À une époque, lorsque je traversais la rue pour faire mes courses, un enfant de la rue mimait une enculade. Ce qu’il voulait faire comprendre à tous dans la voie publique, c’est que j’étais un pédophile.

 

C’est le prix que j’ai payé pour avoir été ami avec deux enfants de la rue, et pas tous les autres.

 

À une époque, il y avait une bande de jeunes qui squattait en face de mon immeuble. Tellement jeunes et naïfs, ils étaient des nouveaux rejetons de familles trop pauvres pour les garder.

 

Ils sont devenus graduellement mes amis, en commençant par Glory. Vraiment un chic petit garçon. Quand je l’ai laissé entrer chez moi la première fois, le gosse venait d’atterrir littéralement sur Mars. Il s’est planqué sur mon balcon afin de regarder le paysage qui s’étalait devant lui pendant une demi heure non stop. C’était la première fois qu’il voyait le fleuve. L’équivalant d’un parisien qui regarde pour la première fois la Seine.

 

Toutes les activités de ma demeure étaient pour lui un vrai miracle. Notamment la première douche chaude de sa vie, une demi heure elle aussi. Le garçon était tellement sale, j’ai halluciné quand j’ai vu le bain noir.

Glory a disparu de la scène et je ne l’ai plus revu depuis octobre 2003. Selon les autres enfants, il aurait rejoint son père en Angola. C’est à cette même époque que Danny (photo) a commencé à traîner avec moi.

 

Bref, Danny devient un homme. Il a récemment réintégré sa famille, étape difficile parce qu’il revient bredouille, sans argent ni boulot. Entre temps je lui paye ses études et sa formation de cordonnier. Surtout, je fais tout pour qu’il arrête de demander de l’argent. La mendicité, vraiment une mauvaise habitude congolaise.

 

Entre temps, il répare mes chaussures, me fait chier pour que je lui achète des pompes et on passe nos dimanche ensemble.

Toute l'image d'un Suédois sympa.

 

Henrik est à Kinshasa par un drôle d'hasard. Alors que moi j'ai été pistonné par papa pour rejoindre les rangs de Koffi Annan, Henrik lui a été pistonné par son grand papa pour rejoindre les rangs d'Ikea en Afrique! Pas tout à fait, mais presque.

 

Bref, il travaille pour DUX, une compagnie de matelas de luxe fabriqués en Suède. Trois fois par année, il descend au Congo s’occuper d’une usine que son grand père avait fondé avant l’Indépendance, en 1960.

 

Si je dors bien ici toutes les nuits, c’est d’ailleurs grâce au matelas fait par cette usine, ici même à Kinshasa. Même Arnaud s’est laissé tenter.

Son arrivée en ville a eu une double signification : depuis avril 2004, il à remplacer Dino comme partenaire de squash (même niveau d’ailleurs) et il a remplacer Dino comme correspondant Reuters.

 

Vu son physique, il aurait préféré jouer rugby, mais les Congolais ne sont pas trop branché dans ce sport.

 

Je lui ai vendu la première voiture que j’ai eue à Kinshasa, soit une Golf I jaune pisse, 1979. Suite à la transaction, le moteur a lâché et je me suis senti responsable du citron.

Moins il fait d'efforts pour être sympa, plus on l'aime.

J'ai rencontré Dino plusieurs fois, mais c'est seulement sur le terrain de squash du Cercle Élaïs à Kinshasa que j'ai appris à connaître le sale caractère.

Il fut le correspondant de Reuters pendant l'année et demi qu'il était ici, avant de prendre le chemin de Lagos où il fait figure the correspondant pour le Financial Times. Bref, un mec brillant qui a mon âge.

Avec Henrik, Robert et Arnaud, il aura été de ces gens avec qui j'aurai passé le plus de temps.

Arnaud, il est mon opposé physique. Petit, poilu, noir de poil en plus. Ensemble, je suis le tutsi, et lui le pygmée.

L'amitié c'est comme la musique. Souvent, une chanson qui est bonne à la première écoute on finit par s'en lasser. Par contre, une musique qui faut s'arrêter et prêter l'oreille pour l'apprécier, on finit par l'aimer avec plus de conviction. Arnaud, c'est comme une très bonne balade que j'ai mis du temps à apprécier. Mais là, c'est pour de bon.

C'est graĉe à Dino que ça s'est fait. C'est normal, on aime la même musique, comme Fela Kuti.

Avec Arnaud, j'ai fait deux voyages sympa: le parc de la Virunga en RDC et l'Israël.

Dans son temps libre il travaille pour la BBC.

When working at the United Nations, we got plenty of condoms for free. On my way home at work, I stopped two or three times to give the goodies to the prostitutes. They seem to have been disappointed in getting condoms instead of a customer.

Last week, I stopped again to give them a greeting instead of condoms. Difficult not to notice these workers of the night raise their skirts as you drive by. Unfortunately, the manner in which they execute this wonderful and romantic act is utterly repudiating.

We start to chit chat. They inform me that they like the Frenchmen better than the Chinese. But the Chinese are better than the Pakistanis. Apparently, not only are the French best in romance, they are also the best in payment. I’m left wondering if they are better in sex as well.

I took out my camera, started taking group portraits. This was to degenerate quickly when I handed them my camera for their creative use. For a while there I was wondering if they actually liked their job. Maybe not.

My young friend Danny is getting skinny, like me. He's not eating too much, unlike me. And now, he's begging again, like the rest of them.

In September, he returned home after a leave of four years. First it was the street, then a Spanish nun rescued him, like so many. After reintegrating school and becoming a shoemaker's apprentice, Danny was told to go back home. But he still gets to study thanks to the Norwegian-Canadian Fund. Reintegration to a normal life, they say.

Well, not so normal. At home, if you can call it like that, he shares a carpet with his older sister and younger brother. Those two don't study, the bible excluded. And little Danny is seriously underpressure to bring some money in. Papa the mechanic has no work. That's why Danny got the hell out... he wasn't eating squat.

But he wants to learn. And he wants to make cash. And since he's a teenager, well, he wants to show off. That's why he bought a new cell phone. "Get your priorities straight", I told him.

We'll see in the meantime what trick I have under my hat to make some magic happen. First I had a kid to help. Now a family. Christ.

My friend Mary-Louise shows off the steel door to her bedroom. She just moved to a flat full of American embassy staff and they have strict security standards.

In fact, she was forced to move to her new den by her employer. The embassy informed her that the previous house was too big according to their living regulations. They went as far as too send embassy staff to her house without her knowledge or consent to measure dimensions.

I also found out some strange rules they have at the embassy. For example, they can’t socialize with Syrian or Cuban nationals. This echoes the peacekeeping mission’s rule of “non fraternization” with the Congolese. That means no sex with the locals. I thought love was a pillar of peace.

Anyway, the place is nice, but I still have a better view!

While working from my balcony Cyril and Ti-Paul called me from the pool down below. It was simply pretty to see them in the sunshine while rain was pouring over them. I took out my telephoto and took a few frames of them swimming and diving.

I remembered in this moment of joy that Cyril still owes me a thousand dollars. Take it from me, never lend money to diamond dealers.

I finally meet Carl, the pilot, at a Halloween party over the weekend. I tell him I like his blog.

He's been my pilot once, and I have been his reader numerous times.

This crazy man came and saluted me, while Danny was playing with my camera. Giving your camera to kids gives all sorts of funny photos.

You find quite a few crazy people around town, which translates into "moto ya liboma". From my perspective, they don't seem to be mistreated. But I cannot confirm this because when you hear what they do with the "street" kids, you start believing that anything is possible.

I took photos two years ago for a journalist who was seeking stories on exorcism. If you saw the kids at the mother Teresa Center we went to, you would cry. Let me try to find a few slides, and I'll post one.

Apparently there are a few hospital for the mentally ill in Kinshasa. Near Unikin and one in N'Djili, I've been told. But I can imagine that their in bad shape, like most of the health facilities here.

Lee, a friend, finds a crocodile on the shelf at a friend's place. Lee ate crocodile for the first time last week. She liked it. I find it tasteless.

If you're in Kinshasa, find croc at New Jean's. They have a good choice of bush meats on their menu. But don't eat too much of it, because the forest are emptying here.

Speaking of crazy, Billy is known by many in town as a world boxing champion. But the Kinois, like many other humans, think that the planet gravitates around their city. So was he really a world champion?

I manage to strike conversation with him yesterday. He claims to be African boxing champion of 1972. Then he shows me a scar on the middle of his left palm. He claims to have been the crucified Messiah as well. I think the first statement might be more accurate.

Our conservation is in English because he lived in Edimburg. In Marseille and Paris, he worked in construction and boxing. The dates are vague. I ask him when he plans to return to Europe. “Shortly, in the next six months”.

With his gentle voice, he goes on to explain the significance of a few of his jewelries. The Congolese love “grigris” or fetish objects. He’s no exception. I ask him what he carries in his white laundry like bag. “Dirty stuff, because I sleep on the earth.”

Danny says the street kids are friends with him. I look at the kid’s face, and he’s full of affection for the bum.

Well the man’s name is Samuel “Billy” Mukanda. His only weapon of survival in this crazy town of 8 million is his stench. But don’t be put off, if you’re in Kinshasa say hello to the ex African champion and give him 100 Francs.

Tamara and Natalie, Robert De Guzman's family in Congo.

Robert arrived in the Congo on the same plane as I did. That was February 2002. A month later, he called me up with bad news.

Dating a black local girl didn’t go down well with his roommates and got kicked out. In distress, he turned to my generosity: “Dude, can I stay at your place.”

I picked him up after work, got his bags and headed to my flat. When he dropped his bags on the floor of my living room, he said: “Thanks. Give me a week or two to sort myself out.” Two weeks turned into nearly two years.

Eventually, his girl moved in as well. And Glory started hanging out with us too. Our apartment housed an unusual African family.

My roommate eventually returned to Montreal. But a piece of him as yet to get there: his little girl Tamara pictured here. She has your eyes, Robert, believe me. The only troubling part: she’s scarred of whites!

There’s only one working set of traffic lights in Kinshasa. But one color is always on everywhere: yellow, as in yellow traffic police.

I avoid them like I avoid beggars, potholes, puddles that resemble lakes, pedestrians and taxi buses. But at least, there’s a sense of expectation of the men in yellow uniform: you know which corner of Kinshasa has an honest maestro of jams.

Like most drivers, I’m happy to tip the honest ones. I corrupt them for their honesty, like the one pictured here. But some of his colleagues will interpret my car’s every movement as a violation. It sounds like this:

Yellow man: “You didn’t flash when you turned, show your papers”.
Me: “Mister, I didn’t turn. Did you see me turn?”

In turn, you’re head starts turning. Then you roll up your windows, kick back the seat and close your eyes. A traffic jam is building up behind your car. The honking starts. And then the pressure is too much, they let you go. That’s the best technique.

Their salary comes close to 10 dollars a month, which explains their behavior for the most part. When I ask why they don’t strike, like other civil servants, this one here defines his work as voluntary, or a service to the nation. I was touched by his words. Hardly anyone speaks like this in Congo anymore.

Words of wisdom for anyone who directs this country from someone who directs traffic.

Note: at the center of this photo, you can see the Monument, which marks the beginning of the Boulevard du 30 Juin, Kinshasa’s main street. After independence in 1960, the monument was left empty after a crowd took down the statue of Albert.

Earlier this year, the culture minister made an attempt to enlighten the empty space and put a famous statue of Leopold that once stood at the Palais de Marbre (local White House), claiming that the symbol, good or bad, was part of history. But it was taken down in less than 24 hours after a vice-president got upset with the move. So the Monument remains empty once again.

Check out how it looked back in the days. Here's another angle, with a view of the train station.