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?”