Excuse me, friends, I must catch my jet,
I'm off to join the Development Set;
My bags are packed, and I've had all my shots,
I have traveller's checks and pills for the trots.

The Development Set is bright and noble,
Our thoughts are deep and our vision global;
Although we move with the better classes,
Our thoughts are always with the masses.

In Sheraton hotels in scattered nations
We damn multinational corporations;
Injustice seems easy to protest
In such seething hotbeds of social rest.

We discuss malnutrition over steaks
And plan hunger talks during coffee breaks.
Whether Asian floods or African drought,
We face each issue with an open mouth.

We bring in consultants whose circumlocution
Raises difficulties for every solution--
Thus guaranteeing continued good eating
By showing the need for another meeting.

Consultants, it's said, believe it no crime
To borrow your watch to tell you the time.
Their expenses, however, are justified
When one thinks of the jobs they might later provide.

The language of the Development Set
Stretches the English alphabet;
We use swell words like "epigenetic,"
"Micro," "macro," and "logarithmetic."

It pleasures us to be so esoteric--
It's so intellectually atmospheric!
And though establishments may be unmoved,
Our vocabularies are much improved.

When the talk gets deep and you're feeling dumb
You can keep your shame to a minimum:
To show that you, too, are intelligent
Smugly ask, "Is it really development?"

Or say, "That's fine in practice, but don't you see:
It doesn't work out in theory!"
A few may find this incomprehensible,
But most will admire you as deep and sensible.

Development Set homes are extremely chic,
Full of carvings, curios, and draped with batik.
Eye-level photographs subtly assure
That your host is at home with the great and the poor.

Enough of these verses--on with the mission!
Our task is as broad as the human condition!
Just pray God the biblical promise is true:
The poor ye shall always have with you.

It dawned on me to try the post office after nearly four years in Kinshasa. Like, the Congolese, I distrust any public infrastructures or institutions. But on the other hand, I don’t depend on most of them so I might as well experience the daily struggle.

After hearing that the World Bank threw over 11 million dollars on the postal service, I thought a post card to my parents in Montreal was no great investment to lose. Plus, the Central Post Office is only a 5 minutes walk from my flat.

Right outside the building, you find an assortment of postcards for two dollars and I had my pick on a newer card, since most date back from the 80s.

Inside, there was no line so I was promptly served by Noëlla, a clerk, pictured here with the postcard. I think she was as surprised as I was to be there. Like most transactions in Congo, it was fairly long but it was quite friendly. She asked me not to sign my postcard or else I would have to pay the cost of a full letter. Final payment: two dollars. Well, 75 cents for the lion stamps, and a tip for her.

I was then informed that it should arrive in two weeks.

One last tip, don’t take photos there or you’ll have five cops and entire crowd of curious people on your tail. Although I had to physically resist one of them from taking my camera away, I ended up meeting lots of people by sending a thought abroad. Some friendlier than others.

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.

The Indian battalion in Beni is trying hard. In their latest effort, assorted mobile displays drove through the town’s main street. Each decorated vehicle had a complete theatrical setting with immobile characters with makeup, costumes, decoration and billboards.

Amongst these, Beni’s residents were able to appreciate a presentation Good and Evil which had a man with an angry face painted in red beside a bunch of innocent souls. In another more local variety, an African village complete with drums had kids with straw around their waist pretending to be figurative images of their ancestors.

The following truck had a man with a hammer and a pick (nail) over another man’s head that had clay from head to toe. They were enacting a sculptor depicting Ghandi’s profile. “The Epitome of Peace” declared the billboard behind the two smiling men.

Above, the peacekeepers are attending a polling station. This premonitory vision of Congo’s first election since independence drove past us at great speed leaving the Congolese and me in a cloud of dust.

Bollywood spice flavors the Indians’ effort to please and protect the Congolese. The battalion has brought security in a region in imminent war. Beni, a small town near Uganda and the Ruwenzoris, has magically remained unscathed by Congo’s decade of strife.

Recently a small group of armed men have refused to join the political transition. As a result, the national army with the backing of the Indians are preparing for a massive operation in the name of peace.

For the time being, Beni’s residents seem to appreciate as much as myself Hindu propaganda parades. I’ve never been to India, but India has come to me in the form of mobile displays.

Kasindi is the busy border town with Uganda, the former ally and now foe. Since, both countries depend on each other, the border remains open for business. It is notoriously corrupt, and transitional government is trying to clean up Congo’s third most important customs’ office.

Kasindi has been struggling with a variety of governmental authorities fighting for the money it generates. Even the military got involved in the customs’ process with new forms of taxation. But this has only led to the reduction of more than 50% of revenues according to Radio Okapi.

As goats, humans, trucks full goods cross the border everyday, one can notice that plastic jugs and fuel are traded for the natural resources, like truck loads of wood. Ultimately, the money is flowing unilaterally out of the country, through the sieve in which Kasindi is only a single hole. The Congo is sadly one the richest and one of the poorest state all at once on the continent. Places like Kasindi can be part of the solution if the situation is reversed.

As me and my colleague departed, we only got asked for “sucrés”, or cokes, which is the cheapest and most honest form of corruption. “On our way back!”, returned my travel partner.

VIP Palace Hotel in Goma, Eastern Congo

In Goma, Eastern Congo, construction seems to be underway everywhere. Not only residences, but hotels are shaping the new looks of this town, scarred by a volcano.

No tourist here, but Congo’s most populous province, North Kivu, attracts many foreign aid workers, like myself, shady businessmen and politicians. Most of the province’s inhabitants are very poor. Rest assured a lot of money in the form minerals such as coltan (used in your cellphone) guarantees a healthy life for the privileged few.

Amidst the plethora of kitsch hotels, the VIP Palace Hotel is probably the most astounding. Its façade integrates so many styles at once, one wonders what the parliamentary who built it had in mind. If his creation is somewhat original, the business concept isn’t: many other politicians already built their own hotel.

Maybe Congo’s politicians ought to see their country as a hotel to be built, no matter how ugly it is.

The national army’s brigade posted near Goma, Eastern Congo, failed to convince anyone they were soldiers. Two weeks ago, the troops fled their position after a small militia group engaged them. Each time, the peacekeeping mission, MONUC, took control of the lost towns.

The soldiers weren’t fleeing by lack of courage according to different sources. Motivation in its ranks was low because of lack of payment and logistical support. “How can they fight without bullets?”, a senior MONUC staff said.

Some 3000 soldiers from Kinshasa arrived in Goma in the last few days to support the disbanded troops. They also brought war planes with them, a toy Rwanda, the arch enemy, doesn’t list in its arsenal. The Rwandans, which could clearly see the Su 25 flying along the border, saw it as intimidation. But they weren't the only ones worried. On its first fly over even the Congolese were scarred shitless.

From my photo, we can't tell if the pilots are Congolese or Russian.

Another snapshot from my balcony, this time of Jean-Pierre Bemba's heli over the Congo River.

Jean-Pierre Bemba, one of Congo's vice presidents, has been using his helicopter lately. Like himself, it's big and fancy, and going nowhere. The helicopter is more of an escape route than a mode of transportation.

His party is called MLC: Mouvement de Libération du Congo. As elections get underway (June, maybe), his party will face Kabila's Parti du Peuple Pour la Reconstruction et la Démocratie. Another "important" party on the list is Rassemblement Congolais pour la Démocratie.

Read the names of these parties again, and you'll notice that the election is a fraud before it even started. This country needs a party called Single Party <for a Dictatorship Against Corruption.