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.

Kinshasa's jumping sheep

What’s the best way to create a traffic jam? Why, have roadworks, of course.

And that is just what Kinshasa is doing. The road to the airport – a 20 kilometre journey long considered unpredictable – is now far worse. When we first came to Kinshasa the road, one of only two routes out of Kinshasa, was a humble narrow tarred road, always congested and very slow. Then the Chinese started to build the new road, an eight lane dual carriageway. The pain and suffering the roadworks caused was unspeakable. A friend of ours lost her flight in spite of leaving four hours before departure. When the work was finished people still suggested a minimum of two hours although one could usually reach the airport within an hour. But there were moments of complete standstills when vehicles would barge in from side roads and cause a complete gridlock.

So, now they are building flyovers at all the major junctions and the middle of the road is occupied by massive hoardings hiding the construction. We are back to two lanes each way. Traffic flow is back where it was. It took a friend four hours to cover the 20km on a Sunday afternoon. Brussels Airlines are recommending their passengers leave at 4 p.m. for their flight at 9.

So where do the sheep come in? The French for flyover is saut de mouton – sheep jump; and while we are at it, the French for pothole is nid de poule – hen’s nest. Cute, isn’t it?

Meanwhile, we’ve just witnessed one of the most expensive weddings ever in this town. It involved taking over the whole of the swimming pool area of the top hotel for a week, covering the pool, building a huge lighting and sound rig over the pool, flying in a chef from the US to cater for the more than 1000 guests, and taking over 70 rooms in the hotel with the proviso that all mattresses and sheets had to be 100% new. To do this, 12 shipping containers had to be flown in from South Africa together with a rigging crew of about 15 people. 

The table dressing and stage set were designed to impress as nothing had ever done before. The photos that we took the next day obviously don't do justice to the scene. The floor over the pool had already been removed, and the table decorations had been shuffled around so it's looking a bit forlorn. But you can marvel at the huge flower-draped fake chandelier-type lighting fittings on the tables as well as the benevolent giraffes overlooking the dance floor.

Freedom ripples

The outrage when that Tshisekedi was proclaimed the victor in Congo’s election  was nearly universal:: there was convincing evidence that Fayulu had about 60% of the votes. What’s more Tshisekedi – lets call him Felix to make it easier – had no, literally no, experience.

But as the dust settled, the fact that a peaceful transfer of power had taken place, even if it wasn’t to the right person, was a truly remarkable fact. The first time EVER in the history of the Congo.

We didn’t expect much, but were very encouraged when he announced that political prisoners would be released. And then he announced a crack down on corruption, this, he made clear, was a new regime. The corrupt would be arrested.

Before long, stories of the massive scams perpetrated against the state were allowed to circulate without the journalists being arrested. The heads of the electricity company and the port authority were just the first of a long line to be arrested with maximum publicity.

Felix said something else: workers would, from now on, get paid. The days when the salaries of government and state utility workers would be paid months and months late were over.

That was music to the ears of a great many people. But when nothing happened – by which I mean that they still weren’t paid – they went on strike. That wasn’t what Felix had in mind. All the same, strikers were treated with respect, unlike previously when they would have been threatened and tear gassed by riot police.

What no one could have predicted is that the workers in the shops trading in fabrics and household equipment in the famous the Avenue de Commerce would have the same idea. Stories about bad treatment by mainly Lebanese and Indian owners abound – pay of only a few dollars a day, no allowances for leave or transport, etc – so they really do they have a strong case. And they felt sufficiently powerful, and sufficiently brave knowing that Felix would support their cause, to close down a whole street.

My guess is that they’ll all be sacked, but these days methinks they will have the labour department behind them which can enforce, when not bribed to do otherwise, some pretty hard deals. My employer sacked someone one day after the expiry of his probationary period and was forced to pay a whole year’s salary in compensation.

So, Felix, welcome. Keep it up!

Games people play

Social circles in Kinshasa have a strange feeling of unreality – at least the ones that we belong to. There’s such a sense of passing through, that no one has any real connection to the town they’re living in. Talk is more about how one is managing, how long we are there, and how long we will be staying. There are two distinct groups: the diplomats, who drive around in cars with special number plates and exude an air of casual superiority. And there are the aid workers.

Both sides have their pecking order. For the diplomats, Belgium is (or used to be – now it is in the dog house because it imposed sanctions on Kabila and his cronies) up at the top because of its historical connections. Alongside Belgium there are the obvious ones, the Unites States, Britain and Germany, the big aid-givers who have large staff and are deeply involved. There are so many staff in these embassies that they tend to hand together but occasionally you meet them. Lower in the pecking order are, obviously, India, Greece, Turkey, Brazil and the multiple UN agencies. They’re much more approachable and you bump into them quite often. Indeed, we were at lunch one day (see earlier episode) with the ambassadors of India, Brazil and Switzerland.

And then there are the real –  as they would see it – aid workers, the Red Cross, Save the Children, CARE, Oxfam and, of course, Médecins sans Frontières. They have the uniform of the egalitarian: jeans and t-shirts; beards on the men and long lanky hair on the women. Sandals are the footwear of choice. They have a weary reluctance to talk about their work, like soldiers coming from a terrible battle. What they will talk about is trips they’ve made which we weakling mortals would find dangerous or simply too difficult, like going up the river to Kisangani in a local boat, a two week epic of chaos and vibrant life; taking the train to the port of Matadi, or exploring ancient religious sites near Kinshasa. But once in Kinshasa, they are going to have fun. They keep the nightclubs going and are happy to burn the candle at both ends while they can.

But I’ve forgotten to mention the old-timers. There’s a small band of people who came in the days of Mobutu and who have never left. They’ve been through the terrible and dangerous times of the pillages, when the troops, and later the ordinary people, took it upon themselves to steal everything. With Mobutu’s connivance they ruined every single factory and expatriate home, not just stealing but also smashing everything that couldn’t be removed. This happened not once but twice and the tales of terror that people experienced are truly chilling. But they stayed, and now they are reaping the rewards. Kinshasa is back to working more or less like a normal city, and the economy still needs supplies. So, for those with the ability to manage the system (read bribe the right people for survival) the pickings are rich.  Their stories are fascinating, but what is most striking is that they don’t see anything particularly unusual, let alone heroic, in their experiences.

It’s only their nouveau-riche talk that sometimes gets nauseating. Private jets, apartments in Paris and New York, children at Swiss schools, etc etc. But, to be fair, most still see themselves as ordinary, and don’t use their wealth as a social tool.

But money creates enmity, and from time to time the Government (read President) decides to take down someone. The speed at which this can be done is terrifying. Banks are closed at a day’s notice; assets are frozen, people are jailed. A process that could take years in most countries is achieved in days. This was a trick that (now ex-president) Kabila learned from Mobutu.

The most feared people are the tax collectors. They have sweeping powers, and they are not afraid of using them. Neither side has any illusion about the game that they play. It is to intimidate the tax payer by cooking up a massive demand, and then inviting a compromise that will include a relatively small sum paid to the tax office and a relatively large one paid to the tax collector him- or herself. To avoid regular confrontations, businesses typically cultivate a symbiotic relationship with the tax collectors in which the bribe and official components are matters of routine that do not need to be negotiated.

This puts businesses that are under international scrutiny, and cannot pay bribes, in a bind. The tax collectors see this intransigence as a front to avoid paying anything, so the tax bill is inflated by way of revenge. If they don’t pay, their bank accounts can be frozen at the stroke of a pen. That happens: the managing director of a new mine near Lubumbashi told me that the tax collector had produced a tax demand based on the amount of his investment, not profit. Obviously, since there had been no income there was no tax to pay, but the tax collector was adamant and closed the bank account without any notice, because he couldn’t (or didn’t want to) understand that the mine was still in the development phase and had not started production. The mine was forced to close down until the situation could be resolved. His case was the worst I have heard.

Back to happier things. Yes Kinshasa is an island in which we are forced by circumstances to meet many people that we would not normally expect to call friends. And yes, it is both interesting and, at times, fun.