Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Transitioning From Gabon through Brazzaville and into Kinshasa.
Bongo, the ruler of Gabon has been uniting Central Africa the old fashioned way. He married the daughter of the president of Congo Brazzaville-a well calculated move when you consider that Sessou now leads the African Union. Bongo's marriage, in the short run, seems to benefit Congo more; her citizens are allowed to enter Gabon and seek employment there. Other Africans are taxed well over one thousand US Dollars (ten times as heavily as Westerners) for this lucrative opportunity; the Gabonese are not lining up to enter Congo. Good relations with Bongoland have likely assisted Congo’s move towards stability and they are also helpful to the Gabonese people in Bongo’s native region near the border of Northern Congo, where cultural similarities and a huge shared frontier legitimize porous borders.
The Congolese have every right to be proud of Brazzaville. The principal routes are driveable, the street lights work, the water is safe to drink and opportunists are moving in. I have never seen more Asian businesses in an African city; our hotel’s street felt like China town. The Lebanese have established their inevitable presence and all sorts of entrepreneurial West Africans-Malians, Burkinabe, Guineans-are doing business. The market, in general, felt West African: stall keepers prayed to Allah by piles of counterfeit athletic wear, Salif Keita and Kora music vied with Koranic recordings, people spoke Bambara and Puular, there were not that many plantains around.
We stayed in Brazzaville for four days, preparing to cross the underwhelming section of the Congo river that keeps Kinshasa from ruining everything laid back and workable about its neighbor. People from this side of the river repeatedly warned us: on the other side, they are not like us; they will fight for no reason; they are angry. Be careful. The only person we know personally who has made this crossing hired several guards with assault rifles to accompany him and his vehicle across the river. He advised us to avoid the ferry at all costs. But, all costs were paid and insufficient. Tuuli and I went to the port a day in advance to do some reconnaissance.
The Brazza Congolese had erected a repetitive and parasitic maze of bogus taxation and revenue collection that will certainly ruin anyone's experience there; but they seem to have brought unofficial theft under control; so it was less menacing than tedious.
The boat itself was a bit more thuggish. We canned ourselves up in the Stingray like coward fish and sweat uncontrollably while several policemen used substantial whips made of rolled brown paper and packing tape to keep people a few centimeters away from our car. I tapped my hand with the tire iron in the backseat while Sean and Tuuli tried to ignore everyone making the hand-to-mouth feed me gesture. People peered under, into and over the car. Everything was wrapped up, not like a present.
I expected dangerous jostling and insistent challenging behavior on the other side. I expected a city that would finally feel universally dangerous-Kinshasa is one of the three most dangerous cities in the planet. It has held that honor for years.
Bongo, the ruler of Gabon has been uniting Central Africa the old fashioned way. He married the daughter of the president of Congo Brazzaville-a well calculated move when you consider that Sessou now leads the African Union. Bongo's marriage, in the short run, seems to benefit Congo more; her citizens are allowed to enter Gabon and seek employment there. Other Africans are taxed well over one thousand US Dollars (ten times as heavily as Westerners) for this lucrative opportunity; the Gabonese are not lining up to enter Congo. Good relations with Bongoland have likely assisted Congo’s move towards stability and they are also helpful to the Gabonese people in Bongo’s native region near the border of Northern Congo, where cultural similarities and a huge shared frontier legitimize porous borders.
The Congolese have every right to be proud of Brazzaville. The principal routes are driveable, the street lights work, the water is safe to drink and opportunists are moving in. I have never seen more Asian businesses in an African city; our hotel’s street felt like China town. The Lebanese have established their inevitable presence and all sorts of entrepreneurial West Africans-Malians, Burkinabe, Guineans-are doing business. The market, in general, felt West African: stall keepers prayed to Allah by piles of counterfeit athletic wear, Salif Keita and Kora music vied with Koranic recordings, people spoke Bambara and Puular, there were not that many plantains around.
We stayed in Brazzaville for four days, preparing to cross the underwhelming section of the Congo river that keeps Kinshasa from ruining everything laid back and workable about its neighbor. People from this side of the river repeatedly warned us: on the other side, they are not like us; they will fight for no reason; they are angry. Be careful. The only person we know personally who has made this crossing hired several guards with assault rifles to accompany him and his vehicle across the river. He advised us to avoid the ferry at all costs. But, all costs were paid and insufficient. Tuuli and I went to the port a day in advance to do some reconnaissance.
The Brazza Congolese had erected a repetitive and parasitic maze of bogus taxation and revenue collection that will certainly ruin anyone's experience there; but they seem to have brought unofficial theft under control; so it was less menacing than tedious.
The boat itself was a bit more thuggish. We canned ourselves up in the Stingray like coward fish and sweat uncontrollably while several policemen used substantial whips made of rolled brown paper and packing tape to keep people a few centimeters away from our car. I tapped my hand with the tire iron in the backseat while Sean and Tuuli tried to ignore everyone making the hand-to-mouth feed me gesture. People peered under, into and over the car. Everything was wrapped up, not like a present.
I expected dangerous jostling and insistent challenging behavior on the other side. I expected a city that would finally feel universally dangerous-Kinshasa is one of the three most dangerous cities in the planet. It has held that honor for years.
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