In Search of Pictures

News coverage of DR Congo is focused on the clashes in Kinshasa, perhaps somewhat exaggerated. But reports from elsewhere in the country suggest a much calmer scene. Certainly in Lubumbashi, life is returning to normal following the announcement of Kabila’s win in the presidential elections.

So This Is Congo

The Democratic Republic of Congo. It’s always a bit suspect when countries feel the need to declare their democracy in their name. I’ll save the history lesson on Congolese elective government for another post. But here I was, in Lubumbashi, the capital of the mining province—Katanga—which flirted with independence in the early sixties.

A last minute assignment had brought me here, solo, instead of up in the Kivus with a good friend & colleague, as I’d planned. Cue some very last minute—and frenetic—reading about this city that I hitherto knew nothing about. (“Lubum’-where?” I seem to remember replying, on the phone.) Copper, Belgians and Moise Tshombe seemed to sum it up. And the odd spot of strife several weeks previously, as supporters for, and against, the incumbent president, Joseph Kabila, clashed in the streets, choosing violence over votes.

My arrival proved less, expensive, than I expected. Most of what I heard about working in the Congo was bureaucracy and bribes, the latter causing my wallet to overflow with small denominations of US dollars. (Most other places don’t like anything but crisp 100’s to change.) Despite a small disagreement about the validity of my Nairobi-issued visa (I’m not a resident of Kenya), the reams of official, stamped paperwork I poured over the immigration official seemed to satisfy him, rather than kito kidogo greasing his palm.

Campaigning for the elections ends tomorrow, and the streets are a-blast with speakers mounted on trucks blaring out slogans in Kiswahili and French. Lubumbashi has over 500 parliamentary hopefuls, vying for just 13 seats; André Kalonzo was one of them, and stood on a side-street in the city centre handing out photocopies of his campaign poster.

Every wall in the city seems to be smothered in posters for men and women like André, complete with the page number of their name on the ballot. (I dread to think how much the printing of ballot papers cost, with over 32 million voters registered. So far, I’ve seen posters going up to “page 19”.)

Under a small arcade leading from the main square, men huddle around newsboys hawking photocopies of news articles printed off the internet. Headlines from international publications such as Jeune Afrique all talk of Kabila or Tshesekedi, the main opposition candidate. Who said print media was dead?

Now all I need is Kenya Airways to find my bag. Batteries are running low, and I am without power-cord and pyjamas.

Olympic Dreams

Olympic Dreams

Spending time with the boxers training at Kibera Olympic, you realise you have no excuses. For anything. These guys have so little, yet are so dedicated to their sport, and to use boxing as a way to rise out of Nairobi’s largest slum.

They have a few skipping ropes and the odd pair of gloves. Once, they had a punch-bag, but that got damaged, and now slouches in the corner of the hall where they train.

They shadow-box, spar, jump rope, and do press-ups and sit-ups. No ring, little equipment, and yet there are still those amongst them who win bouts, and tournaments, in competition.

Chemi and I will be publishing a piece on this; today’s session with them was just the start. There are those that aspire to reach London in 2012, and their coach has confidence in them reaching the national team.

A Day-Trip to Dhobley, Somalia

I haven’t been back to Europe for nearly two years. A few days before I was due to fly back to England I was asked if I could go to Somalia, for a day trip just over the Kenyan border. “Sure”, I said, “when is it?” I was keen to see as much of Somalia as I could, and I had failed to reach the other side of the border when Chemi and I drove up a few weeks previously.

“The eleventh” came the reply.

“Euh, that’s the day I’m flying back to London.”

“What time is the flight?” asked my editor.

“Not ‘til the evening” I replied.

“It’ll be fine. You’ll be back by the evening. Can you go?”

And so, with a bag packed for five weeks in the UK and in France, I drove to Wilson airport at some un-Godly hour of the morning, and boarded a small charter plane for a visit by the United Nations Food and Agriculture Organisation to Dhobley.

We did our work, I became a convert to the idea of giving money to cattle rather than people - preventing their deaths would save many more lives and is more cost-effective, they tell me - and then flew back to Nairobi. An hour spent in traffic, a spot of writing and editing the pictures, and I just about had time to take a shower before jumping in another taxi for the airport.

The following day, I would be in London, a world away from the conflict and famine of Somalia, and trying to explain everything I have seen over the last two years.

Fleeing Drought

Hassan Ali has a canteen of water slung over one shoulder, in his right hand he holds a walking stick, and in his left, a blackened kettle. A scarf is draped over his head to protect him from the midday sun, he stands in thin, cracked flip-flops, and wears a blue, short-sleeved shirt over polo-shirt, with a Somali wrap-around skirt around his waist. This is all he has left.

With the sun beating over-head, he pours a little water from his kettle over his feet to wash them, ablutions before the dhuhr (noon) prayers.

Hassan is forty-two years old, and fifteen days ago he left his home in Dinsour, Somalia, his livelihood destroyed by the drought that has ravaged Somalia. Two kilometres behind him stands the Somali-Kenyan border, and ahead of him lies the Dadaab refugee complex - the largest refugee camp in the world.

This is where Hassan and his five compatriots are heading. Hassan’s wife and children left Dinsour for Dadaab several weeks previously, whilst he stayed on to try and struggle through the drought, to save his home and land. Now he is walking to join them, a small family amongst 380,000 refugees.

When he arrives, Hassan will register with the camp authorities, and try to locate his family. The camp is already several times over capacity, and it can take days to register, and weeks to receive a refugee—and therefore ration—card.

But before he can do that, Hassan has over one hundred kilometres across the hot sands ahead of him, with little respite. The few, small villages en-route are themselves suffering from the drought, and have already seen so many refugees heading to Dadaab.