Jambo Kinshasa!

I could not quite believe yesterday morning, when at the airport in Kenya my boarding pass said ‘Nairobi-Kinshasa’. But there I was, on my way to this mighty city, far, FAR away from any other place in Congo I had been to. The flight was actually quite funny: we first crossed over to the other Congo (the ‘French’ one), to drop off and pick people up in Brazzaville, and then went up again for the shortest ever flight of my life: 8 minutes to Kinshasa. That’s right. We simply crossed the Congo river by air, and landed in the ‘Belgian’ Congo around 10.30 a.m. All safe and good, apart from a minor frustration: it was so cloudy out there that I could not take any pictures (after repeatedly haggling for a window seat). There will be other opportunities, of course, JUST that in these countries you should take whatever you can whenever you can (before they take away your camera or attempt to arrest you for God knows what reason).

But here I was, and off I was going into the immigration hall. From my previous experiences at airports in Congo, and based on all sorts of stories I’ve heard about this airport in particular, I was expecting some kind of trouble with my visa, or my vaccination certificate, or my looks, or my attitude, or something. However, to my utter surprise, everything went as smoothly as it could have gone, and in a few minutes only I was out in the baggage claim area not quite believing my luck. This place reminded me of a huge sort of public toilet: pillars covered in blue, chipped tiles, supporting a rather low roof, and windows that have not been washed in probably a decade. The baggage belts were also quite a scene: many officials were jumping up and down on them, and then in and out through the little hole meant for luggage to appear through, so it took about forever to get some bags flowing. And when they finally did, I could not quite understand what they were all about: some hundreds of humongous packs meant for douane came first, which meant we had to wait some half an hour for our regular stuff to begin rolling. In the end there I was, with everything intact, ready to step out and look for my driver.

Henri was duly there, waiting for me with a big sign, and fitting me readily into a big jeep. He also presented me with a large information package -‘First 24 hours in Kinshasa’- and suggested we stop by the office first to get the duty phone which was waiting for me. Impressive organization, I must say! Add to all the smooth operations a fantastic drive for the first 20 minutes or so, and I was beginning to wonder how come Kinshasa has all the bad names associated to it.

And then we hit THE traffic. I thought I had seen the worst in Nairobi, but this was hardly comparable. The gigantic Avenue 30 Juin (named after the Congolese independence day) is basically this half newly renovated boulevard with some 4 lanes each way, synonymous with the land of grueling concrete. All trees were cut off to make place for additional lanes a short while back, so it’s like this massive airport take-off runaway surrounded by mobile markets and stranded people trying to cross everywhere (with very little chance at it too). And then, when you get stuck, you really get stuck, in such a way that it is quite physically impossible to figure out how to get out of it all. We thus did not move for the longest time, and my energy levels were dwindling at an alarming rate, so much so that when I was dropped off at the hotel I completely crashed in the hallway. It did not help the fact that the reception guy at the rather fancy Sultani Hotel insisted he had no reservation in my name, and that they were so full there was no way he would accommodate me. Some half an hour later they did manage to find my name somewhere, and miraculously I could choose among several free rooms available. I was so tired that I even allowed myself to accept a room without a mosquito net (“cause there are no mosquitoes here!” (?!) said the guy, and decided instead to use just some spray and some preventive AC). In the meantime, I ordered at the restaurant some $14 spinach cannelloni (the waitress said they’d be ready in 10 minutes, so I figured 40 minutes would be about right), and with an eye on Wimbledon I fell asleep at 3 pm, only to wake after some 14 hours of the deepest sleep ever.

By contrast, since I didn’t really know many people here, and I had not scheduled anything in particular, I spent my Sunday mostly in the hotel, frantically enjoying a splendid internet connection. I went out just for lunch, with a colleague, and marveled at the ghost-town in the Gombe (expat) area – apparently with the July 4 weekend, the Americans are all celebrating out of the city, while the Brits had some sort of exclusive club-meeting to watch Wimbledon together. Resting well I did then, bracing for a crazy week full of meetings ahead.