Christmas Tree Shopping. . . In Congo

This is my second post that separates a routine subject or activity with ellipses and the phrase, “in Congo.” Those who have had the distinct honor of serving out here will recognize the concept, if not the exact wording of this construction. Everyday events and activities take on new meanings out here, so ending most any phrase or sentence with ellipses and “in Africa” is weighted with meaning. I will use the purchase of a Christmas tree in Goma, Democratic Republic of the Congo as an example.

First, why purchase the tree in Goma rather than Kinshasa, a city sixteen times its size? Bottom line: price driven by supply and demand. An artificial tree in Goma cost me $40, where a similar tree purchased by Rebecca (I’m assuming its similar as I have yet to see it) cost about $140. Although Goma is in war zone and is besieged by rebels on all of the major routes leading to the town except for the one from Rwanda, most goods are substantially cheaper out here than in the capital. My new tree probably made its way from China to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, by boat and was transferred to a truck that drove across that country and through Rwanda before arriving at Goma’s Kivu Market (more about which later).

The tree Rebecca bought made its way from China by boat to the port at Pointe Noire, Republic of the Congo, at which point it was transferred to a smaller vessel and moved to a shallow-water port at Matadi, Democratic Republic of the Congo. From there it made its way via a creaky rail line or in a truck over tortured roads to Kinshasa to end up in the Express Plus Market, Hassan et Freres, or some similar store, or perhaps to a street vendor hopefully carrying it through the snarled traffic. The transportation costs were probably similar for both locations, but the cost of living at the two destinations could not be more different. Kinshasa, the world’s largest “francophone” city with approximately eight million inhabitants and considerable wealth (if in only a few hands), is a black hole of consumption that outpaces the pitiable transportation infrastructure available to deliver it.

Anyway, on to the tree search. Goma has hundreds of kiosks of various shapes and sizes but only one real store: Kivu Market. It is run by a Lebanese family, like so many successful businesses scattered across the continent in cities large and small. In a fit of ignorance of local happenings, I chose a Saturday just as school was letting out to do my shopping. As if that were not bad enough, Kivu Market was having a three-for-one special on chocolate cookies (imported from Lebanon, of course). The store, Goma’s largest but about the size of an American fast food restaurant, was jammed with a sea of white shirts and blue pants as students purchased dozens of boxes of cookies. I wedged myself in and took a walk around and discovered everything from a working butcher shop and bakery to toys, fitness gear, bicycles, medical supplies, clothes, and strollers (where one would use a stroller on Goma’s volcanic rock “roads” I have no idea). Unlike in Chad, where Lebanese stores were invariably patronized by expatriates, the store was full of young and old Congolese with a sprinkling of mzungu’s like myself.

After a quick look at the wares and the crowd I decided to move on to the purpose of my visit: an artificial sapin. The Christmas section was easily identified by the gaudy decorations and cacophony of competing holiday tunes emitting from a variety of swaying Santa’s, blinking wreaths, light-up nativity scenes, and the young Congolese man wearing a holiday vest and red ski cap. An elderly Congolese woman was scolding him because he wouldn’t demonstrate that the hula-dancing Santa she wanted to purchase actually worked. This attracted the attention of the Lebanese manager (invariably at hand), who had him open the box, insert batteries, and let Santa dance. This he did, to the delight of the customer, who snatched it away (complete with batteries), elbowed her way through the crowd of students waving their yellow cookie boxes at the hapless ladies manning the checkout counters, and left in triumph with the Santa hula-ing away in her arms.

After surveying the Christmas collection I regarded the trees. There was the obligatory white one and some tall ones that were too big for the aircraft I had to use to get back to Kinshasa. These were out. Then there was the tree whose needles blinked fuchsia, chartreuse, and turquoise to the tune of “Santa Clause is Coming to Town.” To add to the psychedelic color scheme was a garland of purple plastic cubes that spelled Merry Christmas, blinking each letter in turn. Between the flashing lights and the prospect of hearing “Santa Clause is Coming to Town” eternally repeated for the next month, I demurred on this choice. Then there were the artificial trees that look like somebody glued strips of Astroturf to coat hangers and stuck them in a wooden post. These didn’t pass muster, either.

Finally, like the little Christmas tree in the Charlie Brown special, I spied a simple green tree about five feet tall with decent looking fake needles. It’s only visible fault was the fake snow painted on the tips of the needles, but even this was done in a fairly subdued manner and the irony of buying a fake tree with fake snow on it in the Congo was appealing. Brightening at my find, I told the attendant that this was the tree for me and he told me it was fifty dollars. I explained that I was traveling on a plane and needed one still in the box if possible due to the size. This was above his level of authority, so next a succession of three other employees came to discuss the matter, invariably ending with the phrase “C’est pas normal” (most unusual). Apparently one buys the display tree in these parts, because they are already assembled and ready for use - it should not be left to the customer to make the effort (or so the Lebanese manager asserted).

Once we got past this intercultural moment the search for a tree in the box began. Clerks bustled in and out of the doors leading to the back, returning with a series of trees that had no resemblance to the one I wanted. After refusing to buy one I didn’t want several times, they agreed I could disassemble the display tree and purchase it. Next glitch: no price tag. Kivu Market is quite advanced in that it uses barcode scanners (this in a city without the most basic of public services). Without the price tag how do we know what to charge? I mentioned that the Christmas Clerk said it was fifty dollars, but his supervisor said it couldn’t be, because it had no price tag. At this point I had been in the store for more than an hour, but it is Einstein’s world out here and time is a relative thing. All the same it was time to move on the next meeting or whatever “important” thing I had on my schedule, so I broke the impasse by asking for the manager. The nice Lebanese man came over and said “forty-five dollars” and handed the attendant a chit that could be used to bypass the scanner. Victory, think I.

No so fast. I still need a box or bag large enough to hold the disassembled tree and ask the Christmas Clerk if he could find one. He jumps to it and returns proudly bearing a carton about the size of a hatbox. I point to the tree, which occupies a fairly large piece of the floor at this point and then to the little box, large enough to hold maybe three of the branches. Volume is not relative, at least at the speed of Africa, so I tell him I need a larger one. He shrugs and indicates that “y’a plus des cartons,” which I find as disingenuous as the waiters in the mess hall at West Point telling us they were out of hot water back in my cadet days. As I was about to just gather the scattered pieces of branch and trunk and carry it to my waiting vehicle I notice a case of diapers on the floor nearby. I ask if we can take them out and put them on the waiting shelf, which causes another flurry of clerks and “C’est pas normaling.” Enter the indefatigueable Lebanese manager, who exclaims, “Ici, le client est Roi!” (Here the customer is king!) and motions them to stock the shelves with the diapers and give me the box.

With minutes to spare I jam the various pieces into the box, which has already started decomposing after its arduous journey across east and central Africa. Naturally the main part of the trunk is a few centimeters too long, but in Africa such spatial problems are easily solved by punching a hole in the box and then taping around the stub sticking out of the box. It all fits (save the stub) and the Christmas Clerk does me the favor of wrapping it in several meters of packing tape, for which I am glad. Tomorrow as I board my airplane I will feel smug at the good bargain and the original packaging job. For years I have disdainfully watched passengers bound for Africa boarding their aircraft with a variety of random items with haphazard packaging. Now I join their ranks.

I guess I should end with something profound, but what can one say about a ninety-minute expedition to buy a Christmas tree? Perhaps the miracle of the market that they even exist in a place like Goma is one observation. The power of process and form over product and substance in bureaucracies across the continent, neatly contained in the phrase “C’est pas normal” is another. Most important, though is the unifying idea of the meaning of Christmas that transcends space, time, and culture: “Peace I bring you, not as the world giveth, but as do I.”

Pax,
Scott Womack