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 
OT – was that where he said non white plane passengers would have stopped 911 by not being complete pussies or something like that?
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@craigs
that was exactly it. He was promoting his Stupid White Men book that basically plays to a certain gallery.
I spent most of the show judging my fellow audience members in a very negative way.
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I spent most of the show judging my fellow audience members in a very negative way.
Probably couldn’t overcome armed terrorists in a plane either.
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They couldn’t even tell someone with a fishing net demanding they hand over their Nectar card to bog off
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I like this term
‘”quantitative bullshit” – the use of statistics and data to persuade someone by overwhelming and intimidating them, “without any allegiance to truth or accuracy”.’
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‘They couldn’t even tell someone with a fishing net demanding they hand over their Nectar card to bog off’
Sticking it to the man inna big way. Big rebellion furra suburbanite.
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And why nectar cards and not clubcard? He’s obviously in the pocket of Big Clubcard.
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People who identified as being on the left in 2003 hated Tesco so wouldn’t go there. Sainsbury’s was the supermarket of choice back then. Or Waitrose if you could afford it.
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Quantitive Bullshit sounds like a close cousin to the Gish Gallop
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‘People who identified as being on the left in 2003 hated Tesco so wouldn’t go there.’
I was never aware of this
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If I recall correctly it was a mix of Nectar cards, Tesco Clubcards and Boots points cards. I had honestly never heard of the Nectar card at this point and was surprised so many people had them. (I’ve never had one of these cards as I don’t see how it benefits me – it is entirely for the benefit of the supermarket).
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Chimpie, it was a joke but with a little grain of truth behind. Tescopoly and groups like that were around in the early 2000s I think. Friends of mine in St Albans were involved in campaigning against a new Superstore opening there around 2006.
OT, it would benefit you slightly but yes it’s much more important for the supermarket to have the information. I used a loyalty card in SA and gave the rands I “earned” to someone we were friends with who was in an economically-disadvantaged position
My brother refuses to use the self-service checkouts in supermarkets. Those things are very very bad. However, they do allow a little bit of creative shopping:
https://www.theguardian.com/global/2018/may/20/nation-of-shoplifters-supermarket-self-checkout
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“‘People who identified as being on the left in 2003 hated Tesco so wouldn’t go there.’
I was never aware of this”
It’s because of our antisemitism.
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Simon Jenkins wants to know why he can visit a DIY shop but not a museum. He’s got a point. I wouldn’t let him out at all.
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The Moore film has no Moore in it, altho it is definately his style. I found it quite enjoyable, altho I already have fairly jaundiced eye, and I could have written something along the same lines 25 years ago. There are some really nice soundbites. Hopefully it will rattle a few cages, as it is meant to do.
Went out with a lady who worked as a surveyor for the property department of Sainsburys many years ago. She pointed out to me that property was far more profitable than selling food, and the supermarkets were really just a handy tool to buy cheap land for redevelopment in the future.
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The Absolute Boss,
https://www.theguardian.com/music/2020/may/01/tony-allen-legendary-drummer-and-afrobeat-co-founder-dies-aged-79
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Not sure what to think about this guy, but it is somewhere between disbelief that this is in any way acceptable behaviour, sadness that this is in any way seen as acceptable behaviour from someone working for the NHS, and at the extreme end, maybe its time to bring back hanging, drawing’ and quartering.
https://www.theguardian.com/society/2020/may/01/revealed-nhs-procurement-official-privately-selling-ppe
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Best piece of news I heard today was that Captain Tom Moore was once a contestant on Blankety Blank.
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Well his name & face are everywhere now so imagine he’ll be reaching the top of the most hated list soon.
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@CMW
Strangely Jenkins’ latest outpouring isn’t open for comments BTL.
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Not the saintly Colonel, regarding my comment before last.
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Am just waiting for a tabloid expose outing Captain Tom as a spiv flogging sub standard PPE to the NHS.
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No way would the tabs go after Colonel Tom. Unless he uttered some mild criticism of the government.
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@OT
He’s probably coked up to the eyeballs which is why he can’t stop all this walking.
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@chimpie
He’s the dealer.
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@tomp
If Captain Tom turns out to be an illegal immigrant the tabs will have him.
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But he’s heroically raised so much money for the NHS Heroes.
The only solution is to give him a medal and then deport him.
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“Loyalist bonfire builders have cancelled this year’s event in Portadown, Co Armagh and created a tribute to the NHS from donated pallets.”
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@tomp
I wonder if their republican rivals will set fire to them.
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The ‘Ra love the NHS.
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The Ra’s love for the NHS kills the blog. I suppose it is a nice slogan for us all to take away from our time on Ovally Balls.
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I’ve found a full match vid of the 2019 RWC final, I haven’t watched it since the actual day
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I’ve watched the 2019 cricket world cup final in its entirety twice since lockdown started
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@OT – I might give that a go as I only saw the last third or so of it at the time. Seem to remember there was some Brownieness or Beaverage going on that meant I was driving back and forth to some woods on the other side of the city over and again through the morning and early afternoon.
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Have discovered an old bottle of some sort of Portuguese aguardiente. Must have been knocking around since our fairly hopeless heavily pregnant holiday on the Algarve the February before the Eldest was born. Seem to remember the local firewater was quite fun in the ‘will I go blind before I go mad or the other way round?’ sense. Given the other options are gin or crap brandy it might have to be the way to go. Mrs CMW bought the crap brandy at my request when I last had a bad cold – didn’t realise she’d go full plastic bottle though. I need to find a way to get to be the one who does the shopping sometime soon, but it’s her escape from the kids during lockdown.
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Middle daughter is organising a Zoom quiz with their mates, one of the categories is cheese-based quetions….
What is the cheese lover’s favourite Village People song?
Nacho Man.
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What kind of philosophy does the cheese lover study?
Fetaphysics.
I’ll leave it there
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If Ticht’s going to be cheesebasing then my encounter with this dodgy booze is going to be the least of everyone’s worries.
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Cheesus wept
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CMW, David Coverdale once handed me his brandy and coke from the stage at a Whitesnake gig.
It was quite good as far as I remember, but I was about 16 at the time, and I only knew it was brandy and coke because he said that was his drink in a Sounds interview.
It can’t hurt to try and improve the plastic bottle brandy with some coke.
BTW, if you get to go to the shops, go to Sainsbury’s, they have Bunnahabhain Stiùireadair for £25 at the moment, I know I said I stick with the age statement whiskies, but I thought for twenty five nicker from my favourite distillery I’d give it a lash, and it is very good, I have to say.
I’m going to get another “keeper” bottle tomorrow.
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CMW, Aguadiente can be quite a fine alcohol, try it before the other stuff. To test if its any good, do the whole bottle in one sitting. If you don’t have a hangover in the morning, it was a good one.
I look forward to this evenings posts.
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I’m sure it’ll be grate ticht
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It’s from the fruits of the strawberry tree apparently. What can go wrong?
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It’s not news, but Dayglo is a terrible commentator, I guess we’ve all got them, the ones who might as well have the face paint on, roarin and greetin at the anthems whilst at home
Or is that just me?
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Best thing to happen to English rugby was when the papers did that sting on Dayglo and got him kicked out as England captain.
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I’ve stopped and started the match so I’m only at ht.
Dan Cole wasn’t solely at fault for the scrum, the Savo 8 were magnificent, well 10 in fact, including replacements
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The defence play on 30 minutes was supreme. England had that big chance and couldn’t make it despite some good play.
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TomP, that was about a three minute advantage, there was another pen out wide from Faff, but it went back to the first offence after a long time
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Not bothered with tonight’s SRU game – it was the ‘Game In The Flood’ from 2000 (?) when we snatched the Calcutta Cup at the end when Duncan Hodge swan over the line for the winning try.
Had a family quiz night on Zoom instead.
Will soon be watching The Shadows At Sixty on BBC4. Not necessarily my scene, but Hank seemed to be SO influential on so many British guitarists – he had the first Fender in the UK, I think?
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Ah, but did you have a cheese round, BB?
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