Street sellers

The other day, on my way to work, I observed a man hammering two nails into a wall. The following day, there was an orange cloth fixed to the wall, and a piece of rope had been hung between the two nails. On the rope was a hammer, some grinding discs, hanging from string, two pairs of very old looking rubber gloves, and a pair of pliers. A hardware shop was being borne.

Day by day I watch the stock growing. Now there is a sheet on the ground on which there are piles of nails and screws. To the side of the sheet are various pieces of timber. The proprietor has also given himself a chair.

The stock is all obviously used: the question is where does it come from? Has he bought it, been given it on commission, stolen it? How come it has taken so long – almost two weeks – to build up the stock? Or is his business going so well that day by day he adds to the stock from the takings of the previous day?

This makes me realise how poor-friendly the streets of Kinshasa are. It is more or less free for all: set up shop when and where you like.

The typical stall has a small table, often decorated with a table cloth, often beautifully embroidered. On this will be places the wares – maybe hardboiled eggs and bread, fruit, cigarettes or cell-phone air-time cards. In our neighbourhood, being posh, there are curio and flower sellers. Above the table is an umbrella to protect the seller from the sun. If the stall sells food and drink there will be a couple of plastic chairs or a wooden bench as well.

Traders manage to find an accommodating person who can store their goods overnight, and when we walk early in the morning we see people beginning to set up their stalls, carrying their tables and chairs from the properties on the street.

Not everything is as mundane. Every day we drive past someone who is attending to more essential needs than cell phones and fruit. A piece of white cloth the size of a small table is laid on the ground. At the back stand five bottles containing potions. In the middle are small piles of other products, small roots and suchlike, and in front is the proud statement of what is being offered. Sexual problems? TB? Liver troubles? Heart not working well? Headaches? AIDS? Come to me and I will give you what you need to make you strong, happy and healthy again. . . .

To someone from South Africa, where people have a somewhat possessive attitude to other people’s property, it is fascinating to watch the street money changers. They are everywhere. Dollars are used for large transactions but you need Congolese Francs for change, so changing money is a daily necessity for many people. The money changers stand with conspicuous wads of money offering it for sale to the world. Doesn’t anyone try and steal it?

Just see what happens to anyone suspected of being a thief, and you will see why they don’t. Mob justice is not pretty.

Not everyone trades from a fixed spot. There are many itinerant traders. A popular one is the shoe shine boy: he carries a tiny platform on which the customer will put his or her shoes, with which he makes a distinctive clacking sound as he bangs his brush against it.

Everywhere you go there are women selling the half sized baguettes which are the working man’s breakfast and lunch. The women nonchalantly carry them on their head in blue plastic bowls, with some unappetising bits of cardboard box around the edge to prevent them falling out.

Twice a week we have an evening visit from our mobile greengrocers – a woman and her adolescent daughter (see picture above). A few days ago we were blessed by the visit of an altogether superior sort: he was selling what he called imported food – imported, so he said from Brazzaville, which is a kilometre away, of course.

The food? Fish, lobsters, and, wait for it, frogs legs.

Je t'aime

Once I spent a few weeks in Mogadishu. That was before Somalia became what it is today: then it had a dictator (Siad Barre) and things sort-of worked. We were accommodated at the American guest house, and fed wholly imported food straight from the US. But these home comforts were not enough for most of the residents: they typically had only one thought: when will I get out of here? I can’t remember quite why they all thought it was so terrible. I thought parts of Mogadishu were very nice, and one could probably have a life there which was no more unpleasant than many parts of the globe.

But our guest house colleagues lived only for the moment when they would finally board the plane to Nairobi. However, there were two problems. First, that the flights to Nairobi were only once a week, and secondly that they sometimes didn’t come. The plane had broken down, had been commandeered for something else or whatever. But the fact was that this happened regularly. As a result anxiety about when one would leave escalated. You would notice people’s appetite would go, they would sit in the corner to avoid conversation, or would scribble endlessly on tiny scraps of paper, no doubt making notes about what they were going to do when they got out.

When you meet someone in Kinshasa the conversation often starts with establishing your coordinates. How long have you been here and how much longer have you got to go? People at the end of their stay often use words like “I can’t wait,” or “only four weeks to go.” They are often surprised if one says that one is enjoying it, and put it down to inexperience or hopeless optimism.

Recently we met someone who said: “this place is hell on earth.” He was being serious. He pointed to the poverty, the collapse of public services, the abuses of power and the breakdown of law and order.

But is it really like that? Maybe it is how you respond to a situation that is more important than the situation itself.

As time passes we have met an increasing number of old-timers, by which I mean people who’ve been here for ten or twenty years, and who see this as their home. Most have been through some very tough times – seen their property looted or confiscated, and suffered all sorts of maltreatment. But many have learned to cope with the strangenesses of the bureaucracy, and things that don’t work. They love to speculate about what is going to happen and find the tricky politics fascinating. They are willing to take the risks of instability for the sake of a life which, when you analyse it carefully, has much to offer.

Recently we were talking to some such who were waxing positively lyrical about life in Kinshasa. That was made more believable by the fact that we were sitting in the balmy night on an embassy lawn, on the banks of the mighty river, the lights of Brazzaville twinkling on the other side. Drinks flowed and everyone was very amiable.

They told us the story of someone who had just spent a month in Europe – a dream holiday you would say. As the door of the plane opened, and he prepared himself to be immersed in the raucous chaos of the airport, this old-timer stood at the top of the steps, spread his hands out in an embrace and said “Kinshasa, je t’aime.”

Missionaries

The Belgians have had a bad press on relation to the Congo. The atrocities committed under King Leopold can never be forgotten, and have doubtless left scars on the Congolese nation which it will take hundreds of years to erase. But travelling around the Congo today, knowing nothing of the history apart from one or two books of devastating horror, one sees a different side of Belgium. It was primarily the Belgians who decided to “civilise” the Congo by sending out missionaries. We hear some bad stuff about the attitudes of some missionaries, and there’s little doubt that there remain some with whom one would not feel comfortable at the dinner table.

But, to return to our theme, travelling around one sees devastated government schools, hospitals and offices. Some are so dilapidated that it is unthinkable that anyone works there. For example, I recently passed the headquarters of the police at a provincial capital. Part of the roof had caved in, the windows were broken or non existent, walls crumbled: in brief a ruin. But still being used as an office.

On the other side of the street was the main parish church. A majestic Romanesque brick building, built with great care and pride. Nearby was a magnificent two storey Italianate school, in the same brick. The care and effort that went into these buildings is truly amazing, particularly in the middle of such a difficult and inhospitable country. These churches must have been built by Belgian craftsmen, though doubtless the hardest work would have been done by local labour who were paid a pittance. But for now let’s just marvel at the determination and cost required to build such buildings. It’s not fashionable to say this today, but these I think these craftsmen were working for much more than money.

Now fast forward about 80 years. These same buildings are almost as good as new, and by contrast with the government buildings, are still providing services. Wherever you go the mission schools and hospitals remain the only fully functioning services. Occasionally you see a white missionary, but they are few and far between: the church has now institutionalised the system of proper management, maintenance and a strict sense of financial management. Without the help of the Belgian churches, this could not have, and would not continue to survive.

There’s another angle to this. The church provided the only form of operational public services during much of the periods of warfare and dictatorship of the Congo. It is respected for that, and one cannot help asking why it does not today speak with a louder voice against the corruption and militarism of the many factions in Congolese politics.

I think I know the answer. When the expatriate missionaries were operating the churches, hospitals and schools they lived in daily fear of being expelled for saying the wrong thing, or attacked by military factions. To protect themselves and their services they had to keep a zero profile. And that has survived even today. Instead of the church taking a stand against the wrongs of society, it simply exists to serve. Maybe that’s enough.

Taking the plunge

What’s the point of living somewhere if you don’t share in the life of the inhabitants – you know, when you’re in Rome . . . etc. But a lot of people don’t see it like that. For example, I suspect that many, if not most, expatriates are only here because of the money. People get paid extra to live here because it’s not much fun. And expensive. So they live isolated lives moving between work, home and restaurants and that’s it. Maybe a spot of golf or tennis thrown in. There’s another factor: most expatriates don’t join in because they are scared to do so. They (we) receive dire warnings from security experts about life out there, and are told to keep within a so-called security zone. Beyond that, it is simply not safe. But. . . .

The Congo, especially in its former guise of Zaire had a formidable reputation for music. Its band travelled throughout the region to great acclaim, and their records sold everywhere. Their music dominated the airwaves. Today their reputation has waned a little, but the old guard are still playing and have a massive following.

It was a concert given by one such former star, Papa Wemba, that caught our eye, and we resolved to go. During daylight we drove to the spot to make sure we knew the way. But during the afternoon before the concert we began to have should-we, shouldn’t-we moments as we confronted the uncertainties of the idea. Finally, we phoned friends who said they’d love to go, and the die was cast. The advertising banner said “Starts at 8 p.m.” Don’t believe a word of it said all those in the know. He won’t start until 1. So we dawdled and eventually got there at 11 p.m.

It is at times like this that you realise the beauty of a warm climate. The performance took place in a space the size of a small European square, packed with chairs and tables, all in the open air. The square was lined on three sides by tiny bars, raised about three steps above the ground. On the fascias above each bar was its name – “Chez Josephine”, “Les Trois Filles Efficaces,” “Modernité” etc. Next to the name of each one was more information, for example, “Staff: Marie, Grace, Clarice”. Thus all waitresses were named. The bars competed fiercely for custom, and after we paid out $5 entrance fee we were met at the entrance by a waitress who escorted us to her patch, and laid out a table and chairs especially for us.

The fourth side of the square was partially occupied by a stage on which was playing an energetic warm-up band. The music was loud, the singers sang and danced, and people enjoyed themselves. At one stage the band leader welcomed the “whites sitting at the back”.

Looking around one had the sense that this was a family-type night club. Yes there were shorter-than-normal skirts, and lower-than-normal tops, but for most people this was just a normal night out. One of the striking things was how smart everyone was, especially the women. When one thought about the dire housing that most came from it was amazing to see the spotless clothes and soignee appearance. Every detail had been studied and designed.

Almost on the dot, 12.45 to be exact, the great man started. His music had a compulsive rhythm and before long people were standing up to perform little solo dances, singing along, waving hands, their faces lit up in an empty grin.

One of the engaging traditions of Central and East Africa is “patronage” where members of the audience can get up on stage and greet the stars. The customary price for this is a small donation pressed into his or her hand. Why not? So, feeling a bit like adolescent groupies, we join a little queue and are greeted warmly by himself,

One of our party was Congolese and her sister and fiancé joined us. We compete to buy each other beer, and before long the little plastic table is sagging under the weight. Sensibly, the waitress doesn’t open the bottles until they are needed.

At 3.00 we decide to call it a day. We drive through streets still teaming with life, feeling, at last, part of the city in which we live.

Camels of the road

It’s a cliché of African literature: the life of the trucker who must navigate the terrible roads, hostile customs men and bandits to bring his load home. The equivalent of the US road movie I suppose, with a bit of the wild west thrown in.

But until you have seen it first hand you don’t really appreciate the extraordinary life that these men lead. The DRC is not famous for its roads. Even though it is about one quarter of the size of the US, it has only about 2,000kms of engineered roads (not tarmac – the proportion of tarmac is tiny).

On a recent trip we were driving on one of those rare roads, a link between the big city and agricultural areas. Clearly a road where there’s money to be made if you can move the goods around.

Mind you, in parts it’s so bad that it can really be called nothing more than a track. But the problem for truck drivers is not so much the bad road but bad trucks. On a recent trip we passed 10 trucks in the space of less than 100 km which were broken down. Now if you were the driver of such a truck you would, if you have any sense, be a good scout and be prepared, so it’s not surprising that these trucks look more like a mobile camping site than a goods vehicle.

Picture this: if your truck breaks down, what do you do? You can’t leave it to go and get help – you must stay with the truck to protect your cargo. If you’re lucky you’ll have a co-driver, but most don’t. You may have a cell phone, but there’s no coverage along most of the road. When you do get a message to your boss, the chances are he’ll have to send someone to come and diagnose the problem, and then buy spares, and then . . . It could, and probably usually does, take days if not weeks.

So what does “be prepared” mean for this trucker? He needs extra fuel anyway, as he can’t be sure of getting it when he needs it; he needs lots of water, which is carried in yellow plastic jerry cans which hang off the rear of the load. He needs charcoal to make fire to cook his meals with, and of course he needs basic food supplies, at least maize or manioc flour, and probably some dried fish. Then of course he needs the basics to change a tyre and mend a puncture because they keep coming, and a set of tools. And . . . patience. You see the drivers sleeping under the truck with no idea of how long they’ll be there.

It’s not all so uneventful. One of the sidelines of truck drivers is picking up passengers. Charge them a moderate fare and everyone is happy. They climb on the load, which is often packed really high, and have a party on top. When you overtake the truck on which they are perched, they wave enthusiastically as they perilously balance on the shifting load. Some of the young men enjoy showing off by hanging on the back, holding on with only one hand or doing other tricks.

Filth

Driving into Kinshasa from the airport takes one past miles and miles of small shops and markets. They are separated from the road by a space that might, at one time, have been a very broad pavement but is now simply thick filth. This is not the odd piece of litter, but real squelching, rotting filth.

How has it come to get into that state in the first place? It’s an interesting story. In the Mobutu dictatorship people were required, every Saturday, to clean the streets in an activity called Salongo. The result – as documentaries from the period illustrate vividly – was spotless towns and villages. But when Mobutu was overthrown one of the first things to go was Salongo. The shackles of oppression were thrown off in the form of – garbage. And while in most cities there would be some form of service to sweep the streets and remove said garbage, not in Kinshasa. So it just built up and up and up: a future archaeologist’s dream.

To an outsider it is hard to comprehend how the man and woman in the street puts up with such filth, and why shopkeepers seemed to do nothing about it.

Maybe things are changing. In preparation for the 50^th Anniversary of Independence Kinshasa was ordered to clean itself up. And, much to everyone’s surprise, it did. What is more, to emphasise the fact that this was not to be just a flash in the pan, they had a parade of little motor-bike driven litter trucks on the great day.

Indeed, driving to the airport recently for the first time since the celebrations, I was amazed to see that the filth had gone. What is more, shopkeepers were sweeping the ground in front of their premises.

But my heart sank a few days ago when I saw how the little garbage trucks are being used. Less than a month has passed, and the enterprising officials have found a much more fun way of using them. Sitting in the back of the trucklets, they cruise the streets looking for (supposedly illegal) small traders. Those who don’t have the money to pay the bribe have their goods piled into the back of the little trucks and carried away.

So maybe the airport road scene is just a flash in the pan. Let’s hope not.

The Congo River

I can never hear the word Congo without feeling the resonance of Joseph Conrad and other tales of the weird and wonderful things which have happened here. I get a similar feeling when we walk along the river, a ritual performed twice daily.

The scale of it is truly inspiring: the water is not dawdling in the way of the great rivers of Europe, but rushing to the sea carrying numerous little islands of grass and other debris which has fallen into it. These grass clumps are a source of constant wonder: where do they all come from? They’re not small, typically I would guess about two or three metres across, and they swirl down the river like kids in one of the waterworld play parks. I picture a mother duck and her ducklings sitting on such a clump staring wild eyed as the river banks flash by.

Our walk takes place along a tarred road, probably about thirty metres from the river itself. On the other side, almost due west and about one kilometre away, is Brazzaville. The river banks slope quite steeply, but are grassy and many of the house owners on the landward side of the road have taken the trouble to cut the grass. Where the grass is uncut there are jungly mounds of wild flowers, creepers and the rustle of . . . frogs? snakes?? Flocks of little birds play around, so tiny that when they sit on grass it hardly bends. The bank is lined with trees, including majestic mango trees, lots of pawpaws, bananas and cassava.

There are a few flat areas. One is big enough for people to play football. In others, especially on Sundays, there are outdoor gyms where trainers goad fatties into doing uncomfortable exercises under the curious eye of passers-by.

Here and there are benches which are occupied either by very keen runners doing stretching exercises or lovers sitting silently, enjoying the bliss of proximity.

If you aren’t scared of the wild life you can walk down to the river’s edge. Most of it is protected by thick reed beds, but here and there the water comes right to the bank. There’s a gentle lapping sound as the little waves hit the shore.

In the morning, the air is filled with enthusiastic bird song, some of it extraordinarily musical. But the best time is the evening. At about 5.30 the sun starts to get red, and cloudy or not, makes displays which, were they not natural, you would have to call bad taste. The reds and yellows and purples that the sun projects colour not just the area around it, but the whole sky and even the landscape. Sometimes there is a thick haze which turns the sky into an exaggerated Turner painting. And in the foreground the slightly turbulent waters of the river somehow pick up different colours. Silhouetted against the vivid reds and blues of the water are a few dugout canoes – pirogues – using the remaining moments of daylight to catch their last fish of the day, completing a timeless scene. They move slowly and silently, now paddling against the strong current, now allowing themselves to be swept downstream.

To add to the mystery there is a dull roar in the background coming from the rapids downstream. The sound, to use a very unglamorous comparison, is like the roar of a distant aeroplane, probably a fighter jet.

As it gets dark you might expect people to scurry to the safety of their homes, but no: they linger. Here it is safe, and why rush away when they can rather participate in the daily miracle of the sunset?

But the scene is not always so sugary sweet.

One evening, we had let the dogs off the lead to scamper around when we heard noises in the dusk. We could pick up the silhouettes of four men slowly coming up a slipway that must have been built many years ago to allow a householder to launch his boat. They were clearly carrying something very heavy. As we approached we could see that this object was a metal box, about a metre square, and about the same height. Much to our surprise the men were dressed in dark suits. When they reached the road they were greeted by two men we took to be Lebanese, ominously flanked by four soldiers, all carrying, very conspicuously, machine guns. Two cars were ready for them: one, a pick up, to carry the box; the other a 4x4 with thickly tinted windows.

We decided we had seen nothing, and calling the dogs gave the scene a wide berth.