Six weeks on in Kinshasa, and I’m beginning to get the hang of this enormous city – I think. Six or eight million people live here! depends who you talk to. Still haven’t ventured into the driving seat, although do have a DRC licence. Driving here needs nerves of steel, the reflexes of a fighter pilot and a very casual attitude to dents and dings. 3 lanes become 6 very quickly; taxis, large and small – painted bright blue and yellow – weave in from left and right; people with disabilities (apparently the result of years of ignoring polio) emerge from nowhere in little go-kart-like vehicles adapted to their particular problem. I discovered they’re designed and made here – clever contraptions that, for example, enable someone without legs to ‘pedal’ with their arms. A bike bouleversé. Pedestrians spill on to the roads, and cars often drive on the pavements just to move forward; men dragging huge trolleys behind them – the DRC’s rag and bone men - laden with wood, cardboard, mysterious bales of goods, defy the traffic and walk steadfastly in the street, up and down through and around the potholes. After rain, these become ponds – just have to guess how deep. Somehow, everyone’s very tight space is respected. And now on the main drag through the city, Boulevard 30 Juin, there are traffic lanes and pedestrian crossings; some stop, others don’t …but hey, life’s a lottery. Police are everywhere directing the traffic …at major intersections housed in little raised bandstands; at corners stopping cars for the most minor infraction; sometimes just stopping cars… I’ve seen the odd traffic light that works but not sure if anyone registers – the mantra is give way to the right, and it seems to work.
There are extraordinary buildings here. Venture into a neglected alleyway in what looks like an abandoned building, take the lift up 7 floors, and then mysteriously push once more – no-one can explain the mechanics of this - to reach the Taj Tandoori Restaurant. This sits on the roof of what we are told was the first Art Deco building in central Africa, and once was home to King Leopold’s offices. With panoramic views across the city and the river just behind, the building juts out into the street like some massive ship, crying out for a coat of paint, and for someone to remove the opportunistic shrubs and plants protruding from its sides. People are living there – and the Taj food is good. Just outside the city, heading towards Nando’s (yes, South Africa is here!) you nip into side roads towards the river and stumble on a secluded enclave of large old colonial homes set in tranquil, lush gardens; then to the first tiny stone church in Kinshasa built by a Belgian priest with river views to die for. Further, on the road to Mbudi, you glimpse what appears to be a small chateau, now tumble-down, apparently also built by Belgian priests. And Mbudi itself, a nature reserve just outside Kinshasa on the banks of the Congo River, dotted with languourous sculptures and, as you enter, boards carrying verses of Kipling’s poem If – in French. Right on the river, this is a great place to relax, to stroll, to enjoy a coffee or a meal. But it’s getting there – in fact anywhere - that is often the problem, with roads that vary from impassable in anything other than a 4x4 to sort of OK to OK. But there’s a huge energy around as people clean up the litter fix, renovate and repair for the celebrations on 30th June this year, commemorating 50 years of independence. Come 1st July, what happens? In the meantime lots of public spaces are closed while they’re being fixed, including the lovely Jardins Botaniques right downtown; a smaller, more accessible version of the magnificent indigenous gardens at Kisantu, some 2 hours drive outside Kinshasa.
Visiting the national museum, sited on a hill in Ngaliema just outside town, involves passing an informal military checkpoint – it is, remember, on a hill which gives an uninterrupted view across the river, the border, to Congo-Brazzaville. But it’s worth it; although the collection is small, the curator is enthusiastic and knowledgeable about the traditions, history and customs, and wants to share. Then, curious to find theatrical spaces and places I explored some more of the city and its suburbs. Off to the Cité, which is where most people live, we stopped in Mongate where the sun never sets and it’s non-stop partytime. The centre is dominated by Disco Akropolis which doubles, apparently, as a good patisserie. Music stores are everywhere and I buy a double CD of Fally Ipupa, a protégé of Papa Wembe. At our first theatre, I encounter the director somnolent in front of his TV with volume at full blast, in a room designated ‘Library’ and requesting silence; he is disinterestedly helpful, returning at the first opportunity to his TV, channel hopping; the theatre is dark. Another space – also closed while under renovation – seemed to offer every facility, and was hosting popular music concerts sponsored by Vodacom. On to a community centre in the trendy area of Bandal, with an outdoor theatre space managed by a local arts group. Then in town, there’s the theatre at Boboto Cultural Centre; the Halle de la Gombe, at the French Cultural Institute – always busy, with every show packed; and the Centre Wallonie-Bruxelles with its Théâtre Brel, also a magnet for young people. Went there for a concert by the Chamber Music Orchestra of the National Arts School. No 18th century decorum here! It was fantastic – a melange of Congolese melody with classical western string instruments, drums, keyboard, guitar and sax. The audience – mostly music students and their fans – were wild, calling for their favourites, singing along, applauding every song.
Fashion is fascinating here: most of the women wear pagnes, long pieces of brightly patterned cotton cloth. Those that can, have them made into every style imaginable. There are bum-hugging long skirts with kick pleats, with bustles, with frills, with flounces. The tops, more like bodices – always with the zip running top to bottom – are fitted, with necklines to suit the owner; cap sleeves, sleeveless, spaghetti straps, off the shoulder. All look beautiful. Straight or long hair is à la mode, so there are wigs of every description and colour, and extensions and braids. But, younger girls wear jeans like their counterparts worldwide, and many leave their hair au naturel. Men – well, they dress pretty much like anywhere else, except of course for the men in uniform, and they’re plenty of those.
Daily trade is the lifeblood of people here, and it’s truly a balancing act. The streets are full of men and women carrying goods on their head. The bread sellers, with huge tin basins of baguettes poking up like fingers, clacking on the side of the basin with a stick to attract your attention; men with cardboard boxes cut like a ziggurat to stack potato chips, cigarettes, sweets; men with up to 14 empty egg trays with the eggs in a neat, if precarious, pyramid on top. One woman carries leafy green spinach on her head, falling around her face like some gorgeous hat – just as the British Queen Mother used to wear, in pink, but somehow more elegant on this tall, upright figure. By the roadside, vendors offer freshly hooked fish from the river; fruit and vegetables, flowers; one chicken stall also offered a live python – or was it a small boa? – and a monkey. And everything, but everything, can be found in the market. It’s hot, it’s crowded, it’s noisy – from a single nail to a single living goat, and all things in between, it’s there if you look long and hard enough.
And today, for the first time, the sun has not shone. Winter is with us, with temperatures at around 24°C, a little (unseasonal) rain, and a cool breeze. A man strolls along the river in an anorak and woollen scarf …
