The people waiting in the gate with me are dressed to the nine. Red pants, colorful dresses, white alligator pointy men's shoes, gold jewelry, brilliant head wraps, stripe pants with a paisley shirt, it's awesome. I look down at my black T.shirt, khaki pants, black shoes--drab. But think about it, think if I were to put on striped paints with a paisley shirt, I'd look like a clown. Yet for the Congolese, more then get away with it, they look fantastic, stylish and hip.
The other thing one notes is the volume, it is turned up. Lively discussions, laughter and debates. The first time I was in Central Africa I thought everyone was fighting, but quickly learned the aggressive responses, loud reply and play in language is simply 'how we communicate.' So you quickly find yourself joining in.
We fly three and a half hours from Nairobi to Congo. Congo-Brazza, short for Congo-Brazzaville, which is different than the Democratic Republic of Congo. The two countries are separated by the mighty Congo River and the flight from Brazzaville to Kinshasa, the capital of DRC, is only 10 minutes. The expanse of forest that one flies over in Congo is impressive. The green lung of Africa, the second largest tropical forest in the world, this, along with its inhabitants are what we are trying to save.
Unlike a few years ago, the airport is somewhat seamless. No bribes, no hassle, easy visa and I exit. The new airport has been built by the Chinese, like a lot of infrastructure in Africa. The old airport, is just that, old. It reflects the years of history, with bullet holes, and the years of tropical temperatures, with mold, crumbling facades and just a worn down look.
I was supposed to travel to Kinshasa in September, but there was rioting. President Joseph Kabila, son of Laurent Kabila, has served two terms, but does not want to let go of the reigns, a common issue in Africa. He tried a number of tactics from changing the constitution to suggesting a census needs to be done before the election, but Congolese had enough, so they took to the streets demanding elections. The main road to the airport was blocked, so traveling at that time was simply not an option. The protesters succeeded and elections are scheduled for December 2018. I ask everyone I meet on this trip, so, will they happen, the elections. The common response from the optimists 'we'll see' and others, no way.
I am in Kinshasa for only two days of meetings. Staying at a small hotel with a lovely leafy garden. Two crowned cranes roam the property and gaze at themselves in the mirrored reflection of the sliding glass doors.
We are in a meeting and a young women comes in to bring us tea and coffee. On her cheek is a brilliant blue heart with the Congolese flag perfectly painted inside the heart. Tonight is a football match between DRC and Ivory Coast. I played football, I enjoy watching football, but I don't really follow football.
After our meetings, my colleague and I throw on our running shoes and head out for a run. The air is thick with warm humidity and I am very quickly drenched in sweat. We cross Boulevard du 30 Juin, which is named after the day DRC became independent from Belgian rule, and head down to the river. We run on wide, leafy streets, with big houses hidden behind impressive fences. Passing Embassies and other picturesque buildings. There are people everywhere and soon we see them starting to gather around TVs in windows, driveways, shops and houses, the game is soon starting.
As we wind up our run and head back towards the hotel, I notice the city has vacated. It is as if a nuclear bomb went off, the streets are empty, literally empty. Now, remember, Kinshasa has 10 million people, so empty streets is not an easy feat. Suddenly there is a loud roar, screaming, thundering and blasting. I am momentarily startled, but as my colleague sprints away yelling 'they've scored'--I realize 10 million people are yelling in victory.
Back at the hotel I turn on my TV and there is Donald Trump being inaugurated. I watch in horror for a moment and decide to turn it off and join the Congolese for a cold beer and a game, a much better option. We go to Hotel Royal Kinshasa and outside near the pool they have large screens set up, chairs and a number of beer vendors selling cold beers. The scene is vibrant, all the embassy staff, local Congolese are watching, drinking, cheering and yelling. The match ended a tie, but good enough for the team to proceed.
The next day I head to the airport. The traffic is bad, really bad. We divert from the main road and take side streets. Dirt roads through the belly of Kinshasa. For the first time I start to really appreciate the magnitude of the city and the number of people. People are everywhere, walking, riding bikes, working, braiding hair, carrying water, carrying chickens. Children in uniform carrying oversized back backs. Rivers clogged with trash and egrets standing on islands of rubbish. Fresh bread on the side streets, music blaring, people playing pool. People sitting on tin cans. Shacks painted colors, fun names like Salon de Rose or Patisserie d'Obama painted on the sides of buildings. For 90 minutes we go at about 5 km per hour, watching Saturday life unfurl in Kinshasa. Dodging potholes, children, bikes, goats, people, motorbikes and vehicles.
A wave of despair drapes over me as I think about the effort to catalyze interest in conservation. To get people to care. to inspire pride in a country's natural resources. Here in the back roads of Kinshasa I am unconvinced we will succeed.
