to go to the veranda of the Palace Hotel, an old colonial relic, for a drink as they decided how to use their time until they got their load of fish.
This castle-like hotel dated to pre-Independence. Albeit once a jewel in the city’s center, it was now tarnished and drab in comparison to the shiny new metal and glass hotels that had been built by international conglomerates. These gleaming hotels catered to large international meetings organized by large international promoters with big budgets, as well as to staff from large international organizations with big wallets. They offered all the pleasures, if indeed this could be an apt term, of being in a hotel in Brussels—every room, bed, breakfast, and dinner the same blasé content that was intended to encourage in clients a feeling of detachment from really being in the heart of Africa.
The Palace had been and was different. Under its faded exterior, it still was a fixture with charm, with personality. It was perhaps for this reason that most of the clientele were long-term guests; reportedly, most expatriates engaged in trafficking any of a multitude of items. The city’s modern international airport gave entrepreneurs access to the world’s markets while the porous borders offered access to the riches of the Congo and beyond. It was rumored that whatever one sought, it could be found at the Palace.
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