just a short walk in November...

Just a short walk, Fitzrovia to Victoria Street, but the whole of this amazing city in a thirty minute stroll.

First I walk down great Portland street and see a group of Africans, they are gathered on the pavement outside the post office and some on the other side of the road where a handbag wholesaler is. I’ve seen them before, I wondered if there was a big market in handbags amongst the expat Africans, then the crowd grows, more and more people come, they are unfurling banners and putting on pale blue tee shirts then three motorcycle cops arrive, two fat white one  slim black in leather trousers and what look like guns but \I’m not sure. Some of the African women in the crowd give the black policeman to glad eye and he walks to the other side of the road. A lorry with crush barriers arrives and a man unloads them one by one as the policeman hooks them together penning in the growing crowd. They unfurl banners, I realise this is the Congolese embassy, and remember there are elections.

 My heart bleeds for them, and then they begin to sing, that deep wholesome heart string pulling African sound, a crowd gathers, more banners are unfurled. I never knew there were this many Congolese in London, the singing grows louder it is sublime, I think they are chanting the name of their leader but it is like an impromptu gala on a cold November morning. A big red double decker bus turns the corner and the black bus driver slows down and leans out of his cab laughing, he is a Congolese bus driver, the crowd roars in approval his bus trundles on. Now there are about a hundred people, laughing and singing and several banners, a few men in army fatigues hover at the edge of the crowd. On my side of the road another band arrives, white tee shirts, less of them, big men, much more serious. The traffic cops stand around watching but the crowd is good natured. One banner reads, ‘stop western influence in the Congo’ and I remember, the tragedy of the Congo that is has more than 70% of the world's coltan, used to make vital components of mobile phones and computers, 30% of the planet's diamond reserves and vast deposits of cobalt, copper and bauxite. Much of this is illegally exported through Rwanda. Precious tropical hardwoods are siphoned off through Uganda. To make matters worse , DR Congo is a country under international trusteeship. Important decisions are taken by World Bank technocrats, UN officials and increasingly by international NGOs. "Elikia" means hope in Lingala and there is much of it throughout the country.

Onwards to Bond Street, to rub shoulders with the rich and marvel at the diamonds and rubies and emeralds in the windows, when I come across another group of protesters. This time standing outside Emporio Armani, the anti fur people with some really grisly photos; apparently fur is ‘hot’ now, although not for mink and arctic foxes etc

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They smile for my photos hand me a flier which is too awful to read and I move on, I’m running a bit late now. Cross to St James’ and down the hill to the Palace when I’m stopped for a third time. This time a friendly policewoman says to wait until the walkway over St James’ Palace as some rumpty tumpty band music plays. Soldiers in grey over coats and bearskins (tough on the bears) are marching about in the mindless ways that soldiers march, someone banging the big base drum.

A crowd of tourists are snapping and chattering, excited, I feel this Ruritanian spectacle almost as embarrassing as the fact people still wear fur coats. But penned in as I am I have no choice but to wait until they march off to the sound of drums and various brass instruments.

Released I head for St James’ park and to my lunch date.  A final sighting makes me smile and remember what is important in life.

 Thanks Banksie or whoever you are...found on a building hoarding in that temple to Mamon - Bond Street.