It was a comfortable flight, given that we were flying through the tropics, where turbulence is commonplace and losing your dinner tray (and dinner) not unheard of. I looked out the window as we descended through the perma-clouds over Kinshasa and smiled as the magnificent Congo River momentarily came into view, pointing out to my clients that the land they saw wasn’t the other side of the river, but the island in the middle of Stanley Pool. At this juncture on the river, it goes over the earth’s curvature, meaning you can’t see the opposite bank if you’re standing on the river’s edge.
We disembarked into the oppressive late-afternoon heat of crazy Kinshasa and made our way through passport control and luggage collection. All smooth so far, I smiled and rang our driver, John, who I always use on trips to the world’s largest French-speaking city. A grand old fellow who knows everybody and taught himself to speak English, of sorts, a godsend in the city. No reply. WhatsApp him. No response. “Monsieur Ducan?” I heard and turned to see a young man holding his phone out to me with my WhatsApp profile photo on it. “Yes, are you with John?” I replied. No English. Shit.
He escorted us around the back of the airport, where he had parked for ‘free’, guarded by the airport security you’re supposed to tip for the pleasure of walking around for 20 minutes. A grand ceremonial salute from the guard got him a couple of dollars – not too much or too visible, or the driver may think we’re loaded American or European businesspeople. Out of nowhere, a young lady approached us and introduced herself as John’s niece and explained he’d asked her to fetch us.
“John’s gone back to Lubumbashi,” she said. Strange, I’d spoken to him twice during the week to confirm arrivals and prices for Kinshasa, not Lubumbashi over 2,000 km south and inaccessible by road. The driver is her boyfriend, who will drive us for the week, she informed me.
“But I need John, because he speaks English!” I protested. “Don’t worry, when you need something call me and I will talk to the driver,” she said. Ah, fuck! Here we go. Never a simple transaction in the bloody Congo. “Let’s talk tomorrow,” I snapped back ditching my serenity for a moment, largely because my clients were looking terrified.
The following morning, being a Sunday, we had decided to do a tour of the supermarkets, bakeries and informal markets of Kinshasa to look at prices, brands and availability of the clients’ products – a nice easy way to introduce them to one of Africa’s most vibrant, fun, frustrating and sometimes scary cities.
I called our lady friend to tell her the driver was now an hour late. “He has to fetch another car, this one is broken. He will be there before lunch” she offered.
I approached the concierge of our hotel, located right on the banks of the river and looking across to Brazzaville in the other Congo. The hotel, that is, not the concierge. He was at his desk. “Are you able to find us an English-speaking driver, please?” He smiled and assured us he would. We walked with him to where the taxis park under the trees opposite the hotel. He waved a car over, which looked familiar, but then old, battered and with a cracked windscreen is normal in Kin. “He will help you” said the concierge and walked off.
A bent figure slowly emerged from the car, polished immaculately (the car, not the driver etc.), dressed in a three-piece suit, cravat and fedora. “John!” I shouted happily, “where were you yesterday, patron?” A look of confusion gradually gave way to the smile of the inimitable Mr. Matadi (Matadi is apparently Lingala for rock, so I call him Mr Stone, much to his amusement). Finally he recognised me! I gave my clients a thumbs-up, because now we were with the man who knows Kinshasa intimately – the streets, the history, the characters, the tales. An absolute gem of a man. “I know him!” he shouted to my clients and everyone else within earshot, “I know him!”
And so we set off on the day’s mission, John regaling tales of the Rumble in the Jungle – “Ali? I know him! I drive him in Kinshasa! 1974! Zaire, but Mabuto was a bad man. But he made Kinshasa famous by bringing Ali to us. I know him! Too clever for George. I was boxing then. I know, I know.”
John still couldn’t say how his ‘niece’ had come to collect us.
The week flashed past, with meetings held with the largest importers and distributors in DR-Congo, an array of retailers from large to small and bakeries, some of which produce over a million baguettes a day to satisfy the insatiable appetite for bread in Kin; small patisseries and local Lebanese bakeries; logistics and transport companies, warehouses and a range of other players in the market. The reception was, for the most part, wonderful. It’s a difficult country and market and people are really accommodating when you’re looking to do business with them.
Each day started and finished in the clean, wide, tree lined streets of Gombe, the part of Kinshasa where most of the Embassies, rich and famous and importantly, the President, live. It’s very secure (our hotel being next to the presidential compound), quiet, with great restaurants and vibrant, raucous nightclubs not too far away.
Soon, however, we’d be into the industrial and open-market areas where roads haven’t been repaired since Mabuto took power in 1965 and are non-existent in many areas, raw sewerage runs between people’s houses, with only the rain and mountains of rubbish to wash it away and obscure it from view. No running water, no electricity, no sanitation and no hope for about 11 million of the 11.5 million people living in the city. Everywhere is dusty, even though it’s tropical with rain pretty much every day, everywhere has a smell of rotting vegetation, mingling with the dust, diesel and general stench of decay. An absolute assault to newcomers, something you accept once used to it.
One morning we sat in a rat-infested bakery near Marché Central (output of almost 1 million baguettes a day, but looking like a abandoned Dickensian dump), whilst the finance director tried to extort money from us to grant access to the procurement manager. We left and crossed them off our target list.
From there, we meandered back in the direction of our car. Several blocks of the city had been cordoned off whilst a new road was built, so we had to park about a kilometre away. We used the time to trek through the labyrinth of shops, wholesalers, kiosks and more asking about prices, ably assisted by a street kid who we paid about US$20 for the couple of hours he was with us. Best money spent on the trip. It was a bit overwhelming for the clients, who needed a coffee. I suggested a place around the corner, and was met with horrified looks.
“Trust me” I said, and turned the corner, walked down the potholed, dusty street until the sign came into view: Eric Kayser, the French chain and an absolute godsend. That’s Kin: super-luxury cheek by jowl with chaos and poverty.
Finally, it was time for the clients to leave. John raced us to N’djili International, vying for precious space on the only road to the airport with trucks, buses, cars, motorbikes, pedestrians and other cars. It’s quite an experience!
John helped us get the clients’ luggage into the check-in queue whilst we headed off to pay the US$50 exit tax, or whatever it’s for – assisted by someone whom John had paid to ensure the authorities didn’t try to extort more from us.
Back in the queue, which had ground to a halt because the computers had crashed. Manual boarding. Two hours for about 80 people. Make small talk, chat about next steps, the upcoming Nigeria visit. I was staying for another field research mission, including a trip to Matadi Port, 350km from Kinshasa, but that’s for another time.
The clients finally went through to board, and John and I left to go back to the city.
Over the course of the week, he had become increasingly confused and I can only think he had dementia or something similar, because he wasn’t the John I knew. Increasingly tired, no longer talking about fabulous tales of the rich and famous he rubbed shoulders with. A tired old man. We arrived and I thanked him for his service, paying him in dollars and giving him the usual tip.
“Au revoir, papa” I said, hugging him. He looked at me and smiled “No, it’s time. Kinshasa has defeated me. Finally. John is going home. To my family in Lubumbashi. They know me.”
As told by Deebee7, obviously.
Ovally Balls 
Wonderful words, Deebs!
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Cheers, Deebee.
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That was wonderful, thank you DeeBee
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Just to show that the Borders isn’t ALL rugby, Border Collies and sheep……
https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2020/apr/25/people-fell-under-its-spell-shelley-klein-on-growing-up-in-one-of-britains-finest-modernist-houses
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Jiffy’s just scored a try.
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Wales v Scotland 1988.
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Scotland v France 1995. The ‘Toonie Flip’ game. Looks as though it was recorded on someone’s old VHS machine.
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Interesting read, Deebee.
I have big love for the Congolese people I know, although thanks to the Drog many of them support Chelsea and another one shot my foot at point-blank range with a paintball pellet. Had lots of fruitful thoughtful discussions with them about what Congo is, what it could be. It’s a territory that’s been exploted over and over again.
This rat-infested bakery you mentioned is the local Wonder Bread bakery?
Joe (son of one of South Africa’s greatest historians, Stanley, and one of its better novelists, Barbara) Trapido and Saint Jose Inaka, both of whom are connected to the University of Pretoria, about what’s going on in Kinshasa at more or less now – https://www.jacobinmag.com/2020/04/kinshasa-drc-democratic-republic-congo-covid-coronavirus
They mention the song below. It’s a good piece of music
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Jiffy, Dai Young, Laidlaw the elder. Makes me feel old.
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And Moriarty!
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Ieuan Evans’s lad played at full back for the Ospreys against Ulster a couple of months back, thaum.
That is a top game you’re watching. Scotland’s back row is one of the best.
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It’s a very good game! Sort of snoozed through most of it, but awake for the finish.
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JD with a couple of ROGers for the win.
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Massive pitch invasion. Joyful.
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@BB – I’m watching that a bit behind. “Stocky little feller, built like a garage” is the highlight so far.
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Iksy, daff, me, maybe someone else from here or there were all at the Twickenham game a fortnight before that Scotland match.
I used to like that weekend of the 5 Nations cos it was when they’d always show the Wales-Scotland match in full on the BBC in England as the Saes had that round free. At other times we had to wait for highlights after the England v Ireland or England v Scotland games. When those games finished you had to turn the volume down in case you accidentally heard the stadium PA announce the result of the other game.
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Waiting for highlights is a euphemistic way of putting watching an edited package of a Wales game for most of the 1980s and 1990s.
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Quite a brutal spear tackle on Ian Jardine from Benazzi goes unpenalised. Commentary team rightly have a good old moan about it.
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DeeBee
Very good. Thanks
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Having just finished series 1 of McMafia have now started on The Looming Tower…………………
Glorious weather here now but spectacular local thunder storms, too!
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Great try that won it. France will have been a bit disappointed not to have closed that one out though and with losing by two points with Lacroix having only kicked 1/6.
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Hastings had a great game. Poor old Jardine got his head smashed by a French forward later on after the dodgy tackle earlier. The discussion in the studio about whether any disciplinary action would be taken was very much of its time.
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For anybody not outside breaking social distancing rules (or anyone desperate for some rugby to watch)…
This is the one Jonny Gray made 174,000,000,000 tackles or something.
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…………that Jonny Gray soon to be of Exeter………………?
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Yup. Over 100 appearances for Glasgow and almost 60 caps for Scotland, and he’s only 26, yet to hit his peak. Not a flashy player (and I’m not sure Baxter really goes in for flashy forwards). If he can make him a bit more of a carrier, he’ll be brilliant for Exeter. Teaming up with Skinner could be pretty effective.
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Strange story: https://www.sarugbymag.co.za/former-bok-centre-receives-hefty-fin/
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Also, Brandon Thomson might be going from Glasgow to PE to play for the Kings. A player I quite like just for his laid-back look.
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Loving it Deebee. Part of the world (i.e. continent) I’ve never been to and will unlikely to have the opportunity to in the forseeable.
Suspicious lack of lunch details though.
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Sounds like hell, Deebee. Not Kinshasa, but having a job that requires visits to markets and supermarkets. We still refer to our big trip in 1999 as “Mrs BK’s Grand Tour of the Supermarkets of Western Europe”.
Fortunately her interests didn’t extend to shoes or handbags.
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I bet Mr Matadi was a Sapeur when he was a kid: https://www.dw.com/fr/les-sapeurs-dans-toute-leur-%C3%A9l%C3%A9gance/g-44245072
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@bk
Bet it was like this:
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…………mmmm, Cadbury’s chocolate fingerettes
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Brilliant stuff Deebee
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Thanks for all the compliments folks!
@Chimpie – seldom time for lavish lunches on these trips unfortunately! Sometimes if travelling with clients we’ll stop for a quick lunch, but when I’m on my own I eat large breakfasts and then dinners, no lunch, tea, elevenies or anything else!
@BK – it’s actually great fun, but not all of my stuff is consumer research, not much of it at all actually. Part 2 will detail the cement industry trip that I did back-to-back with this one.
@TomP – definitely a sapeur in his youth! My first visit to Kinshasa was when the country was still called Zaire and Mabuto was desperately clinging on to power. Went to a couple of Kin clubs and was exposed to the sapeurs and Rumba. One of my favourite trips of all time! It’s also very popular in Congo-Brazza, and I had a helluva evening in Pointe Noire a few years back, partying with the Namibian High Commissioner and a local MP, who’s husband was something of a legend in the nightclubs there.
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detail it like an England centres debate, baby.
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Thanks Trisk!
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Cement is more interesting.
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There’s a novel by Alain Mabanckou called Black Bazaar about a Sapeur who lives in France. It’s a really really interesting sub-culture that’s around the world thanks to the diaspora. Better to see in the streets than in a club I’d think.
I’ll try to find the article I read a while back about people who now dress up in the Mobuto abacost. That’s a weird weird one.
A side note: Other French-speaking Africans take the piss out of Congolese because they use “septante” instead of “soixante-dix” for 70.
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@tomp
The French take the piss out of the Belgians for the same reason. Bet the Congolese say “nonante” for 90 as well.
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They do (well, those that speak French anyway). Colonial legacy and all that.
Most French-speaking Africans take the piss out of South Africans and Zimbabweans for playing cricket.
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Septante, octante and nonante are entirely sensible and this ridiculous four-twenties and 17 type of thing should be banned.
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Words Deebs. How does one become a client (asking for a friend)?
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Thaum – that and feminine and masculine words.
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I think we should send these suggestions to the French Ministry of Culture or whatever it’s called. They’d like that.
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You pay for his lunches and have an interest in cement.
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How does one become a client (asking for a friend)?
Pretty much what BB (cheeky scamp) said above. More seriously, we do research for companies that are looking to expand into Africa, either directly or through access into large extractives projects, retail etc. Probably the only sector we don’t really do in any kind of detail is ICT.
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Like “she” and “he”? You’ve burnt your bridges with CJ it seems.
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Tomp – la and le
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Deebs – I’ll raise it with Mrs Craig’s to see whether our company (Total Kent Solutions Ltd) needs to do this.
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