Kinshasa, Part I

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.