It’s 8.30 on a Tuesday evening in Bangui, and Cari Gourmand restaurant is heaving. Waiters weave around the tables carrying cold bottles of Castel beer and plates of steaming fish, chicken and pizzas. The kitchen is struggling to cope, so service is slow. Tonight’s crowd includes a big table of young French military staff (in fatigues, heavily armed) and dozens of aid workers, who look to be in their late twenties or early thirties. Almost everyone, apart from the waiters, is white.
My Central African friend, Anicet, looks around, catches my eye, and winks. ‘They just doubled the price of beer here, but these munjus [white people] like spending their money!’
