A night to remember

It was all at the last minute: we scored an invitation to a guest-only fashion show organised by Vlisco. That’s probably a name that doesn’t mean much to most people: they are a Dutch manufacturer of batik cloth (deriving ultimately from their Indonesian colony) – or, as they call it, wax prints. They were established about 170 years ago, and their brightly coloured and elaborately patterned cloth quickly became highly sought after. To this day it is worn for smart occasions all over Africa. Although hundreds of cheaper versions are produced (think China) Vlisco remains the fabric that people aspire to. So it should, at between $100 and $150 per 6 metre piece.

The show starts at 6.30 according to the invitation. We are a bit late and just as we were driving out of our compound realised that we had left the invitation behind.

Our destination was the Memling Hotel, the grande dame of hotels in Kinshasa, now about 70 years old, but still managing to keep its air of Belgian sophistication, with prices to match. But in a part of town infested with menacing street kids.

We were stopped at an intersection, and within view of the hotel, when suddenly three doors of our car were opened. Normally our doors lock automatically, but by opening it at the last minute to get the invitation it seems that we had overridden the system.  Suddenly we felt incredibly helpless.

On the passenger side a tall scruffy boy said “ça va” while trying to snatch N’s handbag. Another one was searching the back seat, while I was struggling to stop my door being opened wider than a foot or so. N was wearing a tight evening dress which is a bit of a constraint on leg movement, but she had the presence of mind to swivel round and give an almighty kick to the attacker’s stomach. Meanwhile I started to drive off and in a matter of seconds the affair was over. But not for us.

Arriving at the hotel we were treated like royalty by the hosts of the event and a bevy of very attractive women – all in Vlisco fabrics – who showed us to our place.

“I need a drink”, said N. Although it was more than 20 minutes after the show was supposed to begin there was no sign of any activity so we asked our neighbours to keep our seats and slid down to the bar. A glass of sauvignon blanc each – “only twenty dollars sir” – and we felt better.

In the end, in good Congolese tradition, the show didn’t start until about 8. By that time, we had been re-seated on the front row of the catwalk which, although it has social cachet means that you’re under blinding lights. One mustn’t complain: it gave us a very good view of the dresses and the models’ stern but fine faces.

Fourteen designers had been selected to participate: each had two dresses on show: one in the first half, and one in the second. Judging would only be based on the dresses shown in the second half.

It was stunningly well rehearsed, presenting different tableaux and movements for each two or three dresses – more interesting than the standard walk-on walk-off system.

At half time – while the models were changing into their second dresses – the compere introduced us to “The Doctor” who, much to our surprise and delight turned out to be a singer. His first song was Caruso, made famous by Pavarotti, followed by an equally famous (in Congo anyway) Papa Wembe song that the audience started to join in, and then a beautiful Ismael Lo song.

The second half followed the same pattern. It was followed by the introduction of the judging panel that included lawyers and accountants to ensure that the process was free of corruption. While the judging was taking place, the Doctor entertained us again.

Tension mounted. The judges couldn’t make up their mind, so all the models were brought back again.

Finally, the winning designers were announced, Oscar’s style.

The panache of the event was slightly dented by the fact that winners had to climb rather steep steps up to the podium. Some found this embarrassing as their movement was restricted by their weight and or their tight dresses. But the drama was ended when a couple of men made themselves available to politely heave them up.

The event was followed by drinks that included, yes, Laurent-Perrier champagne, which helped to put the earlier horror behind us. All’s well that ends well. Sort of.

Postscript: As we left, we bumped into Vlisco’s manager and host of the show. She said that the singer really is a doctor. She’d just discovered his singing skills by accident.