Chapter 2
It was a wet and humid Sunday afternoon in
Kinshasa when the plane landed at N’djili Airport. The annual rainy season in the Congo lasts
from early October right into May with the resultant rainfall draining into the
massive Congo River, second in size only to the Nile. The massive Congo River sweeps north across
the country in a gentle arc from the southeast, as it picks up volumes of rain
water at each tributary, ending up at Kinshasa on the west coast. Here it widens into what is known as the
Malebo Pool with Kinshasa, the Capital of the DRC, or Democratic Republic of
Congo on its south bank and Brazzaville, the capital of a completely separate
country called The Republic of the Congo on its north bank 4 kilometers across.
After retrieving their luggage and clearing
customs, Celeste hailed them a taxi in French, the official language of the
Congo. The three researchers made their
way down Boulevard du 30 Juin, the main drag in this, a city of 9 million
people. They checked into the luxurious Hotel Memling in the embassy district
at Gombe, and agreed to reconnect for dinner in the main restaurant, the
Papageno. While she waited, and after a much needed shower, Patty checked her
emails and googled up the city of Kinshasa.
She read what she could find out about it. She knew that Kinshasa was
rated as one of Africa’s most dangerous cities with random gangs fighting, robbing,
raping, kidnapping and murdering. She had also heard about the fate of 20,000 orphaned
children in the city, begging for food and being used for child labour
including sweat shops and prostitution. It isn’t a secret that the police of
Kinshasa have rounded up children, lined them up and shot them for little or no
reason other than the inconvenience they represented. Patty had no illusions…
she wouldn’t be walking around looking for a Starbucks tonight.
For dinner at the Papageno, Patty wore a
revealing denim work shirt and a pair of practical tan slacks with a brown leather
belt and matching sandals. Her brown bra-strap length hair tumbled lazily over both
shoulders and cascaded down her back. She
looked at herself in the mirror, flattening her tummy as she stood as tall as
her sandals would allow. And as she gathered
and twisted her hair it into a bun and secured it with a barrette, she
reasoned, searching her own brown eyed reflection, that she wasn’t looking too
bad at all. She walked into the
restaurant and found Celeste already seated at a booth looking out the picture
window at Le Beach Ngoblia, the commercial port with all of its quays and
jetties, boats and barges. She noticed a bulging ferry pulling in from
Brazzaville as it listed side to side in the strong current of the Congo,
overloaded with freight and people. Tomorrow, she and her new friends would
board a boat here on their way up river to their final destination.
As Patty walked to the table, she saw
that Celeste was wearing a kaftan. This
one was open at the back revealing strong toned muscles up her spine and across
her dark shoulders. Celeste had beautiful charcoal black skin and she had the
body of an olympic athlete. Her attractive
face was as black as midnight with full lips, a broad nose and big friendly brown
eyes. Her welcoming smile showed
perfect white teeth. She gestured for Patty
to sit down while an impeccably dressed waiter in a white tuxedo poured them
glasses of South African Shiraz. The girls traded small talk about Kinshasa and
the hotel.
Roger showed up a couple minutes later,
dressed casually in converse sneakers, jeans and a white T-shirt. He still hadn’t
shaved and it showed in the dark shadow covering his chin and jawline. He flashed Patty and Celeste a broad smile as
he took his seat; deep dimples in his sun kissed face blending into the laugh
lines which radiated into his temples.
“So what do you girls think of Kinshasa?”
While they talked, they perused the menu
and ordered dinner. Patty asked for the
local dish; a fillet of fresh steamed Tilapia straight out of an aquarium near
the door. The fish was served on a bed of saffron flavoured rice with sautéed
mushrooms and steamed vegetables. Celeste enjoyed the stuffed lamb chops in a signature
fig sauce while Roger had two skewers of roasted baby pigeon marinated in a
lime sauce and sprinkled with crunchy almonds.
They talked over glasses of wine, enjoying a second bottle of the same
delicious shiraz.
Roger was a fountain of knowledge and
both Patty and Celeste were glad to have him along. He had lived in Kinshasa in
1997 following the economic collapse of the whole country. Back when it was
called Zaire, the corrupt dictator Mobutu who ruled for over 30 years,
devastated the economy. This initiated
both the first and second Congo wars which drove this resource-rich country
into a time of war, famine and poverty. Roger said that over 5 million people,
over half of which were children, vanished since 1996 and malnutrition affects
66% of those who are still alive. Roger went on to explain that the very bonobos
that they were going to study, are seen as a food source and capturing them is
a means of employment for hungry Congolese people. He told them of an experience he had while
walking through the Congo between the bonobo reserve and the river when his
guide pointed out smoke on a nearby ridge.
Roger said that he and the guide had stashed their backpacks and
stealth-like, they made their way to where the smoke was, where they surprised two
villagers, a father and his son in the process of smoking two dead bonobos over
a hardwood fire. They had caught the animals
in steel wire snares, beaten them to death with clubs and placed them on a fire
intending to sell the meat to the local commercial bushmeat industry. Roger
explained that the local economy is so devastated, that smoked bushmeat from
wild animals is one of the very few commodities available, especially since it
has to be transported long distances by foot or by canoe as the animal sources
get further and further away from the cities. Roger said that estimates vary,
but between 5,000 and 30,000 bonobos are still alive and in his opinion, the
real number was probably closer to the bottom of the estimate. He added that if
one knows where to go on the streets, infant Bonobos saved from the fate of their
poached parents, are for sale as pets and also for witchcraft, right here in
Kinshasa.
After dinner, ending with a three layer cheesecake
with a glazed cherry sauce, the three of them clinked their crystal glasses,
and toasted to their friendship, to the success of their journey tomorrow, and
to the research they would be doing together.
