Visiting Goma and finding coffee at Au bon Pain

The town of Goma in D.R Congo is unlike anything I’ve seen.  Cuddling the effervescent Lake Kivu on one side, towered over by a dangerous, active volcano on another and ruled by wooden load-carrying vehicle called Chikudu, it is a town that has kept the media busy for years and who have made it out to be a town in which bullets fly around and lawlessness rules.

Paul, my agent and tour guide and I reach the town quite unhurt. I feel comfortable about Goma already. A drive through the city proves how much farther from the truth is said about it in the media. This is a city far more developed than I thought with cell phone shops and grocery stores serving local and expat population residing here. There is a sense of chaos alright, there are far too many motos in the town, the sky is a crisscross of electric wires, the town itself is black – but everything I see opens my eyes to the reality a little more.

Goma is literally rising from the ashes. Where lava flowed in 2002, houses have been built.  The main road in the center of town is blacktopped, roads have been laid out in the various neighborhoods and buses and motorcycle-taxis can circulate now. The city is spread out and the streets are still full of people, a sign of security.

Electricity is sporadic but solar panels have also appeared here and there.

But what I really need is coffee. Paul doesn’t seem to care very much that I have not had my caffeine fix. Once he drops me off at the hotel, I am determined to find myself a coffee shop. That is not to be. The next morning, Constantino, a young volunteer I had befriended at the hotel gives me the final push.

Au Bon Pain: The coffee shop that surprised me

 In the morning, I find him staring sadly into his cup again. I fear the worst.

“This is the land of f…..g coffee,” Constantino begins, somewhat unhappily. “And yet, no one cares enough to make it drinkable.”

“It is consistently bad.” I agree, taking a sip. “Not for me—this sub-standard coffee from a plastic tube.”

“Thousands of Congolese people may be employed by the coffee industry, and it may be just a few hundred miles from the birthplace of coffee, but it turns out that they don’t like coffee that much. Do you need another example of irony?”

“I have half a mind to tell someone what I think,” I thunder uncaringly and jab viciously at the sour passion fruit.

“I hear you. There is a coffee shop in town, or so I heard. Perhaps the receptionist can direct you to it.”

I am disheartened by Congo’s indifference to good coffee.

***

A little after ten, the hotel-arranged Moto-taxi arrives. The number and license of the moto are noted down alongside his telephone number on a piece of paper.

“You don’t worry, miss. You are safe,” the receptionist assures me. He looks like he means it, too. It appears that I am not in any immediate danger of being attacked or robbed.

I am excited about the prospect of exploring Goma’s coffee shops and perhaps finding out a little more about Henry Stanley and Joseph Conrad.

We fetch up at Au Bon Pain, located on the second floor of a well-worn building. I am ecstatic. Finally, I am about to walk into a real coffee shop in a coffee-hating town like Goma.

I hope the coffee lives up to its reputation.

Au Bon Pain is a real coffee shop. I mean, it is all about coffee and strictly that. It is tidy and busy, with the smell of coffee oozing from its walls and curtains and chairs. In one deep breath, I smell years of brewing coffee. Why did I think a place like this couldn’t exist in a place like Goma? A flaw in my thinking, no doubt.

The barista is smiling from ear to ear, calling out a welcome. This familiarity is appreciated and makes me feel welcome. The café is filled with Mzungus, with their heads buried in newspapers and phones.

I run my eyes over the display of mouth-watering pastries, delicious-looking sandwiches, and salads appreciatively before fixing my gaze on an apple pie.

A young girl arrives with a menu.

“What can I get you today,” she says, as though I am a regular patron who chooses different things daily.

“A cup of good, strong, black coffee. And apple pie.”

The coffee is slow in arriving, and I make two trips to the cash counter to protest their lack of service. An elderly man walks up to me with a smile. He launches into conversation without a preamble.

“You are new around here, aren’t you? Things are slow here, like the rest of Africa. Slow. You cannot change it.” He sits on the low chair beside me.

“I hope it is worth the wait, though.”

“You’ll be surprised, I am sure. What are you doing in Goma?”

The conversation is a long one. The coffee is remarkably good.

“But it is brave of you to come to Goma all by yourself, really it is. There are some Indians living here in Goma, and I sometimes eat at their restaurant. Would you like to try something Indian for a change? Local food can be rather limiting in variety, no?”

I tell him of the disaster with piri-piri, to which he cackles merrily.

“Those chilies are no good. Trust me, they can easily induce heart attacks. But Congolese, these people are strong; they love their chilies and mayonnaise.”

I raise my brows questioningly. He points at the bottles of mayonnaise on the table.

“That, that is what the Belgians left behind. It is on everything these days; for the locals, mayonnaise is manna. Me, I don’t understand this fascination.”

It is good to be given real-life lessons on local food habits from an expat who clearly loves speaking. His name is Marcus, and he is stationed in Goma to look after the affairs of an NGO headquartered in Switzerland. He is a keen coffee lover. From him, I learn that Congo’s coffee export, which, although not significantly high, is on the rise.

“You see, coffee from this country gets sold at Starbucks and some other coffee chain outlets also, I believe, but the locals—they do not like coffee so much. I like the coffee here, at this café, but others, not so much.”

“Congo is magnificent,” I say, “and it is incredibly beautiful from what I have seen thus far. But it is terrible that my hotel makes the worst coffee. I can’t imagine why that is so.”

“David Livingstone and Stanley, travellers and adventurers, the good and not-so-good, have all been here over the last few centuries. Pray why?”

I wait for him to continue. It is a treat to lean back on this old sofa, drinking strong and bitter coffee, while Marcus chats on about this and that. He knows a lot about coffee and Joseph Conrad. I had no idea Congo produced any coffee worth mentioning or consuming. But as an industry, coffee has a long way to go here.

There is a place in my heart
For this thing called coffee
The African Long Black, specifically
It is the best there is
And much like its men is this cuppa coffee…

When I open my eyes, Marcus is gone.

Au Bon Pain is easily Goma’s pioneering boutique bakery and cafe, famous for fresh artisanal croissants, baked goods, and a chic, quiet indoor escape from the busy streets outside. Frankly it is more than just an eatery. This cafe  introduces a sense of normalcy and a fresh hope in a war-torn city. It is a place of dialogue and shared interest. Many movements around the world have had their origins in a cafe – and I am hoping the same for Goma.

The conversations in Au Bon Pain maybe interrupted by the loud noise of a military helicopter every now and again but it is  entirely possible for a new revolution for peace to start in these cafes.

And after all, everybody deserves good coffee.