Reporter and writer Chris McCarus has lived in, traveled through and written about many parts of Africa. Here, he reports on the all important business of building affordable guitars in the Democratic Republic of Congo.

In Kinshasa, capital of the Democratic Republic of Congo, six million people are running on fumes. Ten cents for bread and peanuts may be too much to spend. Lines to gas stations go for blocks. Potholes outnumber spare parts. So most residents can't afford a car. But even if they stand without food in their stomachs waiting to fight for a space in the occasional bus or taxi, people have music in their hearts and a spring in their step. Misfortune isn't the only master in town. It's got competition from behind the scenes--fifty-one year old Maurice Mazanza.

By making guitars since 1967, he has powered the industry that keeps a city alive and a whole continent happy. He has been able to control his own destiny and help the economy. Any visitor amongst the crowd by the side of the road, walking the streets or sitting in a vendor's stall, will see Almaz guitars painted yellow, red, green, black or orange. They are used to performing in homes, bars, restaurants and stadiums where people dance to Congolese rumba or the more trendy ndombolo. Almaz now stands for Mazanza's workshop called 'Atelier Lutherie Mazanza,' plus his guitar brand name and his nickname.

Congolese music historian Manda Tchebwa says that 5% of the men and 1% of the women know how to play something on an axe. If this is true then some 360,000 people have strummed or picked a guitar here. So lots of people play guitar, but few have the money to buy one. A Korean or Chinese import would cost about $200. The cheapest American model would cost about $400. But an Almaz sells for just $20. Just like newspapers and magazines that are bought by one person and read by many, an Almaz may belong to one person while dozens of people pass it around like drunks with a whiskey bottle.

"I made the first one with particle board from Belgian cigarette containers," says Almaz, removing his glasses covered by sawdust. "With money from the sale, I bought what I needed to make a second guitar. I used to do this in my free time, especially during summer vacation, then my Dad told me to concentrate on my studies: 'Don't mix money and studies,' he used to say."

Almaz studied diesel train electricity before he began working for the national shipping company. He then found a higher paying job with the American flashlight battery company Ray-O-Vac. But by 1977, he was building guitars full-time in the workshop next to his parents' house. All his materials and machines are adaptations or shortcuts. He takes electrical wiring from refrigerator motors and lays it onto a machine that looks like a loom. Then, when varying the thickness needed for each of the six different strings, he wraps additional wires around it. In order to make tuning pegs, he bends iron rods used to strengthen cement pillars for houses. He heats plywood in water to shape the body. Then he glues, sands, and nails. Finally, he asks the customer his preferred color.

The finished product is rough on American hands. Vice grips would be useful when turning the tuning pegs. Enamel paint is not enough to smooth the wood grain. A clunky plumbing bracket holds down the strings. But these features appeal to customers like Joel Bumba, who has sold thousands of his Christian music cassettes in Congo and South Africa. "Every one in this town starts with them," says the 33 year-old Bumba. "My first guitar was an Almaz. They are cheapest." The frets are squared rather than rounded off. Sliding your fingers up and down the neck can hurt. "This makes the Almaz guitar good for training," says Bumba. "Once you get your hands on an electric guitar where you don't have to press hard at all, then playing becomes easy."

Music comes easier than food in the Congo. Corruption and chaos have benefited the country's rulers and impoverished its 50 million people. Once called Zaire, the country is three times the size of Texas. It is the scene of Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness. The novel was inspired by the colony where King Leopold of Belgium's agents cut off people's hands if they refused to provide rubber, ivory, and timber. More recently, Rwanda, Uganda, and Burundi, led by ethnic Tutsis, have invaded eastern Congo to kill Hutus. They first tried to kill Congolese President Laurent Kabila in 1998. He, in turn, had allowed Zimbabwe, Angola and Namibia to extract gold, diamonds, and timber in exchange for weapons and troops to fight them. Kinshasa, a thousand miles west, is not a battle zone but still suffers from the war. In January 2001, when Kabila's bodyguard pumped three bullets into his near 300-pound frame, soldiers exchanged fire for thirty minutes at the Presidential Palace. Kabila's then 29 year-old son Joseph then emerged as the new leader.

While foreign and domestic rulers fight for power, the country is slipping backwards. Fewer minerals are exported. More are smuggled. Less money is saved. More is stolen. Less food is grown. More people starve. Music may be the only surviving business. Three recording studios churn out hundreds of albums each year. If they haven't already spent it on cassettes, fans will spend their last franc to see musicians perform. With their tiny earnings, musicians can find $20 instruments down a dirt street too narrow for a car and over a rusted pipe jutting from a path.

Mazanza, a fuzzy-grey haired man, will be sawing, planing, drilling, and painting, with the doors opened out onto a muddy yard. Here, he sells about eighty percent of the locally made guitars. The other twenty percent are imitations. He has also supplied guitars to studio musicians based in Paris where they crank out fast, hip-swinging, floor burning, guitar tunes. Their style dominates most Congolese music, and even occupies many of the French pop charts. The rest of Africa fell to the charm of Congolese bands back in the 1960's.

"Almaz gives people hope," says Bob White, an anthropology professor at The University of California at Santa Cruz. "Not only because he supplies the entire city with affordable acoustic guitars, but also because he does so much with so little, a skill that Congolese hold in very high esteem. He really makes dreams come true."

During the prosperous 1970's and '80's he had a dozen employees cranking out almost 400 basses, 24-fret leads and 22-fret rhythm guitars each month. Now, he makes just a couple hundred a year. He can't pay full-time employees. The faith of this non-smoking or drinking father of three, is tested.

"I sleep at 7:00 p.m.," says Mazanza in between smiles. "I get up at midnight to read the Bible, then I work until 3:00 a.m. and go back to sleep until 5:00 or 6:00 a.m. Sometimes, I suffer from being overworked. For two years or so, I used to forget what I had just eaten."

Kabila senior once said on television "the war will be long." He pounded away at the need for national unity, personal sacrifice and vigilance in the face of the Rwandan threat. Kabila junior has since loosened the family grip on power and the food supply. Many Congolese would be thrilled if his next move were to recognize a patriot by any standard, the household name with no dirt on it. Almaz.

Contributed by: Chris McCarus