Letters from Kinshasa: My Love Affair with Disaster

By Milly Guildford

Milly Guildford, recently divorced, takes a job in the Congo, working to bring good governance to a system riddled with corruption and mismanagement. She soon finds that life in Kinshasa is never straightforward. Coming face-to-face with the Congos bizarre bureaucracy, which seems to have grown even more powerful through the years of anarchy, she collaborates with a longtime friend, a married man who lives in London, to write a book about it. Collecting material for the book entails copying secret documents, a dangerous activity. It gives her friend an excuse to come to Kinshasa, which he does for much longer than is strictly necessary. Both the book and the man bring Milly more than her fair share of problems. Interwoven with this are accounts of her travels in the country, her bizarre social life, and her efforts to understand how things are done in Kinshasa.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing Africa
• Release date: Nov 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781482804584

Milly Guildford

Milly Guildford lived in Kinshasa for three and a half years with the unlikely objective of bringing good governance to that war-torn country. She loves writing, finds people puzzling, enjoys new places, and loves Africa—though she is somewhat confused about its good and bad points. In spite of many relationship crises, she still likes the opposite sex.

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Copyright © 2014 by Milly Guildford.

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-4828-0459-1

                eBook           978-1-4828-0458-4

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

In which Milly gets some shocks and begins to have second thoughts

Chapter 2

In which Milly discovers some of the quirks of life in Kinshasa

Chapter 3

In which Milly starts to take charge of her life

Chapter 4

In which Milly sees the real Congo

Chapter 5

In which Milly is joined by someone she can really talk to

Chapter 6

In which Milly encounters bad management, feels silly and becomes cynical

Chapter 7

In which Milly has a nasty experience

Chapter 8

In which at last Milly has someone she can really be friends with

Chapter 9

In which Milly questions her job, discovers great architecture and gets World Cup fever

Chapter 10

In which Milly realises that not all is what it seems

Chapter 11

In which Milly discovers that Frenchman can be interesting

Chapter 12

In which Milly finds that Frenchmen can be interesting and attractive

Chapter 13

In which a cloud comes onto the horizon

Chapter 14

In which Milly has several welcome breaks from work and some good news

Chapter 15

In the heat of the night and other interesting experiences

Chapter 16

Snakes in the grass

Chapter 17

In which Milly meets someone nice and gets a different perspective

Chapter 18

Another ex-

Chapter 19

In which Milly witnesses many trials and tribulations, as well as a triumph

Chapter 20

Election madness

Chapter 21

Milly’s war and peace

Acknowledgements

This is to thank the people of Kinshasa and the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Congolese officialdom and the weird and wonderful aid community for giving me a rich supply of strange experiences and stories. To those who feature in the book, you know who you are, but I hope I’ve disguised you sufficiently for any embarrassment to run off your metaphorical duck’s back. My excuse is that sometimes in story telling it’s necessary to use poetic licence. I’m not sure where the poetry comes in, but if in using this licence I have painted a picture of you that offends, please accept my apologies.

MG

It ain’t necessarily so …

This is a work of fiction. There are real life facts and there are fantasies: readers can decide for themselves which are which

Cast of Characters

Milly – our heroine, who has recently been through a tough divorce from

Simon – a good hearted man who’s not good at dealing with highly strung women

Jenny – whose shoulder Milly cries on when she’s been fighting with Simon, and Milly’s only real confidante

Marjorie Bishop – Milly’s mother who is totally mystified about her daughter’s life

Michael – A rather serious, happily married type with she has worked on many consulting missions, and whom she gets on better with than Simon

Virginie – Milly’s highly strung workaholic boss

François – who is something at the French Embassy and is considered irresistible by some women

Kinshasa: a city of more than 8 million people, recovering from about 50 years of misrule, misappropriation, warfare and looting, with a malign police force who are feared more than criminals.

Bukavu: a city on Lake Kivu, beautiful and bustling chaos

Lubumbashi: the example of normality that Kinshasa wishes it could emulate

Likasi: a perfect example of what happens when dictators take everything, thereby leaving mines and their workers penniless

Bandundu: a once grand but sadly decayed haven of peace with a particularly attentive police force

Chapter 1

In which Milly gets some shocks and

begins to have second thoughts

From: Milly

Date: 2 August 2009

To: Jenny

Subject: What have I done?

Dear Jenny

I’m here, your one and only survivor friend, a survivor of the rigours of Kinshasa and the Congo. I don’t think I’ve ever entered a country with so such a sense of dread, but I’ve made it and am feeling quite proud. The Poisonwood Bible must be partially responsible for my sense of dread and exhilaration at the prospect of new cultures and experiences.

Let’s start at the beginning. As always I find myself in the slowest passport queue, which gave me plenty of time to get even more worried.

I try to look calm by concentrating on my surroundings: the single bulb in an industrial style metal lamp shade hanging from a once-white, but now dark grey ceiling. The four wooden immigration boxes housing scarcely visible officials. Passengers waiting their turn, shifting their feet uneasily. A five year old running around, playing hide and seeks behind people’s legs, the only sign of life in this torture chamber.

The man in front of me was stuck at the window for ages, and then was quietly removed to a room at the back. By this time I was literally the last of the whole flight, just me, in this echoing dark hall. The immigration guy looked at me with bloodshot eyes (I’m not making this up) and without a glimmer of a smile, or so much as a bonjour, grabbed my passport. At this point I think I tried a tentative bonjour myself, but he made no sign of even hearing me. My fear is made worse by knowing that I’ve lied on the form – the office told me to – by saying that this wasn’t my first visit.

What are you doing here? he asks.

Now I know that’s a trick question. I don’t have a work permit, and only have an ordinary business visa. But I decide that I had better not lie about this one.

I’m here to help you, I say, in my shaky French, I’m going to be working on a project to bring good governance.

He continues to stare at me, apparently ignoring everything I have said. He then turns his attention to my passport, and flicks through the pages. Looking, I wonder with fear, for my earlier entry visas? The passport’s interesting all right, with visas from Ghana, Zimbabwe, Kenya, Morocco, Tunisia – I’m obviously a much travelled woman. He seems to be dwelling on certain pages. Is he looking for signs of illicit activity – drug running, spying, arms dealing maybe? Who knows?

A shove on my elbow gives me a nasty shock. I give out a little squeak of surprise, or is it fear? There’s a man in a once-white coat staring at me with no expression. He looks, but he does not see.

Santé, Madame, he says.

I haven’t got the faintest idea what he’s talking about, but he points out a yellow vaccination card someone had left on the counter top. Oh my god, where’s mine? I rummage through my bag in increasing panic. I reluctantly put the bag on the sticky shelf and one by one search the special pockets where I keep things I mustn’t loose. I’m still engaged in this humiliating performance, blushing as I rummage through this personal detritus, when the immigration man, with a look of scorn, puts the card on the sticky shelf. Of course, it was at the back of my passport.

At this point the immigration officer says There is a problem with your visa: I must see my superior officer and gets up and leaves his box.

I have nothing but my own fears to think about. I begin to wonder whether I would mind if he sent me back: this is not what I left South Africa for.

My gloomy thoughts are interrupted by a voice,

Miss Milly?

Yes, that’s me, I said.

I’m from your office: they sent me to help you through customs. My name’s Henri. I’m sorry I’m late, there was a terrible traffic jam.

I could have kissed the man. He had that look of cool confidence: obviously no intimidation tactics would work with him.

Don’t worry, he said, I’ll get you through in no time.

And sure enough, when the immigration man returned his demeanor changes from surly negativity to calm efficiency. I am almost impressed.

After my passport is stamped, and my yellow card returned (also after painfully slow scrutiny, as if he had no idea what he was looking for) Henri takes me to the baggage claim area. If the immigration hall is grubby, this is truly filthy. There are two small rickety carousels, one of which has mountains of bags circulating on it. The concrete floor is gritty and has little potholes in it.

Where the bags on the carousel have come from is a mystery, because no one seems to be claiming them. Eventually, almost an hour later, the baggage from our flight starts to appear. When I finally got my bag a customs guy pounces and demands that I open up. Henri protests with an anger and agitation which is really surprising in a person who I have thought was kind and gentle.

You mustn’t let them open the bags, he explained, they’ll steal things.

But the customs man took no notice – as if that was all part of a ritual, like two stags fighting in a courtship battle – and started picking through my things in a very personal sort of way.

Luckily for me, when I get angry my French comes back and far from being the timid fake tourist I turned into a raging harridan. Much to my surprise he gives up and waves me through. I think intimidation works with these bullies.

As we leave the airport building all hell breaks loose as men fight for the privilege of carrying my bags. They press around me, shouting, demanding, at the top of their voices. Hands seem to be everywhere – all I can do is to hang onto my handbag really tightly and hope for the best. Henri was completely unperturbed, and just chooses one of them with a wave of his hand, whereupon the crowd melts away. I felt sorry for them. There was desperation in their eyes. Our chosen porter is so skinny that he can hardly carry my bags. What makes matters worse is that the ground is so rough he can’t use the wheels. I tell Henri that I would take one of the cases, but he won’t think of it.

The office car is waiting, which is a huge relief, and I am duly bundled into the back seat. I object, saying that I want to see where we are going, and in what is taken to be a small breach of driving etiquette I sit in front. Henri stays behind – he has to help a client who’s departing soon.

I am now whisked (why is it always whisked?) to my hotel. Except that I wasn’t whisked: the journey of about 25km took 1½ hours along a potholed, traffic-jammed road. The advantage of this stop-start journey was that I had an interesting chance to see something of the life led by ordinary people. Mile after mile of little shops, all selling the same things, punctuated here and there by a market, and all surrounded by filth. Thick and squishy filth. Lakes of filth and mountains of filth. You’ve never seen anything like it. And through this walk people so pristine clean, and so elegantly dressed, that they would not be out of place in Fifth Avenue.

The women, Jenny, are gorgeous: tall, slender, proud, with flawless very dark skins. A lot of them wear traditional outfits with long, bum-hugging skirts and quite Victorian tops.

Anyway, I get to the hotel and of course they have lost or never had my reservation. Personally I don’t believe a word that they say: I think they gave my room to someone they thought was more important. They muttered about a big government conference or something. So here we are having a second screaming match. It sort of worked: I got a room but it was almost windowless and had an air conditioning unit loud enough to wake the dead. At least I had somewhere to lay my weary, and rather bad tempered, head. I’m not sure why I felt so cross: maybe it was all the strain of the last few weeks quarrelling with Simon, and the court case, gradually taking its toll. Tired and emotional, as he would say.

I used to think I was mature, rational, intelligent, masterful etc. All the things that today’s superwoman is supposed to be. But now I know I’m none of those things. I’m stupid, irrational and impetuous. What am I doing here?

Was Simon really that bad? And why did I sign a contract for three years? And for some reason that I don’t understand, I feel ugly which makes me even more depressed.

All the people I meet are counting the days until they leave. I’ve only been here a few days and I’m starting to do the same! It’s that bad.

Enough of this depressing ranting – sorry, it helps to get it off my chest – you won’t believe what this place is like. If there were to be a competition for places which create a bad first impression, I think this would win hands down.

All the same, when I have an out of body experience and look at myself objectively, I suppose it’s not that bad. At least it’s not cold (actually a sweltering 41 today, down to 34 at night), I have a job and the food’s not that bad. The hotel management have got me a better room. There’s a continuing struggle to find the right plug for the basin, but apart from that I’m feeling better.

I’ve run out of steam now, but if you don’t mind some stream-of-consciousness rubbish from time to time (not quite the Poisonwood Bible, but I’ll try) I’ll let you know how things are going. But I’m much more interested in hearing your news, and particularly how Simon is behaving.

Love

Milly

From: Milly

Date: 2 August 2009

To: Simon

Subject: Hell holes

You’ve won. Here I am in this hell hole, and you’re relaxing in the your well-appointed pad, sharing a glass of wine with your friends (if you’ve still got any).

I thought I was the one who was going to have the fun, but life here is a battle against filth, corruption and plumbing that doesn’t work. You can’t get decent wine and I know no one.

When I think what I left behind I weep, but at least I’m rid of you. That’s the only thing which prevents me slitting my wrists.

Anyway, I’ll battle on and you’ll have the satisfaction of seeing me go prematurely grey and wrinkled.

For all that, I still have a tiny soft spot for you. I don’t know why, but I thought I had better let you know that I’m still alive.

Your once lover

Milly

From: Simon

Date: 4 August 2009

To: Milly

Subject: Hell Holes

My jaw was on the floor when I got your mail. It’s nice to know that finally you’re reaping the seeds that you sowed, but I really don’t want you to go prematurely grey, and particularly don’t want to see you get wrinkled. So keep your sense of humour and keep out of the tropical sun.

I’d love to hear about your life in the filth and bad plumbing: it sounds intriguing. One hears so much about the Congo, but it’s mainly all that old-hat stuff about what the Belgians did. What’s happening now?

And, by the way, I’ve still got lots of friends: we had a great braai on Sunday and celebrated life without women. Much less complicated. And more fun. I often wonder what got into my head back then.

Simon

From: Jenny

Date: 9 August 2009

To: Milly

Subject: What are you doing?

Dear Milly

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when I got your letter. We were all appalled when you took that job, but secretly jealous because you were getting out of the rat race, and doing something so romantic – you know the line: saving the natives in the steamy jungle etc. (Yes, as you point out, the Poisonwood Bible stuff). Now that reality has stepped in it all seems comically different, but I know you’ve got the guts to deal with it.

Life here is so routine I can’t think of any news. The politicians are squabbling and prices are rising, so what’s new?

I ran into Simon a few days ago. In spite of what he pretends, I think he’s a bit cut up about things. Serves him right, I say. But I’m glad you two have decided to maintain a civilized relationship. I can’t stand it when people who once loved each other suddenly turn into the most vicious spiteful examples of dysfunctional evolution.

Enough of that. I’m dying to hear more about the hotel plug – even though I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about. And any more stream of consciousness drivel you have the energy to send my way.

Love

Jenny

From: Milly

Date: 10 August 2009

To: Jenny

Subject: What am I doing?

Hi Jenny,

Thanks for your letter, it’s lovely to hear a sane voice. Talking of which, one of the first things I did was to write to Simon. I can’t imagine why I did it after all we’ve been through. But I guess I still subconsciously feel a link there.

Do you know what it’s like when you want to share something – let’s say you’re looking at a fabulous view and you turn to your side to say Wow, isn’t this beautiful? and there’s no one there? As George Orwell said Beauty is meaningless until it is shared. It’s that feeling I’ve got, except there’s not much beauty here, just decay. I feel so alone. I must have got used to having Simon as a companionship prop or substitute.

Anyway, I had a friendly, jokey letter from him trying to convince me that he was very happy. Even though I miss him a bit, I’m SO glad to be away from him. God, those last few months took ten years off my life.

I’m beginning to settle down, but feel I’m not fitting in very well. The hotel has a really strange feel to it (apart from plug problems). I’m used to hotels used by normal people – you know businessmen entertaining clients, families on holiday, illicit couples flirting madly – that stuff. There’s none of that here. Everyone’s deadly serious. They have that NGO earnestness about them.

Breakfast is a deadly hush as we ashamedly pile the fruit, yoghourt, cheeses, salamis and pastries on our plates (yes, it’s quite good), and steal a glance to see who’s around. If there’s someone we know we give them a token wave of the hand and continue in silence. Or like a parody of Mr Bean mouth good morning. Everyone brings in their computer bag, and many of them check their emails as they eat. We, no they, dress in special NGO style which requires that nothing which suggests money must be worn. For women it’s an ample skirt and hairy legs with Jesus sandals, for men a somewhat crumpled check shirt and jeans. They look at me askance, as I have nice shoes – you know me and shoes – do my hair carefully, wear earrings and lipstick, and try and dress with a bit of style. That’s how they know that I’m not one of them, and avert their gaze. I find their precious, holier than thou, attitude quite comic, but what’s to stop them from being a tiny bit friendly and normal?

Since the project is just starting, I’m not the only homeless one. There are three of us from the office staying at the hotel and we drag ourselves at 7.45 sharp to the car which has come to collect us. There’s Virginie, who’s the boss, a highly strung French woman to whom work is synonymous with play and who left her sense of humour behind in Haiti, where she was working last. Then there’s Fred, a man so laid back that I sometimes wonder whether anything really excites him. He’s an expert at being a wet blanket – you can’t do it, it’ll never work is his motto. And me. Anyway we all get into the office car and grind our way through massive potholes to the office. It’s not very far, but is probably one of the most depressing stretches of road I have ever used. Most of the buildings flanking the roads are empty shells, and have been so, I am told, since the devastating lootings on 1991 and 1993. Some were ruined in the fighting after the elections in 2006 when Kinshasa was the scene of protracted fighting between rival parties. What is left of the tarmac is fairly narrow, but on both sides there are broad verges and large trees, so the scene has an almost bucolic character. The ruined buildings with gaping holes where there used to be windows, contrasted with the huge bright green trees, could almost be featured in an eighteenth century romantic painting. We cross a long-disused railway line which is now occupied by squatters, and though I feel a bit sorry for them they, at least, are making something of their lives and demonstrate some get up and go.

At one point we hit a main road where a policeman directs traffic. He stands erect and dignified and blows his whistle constantly, but the drivers don’t take him particularly seriously so you never know whether it’s safe to go or not.

After work the atmosphere’s a bit better, because there’s a pleasant courtyard in the hotel where you can get a beer and plenty of mosquito bites, but people seem to be so closed and competitive that I can’t see it ever being much fun. I’m probably going to be stuck here for weeks, if not months, until I can find a place to rent within our measly housing allowance, but I am trying hard to look on the bright side.

Sorry if I’m sounding off again: I know I must try and be a bit more cheerful, but it helps me get it off my chest.

Love

M

From: Milly

Date: 10 August 2009

To: Ma

Subject: Hello

Dear Ma,

I’m sorry it’s taken a while to put pen to paper. I’ve been in a state of culture shock since arriving here. Funnily enough I don’t think this is a dangerous place to live, in spite of all the dire warnings put out by the American and British Embassies, but it is very weird. It’s rather like living in a mad house: you know that somewhere someone is making rules, and things seem to work fairly well, but you can’t work out what people are doing and why. It most definitely is nothing like Surrey, so I’m not sure whether you would feel comfortable here.

Anyway, I’m beginning to settle down. I’m staying at a hotel with other people from the office and we will all have to find somewhere to live in due course. Meanwhile we are working very hard to get what’s called our Annual Workplan completed.

I hope you’re well. I promise to write regularly.

Lots of love

Milly

From: Marjorie Bishop

Date: 11 August 2009

To: Milly

Subject: Hello

Dear Milly,

Thank you very much for your letter. I think you might have put a bit more effort into it, for example telling me what the food is like, and whether you can drink the water. People ask me what you are doing but I don’t actually know. Please explain it to me in words that I can understand.

I remember how proud I was of you about fifteen years ago, embarking a sensible career as a planner. We thought you would work in a beautiful town like Edinburgh and take holidays in beautiful places like Italy, occasionally flying to the United States for conferences and things. And now, look at you working in that dreadful place. I can’t help worrying about you.

And how do you cope with the heat? I bumped into the Vicar yesterday who said it’s terribly hot out there, and when you go outside you get covered in sweat within minutes. He went there as a missionary when he was young and he said it changed his life, but he wouldn’t say any more. I think hot climates are so unhealthy. Please keep out of the sun, and don’t forget to take your vitamins.

With all my love

Ma

From: Milly

Date: 20 August 2009

To: Michael

Subject: Why?

Michael,

What made you propose me for this job? You’ll forever be in my bad books. I know nothing about this work, and I’m terrified that before long they’ll blow my cover and reveal me for the fake I am. What makes it scarier is that the other members of the team are all these hard-nosed tough-job professionals in failed states: you know Afghanistan, Iraq, Haiti, that sort of thing. And I, this tender little flower, wilt under all their braggadocio (I think that’s a long word for boasting: I’ve never used it before, but it’s rather fun isn’t it?).

And they’re so deadly serious. Work for them is 24/7. I don’t think they’ve got families or anything: of course the puzzle is which came first: the lack of friends or the obsession with work.

Anyway I’ve decided that life’s too short for that. They tried to get me to attend a dreary government meeting last Saturday and I refused: my tiny rebellion. Since then I’ve felt better.

Talking of failed states, this place is a bureaucrat’s dream. Bizarre stuff which I’m only just beginning to find out about, and which I’ll probably never understand.

But seriously Mike, you might well be getting quite a few plaintive notes from me asking for help. Please don’t delete them as spam.

Milly

From: Michael

Date: 22 August 2009

To: Milly

Subject: Why?

Dear Helpless Milly

You knew perfectly well what you were doing when you took that job and you can’t blame me. Actually I think it’ll put you on the fast-track, highly-paid career path of failed-state experts. Before long you’ll be deeply grateful to me.

I’m really intrigued by the workings of the bureaucracy there. One knows, of course, that the French/Belgians are more literal with their bureaucracy than we are, and it’s fascinating to see how that has survived through decades of conflict, embezzlement and corruption. Tell me more. Maybe we’ll write a book about it together. That’s it: use your time to secretly amass documentary evidence which reveals that the state is hyper-efficient, thus proving that efficiency is a bad thing, a smokescreen for fundamental collapse of good governance.

Life is deadly boring here. Actually I’ve half a mind to come and see you. Let me know when you have a place to stay and I’ll get tongues wagging when they see you sharing your home with a married man. Seriously, I do want to visit and get an idea of what it’s like. And even advance my career too.

Cheers

Michael

From: Milly

Date: 23 August 2009

To: Ma

Subject: Life in the tropics

Dear Ma,

Thanks for your letter. I can just imagine the Vicar as a missionary here in the 1960s, more worried about being put in the pot and boiled than saving souls. Tell him that there aren’t many cannibals left, but when I next meet one I’ll show him the Vicar’s photo and ask whether he remembers him.

What made me think about this was that last night we (the three expatriates from the office) went to the Memling Hotel. It used to be THE posh hotel, run by Sabena Airlines, and remains quite nice. But it’s in what has become a horrible part of town. The moment you get out of your car you’re surrounded by hustlers trying to sell you cigarettes, change money, steal your purse, sell you curios – you name it, they do it. They shout and fight among themselves to get your attention, so you have to try very hard to take no notice. If you show any interest in anything, you are pounced upon and can’t get away without buying something.

To get back to my point, we went to the Memling and ate in the coffee bar where they serve a Cannibal Sandwich. Seriously. I was going to take a photo of one for you to show the Vicar, but forgot. In fact it’s Steak Tartare on toast, and my colleague Virginie, who’s French and slightly mad, ordered it and said it was delicious. To my way of thinking eating raw meat in a place like this sounds disgusting, especially when you see the butchers shops which consist of fly-blown carcases hanging out in the open air. Ugggh! But please tell the Vicar (it’s not quite stretching the point, because I did have a tiny taste) that I’m eating cannibal sandwiches, and see what he says.

To be fair the shops are not that bad: I was pleasantly surprised when I went into my first supermarket. They have all sorts of imported fruit, vegetables, cheeses, salamis and pâtés, etc. And yoghourt at about $3 a pot (we use dollars as our main currency, although the official currency is Congolese Francs). So that’s something, and occasionally the office organises a shopping trip so that we can buy stuff for our lunch and evening titbits.

What you would hate is that there are no prices on the shelves: goods are priced in code C43 for example, and you have to look at a separate price list, fixed with sellotape to the shelves, sometimes a long way away, to find out how much C43 is. And then you have to convert it mentally into dollars. All very confusing, but you can be sure that most prices are double or more what you would pay in your neighbourhood Tesco.

And then, when you are having your morning coffee break and excitedly open your packet of Ginger Nuts, they are full of weevils. It seems to be the luck of the draw. When I finally got a packet of Ginger Nuts which didn’t have any weevils I thought I should offer it around the office but to my astonishment people took four or five each, so I didn’t even get one for myself. That quickly terminated my warm feelings of generosity.

No, mother, you can’t drink the water, so in the office they have large drinking fountains dispensing hot or cold water. The hotel also gives everyone a bottle of water for breakfast too, so it’s never a problem.

On the other hand, you’re right about the heat: it is very hot. But these days where most rooms are air-conditioned you don’t notice it so much. The evenings are lovely: warm without being sweaty, spoiled only by the occasional mosquito.

The Congolese people are really nice, and I like to practice my French with the hotel staff. But if you get too friendly they come to you with behind-the-back-of-the-hand requests for loans to help them with their sick child, school fees, to buy a house, or whatever. I heard about someone who couldn’t say no and eventually had given out about $500 in loans but never got a penny back, so I’ve now become a little cold.

I almost forgot to tell you what I do. Believe it or not, I’m not sure myself. I know what I’m supposed to do – the firm that employs me, a large American outfit, won a USAID (that’s the American government) contract to implement a $35 million dollar contract to improve the governance of the Congo. We’ve got five offices: one in each province we work in and one in Kinshasa and will have about 70 members of staff. The most interesting part of the work will be that I shall be working with local governments all over the country to help them become more efficient and better at providing services. I’m also supposed to be working with the Government in Kinshasa to develop decentralisation legislation. This means that I’m supposed to spend about half my time working in the government offices, which is quite depressing.

When we first arrived I was dumped in a shared office while they organized more office space. It was very matey, but a bit annoying when someone started to play their favourite music all day long on their computer.

Now I’ve got my own room, and since I’m being very naughty, writing this during office hours, I’m looking out of my office window. I can see a little tree which is popular with birds who sing their little heads off. I don’t know what brand they are – I feel so ignorant about tropical birds. And a few feet away is the back of another little house with an air conditioner that drips continuously and leaves a little pool on the ground. The birds love to bathe in this pool. My favourites are tiny little blue love birds who fling themselves around in the water with such joy it lightens my day considerably.

I’ve started looking for a house or flat to live in, but so far have come across nothing that I like. But one thing is certain – you could never mistake the places here for something in Surrey due to the genuinely bad taste that is mistaken for class here. I don’t know why, but I often think back to the house hunting we did after Daddy died, how all those lying estate agents would build up their offerings to make them sound tempting, but the reality was so depressing. Can you believe it? – that was twelve years ago and I had never even set foot in a developing country. And now I’m flying the flag of civilisation – dressed in the guise of good governance – in a war-torn failed state. How things have changed.

With lots of love

Milly

From: Milly

Date: 24 August 2009

To: Michael

Subject: Why?

Dear Michael,

Thanks for your letter which definitely made me feel better.

I love the idea of secretly amassing evidence: that would definitely prevent me sinking into the lethargy of boredom and loneliness which I can see is very likely once I’ve got over the novelty of this place. BUT, it could be really dangerous. What would happen if they happened to raid my house and found it all? If you saw the policemen here (well, some of them) you’d know that you have to be extra careful with things like that. They don’t seem to take kindly to subversion. To make matters worse, the judicial system is completely corrupt, and unless you have millions to avoid a guilty verdict you don’t stand a chance.

As to the visit, that would be fun. It’s odd, isn’t it, how, when we were on missions together everyone would assume that we were an item while actually we had the perfect relationship of no sex (I got that from Gore Vidal, and I know he’s right)? But please don’t make any plans. I’m not able to look after myself yet, no home, no friends, no anything. You can come when I know my way around and can show you interesting stuff.

Ciao