed by the same firm. The coffee maker came into my office in his usual graceless way. “Where,” he said, “is my present?”

The other, the gardener, is different. Very different. He is small and old. His face is crumpled and reflects a life of hardship. But he has recognized that his role is to serve, and he’s determined to do so better than anyone else. He is never late. He never speaks to anyone – just puts his head down and conscientiously cleans the floors every day. At any one time in the first two hours of the office day, you can be pretty sure where he will be and what he will be doing. He takes pride in his little routine. After the floors, then it is his time to do the garden – his pride and joy. He must cut the grass, trim the hedges, water the plants in the dry season, spray insecticide from time to time and generally keep it neat and tidy. One of his little projects is to try and get grass to grow in the muddy car park area. The change is scarcely perceptible, but change there is.

I witnessed the most amazing example of his work ethic two days ago. There had been the typical stormy wind that presages a rain storm, and the kapok tree across the street had decided that this was the time to release its stuff. So these balls of fluff, the size of tennis balls, blew across the street and settled on our property. There was so much of it that it was almost as if the land was covered in snow, or rather a huge flock of tiny sheep were grazing on our lawns. For the gardener this was a challenge. He gets out a bucket and starts to pick up the kapok in what seems like a fruitless task, particularly because there’s still more floating in. It starts to rain, but does he stop? No, blue overall becoming ever darker as it is soaked by the rain, he stoops over the lawn to collect the fluff, not pausing for a second. Within the hour, the rain has stopped and the sun has come out, and there’s not a single piece of kapok visible.

During the elections last year, when the management decided they needed to have the residential addresses of all staff, it emerged that he was sleeping in a cupboard in the office compound. Such was his lack of self esteem that it never crossed his mind that he should have anything better. Some quick action secured him a tiny room behind one of the posh houses nearby.

Returning from a recent trip I gave everyone a little souvenir plate from the city I had been visiting. They went down well. I asked the gardener to come into my office.

“Here,” I said, “this is a small souvenir which I brought for you,” and gave it to him.

“What do you want me to do with it?” he said, “do you want me to wash it?”

Why, he was clearly thinking, would he want to give it to me? Is this a trick? People don’t give me presents. That's when the penny dropped: he had no way of processing the information that I had actually given it to him.

“No,” I said. “That is for you. To keep. I hope you like it.”

And with that he grinned, and left (unless my eyes deceived me) with a definite skip in his elderly step.

Flying high or low: who cares?

Flying high or low: who cares?

Because the local commercial airlines have a very dodgy track record, there’s only one which we are formally allowed to use – and it is part owned by Brussels Airlines. It flies between Kinshasa and Lubumbashi: that’s all.

For all other routes we have to use the UN system which is supposedly designed (though one sometimes marvels at its propensity for chaos . . .) to facilitate movement between UN bases: not for the convenience or comfort of development workers. Nevertheless, since it is largely funded by direct grants from, among others, the US and Britain, they cannot say no to requests from us to use their services. What they can say no to is to carrying non-essential staff when UN personnel need a seat. So the term “booking” has come to be used rather loosely. Yes, you’ve booked a place, but that means little if a UN person needs it. Just wait until the next flight, or maybe the one after that . . . And during the flights, some of which, with the numerous changes and circuitous routes can take all day, you get nothing more than water. The flights are operated by a strange galaxy of nations. Georgia had one route (which I think has now gone to Mexico), South Africa another, Canada a third. These operators bring out a plane or two, fly them around and then – oh sorry, we’ve got to take it for a service, so there will be no flights for a week or two.

The chorus of complaints that this system has caused, together with the total lack of customer service, a demand for something a bit more like a commercial service. The World Food Programme decided that enough was enough, so they launched their own service. Just as in the mainstream UN flights, the routes are operated by different national carriers, and just in the same way they are subject to the vagaries of servicing. In one flight I took, we were told that the weight limit had to be very strictly observed (to the extent that the passengers were weighed alongside their baggage) “as the plane was only half way through its service and if the load was too heavy it wouldn’t be able to take off”.

But there’s one big difference: unlike the UN service which is free, you actually buy a ticket. It’s a bit less than commercial tickets for the same distance, but it means that you have a confirmed place. And to underline the commercial nature of the transaction they give you a tiny cup of juice and a few biscuits during the flight. Mind you, not anyone can get on these flights. They have a very strict policy of only allowing registered staff of development agencies and implementing agencies to use the service: short term consultants and joy riders are completely forbidden.

But this place is, in truth a village. Before long you soon get to know the air crews and to understand that they too are human. They have needs, just like the rest of us. And they have faith – as you must to fly the skies of the Congo. And so when some crew members who are Muslims objected to flying on 26^th October because it is Eid-al-Adha, it was decided that there should be no flights at all that day, in their honour. Not just by Muslim crews, but all crews. Quick as a flash, the Catholics came back: if so, we are not going to fly on 1^st November: that is All Saints Day.

And thus it is: the village is happy. Any religious holiday will be observed by all. Why not? Once more the UN is setting an example in fair labour practice for all the world to copy.

(An aside: after a study of the poverty line in the DRC the UN decreed that the minimum wage for any employee was to be $600 a month. Thus cleaners in UN establishments get approximately six times the wages as anyone doing the same work in the private sector, something nearer that of a bank clerk).

Back to air travel. No one really minds that they cannot fly during those days unless they are stuck in some godforsaken hole at the back of beyond (which, to be fair, many of them will be), because what’s the point of doing today what you can put off until tomorrow?

Kinshasa Kerfuffles

Well, the Francophonie summit is over. The streets of Kinshasa are cleaner than ever before, and our week-end route to the Lac de ma Valée can now be taken at a healthy 40km an hour, as opposed to the previous 20km/hour because they’ve smoothed out the road and filled in the potholes, obviously because some dignitaries wanted to see the Bonobo Sanctuary which is reached from the same road.

And what has the fall-out been? There was a major frisson in Kinshasa when Francois Hollande, speaking in Dakar before arriving in Kinshasa, said he would use his visit to criticise the DRC government and President Kabila for their lack of respect for democracy and human rights.

Hollande had said that he was coming to the Congo to give a lecture, and not as a guest of the President, and certainly not to endorse his presidency. To make that clear, not only did he disclose the nature of his private meeting with Kabila – to tell him that unless he improved his record in human rights and democracy, he might loose support from France – but he did not even join in the applause at the end of Kabila’s opening speech at the Conference.

Hollande’s own speech to the conference was predictable, but it was nevertheless received with shocked oohs and aaahs by the Congolese in the audience. He didn’t miss a beat, and made no excuses: after all, is not the whole concept of democracy a product of the French Revolution and therefore synonymous with the language itself?

To rub salt in Kabila’s wound, later on the same day he had a high profile meeting with the leader of the opposition, Tshisekedi. In total contrast to the stand-offish coldness of his interaction with Kabila, this one was all smiles and hugs.

From what we hear even the hardened Tshisekedi was somewhat embarrassed by this attention. When he was asked whether it had given his role in the Congo the legitimacy that he so much craves he sensibly replied, “only the people of the Congo can do that.”

Long used to the mealy mouthed and hypocritical utterances of the donor community and the UN, most people in the expatriate community were saying Hurrah for Hollande! At last someone is saying it how it is. Imagine our surprise when the Congolese staff of the donors and NGOs working to improve the very same matters came out in total opposition to Hollande. Who does he think he is? He doesn’t even know the country, and only stayed for twelve hours. What right has he to be rude to our head of state? This is typical colonialist behaviour. Etc etc.

So, in the curious way of politics, Hollande has strengthened Kabila’s position. Maybe that shows that he’s got a lot to learn. Or maybe that he doesn’t care: it’s the electorate in France that he was talking to, not the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

Money

The biggest note in circulation today is 500 Francs. That doesn’t sound too bad, you might think, until you know that that is only worth about half a dollar. There are huge advantages in having such worthless notes in terms of theft, of course. You would have to hire a truck to have steal any quantity of real value. As a result money changers have no worry about sitting in the street with piles of notes.

But for commerce, it’s clearly ridiculous. And payment of government salaries in the rural areas poses massive logistical problems. Apparently the Central Bank of Congo, when receiving deposits from banks and other large depositors, doesn’t bother to count the notes: they simply weigh them.

The Central Bank also has to face the problem of the expense of printing new notes in such huge quantities. So it was with relief that we heard the announcement that they were going to introduce notes in the denominations of 1,000, 5,000, 10,000 and 20,000 Francs. Common sense was finally prevailing

The reaction of the public, though, was totally different. “We reject the move totally,” they said. This is just another way that the government is using to deceive us. It will lead to massive inflation.”  They were recalling Mobutu’s days when he used to print massive quantities of money to pay his bills, and the currency, the Zaire, lost value to the extent that notes had to be in denominations of millions, not unlike the Zimbabwe Dollar some years later. Just as in Zimbabwe, the value changed from hour to hour and shopping was a lottery.

In response to the public’s fears about the new money, the Central Bank, quaintly giving itself the nickname “Currency Hotel”, issued a leaflet to guide the users how to use the new notes. It took examples about how everyone must play his part in using the new money and not allowing it to become inflationary.

For example, the Head of the Government must maintain budgetary discipline, mustn’t allow the prices of basic services such as electricity and water to rise, nor unreasonable increases in fuel. And he should ensure that people are paid on time.

The head of the Central Bank of the Congo must ensure that there is a sufficient supply of small notes, to avoid rounding up prices due to lack of change.

Commercial banks must ensure that they do not only make payments in large denomination notes and maintain a supply of small denomination notes. And that they encourage payments now being made in dollars, from cash machines and in some commercial accounts, to be made in Congolese Francs.

Big shops must not ration supplies, nor make sudden price changes, nor delay imports to create artificial shortages, nor shut their businesses (presumably to make adjustment to their tills).

Buses and taxis must accept small notes and keep plenty of change.

Money changers must give a mix of notes to their customers, so that they have small notes when making payments.

And finally . . .

Leaders of opinion must give everyone the same message spelt out above.

The public was not convinced, and critical responses mounted. This reaction clearly took the government by surprise. The Central Bank was told to delay the new notes. A few 1,000 notes have been found in circulation, but not enough to make any real difference.  But what was really interesting, when we finally got to see a 1000 franc note was the date: it had been printed in 2007. That’s food for thought.

Beauty and the Beast

It’s marvellous what a bit of national pride will do. Where, for years neglect and squalor prevailed, someone has realised that, even though filth and chaos are typical of the Congo, we must pretend otherwise.

Coming back after ten days, yes TEN DAYS, I arrive at a new airport. Gone is the dumpy old yellow heavy concrete airport of fifty years – in its place is a sleek steel and glass edifice, as modern as anything that New York might have to offer. Of course I know what most visitors will not know, that the steel and glass is a totally sham facade, erected just in front of the old building in a desperate attempt to pretend that the Congo doesn’t do old airports. Inside the arrivals hall the grimy ceiling and two dim bulbs have been replaced by a modern white ceiling with multiple recessed lights, beaming down onto new, flashy blue moulded counters for immigration officials, replacing awkwardly high tatty plywood kiosks. Even the official reception is different: the hostile stare from above has been replaced by prompt and pleasant service.

The car park has similarly been jazzed up. All the kerb stones have been painted in the alternating national colours of pale blue and bright yellow. There are desperate efforts – too late alas – to improve the dusty surroundings by planting grass and trees. Too late because THE SHOW starts in five days, but the grass hasn’t even started to grow and the trees are tiny. 

THE SHOW is, of course, the Francophone summit which is to take place from 12^th to 14^th October. Francois Hollande is coming, as well as Presidents from all over Africa. An opportunity for the DRC, and its President, to prove that their reputation for mismanagement and corruption is undeserved.

Once on the main road into town, one is struck by many brand new billboards welcoming visitors to Kinshasa. The most prominent ones are, typically, by the breweries, closely followed by well meaning banks – even a Nigerian Bank which swears, hand on its heart, that it is francophone. And, of course, the Mayor of Kinshasa wishes all visitors a very happy stay in his beautiful city.

Driving into town the transformation continues. Amazingly, (like the steel and glass facade of the airport) half of the new road has been completed in record time, and all that remains of the stygian filth that used to characterise the roadside, are heaps waiting to be collected. Around the main stadium there are more desperate attempts to grass the acres of bare earth, and a craft village of thatched huts has been built.

Readers will know that the clean-up started months ago in the centre of the city (see Cleanliness 101).  What seemed impossible at that time was that so many street sweepers would continue to be engaged right up until now, but they were. There are so many of them, with so little work to do, that they have been waiting under the trees for leaves to drop so that they have something to sweep up, and in the ultimate absurdity, have been sweeping the bottom of potholes.

We know that matters are really serious when we reach the Grand Hotel which is now graced by a number of republican guards, trying hard to look menacing. And on the approaches to the river, the sandbags at the military check points, that had long ago started to split from age, have been replaced, and nicely decorated with dabs of camouflage paint.

National pride clearly has its advantages. But there’s another side to it. The Government is terrified that the event will be used as an opportunity by the opposition hold demonstrations, to (rightly) accuse Kabila of rigging the elections and suppressing basic human rights. They have even threatened to disrupt the show altogether. So national pride dictates that the opposition has to be contained, and their strongholds in the city – even five days before the event – have been surrounded and check points established to prevent the free movement of people.

That apart, the clean up is obviously wonderful from everyone’s point of view. Let’s hope that the cynic in one is proved wrong, and that it won’t be a flash in the pan.