12 foreigners land in Kinshasa. What could possibly go wrong?
The answer is – everything. When we asked our dear fixer Obed, who performed incredibly when organising our Burundi/Rwanda adventure earlier this year, for a long weekend in the capital of DR Congo, he just rolled his eyes and asked if we were serious. ‘It will be expensive…and nothing will be as you planned.’ He knows the DRC like no other.
Considering it serves a city of probably 20 million and is the main gateway to a country of more than 100 million, the one-building terminal of Kinshasa airport already tells a story of missed potential. Our group comprised 12 Americans, Britons and an odd Brazilian, all of who are very experienced travellers. Even so, we were warned to expect the worst. Immigration was not too daunting but it did take almost 3 hours. And the cost to arrange a visa on arrival – the only viable way to avoid the nightmare of embassy visits – exceeds $400.
We met our fixer Moses who proved to be way too nice to be able to handle the adversities of the DRC. We had an invitation that evening to an ambassador who was known to the group and truly looked forward to that, but first, as an entrée, we would be treated to a boat trip on the river Congo. So instead of heading into town, we drove in the opposite direction, northeast, to the small port of Maluku. The ’40 minute’ drive took almost 90 minutes even though there was little traffic.
We were treated to African village scenes upon arrival at the port area, filth beyond belief and joyful, enthusiastic children greeting us. This somehow never gets old, and is a great and necessary mood-builder when all else fails. The boat actually had life-jackets and we set off heading south on one of the world’s most iconic rivers. Pleasurable and not too hot, with the shores Congo-Brazzaville to our right; we almost made it into their territorial waters.
Of course there was miscalculation. Of course darkness fell before we could end the boat ride and of course there were sandbanks making any approach harder than it should have been. And of course once we did hit dry land after a considerable wait, we were approached by armed men and essentially not allowed to leave.
Knowing there was an ambassador who had our backs was a great relief in an absurd situation where we ended up walking in the sand, with our bags, and then standing in a courtyard with a giant locked gate while mosquitoes circled around us in glee. How is that for a welcome to the DRC?
Luckily we were hardly concerned as the ‘behind the scenes’ work (read: financial contributions?) of Moses ensured that, after an immigration official had arrived and our identities had been checked, we were finally let go, though the bus couldn’t quite make it due to the sand and we had to walk down pitch dark alleys to reach the meeting point.
By this point, we were already 3 hours delayed to our meeting with the ambassador and just shamefaced at missing an important meeting headed for our hotel in the good area of Kinshasa. At least the hotel was indeed good, though with a price tag of at least $250 a night (in the best case), you would be better off in a resort in the Maldives.
The next morning the bus disappeared. It begs belief how this can happen when you supposedly have an agreement and have paid money, but apparently in the DRC you have t pay all in advance and then, once the company has the money, they can just not show up. Could you really try to get your money back in court? The legendary NomadMania quiz provided some light entertainment in the hotel lobby until a replacement bus was finally found and the group set off for what must be Kinshasa’s prime site of interest, Lola ya Bonobo.
The bonobos are quite different from other monkeys and apes and the sanctuary, which is a good two-hour drive given the inevitable traffic-jams, offers a unique opportunity to observe the behaviour of these rather cheeky primates.
One of which didn’t like the look of a huge camera lens and repeatedly threw sand at it in disapproval. Although the initial plan was to return to the hotel area for lunch and then continue with the afternoon activity, this was truly impossible given the horrific traffic.
In fact, this is truly unlike anything anybody has ever experienced with standstills that could last hours. The city probably built for a maximum of a million can clearly not cope with the number of people needing to get around. This means that all efforts at making an appointment and being on time are bound to fail – and we would learn this again and again. Eventually, without any meal breaks, the afternoon activity of the sapeurs commenced.
This may well have been the highlight of the trip. The sapeurs are generally impoverished men and women in their 30s or 40s with an interest in fashion who appear in the street, usually in a small group, and generally cause a commotion and do a show.
This is the bright side of Kinshasa, full of colour, bizarreness and a friendly vibe. Many happy photos testify to the fun that everyone had joining this group of harmless weirdos in their effort to make a mark for themselves in a hellish urban environment.
The activities of the day were far from over as Moses had secured invitations to a traditional Congolese wedding reception – albeit an upper-class affair at a good hotel. Colourful jackets or dresses in an appealing green-black motif were sown especially for us and off we went, essentially crashing a wedding of strangers we knew nothing about. Apparently, the bride was a cousin of Moses’ and lives in Canada, coming back just for the wedding.
Given that we had not eaten anything since breakfast, the main pre-occupation was the buffet, but before anybody was allowed to eat, speeches had to be made, and there was lots of traditional dancing and singing. We were the only non-African representatives in the proceedings but were welcomed heartily. Luckily, enough of us spoke French to be able to exchange pleasantries with the strangers that were suddenly the focus of our attention.
The last full day dawned with anticipation. The plan was to get to Kisantu in the Bas-Congo region, thereby ensuring that everyone visited not just one, but two regions of the country, and then continue to the Zongo Falls, probably the second most prominent tourist site in the west of the country after the bonobos.
How naive we were. Despite setting off at 7 am, the truly unimaginable traffic ended up beating us all. After seven hours on the road with Kisantu nowhere in sight, the decision was made to just turn back in fear of us having to deal with an all-nighter or miss the departure flight.
The route did provide lots of comic relief with livestock of all kinds carried along with humans on the top of dilapidated vehicles and chaotic street-scenes galore, not to mention truly shoddy driving skills. And, formidably, the group just took it all in its stride, satisfied to at least have one more region, laughing it away and enjoying the moment. After all, everyone already had the two main elements of the Kinshasa experience: being detained and being stuck in an endless traffic jam.
Returning to Kinshasa, the one architectural delight that we made was the Echangeur monument, an unfinished tower which has been standing for more than forty years without quite being put to any good use. The dinner at the hotel never tasted so good, after yet another lunch-less day.
The final frisson was yet to come. The last morning, we left early in order to at least catch something more of the city. The artisan market is admittedly a worthy treasure cove of bric-a-brac and some great art which demonstrates the humorous, often self-mocking nature of the Congolese. One supposes that a light-hearted attitude is the only way to survive in hell. After also visiting the monument to Kabila, with a North-Korean-made statue obviously drawing out all phones and cameras, we set off on the return to the airport with four and a half hours to spare.
Alas, the traffic proved once again insurmountable. At one point in the road, everything came to a standstill. And there was no progress. The minutes went by and our desperation increased. Missing the flight was clearly not an option. So, we all got off, with our things, in what was essentially a slum area, and tried to find a tuk-tuk.
The ensuing mad ride through back-roads of Kinshasa with five people per tuk-tuk could be a cross of ‘Lethal Weapon’ and ‘Argo’ – a scene out of a film called ‘Escape from Kinshasa.’ Breathless and dishevelled, everyone arrived at the entrance to the airport in good time.
Only to find our bus standing in front of the terminal. It had made it before us.
Obed wrote to me and clearly said: Kinshasa is not a place for tourists. I do not want to die young of stress. We are not doing this again. Message received. Good luck planning your trip to Kinshasa!
