Assassinations and assemblies

We are one week away from I-day: the massive celebrations planned to celebrate 50 years of Independence of the Congo. The King of Belgium (unpopularly in some quarters) has accepted the invitation to be guest of honour. President Kabila will have an opportunity to showcase the progress his government has made: the central boulevard has been transformed from a picturesque major road in a provincial French town to an eight lane super-highway – a sea of asphalt which is as dangerous for pedestrians as its grey dominance is ugly to the eye. But the grey is now being mitigated by hundreds of flags, while buildings along the route are being hastily painted, ready for the great day.

The event has been rather overshadowed by the assassination of a leading and very popular human rights activist, giving critics of the King even more ammunition against his attendance.

I-day -6: Thursday. We all receive circulars. Due to the likelihood of civil unrest, we are not to go near the main celebrations, but should stay at home. The office will be closed for the whole week. The circulars from the UN and other international organisations, warning of civil unrest, are sent round by email. On our evening walk we meet an old timer who warns us that the body of the activist will be carried from the central hospital to the burial chapel the following morning, and not to go near the route.

I-day -5: Friday

Go to the bank, which happens to be on the boulevard, and run into the said procession. Probably about 1000 people are walking in a slow procession, carrying memorial banners. A bunch of press photographers head the procession, walking backwards, trying to get good shots. The mourners are outnumbered by police and soldiers of all types, from comparatively normal ones, just walking along, to pick up trucks loaded with menacing riot police. We gently push past the processing and no one takes any notice.

I-day -4: Saturday

We have engineered invitations to a Japanese concert which is held at the main theatre (absurdly called the Palais du Peuple, absurdly because it normally hides behind locked gates, and entry for the people is strictly verboten). In the morning we check the route so that we can be sure to find it in the evening. The road is blocked due to roadworks and we are diverted willy-nilly into a little street. In turn this leads us into the old cité, the area designated for Africans in colonial times. Trying to find the right route out we find ourselves in a huge market area. There are so many tiny stalls, handcarts, rubbish piles and potholes that there is hardly any space for the car. We plough on very gently, every so often having to stop completely as a vehicle comes from the opposite direction. The further we penetrate this mass of people, the more unlikely it looks as though there is a way out at the end of the road. Meanwhile the buyers and sellers throng around us, and we are quite scared that we will bump into someone, or knock the load from someone’s head. Gentle beeping of the horn helps. Just when we seemed to reach the final impasse someone shows us a small road to the right which, much to our relief, leads into a quieter street and eventually back to the town. Going a distance of about a kilometre has taken almost an hour. After this experience we decide not to go to the concert alone, and get a lift with a friend.

We arrived early, and find that it is to be scene of the major march past. A huge area of what used to be parkland is now concreted over and grandstands are being erected for the dignitaries. Small groups of soldiers are half-heartedly practicing their drill. One, on his way home, catches our eye and breaks into over-the-top goose-stepping. After ten steps he crumples into helpless laughter.

The proceedings are opened by the Japanese Ambassador, who starts with one minute’s silence in honour of the assassinated activist. He gives a speech in gratifyingly easy-to-understand French.

The concert is too long, but fun. The main act is a traditional Japanese guitar-type instrument playing with a piano: a very interesting combination of sounds. The grand piano has lovely tone, but is unbelievably battered and scratched. It clearly has many interesting tales to tell. In due course the National School of the Arts is thanked for the loan of the piano.

I-day -2: Monday

Things are warming up in the neighbourhood. The Belgian ambassador’s house, more or less opposite us, is being decorated with bunting, and a beer lorry is delivering beer, tables and chairs all bright yellow and branded with the logo of the local beer, Primus. The brewery gives free beer to embassies if they accept this branding complete with waitresses also decked out in bright yellow. It’s interesting to know that the Belgian Ambassador and his King are not averse to a freebie, particularly with such commercial overtones.

On the evening dog walk I am stopped by a security guard: “The king is here,” he says in a tone that suggests that he’s got a hot tip for the races. Further on a municipal gang has finished its job of painting the kerb stones alternate red and white, and wait for a lift; a Land Rover is delivering large cardboard boxes to the soldiers guarding the river – new uniforms perhaps? One of the soldiers shouts across to me – Belgian? When I say no he’s disappointed – clearly he wanted to talk about the king. The frisson of royalty is clearly in fertile ground here.

I-day -1: Tuesday

I have to go into town to get internet time. Everywhere there are gangs sloshing on paint in a last minute realisation that tomorrow is the big day. Shops are frantic with people stocking up, and the white lines on the Boulevard are nearly finished. Nearly home, and there’s a massive traffic jam as the King’s party has started. Looking at the queue of guests waiting to have their credentials checked one is struck by the number of seriously scruffy people – Belgians probably.

I-day

All calm as we take our morning walk: the only obvious difference is that the tank, next to a military check point near the river, which has been perpetually hidden under a dirty tarpaulin, has gone. Massive white gouges in the tarmac show that it has headed towards town.

At about ten one of the security guards comes to tell me that since all our policemen are out today, he is all alone, and will therefore sit in the middle of the property. His predictions are obviously wrong and when I wander out at midday to let the dogs do their thing I see him sat outside with a small colour television, watching the parade. The TV is powered from an overhead cable – ingenuity was never lacking in Africa. Our neighbour, a Swedish diplomat, comes back from town saying that everything is quiet, but she just managed to avoid being trapped behind a massive procession of newly bought refuse trucks and the like. She came back because she was warned that there’s some crowd trouble building up somewhere.

Everything is spookily quiet until we hear gun shots – but the pace and number suggests that they are a 21 gun salute.

As the sun begins to set the dogs get restive so we go out for a walk. Huge UN convoy outside the Belgian Ambassador’s Residence – speculate it is Ban Ki-moon, who’s in Kinshasa at present. At the ceremonial entrance of the Residence facing the river, we see someone who is probably the Belgian King being shoved into a smart car and zoomed off towards the President’s house with an escort of twenty cars and about 100 soldiers. He’s not wearing a crown so one can’t be sure it was him, but he looks sufficiently undistinguished to be Belgium’s head of state. One of the dogs chooses the moment of his grand exit from the Residence to turn her back to him and do a poop on the ?royal? turf.

Listen to the news. Clearly nothing particularly bad has happened, so it’s doomsville for all the security types who were predicting mayhem. If only people hadn’t learned how to behave, life would be so much more fun.

Ménage à 11

In a rural capital, we are invited to dinner. Our host is a highly respected local dignitary. He carries himself very upright, and is greeted wherever he goes. “You know everyone”, I say. “No”, he replies, ”everyone knows me.”

He is not rich, though in relation to the majority of the population he is considered well off. After all, he has two cars, neither of which work very well, and both of which have multiple dents, but they are cars.

It is dark when we arrive, but the house looks quite imposing. From inside we can see that extensions are in progress. “It’s my wife,” he says, “she does all that.”

And a lot more. They have nine children, of which the youngest is 15. She also, of course, cooks.

There are two other guests beside my colleague and myself. We are offered drinks by one of the sons who has graduated from university but is unemployed. He is clearly in great awe of us, but more particularly his father.

As we drink we see dishes being placed on the dining table by what we assume to be daughters. First one dish, then another, then a third, at intervals of between five and ten minutes, so that after about 45 minutes the table is literally covered with dishes. At this point, the dignitary’s wife comes out of the kitchen. She looks far too young and fit to be the mother of such old, and so many, children, but we are assured that she is. Apart from a robust stomach she could be 40. As she is introduced she stands in the corner, meekly, with hands crossed over her skirt, then comes across to greet us.

We are ushered over to the dining table, where the plates from which we will eat are hard to find amidst the huge number and variety of serving dishes. It is not just the variety which is overwhelming, but the quantity. Each dish alone is enough to serve five or more people.

So, we sit, trying to work out what is what. There is clearly chicken (roast and stewed), beef and goat meat, brown fufu, rice, peas (yes fresh peas) and carrots, mushrooms, miniature aubergines in a lovely fresh tomato sauce, mounds of chips, a spinach-type vegetable, sweet potatoes, and white bananas which taste like potatoes. Have I forgotten anything? Probably - there was so much that none of us tackled more than about half the total. And the flavours of each dish were quite different.

The dinner was for us, not the family. The Mother sat, silent, in a corner, quietly watching and I imagine enjoying our exclamations of joy as each different dish was tasted. And half way through the meal two daughters and one son were brought in from the kitchen and made to introduce themselves.

This was not just a meal. It was a ceremony, designed to show us, very embarrassingly, I thought, how must we were respected. I hate to think how much it all cost, but I also don’t think that cost came into the equation from our hosts’ side. They were going to give us the very best. And that they did.

What do you DO?

It is hard for some people to picture life in Kinshasa: I think they have images of jungle mixed with Poisonwood Bible situations and dilapidated buildings.

Funnily enough, it’s actually pretty normal. For example the electricity works most of the time, there are some very nice restaurants (and you don’t get cholera from eating the salad, or even a runny tummy). And there are all sorts of things to do. Almost everything is within ten minutes drive, and you can usually park really close.

One of the star shows is the French Cultural Centre which has art exhibitions, films, dance and music. The shows come from all over the world, at great expense, no doubt, and one feels really privileged to be able to see them. Because of the warm climate there’s no need for walls – the entertainment area consists of no more than a huge roof under which everything takes place. They have excellent lighting and sound equipment, and next to it is an enchanting café and bar under the trees. Last week we went to a fabulous jazz concert and more recently a fascinating documentary about Kinshasa's polio victims who have formed a band, followed by a Q&A session with the directors. The film had a standing ovation at the Cannes Film Festival.

And then, of course, there’s the Belgian centre. Interestingly, but not surprisingly, the French speaking Belgians (Walloons) have got the upper hand (vis-à-vis the Flemish half of Belgium) in the Congo. Lucky Congolese, I thought, not to have been colonised in Dutch. Anyway, to prove their benign influence, the Walloons have a small theatre (Walloon-Bruxelles Centre Culturel) in the centre of town. Almost invisible, entered by a small door from a scruffy street, it holds some very interesting events.

We heard about a chamber music concert there. To us, with memories of the delightful music of Buskaid in South Africa, it sounded like a fun evening of mixed Mozart and local music; probably played with more gusto than skill. To my colleague, who politely turned down the invitation, it probably brought back memories of those precious events, attended by the blue rinse brigade nursing tiny hankies to catch their sniffle; the intervals where people speak in hushed voices for fear of spoiling the atmosphere; and possibly an overweight soprano performing tragic liede.

We were told to get there early, and sure enough the theatre was virtually full ten minutes before the nominal start (half an hour before the actual start, as everyone knows). We were the only two white people: no one took any notice except that occasionally someone would catch our eye and give a nod of appreciation. The audience were chattering away, obviously looking forward to a fun evening. Behind the stage were two flags announcing the 50^th Anniversary of Independence, which is a month away, but for which preparations have begun in earnest. One of the flags had partially fallen off.

The evening starts with a small speech about the Independence celebrations, about the need for us Congolese to be proud of our heritage, and for the importance of diversity. The speaker appeared to be warning the audience not to dismiss the music of Beethoven and Bach just because it was different.

The orchestra comes onto the stage. The men are wearing dark suits and ties over brilliant lime yellow shirts. The women have little yellow beads in their hair. There are eight string players but that was where the conventional chamber orchestra ended – a guitar, saxophone, flute, piano and drums are there as well. Clearly this was not going to be just Mozart.

When they struck up the first number it sounded so simple, musically, that I thought we were in for an evening of nursery music – the sort of music that a school orchestra of 13 year olds would play for their end-of-term concert. But before long it was clear that though the tunes being played by the strings were very strong and simple, there were fascinating rhythms and complexities coming from the other instruments. They played with great energy and professionalism, resting only a few seconds between one piece and the next. There was no conductor: that role was divided between the first violin and the drummer.

The task of placing the music into a conventional category proved impossible. A mixture between pop songs and German oompah music is the closest I can get.

It was clear that for the audience this was pure bliss. They all knew the music, and at certain points would often burst into spontaneous applause, or shout their hurrays. At the end of each piece, suggestions as to what should be played next were shouted. The orchestra took this adulation with great modesty, trying hard to look as if they were in charge.

As the evening wore on inhibitions began to break down: hands were being waved, and the participatory noise levels rose. People started singing along. A young man in front of us got up to dance, and soon there were little groups gyrating in the aisle. The best moment came when another young man, moved by gratitude to the orchestra for giving such joy, got onto the stage and started handing out money to the players.

Chamber music?

One of the more esoteric places is the cinema. It was started recently and shows a mixture of French and English films, projected from DVDs. Esoteric because there is usually no one there – it feels such a shame. This was a brave new venture – as Kinshasa has been without a cinema for years. Indeed most of the Congolese have never been inside a cinema. To reach it you climb to the second floor of an otherwise deserted office building. There are no signs to advertise its presence and even the front door is anonymous. Very strange – probably a tax avoidance trick (or royalty avoidance??).

Then there is the British Embassy. Every Friday they have a barbecue, which anyone attend. It’s run as a club, and if you join you can also have lunch there or after work drinks at any time. I’ve never come across an embassy in recent times with such a relaxed attitude to security. During the World Cup they have been showing matches, and they had big screen coverage on election night. If you go there you’ll see all nationalities and people from all stations in life, from penniless NGO/backpacker types up to ambassadors. Congolese are as much in evidence as expatriates.

Restaurants? One of the nice things is that many of them are out of doors, so if you protect yourself against mosquitoes (and there really aren’t many of them) you can have a lovely meal in – wait for the cliché – the velvety night air. There are several very good Indian ones, Chinese, Japanese and Portugese. Belgian, of course. No special Italian ones – maybe they consider that the ingredients are not up to scratch. And, plenty of Greek and Lebanese. The wine is mostly French, but Portugese and Spanish are popular and occasionally South African. There are a few are very posh restaurants where you can have a very special meal if you can afford it: prices are very high.

And when we don’t go out, we can resort to that archaic form of entertainment: reading. We’ve started reading French books, well, sort of French. They are rubbish American books translated into French, which tend to be structured more simply. And if you don’t want to read you entertain. Not too bad, really.

Money

There was a time in the DRC – then Zaire – when the black market in currency was thriving. It was much the same in other countries where I worked – Tanzania, Zimbabwe, Zambia. Pretty soon after one arrived – whether for a long stay or a short one – someone would come up to you and suggest a deal. Sometimes it was shopkeepers, sometimes professional people, whatever their background, the message was the same: I’ll pay you a lot more for your US Dollars (or pounds) than you’ll get at the bank.

A colleague describes how in Kinshasa it was not the Lebanese shopkeepers, or the dodgy Belgian diamond merchants who were giving the best currency service – by which I mean the best rate and the cleanest deal. It was the church. So every morning a line would form outside the church offices next to the Catholic Cathedral of, not penitents, but expatriates with money to sell.

Those days are gone. Few countries now bother about exchange controls, and currency deals are openly advertised by street traders. In Africa, the dollar is, for some reason, always the preferred currency, and everyone seems to know the dollar exchange rate of the day.

The Congo has gone one step further. Because it has a shortage of bank notes, and because the biggest bank note, 500 Congolese francs, is worth only about 60 US cents, it is impractical to work in the Congolese franc. That’s not to say that no one does: you see people staggering out of the bank with ten kilos of bank notes, presumably to pay factory wages or something of the sort. At least the currency is stable – so it is different from the mad scramble of Zimbabwe’s currency crisis.

So the dollar is used for most transactions bigger than 10 or 20 dollars, but don’t assume that because you have dollar notes they will be accepted. They will be subjected to scrutiny far more intense than anything they might get in a US shop. If there is the tiniest tear they will be rejected. If they are more than a certain number of years old, they will be rejected. Any other defacement, like writing, is also treated with great suspicion. The note will be held up to the light to check for watermarks, silver threads and other guarantees of authenticity. Small dollar notes are very much frowned upon, and one dollar notes are usually returned with regret.

Change is normally given in francs. But here’s the interesting thing. Franc notes can be so crumpled, torn and plain filthy that there is hardly anything legible on them. Tears are cavalierly repaired with sellotape, and no one blinks an eyelid.

If you think about these notes it can be nauseating. There can be no question that they have spent many hours, no days, next to the human skin, as that is the safest place. And, as far as specific places on the body are concerned for men it is socks and for women it is in the bra. But there’s an even better place which lots of people use: right down there in their underwear.

The potential for this money to carry germs is enormous. It has long lost that starchy feel of newly minted notes. It is soft and very absorbent, spongy, almost.

But, there is another side to it. What stories would the money have if it could talk! Where in the country has it been: was it looted, were its users honest hard-working peasants, looting and ravaging brigands, industrialists, diamond miners or all of the above?

Having a dual currency requires more than a little ingenuity and mental arithmetic in shops and restaurants. Sometimes one has the feeling that it’s used as a smokescreen for pulling a fast one. But in the larger supermarkets they have tills which compute the amount due in dollars and francs simultaneously – quite fascinating. You offer payment in dollars, which is then converted into francs, and then a split amount of change is calculated, so that you get a few thousand francs, and a couple of dollar notes. There is so much room for confusion and mistakes here, notwithstanding the dual tills, that there is an army of supervisors hovering around the tills – just like in a casino – to check that no one is making a mistake.

Just as there are no large notes in francs, there are very few small ones, and no coins that I have seen. In effect there is a monopoly of the 500 franc notes, and if there aren’t enough small notes to make up the change you get it in sweets: one per 100 francs. I’m sure they don’t cost 100 francs each: they are more a token admission of debt.

A colleague spotted such a bowl of sweets by the till (not unusual in some shops in Europe as a trick to keep the children coming back) and was helping himself to a few when all hell broke loose. It took him a long time to understand what he had done wrong.

Garden city

It would be considered stretching a point to call Kinshasa a garden city. That term is supposed to be reserved for the idealistic settlements of the 20^th Century designed to show that cities did not have to be slums. Welwyn Garden City and Kinshasa definitely have little in common.

But one of the interesting by-products of the grandiose way in which the Belgians laid out Kinshasa was the width of the roads. They have names to match too – Avenue this and Avenue that. Mind you, looking at some of them today evokes a very different picture. The roads themselves are potholed, many of the trees are missing, and the buildings are typically a curious mixture of the grandiose and the shack. This gives them quite a homely look. Because cars can’t drive fast, people can stroll along, chatting, while children play in relative safety on the verges.

It is these verges, though, that are the kernel of the garden city. If you work out how wide they are you realise that they are a substantial resource. Now here’s a good news story. The European Union undertook a project to advise people on what to grow on these verges, and when and how. As a result you see neat patches alongside the road, beautifully cultivated, of a variety of vegetables. What is more, the plants do not get stolen.

Verges also serve as excellent locations for plant nurseries. They offer not just a few plants, but a huge variety of flowers, ferns, palms, bougainvilleas – you name it they’ve got it. On some roads, many such one-man nurseries have set up their trade side by side, so you can walk for hundreds of metres to find the best example or best price for what you want.

As well as vegetables and decorative plants there are, of course, goats and hens. The goats wander around looking for patches of nice grass, or trees with hanging leaves. There are many tiny ones, not much bigger than a miniature poodle – pigmy goats you could call them – which look so cute as they go about their business with a sense of self importance, fully convinced that their tiny horns will protect them from all predators. The hens are also very busy, clucking around with their little brood in tow. Somehow they never get run over.

Not all users of verges are quite so rustic. There are many little wooden kiosks selling groceries, hard boiled eggs and bread, cell phone air time, beer and occasionally offering services such as haircutting, milling or shoe repair.

As night falls, the hens go to bed, and most shops are shut. Just as pedestrian traffic seems to be slowing down a new activity starts. Plastic chairs appear from nowhere, and are laid out on the verge in inviting circles. Weary post-work men flop onto them, chilled beer is served and the street becomes a party. The customers chat about this and that, in the good tradition of an English pub. Some stay longer than they intended – or their wives would like – but by ten thirty it is closing time. The chairs disappear, and the men stagger home. The next morning the hens are back, looking for the peanuts and crumbs dropped by last night’s customers.

Chaos Theory

Something a bit different for a change . . .

There are theories about chaos enabling political upheaval, and thereby allowing leaders to gain economic and political advantage.

I think this theory is being proved correct at the ports of Kinshasa and Brazzaville on the Congo River.

Let’s set the scene:

ACT 1

Scene 1:

Enter immigration officers, neatly dressed in grey uniforms with the name of their department prominently embroidered on them.

Officer 1: We are not making the system work for us. People are able to pass through with hardly any hold-ups. It makes us look unimportant.

Officer 2: To add to that Officer 1, more face to face contact would be good. It allows us to, so to speak, establish a relationship with the public, if you see what I mean (putting on a very evil face).

Officer 3: I’ve just had a bright idea. Let’s all work in separate offices so that no one can see what we’re doing and (speaking with hand over mouth to prevent the public from lip reading) give us more freedom to negotiate.

Officer 1: And, here’s a better one. Let’s make it so that no one knows where to start, and what to do when and where.

Officer 2: That’s it: we can employ our friends to guide people through the system. The more complicated the system is, the more the public will need people to expediters (the word said sneeringly, with a quizzical lift of the eyebrow) it for them:

Officer 3: And no one must ever know what we are supposed to charge so that we can really negotiate in earnest.

Scene 2

Enter THE PUBLIC, a mixture of businessmen, sweaty tourists, beautifully dressed Congolese pulling neat overnight bags, cross-looking Lebanese traders, and the odd man in the street, thus providing local colour.

Angry Lebanese trader: Can someone help me here? Where do I go?

Mr Fixit 1: Do nothing sir, I will handle everything for you; just sit here in the VIP lounge and relax.

Smartly dressed businessman: Can someone help me here? Where do I go?

Mr Fixit 2: Please beware of touts and expediters: they are a menace. They will rip you off. I’m an off duty person who knows everyone here, and will look after you. My name is Jean. Just trust me and relax.

Businessman: Thank you – it is nice to know that some people are honest here.

Woman backpacker, obviously nervous: Can someone help me here? Where do I go?

Mr Fixit 3: sends her the wrong way. When she arrives at the wrong office there is the nice –

Mr Fixit 4: Hello, what are you doing here? Mr Fixit 3 sent you here? Idiot. You have to be careful who you speak to here. But don’t worry, I’ll help you. I know all these people. Some can be very difficult. Come with me.

Man in the street, carrying a colourful bag of unidentifiable produce: Can someone help me here? Where do I go?

Mr Fixit 3: Babbles to the man in the street at high speed in the vernacular, obviously trying to persuade the man in the street to use his services.

Man in the street: Do I have to talk in words on one syllable? Go away! I don’t need you.

Walks off at speed.

Mr Fixit 3 follows, trying to stop him: Don’t forget that since you are a trader you’ll need someone to help . . .

Man in the street: Get out of my way.

Leaves.

Scene 3

The office of Officer 2, who is sitting behind a desk covered with papers, passports and mysterious bundles of documents.

Enter Mr Fixit 4 and the tourist:

Mr Fixit 4: Here I have brought with me this nice young lady who needs help.

Officer 2: First she must pay me $40: that’s our ledger charge.

Mr Fixit 4: But that’s outrageous!

A very noisy argument ensues in the vernacular, tempers appear to be lost, and eventually Officer 2 appears to soften;

Officer 2: Alright, in this case, since the young lady appears to have little money, I’ll do it for $10.

They depart the office.

Outside

Backpacker: Wow! That was quite an argument.

Mr Fixit 4: I know, those people are bastards.

ACT 2

Scene 1

Thirty minutes later

Enter the members of the public. Mr Fixits 1, 2 and 3 drift in and out pretending to look very harassed.

Lebanese trader: What’s happened to my passport?

Mr Fixit 1: They will give it back to you when you board, but meanwhile you have to pay a fee of $20.

Lebanese trader: What’s that for?

Mr Fixit 1: That’s the ledger fee.

Businessman: What’s happened to my passport?

Mr Fixit 2: They said there’s something wrong with your visa. I think if you pay them a little something they’ll overlook it.

Businessman: There’s nothing wrong with my visa.

Mr Fixit 2: It’s a very technical matter.

Businessman: Let me go to see the officer and we’ll sort it out.

Mr Fixit 2: (Face lights up), Of course – come with me.

They leave

Backpacker: What’s happened to my passport?

Mr Fixit 4: Everything is fine. Don’t worry, you’ll get it in a minute. But there’s a small fee to pay, then you’ll get it.

Scene 2

The office of Officer 1

Enter the Businessman and Mr Fixit 2.

Businessman (outraged): What’s all this nonsense about my visa?

Officer 1: Please sit down. There’s nothing to worry about.

Businessman: What do you mean, you’ve got my passport and say there’s nothing to worry about. I’m supposed to leave on the boat in ten minutes. Of course there’s something to worry about. Kindly give me my passport, and I’ll leave.

Officer 1: It pains me to hear your anger. I’m just doing my job. With your type of visa I cannot stamp your passport without referring it to a higher officer. Unfortunately he is not available at present.

Businessman: This is ridiculous – take me to your superior.

Officer 1: As I said he isn’t here. . .

Seems to have a sudden inspiration

But I am allowed to stamp your passport if you pay a small fine. And then everything will be settled and you can go on your way.

Businessman: Fine for what? I’ve done nothing wrong.

Officer 1: Ours not to reason why, this is the rule and I have to obey it.

Businessman: How much?

Officer 1: It’s supposed to be $50, but I can make a special exception in your case and bring it down to $20.

ACT 3

Scene 1

On the boat

Lebanese trader: I had to pay $20: $10 to one, $5 for another and $5 fee for the so-called expediter.

Businessman: You got off lightly: I had to pay $60 altogether.

Backpacker: We agreed on a fee of $15, and then when we had finished he said that that was for the costs, and his fee was $15 . . . , then there was another $10 fee the expediter.

Man in the street: I had to pay a facilitation fee, a ledger fee and an export fee for this (shows his bag of merchandise) – it came to $70. It’s an outrage. Maybe if I’d used that fixer I would have got off with less.

Scene 2

In the customs house after the boat has departed

Officers 1, 2 and 3; Mr Fixits 1,2, 3 and 4

Officer 1: Congratulations everyone: that went very well. There are a few rough edges to sort out. I noticed that Office 3 had hardly anyone queuing to see him – I think this needs attention.

Mr Fixit 1: And some customers appeared to be able to work out what was happening and will be able to do it themselves next time: this is a real problem.

Officer 2: I had a very successful time, inventing a new fine for the wrong visa, and we had a good fake argument about it. I think I could have got $40 out of him.

Mr Fixit 4: What was good was that she was so pathetically thankful I got $10 tip.

Officer 3: I think we should have more efficient screening at the entrance because I saw quite a few people avoiding some of our procedures, and if they find out that they are not necessary there’ll be hell to pay.

The End

True or false?

Four such experiences leaving Kinshasa, entering Brazzaville, and vice versa, make one wonder . . .

Having babies

We are at one of those dreadful team building workshops. Everyone has to introduce themselves, describe their families and say what they like doing. That was when it hit me: having babies is great sport for Congolese men. As we went round the room my jaw was dropping to the floor. 5, 6, 9 – no number is too large for a good family. Being good Catholics and knowing that there’s plenty of room for more people in the Congo, no man worth his salt will have less than six.

Whether their wives share this view I’m not sure.

Marriage and babies actually define who people are, which puts young people at a disadvantage. For such men (and there were a few at our workshop) to admit that they weren’t married, or even engaged, was very difficult. Shame – that was the dominant emotion felt by both the speaker and his audience. How can a full-bloodied man not be married? And not be having babies?

Living in Zambia for many years one could never forget about babies. Every woman in the street, behind a market stall, cultivating a vegetable patch, or cooking the dinner had a baby on her back. Nicely wrapped up in a piece of cloth, with its little feet just showing on each side of her body, the babies slept very contentedly. Occasionally they would squawk and would be peremptorily yanked around to the front and fastened onto an ample breast. That must undoubtedly create a wonderful bond between mother and child, and usually the baby would be carried in this way until about 18 months, when the next one was on the way.

But that’s not the way it’s done in the Congo. To look around the streets of Kinshasa one would assume that mankind has stopped reproducing. No babies on backs, no prams, nothing. No babies, full stop. Except, one should add, on the walk along the banks of the Congo river where children of all sizes, ages and races run around, ride bikes and generally have a good time.

But to get back to the Congolese: I hadn’t noticed the lack of babies until one day, two and a half months after arriving, for the first time I saw a woman with a baby on her back. What an oddity! She didn’t seem self conscious about it, but she was without doubt the odd one out. For the rest of the babies, I can only assume that they are stuck at home and looked after by a young relative, because their mother will certainly be walking the streets selling something.