Stringer by Anjan Sundaram Page A

My gaze shifted to the road, then back to the mirror. The driver pulled the licorice from his mouth and held the soggy strand, licking his lips before speaking; there was a gap between his front teeth and though he wasn’t fat he had a double chin, which was unusual for a Congolese. “Have you had a chance to see our monuments?”
    We passed a wide gray building, some ten stories high, covered with laundry whose dripping had over the years made vertical lines on the walls. “Look at how the army lives in that hospital.” A decapitated tank covered in ferns sat in the courtyard. “It’s been this way for a long time,” he said mournfully. And at that moment the lined gray building looked as if it wept.
    The blue presidential compound appeared, with its giant iron gates and battalion of guards. The driver’s teeth were now red; he seemed in a daze, looking at the guards and talking in a flurry—then ranting, like the opposition: “Congo could be the greatest country in the world. If they shared just a little of our wealth. But our leaders only think about themselves. Egoists.”
    It was a familiar grievance in Kinshasa. I didn’t feel qualified to speak.
    Our car sped through the streets, through slums and beside rows of misshapen dwellings made of corrugated tin. Women stood with colored plastic buckets in long lines at water pumps. The tin reflected the light and the roofs appeared brilliant, blinding.
    â€œThis city is a pile of rubbish,” the driver went on. “Look at the garbage on the road. They sweep and pile it up but then leave it for the wind and the rain. What is the use?”
    We had reached the Boulevard. It was midday and trucks were in town to deliver goods—their dense exhausts clouded the grim crowds huddled atop each vehicle, their legs reaching over the trucks’ dusty tarps and bouncing against the metal sides. Our taxi followed the slow traffic, repeatedly jerking to accelerate and brake. We came upon an orange edifice—the Ministry of Migration—and now the driver completely lost his head.
    â€œI used to work there, but they threw me out,” he said, pointing to his side. “It is the Ministry of Méchant [Malice]. They should make it a prison. No need to move anyone.”
    The other passengers laughed. I looked around. The worn condition of their shirts betrayed that they were of the poorer classes, from the bidonvilles , the suburban shantytowns. They probably headed into the city for some minor commerce: to pawn a trinket or as day laborers; the going rate was eighty cents for eight hours of work, but that would pay for a roll of bread and a Coca-Cola, and perhaps something for the children. An urge overtook me: I wanted to show I cared about them though I was a stranger—that despite my relative health and riches I sympathized with their condition.
    â€œThat ministry stole two hundred dollars from me at the airport,”I said. “Even though I had a valid visa from New York, they threatened to lock me up until I paid a bribe.” I pointed accusingly at the orange building behind us. “That place is full of thieves!”
    The driver stopped nodding and he frowned in the mirror, the edges of his face now contorted. The passengers began to shake their legs. Feet rapped against the rubber mats; air whistled through a gap in the window. We passed a street policeman. The driver shook his head, slowly, like a metronome. He became pensive, drumming his fingers on the wheel.
    â€œThieves,” he murmured, so softly that he seemed to whisper, and then his tone was frighteningly hysterical: “ Thieves ? You are who to be talking like this?”
    We suddenly accelerated. The driver firmly shifted gears. And when the car swerved off the Boulevard I realized I was in trouble. “I’ll get off here please.”
    â€œCalm down. I’m taking you, aren’t I?”
    I leaned forward with an