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 
Chimpie – I’ve found this week harder to cope with than any of the other lockdown weeks. Don’t know why really, and Mrs BB (plus various folks from her work that she’s in contact with) have said the same. Maybe if we felt that there was some light at the end of the tunnel, it might help cheer us up. Plus the weather’s turned shite.
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Don’t known why we bothered ridding the world of smallpox , it’s not like it killed everybody.
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@BB
I hear ya. The longer it goes on for the bigger the impact & the more work uncertainty.
Been hearing some not exactly thrilling (albeit unconfirmed) rumours at work about long term work forecast & potential for ‘right sizing’. More furloughs coming up – not me unfortunately – some are struggling with the uncertainty & demands.
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My immune system isn’t very good at scaling up manufacturing and distribution of ventilators and PPE.
Matt Ridley is a bit thick. He believes what people tell him if it looks a bit complex and clever. That’s why Northern Rock fell on its arse when he was chairman.
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Was wondering who this Ridley character was.
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Related to Nicholas Ridley. Thatcher’s Thatcherite
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A popular science writer and journalist as well, Economist, Telegraph, Times is the descent.
Also a member of the House of Lords.
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“In 1994 Ridley became a board member of the UK bank Northern Rock after his father had been a board member for 30 years and chairman from 1987 to 1992. Ridley became chairman in 2004.”
For the life of me I can’t see how Northern Rock could possibly fail.
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Nepotism-tastic
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Britain is a country I don’t really understand. The BBC liveblog of Colonel Tom’s 100th birthday is amazing. Maybe my favourite:
“Susan Mitchell in Warwick has made her own tribute to Captain Tom Moore, created from an empty milk bottle, bubble wrap and chicken wire.”
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“Nepotism-tastic”
Ah, am not the only one who doesn’t understand Britain.
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Ah, that worked well
Chimpie – I’ve found this week harder to cope with than any of the other lockdown weeks. Don’t know why really, and Mrs BB (plus various folks from her work that she’s in contact with) have said the same. Maybe if we felt that there was some light at the end of the tunnel, it might help cheer us up. Plus the weather’s turned shite.
Same thing down here, BB. And our lockdown is total – no booze, no ciggies, no strolling around parks (we’ll be able to exercise within a 5km radius of our houses from tomorrow between 6am and 9am, when the virus is presumably sleeping).
Mrs Deebee and I have given away most of our wine supplies now to friends and family who haven’t had a simple glass of wine with dinner for weeks. The cigarette ban was supposed to end tomorrow, but in a last minute reversal, was reimposed. Mrs Deebee is a smoker and so was delighted and devastated in the space of an hour.
I kid you not: retailers were putting out statements at 5pm that they would sell cigarettes and at 6pm Nkosasana Dlamini-Zuma announced on TV that they were not allowing their sale. It’s now simply internal ruling party politics, with NDZ and the rest of the corrupt scum who lost the presidential contest in 2017 trying to undermine President Ramaphosa who had been praised b y most South Africans across the political spectrum for his handling of the crisis. They’re now trying desperately to create more crises. I’m hoping treason charges follow soon.
Anyway, on we struggle, and with each passing day the adherence to the lockdown rules will dissipate more and more until something blows up. It’s the South African way! Let me now go and indulge in a thimbleful of wine!ll.
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The Upper Middle Class of Joburg is revolting!
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Mrs Deebee and I have given away most of our wine supplies
Rookie error.
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Should have hoarded all the booze and fags. Rack up the prices. Easy.
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I reckon there’d be riots here if we couldn’t buy booze & fags. I know I’d be revolting.
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We were told it was 3 weeks, which was doable and I stocked up on smokes for Mrs Deebee, which lasted – but then it was extended for 2 weeks catching everyone short. Now it’s pretty much at the whim of whichever faction of the ANC wins the weekly arm wrestle over policy. ‘Policy’.
@TomP, its already unraveling on the Cape Flats with a rise in gang violence, smuggling, torching of shops and destruction of property. Not the middle classes in Joburg you have to worry about. And it’s going to get worse.
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Now Mts Deebee is on her girlfriend house party chat thing, giving the rest of it away. I’m gonna have drink fast and furiously tonight.
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Pull the plug on the router!
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Deebs – pour half of it into other containers and then dilute the rest.
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Craigs I would do, but it’s our wine that we made and it’s a matter of pride to not have people thinking it’s shit! Scylla and Charybdis all over again. On a leaky dinghy. Without a hero in sight. ‘Cept Mrs Deebs for coping with the tobacco wars. No, she’s not peering over my shoulder.
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Deebs – I understand. When people taste my beer it’s a matter of pride.
But I never make this mistake. Fuck pride.
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🤣
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Was gonna comment about London Pride, but thought better of it.
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Don’t be afraid to give praise Deebs.
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I think you’re going to have raid your Witblits stores, Deebee.
Gangboyz realize there’s money to be made, no need to be killing so much
On the smikes,you need to reach out to some connections with connections. Everything’s gettable.
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TomP:
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Only thing I can think of saying right now!
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“Susan Mitchell in Warwick has made her own tribute to Captain Tom Moore, created from an empty milk bottle, bubble wrap and chicken wire.”
– someone who grew up making stuff they saw on Blue Peter
I made a bobsleigh from a diagonally cut 5l plastic container and a coat hanger under tutelage from John Noakes.
The Winter Olympics were on
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Every day I get more reason to retreat to an outer Hebridean paradise and grow/brew/distill my own amusement
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Ticht – I’ve always wanted to be a hermit.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but did you manage to start an argument with yourself last night? ;-)
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Quite probably, Thaum, I’ve been in a foul mood for a couple of days, so I’ve not been the best company.
I’m aware of the fact, though, so I try to shield those closest to me from it all.
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Aww, Ticht, hope things improve for you soon. It’s fine to rant here.
And now I’m going to bed – just so you don’t think I’m ignoring you if you post again!
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1. I wish I hadn’t watched that ‘Walk On’ video, it’s like quaffing syrup. ‘Let’s all Zipadeedoodah with a sentimental tear for Cap’n Tom while the govt finessrs its excuses!’ As His Excellency the Llama Chin-Pie once said, ‘If many follow one down the garden path it becomes a deep and narrow trench where few can see’.
2. Thaum, I’ve met you in person and you could never, ever be revolting.
3. I haven’t read the ATL yet Deebee, I’m saving it up for a better week, and looking forward to reading it very much. Thank you.
4. My dear BB, I understand your bleak week. I’ve had one too, a sort of perfect storm of personal frustration (having to wear a mask in public; the realisation no-one really knows anything about when ‘normal’ life returns) allied to the lies, incompetence, naked cynicism and buck-passing from political leaders at a level I’ve never seen so transparently before. It’s not been nice waking up to the fact they truly don’t give a fuck about people, and will happily watch us die if it means keeping wealth and power to themselves. And the worse thing is they can and will get away with it.
5. Thanks for a fine readback, you loveable lot.
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Every day I get more reason to retreat to an outer Hebridean paradise and grow/brew/distill my own amusement
Best keep an extra seat on your front porch there, Ticht. I’ll be coming by to visit some day.
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We all have shit weeks. I certainly have recently. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.
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Watch Planet of the Humans on you tube, Ticht. That’ll cheer you right up.
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“We all have shit weeks. I certainly have recently. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Had a no shit weeek not so long ago and I can promise you that was worse.
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Hmm, have reservations about Moore
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Home learning so far this morning: which type of fire is it safe to pee on:
Electrical
Oil
Wood
Big prize for correct answers
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Michael Moore peaked in the 90s with TV Nation. Particularly the one when he got a load of blacks, gays, and other hated minorities to go to a KKK meeting and offer them free hugs and kisses.
Since then he’s been far less impressive.
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Watching the Wales-NZ 2003 RWC thriller. Aussie commentator has just said, “That means Gareth Thomas will move back to full back. He’s an ex-postman and he’ll need to deliver for the Welsh”.
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A fairly forthright interview with Bok lock of yore, Mark Andrew’s. Really was a different era:
https://m.sport24.co.za/Rugby/Springboks/former-springbok-lock-andrews-has-no-apologies-for-being-a-psycho-20200430
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I saw Michael Moore on Bill Maher a while back. The guy was so baked he couldn’t string 2 sentences together.
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” I was partnering Vleis Visagie, who was playing his 100th game for the province”
That is a nickname. Straight to the point.
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I mentioned before I saw him ‘perform’ at the Roundhouse ~ 16 years ago or something. He got everyone who had a nectar card to hold it up and got his minions to collect them up, at which point he read the name on the card and cut it up. I was appalled that the audience went along with it.
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All those millions of nectar points just gone like that.
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I hope a few escaped.
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Nectarcide
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Am sure they just reported the card lost and got a replacement.
I saw Yasmin Alibhai-Brown there. Next day she wrote an article about how disgusted she was at Moore’s racism.
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