Moving on

I didn't plan to do it, but can't seem to help myself. So for readers who are suckers for punishment there will be more from time to time - this time about Kenya. The address is kenya-again.blogspot.com.

A bend in the river

VS Naipaul’s book was published 34 years ago and I thought it would be interesting to re-read it. What a shock that so little has changed! Although he was writing about a comparatively isolated town (everyone assumes it was Kisangani, previously Leopoldville) in a different era his descriptions of the docility and patience of the ordinary people, the laissez-faire attitude to decline and decay, the arbitrary enforcement of rules by petty officials, the tricks used to part you from your money – all these ring as true now as they did then. A horrifying example of extortion was experienced by our dentist, an elderly Belgian, only two weeks ago. He, stupidly, spoke rudely to a woman manning a boom at the entrance to a car park. She has a friend in the police and together they cooked up a case against him, had him arrested and he was only released, after three days in gaol, after paying $24,000.

The che sera sera attitude of the old-timer foreigners also seems much the same as it was then. We have got to know quite a few of them: they make money easily and lose it equally fast, shrug their shoulders and start again. They’re always optimistic that they will get out when things are at the top, but often are plunged into disaster too fast to save themselves.

One thing has changed: then there was an immensely powerful President who enforced his rule by capricious arrests and executions. He had the power to make or break people overnight and didn’t hesitate to use it. Today’s President is retiring to the point of being a recluse. He never speaks in public apart from the occasional ceremonial event, and influences affairs by spending money, the only tool he really has.

Be that as it may, the book makes one reflect on the experience of living here. Like Naipaul we have been struck by the friendliness of the people and the magnitude of the problems that they face with apparent insouciance, We’ve also seen our share of silly grand projects (though not quite as grand or silly as some of the Mobutu ones) which either fizzle out in a few weeks or are completed but stand idle, such as a hospital built in Kinshasa to celebrate 50 years of independence that has stood empty for two years. We’ve also witnessed changes in Kinshasa which make it quite different from the dysfunctional place it used to be.

I recall our first visit to the Grand Hotel – previously the Intercontinental – in which there is a little shopping mall. This has several shops selling wildly expensive designer-label clothes and shoes; fancy cell phones; expensive jewellery and the like. We were amazed, delighted and shocked all at once to come across it. Amazed that such a normal place could exist in Kinshasa, delighted to be able to window shop without being hassled, and shocked at the fantastic prices that people were clearly willing and able to pay. Later we got to know the proprietor of one such shop: she goes to Milan once or twice a year to order her stock. She bemoaned the globalisation trend which allows people to travel more easily and thereby avoid her extravagant mark-up, and the meanness of the vast development-aid community who never buy nice clothes. But now those shops, nice as they are, are no longer exceptional.

Likewise, just before the elections in 2011 a new coffee shop was opened which seemed, at the time, an extraordinary achievement. The decor was completely original and well done, the place was clean and decent and the service relatively good. In other words it was, for want of a better word, normal. But in Kinshasa it was something of a thrill, something to brag about, if you had been there and others hadn’t. Now there are several competitors and it’s no longer a place of any interest.

When I first came, finding a stove, mattress and similar basics was like a treasure hunt. Someone kindly helped me, and we drove from pillar to post trying to find something suitable. We went into shops which were the only ones open in a whole block of ghoulish emptiness. Paint was obviously a commodity which no one thought necessary. The streets were potholes in which there were a few islands of tar. Today these same streets are repaired, and are buzzing with activity. Empty shops are a rarity. Buildings are nicely painted.

And the main roads – transformed out of all recognition; the garbage – much reduced; the public spaces in the town, once totally neglected – now replanted and carefully maintained. Once more we have little parks and park benches which people actually use. There are street lights and fountains. At the end of June they are going to introduce another first: a bus service. Already little bus shelters have been erected along the main roads and we’re all waiting to see what the new buses (they say there are 200 of them) will be like.

But behind this striking veneer of progress there lies the hand of a government which has an extraordinary ability to create uncertainty and fear. The war in the East is continuous reminder of what can happen, of the dreadful pillages that took place in Kinshasa in the 1990s, and of the deep divisions and regular wrongs in society that some day will result in dreadful tumult. It reminds us that not only is the government not in control but that there is no justice. The abuses of power which the war in the East represents are repeated daily in the streets of Kinshasa. The victims are rarely the expatriates: most of them are the poor who have neither money nor influence to protect themselves.

For all that we shall miss Kinshasa. The wonderful warm evenings are probably the most special part. Then there is the river. Huge, majestic, a piece of history that makes you rub your eyes and say to yourself “I’m really here: this is the same river Conrad was writing about, the same river that Stanley travelled down, the same river that has seen so many atrocities.” We never tire of seeing the setting sun as we walk the dogs along its banks. And then there is the lake we go to on Sundays, set in a thick, really jungly rain forest. As we walk around it, and the dogs scamper in and out of the water, their whole bodies trembling with sheer delight, we can pretend to be in the real darkest Africa. That’s an illusion that we quickly and gladly forget as we eat the delicious barbecued chicken and chips washed down by cold beer.

We’ll miss the easy-going society, amazingly small when you consider the size of Kinshasa. You never go to a restaurant, get on a plane, or visit a theatre without seeing people you know. And what is nice is that it is so mixed. At a recent lunch of ten people not one was of the same nationality, even though 8 out of ten were married, namely Swedish + Swiss, Belgian + Lebanese, German + Turkish, South African + British. The unmarried ones were American and a mixed Danish/Turkish woman. And though none of them was what you would call a close friend we had met all of them before except the Spaniard.

So, it’s good bye to Kinshasa, which is also on a bend in the river, and the ¿Democratic? Republic of the Congo. We’ll miss you, but will also be glad to move on. And to the tolerant readers of the blog who have forgiven so many boring bits and ploughed on regardless, congratulations! You've survived 206 of them. And that, as they say, is that.

Full circle

As we pack up and see the house as empty as it was when we moved in more than three years ago there’s a curious sense of déjà vu. Not so with hotels. The first hotel we stayed at displayed all the signs of amateur building and amateur management. The floors of the rooms were not very flat and parts of the building built at different times didn’t join at quite the same level. Going down stairs was a highly risky business as the risers were different heights and the treads different widths. Readers with a good memory may remember a plaintive blog of the problems of getting a plug for the wash basin in my room.

Shortly after we arrived, we noticed that a 22 storey building on the river, a typical 1970s tower office block that had been built at the Zaire Centre of Commerce, was being renovated. It had been one of Mobutu’s prestige projects, and at the time was very grand, but like so much else had been ransacked and left semi-derelict. Rumours abounded about what was going on. Some said it would be offices and shopping centre, other thought it would be a hotel. It wasn’t until last year, just before the Francophonie Conference took place, that the final result was unveiled – a posh hotel. We finally found out that the renovation had been done by a private Chinese entrepreneur.

At first the prices were out of reach to anyone except the occasional high profile visitors such as Presidents and the likes of William Haig. But soon commercial sense prevailed and they reduced the prices to within reach of the standard international organisation, which meant us.

Room with a view

Four days before leaving Kinshasa, we check in. We didn’t expect anything special, but how wrong could we be? The reception was prompt and professional and the room truly superb, with everything you could possibly want. The view from the window was beautiful. 

The bathroom had every conceivable gadget including different types of shower and a huge victorian shape bath. And there was a plethora of different little boxes containing shower hats, toothbrushes and toothpaste, a comb, a sewing kit and so one as well as all the usual shampoos and conditioners. Apart from showing six different chinese channels the TV selection was normal and comprehensive. There were lights for every mood and occasion. And the breakfast had everything you might want: our only regret was that we were too busy to really enjoy it.

This wasn’t the half-baked hotel that we had become accustomed to in Kinshasa, but is a good symbol of what is happening in Kinshasa today as it renews itself with increasing momentum. Today’s visitor will never know what it was like only three years ago.

Only one thing struck a funny note in the hotel. It was a price list, laid discretely by the bed, of what you would be charged if you stole things from the room. The list included the usual things such as towels, dressing gowns and slippers, not to mention ash trays, ice buckets and other potential mementoes. But as we read the list our credulity became stretched to an increasing degree. Chairs, $60, (“just slipping out with it for a minute, I’ll bring it back”), the bar fridge, $250, (“would you mind giving me a hand, it’s a bit heavy . . .”) to the double bed, $450, (“would you kindly help me with the crane as I need to take something a bit tricky out of the window?”).

The Chinese clearly expect their guests to display the same ingenuity that makes them special.

Hunting for the visa

The Congo has a clever scheme to raise money: you have to have a visa to leave as well as arrive. If you’re resident, as we are, this must be renewed every seven months, at a price. This is in addition to the residence visa, which last for three years.

When my residence visa expired in February I sent in my passport for a renewal. It will take two months, they say, so they give you a fancy letter, with hologram stamp on the top and your photo, to prove to whoever might be interested that I have a passport which is currently being held by immigration for renewal of my residence visa.

Two months come and go. I’m assured that everything’s under control and it will be ready soon. But just when I really have to have it because I’m supposed to be leaving to go to a wedding, it becomes evident that nothing has actually been done. Crisis! They say they will only release the passport for an emergency, and the general view is that weddings don’t constitute such. We cook up a perjurious letter about my child being seriously ill in South Africa. The letter is read with deep sympathy, but not enough sympathy to get me an exit visa in less than three days, by which time I’ve had to change the flight at great expense.

Anyway, I make it to South Africa just in time for the wedding. As soon as I get back I send in the passport for the residence visa again. In six weeks I have to leave again, this time for an important work assignment, and as the departure approaches tension builds up. Our expediter makes regular visits and seems confident that things are happening, but with three days to go there’s still no passport. This time I insist on coming with him.

An official points us to a pile of forms – “you’ll find the form in there”, he says, and sure enough we do eventually find it. It shows that the money we paid has been received by a certain clerk, but has not yet been banked, as is required, three weeks later. Obviously the said clerk is taking advantage of the system to use my money before banking it. Deep gloom sets in, not to mention tension. We even think of paying the fee again, $400, just to make sure I get the visa in time.

The next day things look better: the money has now been banked so the passport can go “upstairs” which is where the big boss sits. Without his signature, the visa is useless. Two days later, at 4.45 p.m. on the eve of my departure early the next morning, I get the passport.

When I got my passport, as a matter of interest I looked at it carefully: the visa had been stamped in the passport fully three weeks earlier. The Congo sure works in mysterious ways.

A tale of two cities (2)

We are in Kikwit, famed for being the location of a terrible outbreak of the Ebola Virus back in 1995 which killed 245 people. It is a large, sprawling town built along the banks of wide, slow flowing and navigable river, the Kwilu. A market town which attracts custom from hundreds of kilometres away. As we drive in we pass a man pushing a bicycle, with a massive sack strapped onto the carrier. The bike was wobbling with the load, and he was struggling to keep it upright. It was four in the afternoon. “You see that?” said my colleague, “It looks like cassava roots. He’s probably been pushing that load all day to get here. The prices are much better in town, so for him it’s worth the effort, even if it’s only an extra ten dollars.”

Kikwit’s got the advantage of being on a tarred road to Kinshasa so the shops can get their supplies by road. Other goods come by river, a journey which takes at least two weeks. There’s no doubt: it’s an important place.

But is it a happy place?  The next evening, after work, we take a walk. The roads are lined by shops and little stalls predictably selling ridiculously cheap Chinese goods. Wherever possible people have laid out goods for sale on the ground. We shove our way through the crowd, wondering what everyone is doing. There don’t seem to be many people buying, but some obviously must do so – otherwise there wouldn’t be so many people selling. And that was when I was struck by the fact that everyone’s stressed and wears a frown of irritation or anger as they push through the milling throng. No, it’s not a happy place.

The noise, the people, the dirt, the frowns – they all get on one’s nerves. We escape for a walk along a minor road parallel with the river. The road is churned up and a lorry is totally stuck. Our guide used to live in this area in the old days (under Mobutu, that is). He says it is very sad to see how everything has deteriorated so much, and what used to be smart housing overlooking the river is now dilapidated and forlorn.

Likewise the hotel. We are staying in the poshest place in town, but does it have running water, electricity? No. The floor of our enormous room is gritty with dirt, and the windows don’t quite fit. To make up for the lack of water in the taps they provide a vast dustbin-like barrel of water, from which you can fill a bucket. But it is pitch dark, so if you don’t have a torch you’re literally feeling your way. It’s not quite fair to blame the hotel for the lack of water and electricity. These are nationalised industries and don’t work in lots of places. For some strange reason electricity is only turned on from six in the evening until midnight, so at night we can see inside the bathroom, and observe that the light fittings have mostly been removed and all that remains of them is bare wires sticking out of the wall.

The next evening we are invited to have an early supper at the home of a relative of a colleague. We’ve all put money into a kitty and she has prepared the food. This is the other city: her house is out of the centre, in an area of large plots typical of all Congolese towns. Each family has built its own house. We sit outside, sharing the space with some hens and their chicks and a skinny kitten. We’re surrounded by other houses, but are hidden by a half finished house in front and the old house behind. A table is brought out and a mass of pots follows. As we eat, the sun sets and we realise how quiet it is, in total contrast to the mayhem of the city centre. A small tree grows in the corner onto which the hens and their chicks cleverly climb and prepare to nest on top.

Unlike the posh hotel this area is not connected to any electricity, and soon we are sitting in total darkness. Nature decides: it’s time to go.

The next day we go back to Kinshasa. On the way to our privileged abode we divert to leave a colleague at his house. Approaching it we hit a massive traffic jam. It transpires that a huge truck with a trailer is stuck in a pothole. This is literally almost a metre deep and about three metres wide and the truck simply cannot get the power to pull itself out of the hole. Eventually, and we’re not sure how, it succeeds and traffic moves again. With a four wheel drive car, we’ve nothing to fear from the hole, but cannot help getting a bit anxious as we plunge into it. And then, only about 50 metres further on there’s another one, almost as big.

We drop off the colleague – the Chief Accountant – at a neat house set in a muddy lane full of rubbish, then drive back to our place.

The contrast couldn’t be greater. Our street is an avenue with majestic old trees on generous verges. Street sweepers and gardeners, one every fifty metres or so, and all paid by the same city of great potholes and muddy lanes, work seven days a week to sweep up any falling leaves and tidy the verges. Not only is the contrast between our two neighbourhoods, two cities united in name only, unconscionable, the misallocation of resources is positively ridiculous. One can only ask: “why?”

A show to remember

A show to remember

Every year Monte Carlo holds a Spring Arts Festival, but this year is different. The Princess Caroline of Monaco decided that instead of holding it in the city itself they should do so in Kinshasa. Yup, Kinshasa, that jewel of central Africa which resembles Monaco only in so far as gambling is big. The gamble to make enough money every day to feed your children.

Be that as it may, when word got around that the Princess was coming, society was in a twitter. Who would get invited to meet her? And when and where? We were brought into the net by a social-climbing friend who said she thought she might be able to swing a ticket to a special performance for Her Royal Highness by the Kimbanguiste Orchestra. They are the self taught orchestra with home made instruments (for more about them see “School of Hard Knocks” and “Rumble in the Rubbish”). Tickets duly obtained, it was a bit of a let down (socially speaking, of course) on the night when we found that the concert was, in fact free and open to the public. It was held at the open air amphitheatre that Mobutu had built in the grounds of his palace, and where James Brown had given a famous concert in the 70s.

The programme had three warm-up events, local tribal dancing shows, and we arrived late in the hope that we would miss them. No such luck: we sat through two extraordinarily bad performances and one, by a new youth group, quite exciting one. The events were introduced by two MCs at a level of decibels that was truly deafening. The princess, sitting in a VIP section at the front, clapped politely at the end of each performance.

While the dancing was taking place a man climbed onto a wall behind the stage to set up a projector. It was clearly not an easy job to balance on top of the wall, focus the projector and aim it at the back-projection screen, but he did it.

The serious part of the evening then started with a performance by the Monaco String Quartet. There were no programme details so we could only guess what they were playing. It sounded like Strindberg. The problems were (a) how was a tiny quartet to be heard in such a huge amphitheatre, and (b) the very cerebral music was way above the heads of the audience. Of course there were microphones, but by this time the sound engineer seemed to have slipped off for a drink because although the microphones were definitely working the sound was so low that we couldn’t here the music. All we got was the squeaking high notes of the violins. People soon stopped trying to listen and a low murmuring of people discussing who was who soon took over from the music.

After the Strindberg there was some Schubert, so at least one could pick out something of a tune, but only just. The string quartet ended its performance with the customary bows and much shouting from the crowd. The Princess looked round in delight at the enthusiastic response to the music. What she didn’t pick up was that people were saying “enough”. Anyway, the normal encore was duly played, followed by more clapping and shouting. The leader of the quartet asked whether we wanted more. “NOOOOO” came the rowdy reply. The Princess looked round again, he face alight with pleasure at the happiness their performance had brought. The quartet played another jolly piece and asked again whether we wanted more. “No, No, No” the crowd roared. Thus encouraged, the quartet played a final piece and was about to start another when the MCs (who had definitely understood what the crowd was saying) politely ended the performance and and introduced a film about the Kimbanguiste Orchestra’s trip to Monaco the previous year.

During the string quartet’s performance the projector had been turned on and was showing ads for the sponsor of the event – a local bank. Now we understood what it was really there for. But fate was against it – the film was showing but there was no sound. We dutifully watched the first five minutes in silence until it was ignominiously stopped. The Princess tried not to look disapproving.

This was followed by a choral performance while the seating was being arranged for the orchestra, who finally took their seats to huge applause. The highlight was a cello concerto, with one of the Monaco players as the soloist. At last, something to enjoy.

A show to remember, for several reasons.

Take that,Europe!

This site kindly counts the number of blogs it contains, which allows me to be sure that you are now reading blog number 200. This also allows me the chance to mention that our time in the Congo is running out. It's not goodbye yet but readers will be relieved to know that there won't be many more. 

I felt really jealous when we recently met a Frenchman, who’s happily housed in Provence, and whose life sounded ideal. “You know,” he said, “it doesn’t feel so marvellous from over there. What are the prospects? Europe is nothing but doom and gloom. Even France is worried about the risk of financial collapse. At the very best our prospects are for little more than years of austerity. Things are getting worse, not better. While for you, in Africa (we were in South Africa at the time) things are getting better all the time.”

This made me think about the DRC. So renowned for war, mismanagement, corruption, shady mining deals, at the bottom of the list of the human development index, what are the prospects here?

And I had a tiny revelation. Kinshasa then and now are two different places. Start with the airport: though grubby and badly organised it’s far better than it used to be. The immigration process has been transformed, the passport control is done on computers, and the staff are generally polite. Similarly, South African Airways seem to have realised that their check-in procedures were idiotic and have (to a small extent) streamlined them.

Driving from the airport on a mostly new road is also a completely different experience than the previous stop/start traffic jam on potholed, narrow and filthy roads. Dual carriageway much of the way, with newly completed tarmac, it's almost normal. And once in Kinshasa there is an eight lane Boulevard driving right though the centre, with fancy traffic rights that count down the seconds before they change.

The police have stopped harassing drivers for absurdly technical infringements, and even though one can never be 100% sure, it seems that there’s a real change of style.

Most of the ruined shops in town have been replaced and there is not only a wider range of shops, comparatively normal places that you might see anywhere in the world, but also lots of new restaurants and patisseries and salons de thé. A new large supermarket has opened, and the two other largest ones have had complete refits and doubled in size. There are many new hotels and more under construction, and smart new office blocks are sprouting up all over the place.

The centre of town has been completely cleaned up, and there are bins to throw your rubbish into – though not widely used by a public that seems blind to litter.

Kinshasa now has a Kinshasa Fashion Week in July, and a new competitor for the Tour de France has just been announced: it's the 948km Tour de la République Démocratique du Congo which is to take place in June this year. 

Other, less tangible things, have also changed for the better. The Government is (I think reluctantly) becoming increasingly serious about financial management, and accounting to the public how its money is spent. It has introduced VAT and is reforming the tax law to make it more fair and simple.

So yes, things are getting better. And it is quite nice to be living in a place where each day brings improvements, however tiny. Sorry Europe.

Danger zone

If you ask the average expatriate aid worker in the Congo why he or she is here, she would say, in one way or another, “to help make it a better place”. Whether they’re working in humanitarian aid, training doctors or teachers, supplying drugs, or reforming the forces of security and justice the response is pretty much the same for everyone. Of course, she will add, “life’s pretty difficult here, but I try and make the best of it”. What no one will admit that it’s because of the money, even though that is, without doubt, the real reason. Because if you turn it around, and threaten, for example, to remove the post differential (which is the difference between one’s normal salary, and what one gets in the Congo), the cost of living allowance, and the danger pay (in most of the Congo, but not Kinshasa) then they’ll refuse to work and threaten to get out.

A friend, in a well-intentioned move to get more people interested in coming to the Congo, made a video about Kinshasa. In the video, people gushed about how good the American school was, was fun it was to go on the river at the week ends, how nice the restaurants were, what a pleasure it was to play on the lovely golf course, etc etc. Life, they said, was good. There was no mention about the unstable policing situation, oppression of the opposition, the war in the east, or the previous wars and lootings even in Kinshasa. But this video sent shivers down our mercenary spines – if word got out that life was so good, what would happen to the post differential?

We also have to carefully guard the value of the cost of living allowance. This is compiled annually by a physical check of prices on supermarket shelves for a specific range of goods. The trick here is to include in the list of goods being monitored lots of products that are typically imported and therefore very expensive (e.g. Kellogg’s corn flakes, baked beans, cheddar cheese) – after all, we all benefit from the system, so what incentive is there to get the lowest prices? This process convinces the people in the various capitals of Europe and the US that life is really expensive here, and so that they pay us accordingly.

Indeed, we’re engaged in a sort of conspiracy to make the country seem as difficult and dangerous and expensive as possible. 

The embassy securocrats circulate ludicrous warnings about the dangers on the streets of Kinshasa, and restrict their charges to a small area where it is relatively safe. The tiniest incident is blown out of all proportion: for example, someone has her car door opened by a street kid, while she’s loading her shopping. She’s quick witted and pushes him out of the way and nothing is stolen. But the incident is immediately reported by text message to all embassies, and thence to international services to warn travellers about risks. Before long Kinshasa has earned itself a reputation as a danger zone. No one’s going to contradict these warnings because they allow us to justify our extra allowances.

Recently, though, the system began to unravel. A number of embassy people were living in houses that had no burglar bars on the windows. The embassy security chief noticed this and pointed out that even though the landlord didn’t fit the bars, the embassy would do so, at its own expense, to protect the occupants from possible break-ins and looting. His decision was greeted by howls of outrage. “We don’t want our views to be spoiled by bars. We like the windows as they are.”

He reported their reaction to the HQ. “If that’s the case,” came the reply, “and they consider that there’s no danger, we’ll remove the post differential.”

Caught out.

United we stand

The UN is a very important player in the Congo. With more than 26,000 employees in the peace-keeping force alone, and a major presence from all the other major UN agencies such as the World Food Programme, UNICEF and the UN Development Programme, their expenditure on housing and logistical support is truly massive. If they were to leave, it is said, the rents of housing in Kinshasa would halve, and you can be sure that several landlords would fall on their swords. After all, once you’ve got used to making 30% return on you capital, it’s tough to go back into survival mode.

The UN also, of course, employs thousands of lower paid Congolese: the cleaners, drivers, secretaries, junior professionals etc. Pay is good for everyone – as I mentioned a few months ago, the cleaning staff get almost as much in a month as a mid-to-senior level civil servant gets in a year. Without the UN their lives would be very different, and most would be out of work.

So strong is the need to spend, rather than save, money, that they have standardised allowances for staff with absurd results. For example, the wife of an Ambassador, who had been working in the Congo for a year, was offered a job with a UN agency. It was a senior job, and she would be getting a salary even higher than her husband.

But when it came to signing the contract she couldn’t believe her eyes: she would also be paid a $10,000 moving allowance, and $5,000 a month housing allowance.

“But,” she said, being fundamentally honest, “this can’t be right, I am already living here so do not need a moving allowance, and I already have a house so do not need a housing allowance.”

“Madam,” came the reply, “your personal circumstances are of no relevance to us. These are standard allowances and you will be paid them no matter whether you require them or not.”

Of course the various UN agencies, especially the peacekeepers, need transport for materials, food and equipment. They have their own aircraft but they are not adequate for the work. So they must send goods through local carriers.

They approached one of the biggest transport companies asking whether they could send a shipment by river from Kinshasa to Kisangani.

“Yes, of course we can, provided you book the shipment in advance.”

“What is your rate?”

“$48 a ton, or $40 a ton if it is a complete shipload.”

“Agreed,” said the UN man, and that seemed to be that.

A few days later the shipper received the contract. The rate was $65 a ton. He called back to ask what was going on.

“I’m sorry I didn’t explain,” came the reply, “that is the rate that we pay.”

Then the voice is lowered, conspiratorially: the nod and a wink sort of tone. “Between you and me, if we pay you less our commission is reduced proportionately, so we wouldn’t want to do that, would we?”

Not long after, the same company, which operates the largest airline in the Congo, had a similar request for air freight quotations. Even though he was dealing with different people, the negotiations followed exactly the same pattern. They refused to pay the rate quoted (even though, naturally enough, it was quite high in comparison to the rate they charge local firms) and insisted on paying at a higher rate.

So what did our already wealthy (very) entrepreneur do? He turned them down, saying that he refused to do business with dishonest people.

Good for him.

Schizolingua

Everyone knows, particularly the Chinese, that English is the language that sells. Thus, if you buy a door mat in French speaking Congo, it will nevertheless proudly proclaim: WELCOME. And this is precisely how you are greeted at the door of our office.

I’m not sure if people in the Congo object to this linguistic imperialism, especially as it comes with Chinese goods which means that they are cheap. It might even be a status symbol to have an English-speaking door mat. After all, many people probably wish that they had been born in an English speaking country, which would have opened so many more commercial doors. And american films and music are hot!

If they didn’t hate Rwanda so much (as the purported aggressor in the conflicts in the East) they would admire the way that it changed itself overnight, in 2008, from francophone to anglophone. The motives, mind you, were pretty silly: a French judge found that President Kagame, in his then military role, had assassinated the Hutu President – an act that triggered the genocide. This judgement made President Kagame so angry that the announced that Rwanda would no longer use French as its official language[1].

Back to the Congo where there’s certainly great interest in English: two years ago, the Congolese Minister responsible for higher education announced that all universities should be bilingual within five years. Unrealistic though this may have been, it reflected a national desire to escape the dominance of francophonie.

Even the bank notes have the denominations (for example, FIVE HUNDRED FRANCS) written in English as well as French.

But last year, with huge fanfare, the Congo hosted the biennial Francophonie summit, and the Congo was put under great pressure to champion francophonie. Since then the voices asking for more English have become muted, and there may be changes afoot.  

The new bank notes, for example, follow a completely different design, without any English translations. And when we bought a new mat for the front door of the office, (“Welcome” having become shredded with age), the message was clear: BIENVENUE.

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[1] Rwanda has since denied this link. They now claim that it was a commercial decision as their main trading partners are all English speaking.

What's in a name?

A lot apparently. At least Mobutu thought so.

Two years after seizing power, he creating a political party to which all citizens automatically belonged and which had, as its objects, nationalism, revolution and authenticity. The first two were easily implemented: he nationalised the mines and other big companies, and outlawed foreign participation in trade.

Authenticity needed a bit more thought, and it was four more years before he launched his official campaign.

His first act was to rename the country Zaire.

Next he tackled the symbol of westernisation: clothing. This was not a new idea. Mao had done it in China, and there is considerable evidence that Mobutu saw himself as the Mao of Africa – in power terms, even if not in either political or ethical ones. The Zairean version of men’s clothing was a jacket in the form of a close fitting shirt, with pockets on the front, worn outside the trousers. African prints were a popular cloth for them. Once this had been decreed as the national form of dress it was illegal to wear a jacket and tie.

Then came names. We probably shouldn’t be surprised that he rejected his Christian names, Joseph-Desiré – so effeminate! So he ordered everyone to replace their Christian or European names with Zairean ones. Priests were liable to five years in gaol if they were found guilty of baptising people with Christian names. Finally, he decided that everyone should also have a “post-name” after their surname to give them an additional identifier. The post-name was normally supposed to be that of one or more of your ancestors, but it could be the name of a village, a clan or some personal attribute. 

Mobutu had great fun renaming himself. He chose the name to end names: Mobutu Sese Seko Nkuku Ngbendu Wa Za Banga ("The all-powerful warrior who, because of his endurance and inflexible will to win, goes from conquest to conquest, leaving fire in his wake”).

The post-name is the last name but is not the family name, which is the second to last one: thus President Kabila’s name is written Joseph Kabila Kabange. This causes no end of confusion in official documents, and sorting names in alphabetical order etc. But if you ask a Congolese his name, he will first give you his surname (family name) which is actually his middle name, followed by his pre-name. Then, if you ask, he will give you his post-name. Confused? 

War and the art of procrastination

After the assassination of Laurent Kabila there was a long period in which multiple factions in the Congo jostled for power. A prolonged conference in South Africa resulted in agreement about the constitutional principles which all sides would accept. Three years later the new constitution was enacted.

What is very interesting is that the model adopted had strong similarities with the South African one. In the latter case the objective was to protect the rights of minorities such as Afrikaners and the interests represented by the white parties, and minority black parties such as Buthelezi’s Inkhata Freedom Party. The constitution stopped short of the federal model, but it entrenched the concept of provinces with their own elected government and legislature, in which central government could not interfere.

In the Congo, there were similar fears concerning the likelihood of central government being dominated by a single party and a dominant ethnic group. Not surprisingly, the resulting settlement was the same as in South Africa – establishing 15 additional Provinces (making 26 in all) each with their own government and legislature, their own revenue raising powers, and a guaranteed 40% of central government’s revenues.

For cynical politicians the nice thing is that once a constitution has been adopted, it is not so easy to force a government to implement it. In the Congo, where the courts are arms of central government, it is practically impossible.

So, guess what? Nothing has been done. After all, who wants to share power voluntarily?  Only saints like Mandela, not Kabila. So no new provinces have been created, in spite of a constitutional provision that the last date for the process was 36 months after it was enacted. In a belated attempt to rectify the situation, the constitution was hurriedly amended to postpone the creation of new provinces “until circumstances are right.”

As for provincial revenues, they are receiving only half of what they are supposed to get.

This has made a lot of people angry, especially when they contrast conditions in Kinshasa with their own situation. Of course there is always the option of going to war – which is what a lot of people have done. But these local bandits are fighting less for constitutional change than for a slice of the local economic cake, and it’s easier to get that by looting and harassment than entering the political fray. However, the M23, the largest of the current rebel groups, has made more decentralisation of power one of its central demands.

Will they get it? Of course not. Here’s why:

Elections: Provincial elections were supposed to be held last year, but there’s simply no money for them. Nor is there an electoral commission to plan and implement them: the last one was so discredited by the Presidential and Parliamentary elections in 2011 that a new Act of Parliament has been drafted but there is fierce resistance to government’s proposal by civil society so it has been deferred several times.

Government: Each province is supposed to have ten Ministers and supporting staff. In the case of the 15 new provinces there are no offices for them, and to build them will cost billions and take many years.

Assemblies: Each province is supposed to have a Provincial Assembly with its own supporting staff. Apart from the problem of elections, where will they meet (imagine building 15 houses of parliament), who will pay them, etc etc?

So Kabila and his cabinet are able to claim that they would love to decentralise, but they simply cannot so due to a lack of funds. And that, of course, is the fault of the donors. Nothing to do with political will. Nothing at all.

Do we exist?

I was more than a little amused when I received my first airline tickets from the US which referred to Kinshasa as being in “Zaire”. Zaire, as readers will know, was Mobutu’s name for the Congo when he launched his indigenisation campaign (apparently loosely modelled on Mao’s Cultural Revolution). It was at that time that he also renamed all the towns, so that, for example Leopoldville became Kinshasa. However, in 1997, when Laurent Kabila overthrew Mobutu, one of his first acts was to rename the country the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

So when you get an official document locating Kinshasa in Zaire you begin to wonder. At first I thought it was a once-off aberration, but no, right until late 2011, it was there – see picture (don’t be confused by the Ethiopian Airlines reference – the airline used made no difference). Since then, someone in authority must have asked a question “Where is Zaire?”  When she didn’t get a satisfactory response, no doubt after much head scratching, she must have decided to omit it altogether. Because now all the tickets simply state Kinshasa, with no clue as to which country it’s in. Just as all UN maps state that the boundaries on their maps do not represent the official position of the United Nations, the airline ticketing system in the US obviously preferred to avoid official endorsement of the name change made in 1997 by omitting it altogether.

This was all triggered by a recent internet incident. I am pestered by a web-site called Booking.com which obtains cheap deals at hotels. Since we regularly book visitors into hotels in Kinshasa, and I know the going rates, I thought I would play a trick on it and see what offers it had for our hotels. (If you are wondering whether any hotels in Kinshasa might show up on a standard internet site, let me confirm that at least two, the ex-Intercontinental Hotel, now called The Grand Hotel, and operated by Lonrho Hotels; and the Memling Hotel, which is operated by Sabena Hotels, are part of international chains).

So, after taking quite a while, here’s what the site found:

    Kinshasa

    We think you are looking for one of these five options:

    Cities:              Las Vegas

    Airports:          North Las Vegas

                            McCarran

    Hotels:             Kinshasa Hotel, Dubai

                            Kinshasa Hotel Branch, Dubai

That proves it, doesn’t it? We don’t exist. Quite a nice feeling.

Rebel rousing

Here’s a way to end wars. You invite the protagonists to a luxury hotel, put them and their huge retinues in the best rooms, and feed and drink them without stint. This is what Uganda has been doing with the Congolese Government and the M23 rebels.

This treatment does not accelerate peace, of course: in fact it puts everything on hold, because the fighting factions would much rather be in the grand hotel than roughing it in the bush.

However, according to a rumour from a normally reliable source a couple of weeks ago the whole deal started to become unstuck. The rebels allegedly demanded “per diems” failing which they would leave Kampala and go back to fight. In other words not satisfied with the fact that they were being housed and fed, they also wanted pocket money for wine, women and song. In the circles in which I move such per diems would be in the region of $20 - $40 a day. A modest allowance for minor expenditure. In those circles, I’m sure that $200 a day would be considered more appropriate.

Uganda was not, apparently, pleased. But a few days later talks resumed, and within a few days the parties had even signed an agreement acknowledging that there was wrong on both sides and they promised to try and settle their differences. That’s the most progress we’ve seen since early December. Viva the per diem – saviour of the Congo!

The blue light brigade

As a rough rule of thumb, the larger and the more showy presidential motorcades are, the worse the President really is. You can contrast Nyerere who used to ride in a Peugeot 504, sitting next to the driver, with Mugabe who has a massive entourage of flashy black Mercedes, motorbikes and the rest. Woe betide anyone who does not pay due respect to this show of might. Anyone not stopping instantaneously, and getting right off the road, is considered insolent, if not traitorous, and beaten up or hauled off to prison or both. Interestingly South Africa is one of the major culprits. Even minor Ministers love to surround themselves with these flashy motorcades, and their security men are continuously being sued for assault due to their enthusiasm for punishing offenders.

Of course there’s one country which outdoes the rest in their obsession with security and therefore absurd motorcades: the mighty U.S. of A. When Clinton came to Johannesburg they even closed many of the roads on which he would be travelling: Not just ordinary roads, but motorways – in both directions. 

One of the tricks they like to play is to have several dummy cars, so the assassin cannot tell which one the Big Man is in, which makes the show even more silly. I saw it once in Ramallah, on the West Bank, when Hilary Clinton was there: there were five identical black four wheel drives with heavily tinted windows, all driving at twice the safe speed. Maybe she wasn’t even in any, who knows. Assuming she was in one of them, what she felt like is not known: did she enjoy it, or did she feel a bit silly – or arrogant maybe? Because it is above all the arrogance of these shows that annoys people, especially when “important” people think they have the right to close roads in the middle of rush hour.

So where, on this scale, would you expect Kabila to fall? Pretty near the top, I would expect, right next to Mugabe. But no, he’s not like that at all, and though this is one of the few nice things I can think to say about him, I think it’s quite endearing.

He evidently despises all this security fuss. We were out in a park once when we (almost) bumped into him walking along, evidently paying a surprise visit to a nearby school. Yes, he had bodyguards front and back, but there was no fuss. We see him driving himself in a black and very well polished, Land Cruiser along the river bank, looking both happy and ordinary. Sometimes he gets bored with cars, and drives a quad bike instead. The security people must hate it, and he is always followed by a convoy of cars bristling with guns, and an ambulance at the rear in case he has a crash, but he does it. You also even see him, in an official motorcade of five or eight cars, soldiers back and front and numerous officials in tow, driving himself.

Maybe he does this because he spent several years in Tanzania and learned how Nyerere endeared himself to his subjects by his humility. Or maybe, and more likely, he’s like a little boy who wants to have fun.

There’s a nice story about Nyerere: he was flying to London for some international meeting regarding the liberation of Zimbabwe. After they had been airborne for a few hours, he was surprised to see Joshua Nkomo walking down the aisle, exercising his greatly overweight body. They were indeed as surprised as each other, and when they got talking Nyerere discovered that Mugabe was on the same flight. How come they hadn’t seen each other before? Why, Mugabe and Nkomo, using funds given by well-wishers for the liberation of Rhodesia, were flying business class. Nyerere, true to form, was travelling economy.

That’s something that Kabila will never emulate. NEVER.

Just in time

It was 22 January 2012. The posters being put up were truly special: the Rolls Royces of poster-making. They were printed in full colour on thick plasticised fabric, with brass rings at each corner to prevent tearing when nailed to walls or strung up between trees. They were advertising a conference to discuss the Congo’s latest report on the subject of the Extractive Industries Transparency Initiative (EITI) to be held just three days later – the 25th.

We all know that the topic of conflict minerals is a hot one. While blood diamonds used to be at the top of the list (and remain a hotly debated subject in Zimbabwe) now interest is very much focussed on the mines in the Congo. It is alleged that the motives of the various warring factions/countries in the East of the DRC are primarily to get possession of the mines there, which include diamonds, gold and coltan. The last one is a little known but highly important mineral in the manufacture of cell phones. Certainly, there’s massive evidence to show that all neighbouring countries are benefitting from the smuggling of these minerals, whether by armed gangs or organised crime, so there must be something fishy going on.

As one of the world’s leading producers of coltan, the Congo, with its endless wars, has come under increasing scrutiny. The activist lobbies in the US began to link coltan with war crimes, exploitation, rape and numerous by products of the industry. The EITI was intended to reduce the scope for armies and bandits to gain financially from mined minerals by requiring certification at the source. The theory was that if you can stop the illegal trade in minerals you’ll stop the fighting.

The United States led the fight, when, in an extraordinary piece of logic, it included a passage making it illegal for US manufacturers to use minerals that were not certified as part of the Dodd-Frank Act of July 2010 entitled “Wall Street Reform and Consumer Protection Act”. This is a massive, 849 page piece of legislation which was intended to regulate the financial industry. The legislation may have been just what was needed as far as Wall Street was concerned, but its impact on the Congo was disastrous. Hundreds of tiny mines, consisting of nothing more than a few men with a wheelbarrow or two and shovels were put out of work because they had no way of getting their production certified. Some minerals still get through by smuggling (it’s interesting that exports from Rwanda and Burundi of these minerals, even though they don’t have any mines, continue), but the impact of the law has been to wholly negative, not least by reducing prices as the goods can only be sold under the counter. Meanwhile the fighting intensifies.

There’s another story about mining in the Congo. In 2009 the DRC revoked the mining licence of First Quantum Minerals, a Canadian company that had invested $750 million in a new plant to process copper tailings. In effect, not only did First Quantum lose the licence, but they also lost the investment which was, effectively, expropriated. (After a lengthy arbitration they were compensated for some of their loss). Having thus acquired a very lucrative asset, the Congo government sold it to Dan Gertler, and companies in the British Virgin Islands linked to him, for a fraction of its real value (the figure of $30 million has been used). He is a young Israeli entrepreneur with a flair for making friends in high places and keeping his money in tax havens. Dan Gertler then sold the mining rights to another mining company for hundreds of millions of dollars. The proceeds were then, allegedly, shared between him and his protector, President Kabila.

In September 2011 the IMF, as part of their due diligence procedures, asked for explanations from Sodimico and Gecamines, both state owned mining companies, concerning sales of assets at below market value and without publicity to Gertler. This was in connection with the IMF's proposed loans to the DRC worth $561 million to strengthen the economy.

These dealings are public knowledge. However what is less well known is that payment of the latest tranche of the IMF loan, about $85 million, has now been suspended because the government has refused to disclose details of the Gertler deals. It (the Government) even had the cheek (I was told by the IMF representative) to demand a renegotiation of the loan agreement, while refusing to allow the last three IMF inspection teams entry into the country.

Gertler’s shady dealings have not gone unnoticed in the stock exchanges of the world, and in December 2012, it was reported that Eurasian Natural Resources Corporation (ENRC) had spent $550m buying itself out of a DRC copper-mining partnership with Gertler, in order to protect their good name. They accused him of making the majority of his $2.5bn fortune from "looting Congo at the expense of its people". So when we talk about transparency in mining, it’s clear that the Congo might squirm a little.

But no, as the poster shows, they are trumpeting their adherence to the principles of transparency, and their wholehearted support for the EITI, even though it looks like a bit of a sham.

But wait: the report to be discussed at the conference on the 25^th is for the year 2010. That’s all right then – let’s let bygones be bygones.