The past 24 hours have been the culmination of Kinois education and increased bravery. Yesterday, I attempted my first serious haggling with two men on the side of the road selling Tintin figurines. I was all prepped and psyched about it all, and got out of the car confidently. Unfortunately no matter how much I tried prices slipped by miniscule amounts for me. Owen, on the other hand, was much MUCH better at haggling than I was (I blame his better French—there’s only so far “non, c’est tres cher!” can get you). I ended up getting a good deal on two painted figurines when we walked away and the men chased down our car, finally offering less than half what they’d originally offered. I was still ripped off, but not embarassingly so.
Today I woke up feeling sicker than ever and realized I’m leaving tomorrow, and I didn’t have any presents for anyone. The Congo is completely devoid of any patriotic knick knacks as there is zero tourism here—I’d be hard pressed to find anything similar to the tacky memorabilia that exists in every gas station in every small town in the USA. I had requests for Congo football jersies but I’ve never seen anyone on the street wearing them. Supermarkets are filled with expensive imported Belgian products and the only native items in them are plantains, little new potatoes, and other vegetables. The big open markets in the Commerce district sell Western imported items for Congolese households—dishtowels, toilet plungers, toilet seats, 3-packs of Hanes white muscle tanks, every possible kind of weave you could imagine. Items made in the Congo are limited to blue and yellow buckets, Tembo beer, and blue plastic chairs. The only thing I could think of was the local Pili-Pili pepper sauce, but of course the only supermarket that sells it pre-made (since every household makes their own) is closed today. So I’m out of luck. BUT I did fly all over town with no one but Fiston driving me, visiting supermarkets and pharmacies and getting by with my broken French. It felt liberating to be out on my own even though I was with Fiston. He drives like a maniac but knows just when to roll up the windows when people are harassing me and where all the shortcuts are.
They may seem like little things but 3 months ago there was no way I would have felt confident enough haggling over prices or braving Kinshasa shopping on my own. I’m happy I reached a point where I feel sure enough of my interpretations of situations here to experience them solo. Everything in the USA is going to feel easy-peasy in comparison.
Our flight tomorrow is at 9pm. In Kinshasa it’s customary to check your luggage at the airline’s center downtown before you go to the airport, so I’ll be dropping everything off with Brussels Airlines in the morning. They have the most bizarre “office”—it’s a jungly garden with little gazebos scattered throughout for waiting in, that have fans spinning overhead. There’s a man selling drinks at a little cart and it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced when checking in bags. The airport has recently instigated a $50 departure fee for “building new runways”. I hate the fact that I have to pay to leave the Congo, especially since I seriously doubt that all if any of that money is actually going to building new runways. There are hilarious stories of airport personnel trying to rip people off—when Owen and Tomas were leaving last time they was told that they had to surrender all of their Congolese Francs to an officer because it was illegal to take them past a certain point. One must live without gullibility in Kinshasa…
I’m going to sleep if possible and then go out to dinner, but I’ll post tomorrow before I leave. I can’t believe I’ve been sick for two weeks straight—I’m almost getting used to it. Almost. California farmer’s markets with your pounds of juicy plums, nectarines, beets, and kale, here I come.
