Being a consultant: feeling a fool and getting paid for it

We are a team of three. Each carries his own notebook and /or laptop computer. We are in Katanga to sell – sorry invite interest in – the idea of public private partnerships. It seems a good way of helping the government overcome its crippling lack of capital finance and skills.

We traipse around the offices of local government officials. To each one we politely ask anodyne questions such as “what is your population?” or “what are your priority projects?” As the official replies each of us dutifully records his answers in our notebooks. “Population 220,000.” “Top priority a better market.” Etc. We nod wisely. As we leave, we thank the person profusely, while he turns to his number 2 and asks: “What was that all about?” Sometimes a spark is clearly lit and one can see that there might be a real opportunity, but for the most part we are just another donor dangling a carrot but ultimately never allowing them to eat it.

We also go to civil society organisations. They have had many experiences of getting things done, and their successful projects are those with minimal government involvement. They clasp their hands earnestly, promise wholehearted support, and wish us good luck.

And then of course, we visit the private sector. In general this is represented by huge business – the mines. They assume that we are begging, as everyone else seems to do, and at that level are willing to talk. But when we say that we want them to invest, and in a partnership with government, they smile sweetly and pass us to an underling who only knows about their poverty alleviation programmes.

But it’s not all like that. Picture this. We are in a cavernous warehouse type of space. There are no windows to the street. There are no ceilings and light comes from a few low wattage bare bulbs. This is a supermarket, Likasi-style: the biggest in the town. The stock is on bare shelves on the walls, and much of it covered thinly in dust, giving the whole place a sense of abandonment.

We are seated in front of the proprietor, a Greek man who has spent his whole life trading in the Congo, and has the necessary strength of character to survive. You can see it in his jutting jaw, fierce eyes, and the authoritative way in which he speaks. He looks at us consultants with a mixture of incredulity and mirth. Not malicious, mind you. Just amazement that anyone could be as naïve as we seem to be.

His message is a familiar one regarding the impossibility of running a business in the DRC, let alone collaborate with the government, made more striking by his own experience. He has recently built a bakery. To get the necessary electrical connection he had to pay $70,000 to the (nationalised) electricity company. Once the bakery was operational he received a bill for the first month’s electricity consumption of $7500. When he checked with other people in similar businesses he found that the tariff he was being charged was three times as high as theirs. Why? Because they thought he could pay – as evidence of which he had already spent $70,000. So now he’s closed the bakery and put many people out of work.

Talking about our idea he enjoyed being very blunt. “It won’t work,” he said. “You’re wasting your time.”

We all obediently write: “we’re wasting our time” and felt even more foolish than ever.

While there we took the chance to buy a few things, and look at his system. Clearly, since he had been in the business so long he was doing something right. Indeed he is considered to be one of the three leading business people in the town.

On the one side is the booze shop, well stocked with wine and spirits from all over the world, and incongruously, bread and rolls lying loose in huge wooden coffin-size boxes. On the other side are all the canned goods, toiletries etc.

There are no tills, because there’s basically no need for change. The biggest note is 500 francs, about 50 US Cents, and the two other notes in common use are 200 and 100. That’s it. The money is all change. The cashiers stand behind a long trestle table. They add up the cost on manual calculators, take the money and wish you good day. Once they’ve got a bundle of 25 notes of 500 Francs, they put it on a shelf behind them. They are supervised by the owner’s wife who also sits behind the trestle table on a high stool and supervises them like the men hovering over croupiers in casinos. Periodically she takes the piles of 25 notes to the owner’s desk in the middle of the shop. He glowers at them, makes a note on a piece of paper, and dreams of Greece.

A model for Likasi he might be, but definitely not for Walmart.

Visit to the Vet

Picture a bungalow in a small remote town in the Congo. It is occupied by an elderly missionary who has neither the money nor the interest to keep it in the spick and span condition of the old days. Evidence of a leaky roof is provided by the blackened sagging ceilings, the floor is cracked and many plastic tiles on the floor are missing or damaged. One of the windows at the entrance is broken and the many walls are stained green or grey from the constant moisture. In the garden are several large cages housing unusual monkeys that he has kindly rescued from some dire fate. At the back are kennels for a few dogs. The whole property has gone wild: fallen trees lie untouched, grass is head height, and assorted wrecked cars and other metal objects are scattered around the edges of the plot.

It is in such a house that the best vet in Kinshasa practices. In spite of the dereliction of the property it is located in one of the smart suburbs.

First impressions of him, as a person, are no more encouraging. He is sallow, gaunt, indeed frighteningly thin. But people swear by him, and we must trust him against our better judgement.

The consulting room has the same characteristics. The examination table is a once-modern device on a single leg that can be raised and lowered hydraulically. That has long since stopped working and its blue paint is faded and chipped. As we put the dog on it, it wobbles alarmingly. Trying not to make it too obvious we check the rest of the room. Veterinary magazines from the 1980s, with a generous covering of cobwebs, fill a metal bookcase. There is an elderly sink with no running water. A desk is placed across one corner: it too is scratched and rickety. The windows are dirty, and the walls filthy.

In the room are three assistants. One, we later discover, is his professional partner; the second is a student from Lubumbashi university, the third his dog handler – I almost called him a dogsbody. Outside there are two more people sitting on the veranda who may or may not work there, but each time we visit they, or people like them, seem to be there. Together they combine to create an atmosphere of indolence and indifference.

But as he starts to examine the animal, he comes to life. Inside this strange exterior, and in this even stranger environment, there is a light and a passion. This is not the production line treatment that we are used to – thermometer in bum, check eyes and mouth, out with stethoscope, heart all right – OK? What seems to be the matter???

No, even though on this occasion we are late and it is a Saturday, he takes his time. Looks at all bases. Discusses the possible diagnosis. Need for a few tests.

That’s when the secrets are revealed. Hidden in this archaic environment are the tools of the modern trade. He lifts a dirty plastic cover to reveal a powerful microscope, and starts to study the piece of dog that he has cut off. He opens the fridge door to reveal pristine rows of medicines and test kits, one of which he selects. He explains that there is a less than 10% chance that this test will be positive – it’s to do with hormone imbalance – but we have to try. He does another test, and eventually, after an hour of examination, a jab and a prescription we leave, impressed. Appearances can truly be deceptive.

Two weeks later we meet someone whose bitch puppy has recently been spayed by the same vet. She tells gruesome stories of the botched stitching of the wound and post-operative infection. The dog’s life was in the balance for a while. It has required massive antibiotics and some remedial stitches, and three weeks after the operation things are by no means certainly fine. Maybe appearances aren’t so deceptive after all . . .

Uncovered

This, believe it or not, is blog number 100!!

Interpol?

If you saw her in a bar, perched on a stool, you’d never believe it. Her blonde hair, fresh complexion, ready smile and piercing blue eyes are much too pretty. But you’d be wrong: she really is with Interpol.

She is seconded from the South African police force and located at the embassy in Kinshasa, where she wears two hats: responsibility for embassy security and management of their ambitious police training and equipment project.

The stories she tells about how the Congo’s management of the aid received from South Africa are appalling. South Africa gave a fleet of four-wheel drive vehicles to the police to manage the election in 2006. Within a week the vehicles had been seized by the commanders for their personal use because they didn’t see why their staff should be given such good cars, while they had nothing. Similarly, most of the police radios which were supplied for the election were sold by the recipients to the public. Recently, because the civil service was very behind in payment of salaries, to pacify senior civil servants a fleet of cars provided in the interests of more efficient government which had been given by another donor were given to them in lieu of salary. That’s it – an official gift of a car from the government, transferred into their name. Whereupon, of course, the beneficiaries seized the opportunity for windfall profits and sold them to the public. One such vehicle had just been bought by our host.

Even in matters of diplomatic relations with South Africa, a country which should surely be considered a friend, the relationship is abused. When the President of South Africa visited the DRC officials were demanding absurd payments at the last minute to give his plane permission to land. Luckily our friend was brought in and sorted it out at the highest level. Similarly the South African Embassy was held hostage over the cars for his motorcade: they were not to be allowed out of the plane until a substantial bribe had been paid. That is, until she used her contacts to get the matter sorted out.

The worst story comes from GTZ, the German aid agency. They had ordered a large quantity of wood for use in refugee camps, but of the 3,400 cubic metres of wood ordered, 2,800 cubic metres (worth about $200,000) was never delivered. GTZ naturally refused to pay the supplier for the wood not supplied. To him, the supplier, this was an outrage. He protested that it wasn’t his fault – the wood had been stolen, so he sued GTZ, successfully. They were ordered to pay him $303,000, which they refused to do. Thereupon their bank accounts in the DRC were frozen and they were slapped with a fine of $924,000. Amazingly, they are still here, operating in force. Not surprisingly most donors now only put money into intangible things like training or immovable things like roads.

Her background is as interesting as her work. She worked as an undercover policewoman with drug gangs in Hillbrow – Johannesburg’s violent drug centre. Later she was transferred, as an obviously innocent Afrikaner girl, to infiltrate the far right movement in South Africa. She told us that it was terrifying for two reasons. The obvious one is that they are well organised, and have multiple arms caches which can be used at a moment’s notice. The more scary thing is how stupid they are and how little they know about the country they live in – they live in a pre-1990 world in which black is bad and white is good. And for that they are prepared to die.

We’re off the subject. She told terrifying stories of her experiences during the last election. There was massive rioting in the streets of Kinshasa, to do with allegations of election fraud by the loser Bemba. He was so frightened of being assassinated that he took refuge in the South African Embassy. This made it the target for the soldiers loyal to Kabila. They were under siege for days, and since he had not requested permission, or given any warning of his arrival, they had been unprepared. They couldn’t use the majority of the building as it was too exposed to the street, so were holed up in the back of the embassy with nothing to eat for days.

It so happens that very near to the South African embassy there’s a patisserie – a nice one. At the end of each day they give any unsold cakes and pastries to street children. That’s a noble idea, but . . . it means that the area is always full of these disaffected kids. They are not tinies: many of them are rough tough adolescents. So?

They just love harassing single women, which she is. As soon as she leaves the embassy they jump on top of her car (a pick up), they bash the sides with sticks, the jump on the bonnet, make faces at her through the windows etc. As she approaches work the same thing happens: if she has the misfortune to be stuck at a junction they hop on. Once she gave a boy who was being particularly offensive a nasty shock by opening the door in his face, and bashing his nose. Since then he snarls at her and shakes his fist every time she passes. In a way it’s lucky that it is an embassy vehicle and the multiple dents are not going to affect her pocket.

A colleague of hers had similar treatment and after a month insisted that she should be repatriated. But her – after six years, with her tour ending in a few months would she come back?

“In a flash.”

That says it all.

A Good Man in Africa

He’s call Celestin, which has an angelic ring. But his mien is anything but angelic. He’s small, with a slight stoop, and his face is expressionless, repressed maybe by the level of his responsibility. He rarely smiles, his brow is knitted, and his eyes, as they say in thrillers, are hooded.

He’s our driver, but his duties extend beyond mere driving. He carries the cash to pay our hotel bills, he helps organise meetings and has a vast network.

As we shuffle uneasily waiting for someone to notice that we have arrived for a meeting with the Mayor, he goes directly to the head of protocol who greets him with a joke and a smile. When we are together in a restaurant it is he who sees that we get the service we deserve. In the evening he asks to be excused to check his emails, and then drives into town to print our latest list of meetings. Before we move off, he won’t even start the engine until everyone has attached their seat belts, and his conscientiousness in completing the log book is exemplary. I feel he worries far more about us than we do.

Possibly one of the reasons for his serious expression is his bad luck in the realm of breeding. He used to work for Gecamines, the state mining company which offered cradle to grave social services. Free schools, free hospitals, free housing – everything free. Knowing he was onto a good wicket, he set about raising a tribe which would look after him in his old age.

The seventh baby had just arrived and he and his wife (who was still relatively young) were wondering whether two or three more would be about right when disaster struck. Gecamines had collapsed and the 95% of the workers were laid off, him included. Penury loomed.

He was lucky, and got a job with a US company that treats its people well. But if you add up all the costs of rearing seven children its hard to see how he can survive on a driver’s salary, even a US-style one. But he doesn’t complain, indeed maintains that everything is fine. He’s clearly taken the decision that whining is a waste of time, and a stiff upper lip, soldiering on, etc are more to be admired than sniffling self -pity.

We’ve been away for nearly two weeks, and are facing the journey back to Lubumbashi from Kolwezi which is normally about six hours, of which only the last two hours are on tar. It was after three hours that we came across an unbelievable scene. Three trucks had broken down, side by side, two going the same way as us, and the other in the opposite direction. To make matters worse, they had done so at the point where the road was nothing but a muddy ditch. There was room for us to get past between two of them, but the mud there was very deep, and it looked extremely unlikely that we would get through. On the left hand side of the road there was a grassy patch which looked promising, but it too was blocked by a fourth truck that has got stuck.

The view from our little vehicle was daunting. A sea of mud separated us from the trucks. We could see no way out unless and until one of them was moved. One of the huge trucks on the other side of the jam was indeed trying to tow one of them out, but it was laden with ore and was clearly too heavy to move even a few inches.

Suddenly, one of the cars from the other side came charging through at considerable speed, driving on the grassy bank on the right side of the road. It was a Land Cruiser. Everyone nodded sagely. Of course, Land Cruisers can do it. Taking a clue from this, a Land Cruiser belonging to a worthy medical charity tried from our end. The problem was that to get onto the grassy bank one had to drive up quite a steep slope: four times it tried, and four times it failed. Its wheel raced as they tried futilely to grip the bank. A pick-up truck on our side then took a high speed run at it from much further back, where it wasn’t so steep, and made it. There was a muted round of cheers from the drivers, muted because they were too scared to try the same thing. Then medical charity vehicle decided to try again, copying the route used by the pick-up, but it got stuck in the early stages. We watched in horror as its wheels spun helplessly and it sank further and further into the mud.

Our all-knowing driver bided his time. As it happened, he had bought a spade the day before. He asked one of the hundreds of spectators to dig into the bank at the side of the road to make it less steep. Half an hour later the digger, whom we had been directing from our side of the muddy pond, sloshed back to us announcing he had done as much as he could and had got a blister for his pains. We gave him a plaster from the car’s first-aid kit and then a protracted debate started. Two were in favour of, and two against trying. What if we got totally stuck like the medical Land Cruiser?

Celestin was decided. We would go. Revving up like a plane about to take off, he released the brake and we were off. In a flash we had made it, then drove at high speed through the thick grass parallel to the road until we were past the jam. We stopped to celebrate, shouting with relief and joy and giving thumbs up to the many admiring spectators. The blistered man caught up with us to ask for his well-earned reward, which we gave him with pleasure.

And Celestin was smiling. Even the next day he was smiling, almost celestially.

The Good Old Days

When people talk about the good old days they usually forget all the bad and exaggerate all the good aspects of those times. But I recently had a vision which suggests, that for all the horrors of the Mobutu era, it truly was the good old days for a lot of people. Rose tinted spectacles and filtering of the recollections really weren’t necessary.

We are on tour in the mining province of Katanga, driving to the offices of a commune on the outskirts of a large town. Quite abruptly the landscape opens up and we had a view of rolling lush green hills, on the top of one of which is a massive red-brick church. As we drive down the hill into the centre of the township we notice a dramatic change. The houses, though small, are all well maintained and surrounded by large green hedges. They are set alongside attractive streets in which children are playing. As we turn the corner we come across a school built on three sides of a square of fresh green grass: as fine a view as any child at Eton would have. (This is a time for poetic licence, not to be taken too seriously). And behind the school we now get a close view of the magnificent Romanesque church – more of a cathedral than a parish church in scale. My French colleague mutters: “Paradise”.

We are in a town built by the mine for its employees. The mining company concerned was Gecamines, a company that had its roots in the Belgian Congo, but was nationalised and took over all mining activities under Mobutu. This allowed him to surreptitiously siphon off much of the massive income for himself. This did not stop him forcing Gecamines to provide cradle to grave welfare services to its employees who were important voters: he was desperately anxious to demonstrate that Katanga did not need to secede. This charming garden city was the result, just one of hundreds of such settlements built at huge (and financially crippling) cost.

In retrospect, I realise it wasn’t the quiet streets or the neat houses, or even the splendid school and church that attracted me, but the sense of order. The mine may have gone under, but the residents still care for their environment. In the Congo that is a rare commodity, and just to have the sense that someone was in charge, was managing, the settlement, was - as they say - paradise.

Double standards

It looks very promising – our hotel in Likasi. It’s fronted by a broad veranda on which people are enjoying a midday drink. At each side of the front door white marble Italianate fountains (fake, and not working) demonstrate this is not a doss-house. In the main dining room, which serves as the bar and reception, there are smart white leather chairs, with stylish stitching, on stainless steel frames. A large flat screen television is placed at the end, showing a French news programme. Light fittings in the form of bottles indicate that this is also a place to have fun.

My allocated room is the most modern room in the place: the corridor wall is entirely glazed. This is rather unnerving, but I accept it, not wanting to make a fuss. It is only when I realize that one cannot lock the sliding glass door that I feel I have a reason to ask to be moved.

The next room I’m given is bigger and better, and I explore it with interest. The taps (see picture) are state of the art stuff. Ever the optimist, I notice that there’s no towel, and fetch one from the previous room. I hang it on the towel rail which promptly falls on the floor. Woops! There’s no soap either, so toddle to go and get some from the reception. Everything looks good. I try the tap – nothing. “Sorry, sir, we have a problem of water.” There is a mini-bar fridge: I check inside – empty and warm. Anyway, at least there is a TV which has three channels.

Now for lunch. We are given a flashy menu. It consists of huge dishes which we just don’t feel like. I tentatively order soup. “I’m very sorry, but soup is only in the evenings.” Try again. “What’s in the ‘Sandwich Parisien’, I ask. “I really don’t know,” comes the reply, “I’ll have to ask the chef.” Then as an afterthought he says, “But even if I found out, it is not available.” We cogitate interminably, and eventually settle for a plate of chips each. Quick and simple.

While waiting for the chips to arrive (1 ½ hours later) we share details of the rooms. My colleague has a window without mosquito netting and no air conditioning, and is dreading the mosquito raids of the night. Unlike us, his room has an internet cable. But it is very short and located in the clothes cupboard, so you can only use it if you’re small enough to sit in the cupboard.

After our chips we adjourned to our rooms where I was to do some work. No power in the electric plugs. “Don’t worry,” says the waiter cum receptionist, “the electrician is coming.”

Dinner time brings its own challenges. Since our lunch was so late, once more one doesn’t want a huge dish. “I’d like some soup,” I say, with confidence. “Oh, sorry, no soup today. You see you have to have water for soup. . . “ I settle for spaghetti bolognese, and try eat as much as I can without deeply offending the chef.

At $80 per night one has to wonder what the owner thinks he is doing with such appalling service and maintenance. Maybe he doesn’t care. But if he did, he would be sitting on a gold mine.

The next night we went to a restaurant in town, which has Indian and local dishes; well cooked, in contrast to the hotel. Moreover, the evening was spiced up by some domestic drama. We were waiting for our food when a huge row broke out. The antagonists were a strong 40-ish man wearing a tee shirt and a wrinkly white man who looked as if he has been here since the 1950s. He was wearing the colonial outfit of shorts and long socks, and was clearly baffled by the offence that he had caused. But he was being gripped on the shoulders by the irate man, whose eyes were bulging in their sockets with anger, and who stood a menacing few inches from his wrinkly foe. At first the contretemps was static, with an ever-growing audience as people left their seats to get closer to the action until the manager intervened and they were hustled outside. A few minutes later the row subsided and the wronged man came back inside. His victim obviously preferred to go somewhere else.

We pieced together an account of what had happened. The white man had entered into conversation with a black woman who turned out to be the wife of the tee-shirted man who was morally outraged and immediately attacked the old man. Judging by his reaction, the old guy clearly had no idea that he was doing anything wrong, but that wasn’t the point.

I’ve no doubt that some financial compensation was eventually demanded and paid to settle the dispute, probably $10.

After the drama, the black man joined a friend of his for a beer near us. The “wife” wasn’t with him. No doubt she continued to sit at the back to entice other gullible people.

12 October 2009

The political temperature had gone up sharpely the day before, when news spread that the previous evening someone had been killed in the streets by bandits. We were warned not to be out late. We thought nothing of it: after all people get killed all over the world, and why would anyone want to kill us. Nevertheless, we did as we were told and ate early to be back at the hotel by eight.

The next day we were horrified to see the place crawling with riot police. Crawling may be an exaggeration – but in front of the Town Hall there must have been at least fifteen, in full kit including special armour, shields and machine guns. As we drove to our appointment at the offices of the commune we saw a church surrounded by riot police – that was even more creepy. “What’s going on?” we asked. “Oh, it’s the funeral of the boy who was killed two days ago, they’re afraid of trouble.”

It all seemed somewhat over the top to an outsider. OK bandits are not a good thing, but do you need riot police for a funeral?

That question was answered when we arrived at the offices. Two once quite grand buildings stood completely gutted – buildings that proudly carried the name “Commune de Kikula”. Behind them were two smaller buildings had been similarly vandalised.

To get to see the bourgmestre we had to push through another phalanx of riot police. They showed no interest in us, which was a relief, but one cannot get close to such people without feeling intimidated. The room in which we waited to see him was occupied by three clerks. They were making lists on loose pieces of paper, carefully drawing lines with rulers, just like school children doing a school exam, and then carefully writing details of who knows what in the columns.

The Bourgmestre apologised for the terrible office accommodation: basically all their services had to be provided from three tiny rooms, the temporary offices after their premises were destroyed. The trigger for that destruction has been that a student had been killed by a taxi. Apparently this was the last straw (we were not told exactly why). The people blamed the local administration, and rose up as a man to destroy the offices which to them represented corruption, negligence and indifference. On the day of the funeral, 12 October 2009, the crowd marched on the town hall. The staff sensibly fled and within three hours the buildings were nothing but shells. Everything had been stripped: roofs, windows, doors, the lot, leaving nothing at all behind. What was not stolen or destroyed was burned.

You can repair buildings, but the worst part was that all the records such as birth, marriage and death certificates had been destroyed. No copies existed anywhere else so someone needing to prove their identity or civil status has nothing to fall back on. Similarly, the books of accounts were all lost, so they have no idea of what was received or spent during the years preceding the event.

“Today,” said the Bourgmestre, “the family of the slain boy is blaming us for his death. They have threatened mass demonstrations. So we must be careful. What is worse,” he added, “the same thing happened in 1990”.

Coincidentally making the point was the Commune’s register of births which lay on the desk in front of us. This is a magnificent bound volume, supplied as a gift of UNICEF, in which all births are registered. Behind him, on the bookshelf was another volume – no longer in use because it is full.

Twice they have lost all their records. Today there is a real possibility that it might be the third time. One can’t help thinking about the vulnerability of the record books. Obviously they should be kept in a fire-proof cabinet? Or maybe some central archive? Why not make digital copies? No? The book lies there, on the desk, like a lamb waiting for the slaughter.

Once is an accident, twice is careless, three times???