1929 June 4 | Kigoma in Tanzania, I Am Here!

Then

The small train gives one final shudder, then finally stops. The clanging is replaced by the hissing of steam. A cloud envelops the platform, just long enough to allow for the actors to set the scene properly. And as it drifts off, the station master coalesces in the mist, to put an end to the trip with a theatrical whistle. The porters are immobile by their trolleys, on the allotted positions by the wagons doors. A few couples wave enthusiastically in the general direction of the train. 

Edgard, the head waiter is lining up his team of maids by the door for a formal farewell. 

While it had never been one of these grand European trans-continentals, this train held its own in rattling and shaking. Suzanne needs a moment to feel back her balance and recover her hearing after being deafened and tossed about for 2 days. There. The steam has drifted away, the train finishes deflating, sit up, this is it. She walks briskly to the door, François in tow, thanks the personnel – François will do the necessary by them. The platform seems quite far. It would not do that she trips and falls. Talk about starting on the wrong foot. And it would be very bad luck. François has finished formally thanking everyone, jumps onto the brick floor, turns and extends a hand. 

Suzanne climbs down the copper-plated steps. 

11h00 Kigoma, Tanzania, in the morning. On time to get on the ferry to Baraka, Congo. 

The last 2 days have been uneventful, slightly boring if she was honest. The noise was such that conversations had been essentially screaming at each other trees, mountains, towns, and only when the train did stop to refill at lonely water towers were you able to build entire sentences. But then, you were too numbed to actually do. Had to shake this, and how best than to re-check on the luggage. Others may just be returning home, travelling light with a pair of the latest suitcases, they were clearly not. 

François had procured from a specialist shop in Watermaels, next to Brussels, 2 suitcases, the latest ones, with two locks, wooden reinforcements and metal corners. And a hat box, especially for the pith helmets. They already had a list of everything they needed on arrival, tent, digging material, crockery and so on, but that was waiting for them at the depot. Until then, they were still tourists, that very English notion of gentlemen of leisure sightseeing around the world, still a rather foreign notion for them both. 

What an exclusive experience!

Just looking around, she was extremely proud of her fetching pith helmet, white and high domed like a portable umbrella. Oh, she could see that she was clearly not in Paris, or even Soissons: no-one watched no-one, people did not dress for effect. No eye contact, no quick once over to check you out. Odd, she would have to ask François about that. People seemed to just go about their business with an abrupt will. 

That suited her just fine: she would not have to corset her energy anymore. 

The sheltered world of the train compartment already seems in a distant past, then. Now the local noise warmly wraps itself around her. Each wagon steward calls over his most trusted porters, with an eagerness, efficiency and success depending on the generosity of the tips. The nice Swiss couple is left wondering why no porter stops by them. Well, next time, maybe they would listen. François had briefed them on the customs, and his trolley was already loaded up, porters at the ready, even before the station master had finished his announcements. Oh, she could see the jostling for the remaining porters foaming at the corner of her eyes, she could hear at the edge of her hearing the voices building up into arguments just beyond her reach, but she just strolled out of the station platform in style.

François was smiling at some unknown joke. Or maybe he understood what the porters were actually saying. 

The end of the platform, the station, the exit, she could see the street through the door: packed earth, yes, dusty, for sure but clean, ordered… She crossed the threshold. The noise exploded. Stall vendors were trying to out-scream each other in good humour. Hails, shouts, arms and hands and faces and smiles and teeth and eyes warmly waved at the first passengers coming out: fruits, vegetables, roots, all stunningly clean, healthy and tempting. The station guards in their impeccable uniforms made sure everything remained friendly and respectful; their long thin kibokos swished along. 

An apple, maybe? she asked François. 

The suitcases and boxes, and personal bags, were transferred to a taxi already waiting for them. The company, the Union Minière du Haut Katanga, François old bosses, had telegraphed a trusted transporter in advance. There was enough to think about already, and too few experienced volunteers. François looked and sounded like some ancient self, something out of a book of Kipling, comfortable in the muggy heat. He could not stop smiling, laughing a few words in Baluba at the porters. They instantly looked at their feet, as if caught saying something naughty. This place was just raw vital energy. Not the stifled, roof terraces cocktails of the Dar es Salaam colonial society. A live wire society lashing out at the future. Some things were odd, of course, like the amount of men walking bare feet, even in smart uniforms, but Life itself seemed to pulse in the air. 

François had to get their passport stamped at the cinder blocks booth, she would oversee the delivery of their luggage to their hotel room.

This last night in Tanzania was tightly scripted. A night at the decent hotel by the ferry, to take the ferry at first light the next day. It may be still 35C now, but by 19h00, on the dot, like every day, the tropical sun sets. They would lounge on the hotel patio by the lake, a misted glass of white wine in their hand. And if it could not be white wine, then a gin and tonic; she had to get used to that one. The orange Sun sinking in the fiery lake, the mist slowly rising and coalescing into a thick fog, some herons flying low over the water, and maybe, she was told, packs of flamingos awkwardly traipsing across the muddy shore. And mosquitoes.

Right, but first, on with the suitcases!

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You read part 3 of Transvaal Blue Skies: the true story of how, early last century, Suzanne moved to Africa and built her laager. This is a series of loose dots weaved in a chronological thread, wrapped into a story to be plucked and observed, heard and remembered, recognised and judged. Suzanne Dulière was my grandmother.  

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