King Leopold's Ghost

Another surreal experience this past weekend, of the sort I've had quite a number of since starting out in this line of work. At least once in every field mission, there's a moment where you become hyper-conscious of The Bubble, that bizarre, otherworldly space inhabited by Westerners living in impoverished countries. The more underdeveloped and war-torn the location, the more pronounced is The Bubble, and the sharper the contrast between the idyllic, snow-globe scenery within and the harsh world without.

In the DRC, The Bubble is largely a Belgian construct. King Leopold's crew knew the minute they set foot in the Congo that this place could make them comfortable, happy and rich -- and the legacy remains. To this day, Belgians can still be found living in enormous mansions smack in the middle of this war zone, partying and raising children together in a tight-knit community known as les anciens (not easy to translate, but roughly meaning those who have been around for a long time).

I spent Sunday in this sequestered little world, at a farewell barbecue for my friend C -- herself one of les anciens. C's uncle's place looks less like a residence than a country club. Separated from the pitted, ash-covered streets of Goma by an enormous wall topped with razor wire, it's an oasis of Beverly Hills proportions. Mango trees and shrubs erupting in violently-coloured flowers fringe an expansive, impeccable lawn kitted out with gazebos, an outdoor gym, a bar, and the crown jewel: an enormous topaz-blue swimming pool. Behind the bar, the convenience store style refrigerator is well stocked with Coke, bottled water, and Belgian beer. We gathered around the three enormous picnic tables to sip chilled white wine and scarf down lamb kebabs brought to the pool's edge by the staff. Caramel-skinned children squealed and splashed in the pool, their fantastically beautiful Congolese mothers looking on through Gucci sunglasses while their aging, pot-bellied fathers dozed or got drunk. Later, after the sun had set, the country club atmosphere gave way to night club atmosphere. Man-sized speakers shuddered with dance music until the wee hours, while tipsy party goers stripped down to their skivvies to take a midnight dip. Pizza was brought in while the Spain-Germany final played out on a movie theater screen.

And it didn't end there. The next morning, as I nursed my hangover on the lawn at our place, my Zen was shattered by the roar of speed boats trailing water skiers, the thump-thump of Euro dance music following in their wake. This went on until well after dark, much to my annoyance (it's clear they're not worried about plowing into unsuspecting fishermen in their dugout canoes).

Jarringly out of place as it all seemed, it gave a good glimpse of what life in this part of the world could be like -- and indeed used to be like -- for the European tourists who once flocked to this perfect climate. Those who remain are apparently willing to trade considerable financial risk (as well as other risks) for the luxurious lifestyle their Euros can purchase in the Congo.

Perhaps I'd acclimatize to this quickly enough, but for now it just makes me bloody uncomfortable. It's all so colonial.

That said, it was a really nice pool.