Don't call it Zaire

I told Yat that I was traveling to Congo. He IM'd back: "what u covering in congo? genocide or dictatorship?" I hate to be predictable. But actually, the reason for my Congo trip is an election - the runoff from July's historic vote, the first free elections in 46 years. (Of course, Yat wasn't entirely off-base - Congo until 1997 had one of the world's most notorious dictators, Mobutu Sese Seko, he of the leopard-print clothing, and fugitives from the Rwandan genocide are currently hiding in the forests of eastern Congo.)

I'm in Kinshasa, the capital, which has to be one of the most expensive cities on the continent. The U.S. $100 bill seems to be the basic unit of currency - today I sheepishly pulled one out to pay for $3 in newspapers, and the newspaper guy counted out the change in dollars without batting an eye. (I'm reminded, naturally, of the Seinfeld where George tries to change a $100 at a newsstand and the guy forces him to buy like $10 worth of merchandise, including a Penthouse Forum.)

There's a local currency, the franc, but it's been killed by inflation - something like 20 percent in the last three months alone, one banker told me. I went into a supermarket when I got here to stock up on the essentials - water, mostly, but also Diet Coke for late-night writing sessions, should there be any. Instead of pricetags, the store had stuck a code number on every item to correspond to the price - A04 is 1,000 francs, B06 is 3,500, etc. - and posted the key throughout the store. So when the value of the franc drops, they just change the key.

The other thing I've noted here is that people have a great variety of ways of asking for money. It started when I landed at Kinshasa airport, a Danteesque realm of heat and low-level chaos. At the immigration counter - this is literally the first Congolese person I meet - the man stamps my passport and starts to engage me in a conversation. This while dozens of people are gathering behind me in line. He asked how I was, I said fine and you, and he came back with, "It's hot and I could use something to drink." I realized that he'd handed me back my passport already, so I just walked away.

Later that day I had a couple of guards at a government ministry tell me they wanted "quelque chose de sucré" - something sweet. Only I thought they said "quelque chose de secret" - a secret, which didn't make much sense. But lack of comprehension made it easier to say no. It wasn't until five minutes later, when the guy working the elevator asked me the same thing, that I understood. Finally the woman inside the ministry who was taking care of my accreditation offered to do it immediately "si tu t'occupes de moi" - if I took care of her.

The thing is, with the exception of the woman in the ministry, these people weren't asking for bribes. They just wanted money. And they weren't street children or beggars - they had jobs, which in this country actually makes them privileged.