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.
