Ladies of the tar

If anyone thinks that the ritual of wedding photos is at times too much, think again. If it is just a few posed photos after the ceremony, with, maybe a few extra of the happy couple in the garden, you’re getting away lightly.

In Kinshasa that would be laughable. Of course no one could pretend that conditions here are the same. Remembering that many people live in cramped dwellings and grotty neighbourhoods where greenery is rare and even the churches are in densely packed streets, it is not surprising that they would look elsewhere for their photos. What is more, churches cannot actually marry people: that is a civic matter. So you must have a civil wedding first, followed by the religious wedding (if you’re so inclined) and in many cases a traditional wedding undertaken in the home village. Quite a process.

Finding a nice spot for the photos is not as easy as you might think. They have to find a setting that speaks of style and wealth. For us who are lucky enough to live in an area of broad avenues, grand trees and few buildings should we be surprised that they choose our area for wedding photos?

The logistics are complex: the traffic congestion and the distances between the Commune where they must hold the civil ceremony, the church and our neighbourhood means that there simply isn’t time to have the wedding and photos on the same day. Just taking the photos is an exercise not to be undertaken lightly. There’s transport for the bride and groom, their bridesmaids and the photographer, not to mention families. It all takes time, a lot of it. So, there’s no time on Saturdays for the photos, and Friday is the day.

There are three favourite spots. One is in the forecourt of the Grand Hotel conveying the unmistakable message that these are people of substance who can afford to patronise the flashy establishment. Another venue is a grand processional way, dignified with bronze statues, modern street lights, and (non-functional) fountains. The median, nicely paved, offers lots of opportunities for a pretty picture. On Friday afternoons we see many different wedding groups and their photographers jostling for position. The bridesmaids stand around in brightly coloured dresses, gossiping, while the bride, looking very self conscious, kicks her heels while the photographer lines up another shot. These are not amateur shots: the photographers fuss around with their tripods, lights and reflective umbrellas, so the whole process takes time . . .

Back to the location for the shots: the hotel and the processional way are such common choices that discerning couples look for a different location, and what better than the relatively narrow, heavily treed, lightly trafficked, Avenue Roi Baudouin, the location of the Swedish, British and German embassies, not to mention the residence of the US Ambassador? I often come across couples (accompanied of course by their bridesmaids and photographer) who take over the whole road and pose in the centre as if to suggest that the road leads directly to their palace. One pose, which seemed to be particularly brave, had the bride squatting on the ground with her dress artfully spread around her and her man standing over her in a protective stance.

Other poses are more risqué. It’s not unusual to have the man carrying the bride, as if about to take her over the threshold of their new home, or in Hollywood clinches and kisses. Not a few brides choose to have their children included in the photos: there’s no stigma having babies before marriage as everyone knows that weddings are VERY expensive, so it’s only natural that you have babies first so that you can give yourself time to save up for the wedding to remember.

But whatever the pose and wherever it is, the ritual certainly enlivens the scene on Friday afternoons. It’s fun for us, probably much more than for the harried couple.

 

Music

Last week we went to a concert given by a famous Congolese singer Koffi Olomide, supported by his band the Quartier Latin. It took place in a thickly carpeted venue called ShowBuzz which doubles as a cinema. The event was billed to start at 10 p.m. but everyone knew that this was Congolese time, so not to be taken too seriously.

Seats cost $25, or $50 for the VIP section. We chose the cheaper ones – a wise decision as the VIP seats were around tables in the flat floor part of the vast room that didn’t look much fun. Instead, we sat in the front of the raked seating so had the best of both worlds. It gave us a front row view of the manoeuvering of the moneyed classes of Kinshasa, a game of conspicuous consumption writ large.

By the time we arrived just before 11, the place was almost full. The stage curtains were firmly closed. At 11.30, recorded music started from behind the black curtains, and fifteen minutes later a burly compere appeared to announce that the great man had arrived and the event would be opened by the Quartier Latin. They trooped in – a band of about ten people – and duly started. Their performance was treated as no more than background noise by the audience who continued their performance in front of us: gossiping, trying very hard to see and be seen, and making sure that their table seating plan was working well. Meanwhile, people were still arriving, and by now all the seats were full so it was standing room only in the aisles.

A photographer wandered around, promising that his photos would be available at the end of the show. We declined, but another photographer in a dinner jacket – so presumably part of the management – took multiple photos of us that will, no doubt, be used in future promotions.

Waitresses were active, soliciting us several times, but getting more luck in the VIP section. One of their offerings was a Moet et Chandon special at about $200 a bottle. Most people settled for something a bit cheaper, but one couldn’t avoid being impressed by their agility and efficiency.

At 12.45, the great man was announced, and as he walked in from the flies his voice was treated by whooping and screaming from the audience. The Quartier Latin upped the volume and a male dance troupe entered. This was followed at the start of the second number by a scantily clad female dance troupe. For most of the rest of the show they danced around the singer in a formation not unlike bodyguards protecting their star.

Much thought had gone into the showmanship, with elaborate lighting with frequent changes of colours and spots on key performers. But to be frank we had more fun people watching. The men were almost all in boring dark suits and ties, but the women . . . Never has so much been put into so little. There was massive competition to be the most conspicuous person: very long, very short, very tight, etc. Most has lost the bloom of youth so had to compensate in other ways, but there were a few young, beautiful and well-dressed girls.

At 2.30 we began to feel we had had enough. A couple of numbers had brought the audience to their feet and the room came alive, but for most of the time it was relatively unexciting. A big contrast with the atmosphere that Papa Wembe had created in his time. So we nudged our companion – let’s go! But she was determined to get her money’s worth so we politely grinned and bore it. Because by then it wasn’t much fun. Luckily, just after 3 a.m., the great man announced (in English, followed by French) that the show had come to an end, but he would be performing again late in the month.

The next day I was talking about the show to a friend. His comments took a bit of lustre off the event. “I wouldn’t go near him,” he said, “he’s a nasty man.” He went on to remind me that he was the musician who had been videoed kicking one of his female dancers at Nairobi airport, and whose show was immediately carried and he was deported. That was not a freak event. He had previously been sentenced to three months in Kinshasa for assaulting his producer. He was also convicted of statutory rape in France and sentenced for two years and required to pay €5,000 to the dancer. He was lucky: both prison sentences were suspended.

The vegetable sellers of Kinshasa

Dotted around Kinshasa you will see women selling fruit and vegetables. They find a spot under a tree, often on the wide verges of an avenue. Their favourite products are bananas, avocados, mangos and guavas in their season, tomatoes, aubergines, cucumbers and onions. A small group have wooden stalls: they attract the expatriates who feel more secure in this shop-like environment, and who prefer the  large range available. Next to them are flower sellers. These are men: it’s always men who sell flowers. Rumour has it that that’s because men are gardeners, and what’s the best source of flowers? Their employer’s garden, of course.

As shown in the blog of 2010

Trial and error reveals which ones have the best avos, and the best prices. There’s one with a particularly good combination of these two. She has a built a small wooden platform a few metres from the entrance to the British Embassy in the no-go zone created by their vast rubbish bins. My beloved likes to go for walks along the banks of the river Congo, but to make a circuit goes along the road parallel with the river where the Embassy is situated, and thus past the said seller. There are two problems in this relationship. One is that even though her products are on display, the seller is often not at her stall. In that case a trust system applies: customers help themselves to what they need and promise the various hangers-on (street kids and the like) that she will pay in due course. The other is that walkers typically don’t carry money, so when they buy something they have to run up a tab. Neither of these seems to cause a problem, and if the tab is settled once a week everyone’s happy.

A doggy love affair

We have a particularly good relationship with a young woman who comes to our door on Friday evening. We first knew her as a young girl who accompanied her mother who sold us vegetables in our previous flat. She was already a sturdy worker, carrying her share of the produce on her head, just like Mum. (See blog of 11 August 2010) Her visits allowed her to cuddle our golden Labrador which brought him and her great pleasure.

We would never have made contact with her had she not rushed up to my beloved who was on her normal walk, and shouting her name in delight grasped around the waist and effortlessly lifted her up off the ground. Once the excited had settled the beloved was able to explain where we are now living.

The girl has had a terrible recent past. Her mother died shortly after we left, and last year she was abducted by thugs and kept as a sex slave in a remote spot outside Kinshasa for a month. Nine months later she had a baby which she (blush blush) embarrassingly named after my beloved. In spite of this she keeps a cheerful demeanor and continues to work as normal.

Compared to many people these sellers can make a comparatively good living, and they don’t see themselves as in the same category as some of the forlorn hawkers who prowl the streets of Kinshasa.

Just to prove the point we were buying some avos from woman sitting near the restaurant where we had had lunch. She turned awkwardly to serve us, and we couldn’t help wondering why. Peering over the pile of fruit we saw the answer. An itinerant pedicurist was just finishing his job. At his side was a little kit of nail lacquers in wide range of colours. He was just finishing his work by applying a brilliant green to her toenails.