1929 June 9 | A Town Called Baraka
Now – Bala’a, or Baraka, on the shores of Lake Tanganyika
The dark blue steel waters of the deepest lake in the world, proudly enshrined right in the middle of Africa. Only Siberia can beat its depth, but then, in the most extreme of climates. Étanga ‘ya ni’a, this lake, has been a familiar sight of humans for hundreds of millennia. Its waters lap on the shores of Wakanda. Its name may be Lake Tanganyika, but that makes it lose its mystique. A million years old and more, 570 meters deep. A central basin that only slowly, reluctantly, feeds the Lualaba, the Congo and finally the Atlantic. Waters so deep and ancient, they are “paleo-waters”, fossil waters.
The final station when you travel to the heart of Africa.
On that scar that separates East and West, one of these crossroads, meeting ground, gravity centre and funnel. Baraka, one of oldest settlement on Lake Tanganyika. Here pass herds, humans, for food, water, trade or conquest. A gate to the riches of the continent, just further in, just over there. Baraka, Bala’a, luck in Arabic, blessing in Swahili. Little of its past ever survives, its name seems to only ever appear in bloodshed and screams. Once it harboured the depots of slaves caught in raids across Central Africa, on their way East and Zanzibar, or on their way West and Luanda or Sao Tome. Then came the rebels, the armies, the raiders.
A town at the edge of the world. The Heart of Darkness sat by a loch with legends and monsters.
Here, the map stops.
That is why they asked Suzanne and François to go and have a look over the next hill: tell us what is there, what we can find.
Then – 9th of June 1929, Baraka, (Belgian) Congo
Sun like a hammer, streets like an anvil. But for the blessing of the breeze blowing in from the lake. Dusty shade inside, sliced by the sunbeams of Persian shutters. The suitcases are by the bed, unopened, as yet. Suzanne stares at the floor of the hotel room. Bare wood, a parquet of sorts, rough looking, springy and squeaky. Shoes only then.
The last room before making our way inland.
Is it the last day to enjoy some comfort? On arriving, they had walked down a wobbly rotten plank, grandiosely described by the grimy captain as a gangway, propped up by a few broadly smiling and gaped-toothed dockers. Or were they grinning? Welcome to the edge of the world! A thrill? A regret? A thought maybe? Nope. No time. Onwards.
Suzanne is already walking out, down the main street towards the promised office and its welcoming shade.
François is taking a picture. He is standing just outside the hotel, in the shade created since Biblical times by the simple solution of extending the thatch roof. Every squat adobe building and their large square brick pillars have the same arrangement: direct, efficient, basic. Function over form. He is waving at her like a Hollywood director, trying to create the perfect photo composition.
That was … his choice. She just wanted out of the Sun’s anvil as quickly as possible.
Click. Baraka, 9th of June 1929. Streets of packed sand, ploughed by wagon, truck and car tracks, lined with stocky, ancient palm-trees. A frayed Dar es Salaam, it felt like it spoke of something older. Africans were going around about there business in smart European garb and hat, or billowing djellabas and fezzes, Europeans in safari outfits and pith helmets. Mix and match cultures and eras.
At the end of the street, the lake and its scintillating waters.
Click. Done now? Finally. That should do it; that will be the only memory. The Sun was not anymore as joyful as it had once been, the warmth had become heat. Its glow was more majestic, more hieratic. Less playful. She retreats in the shade under the thatch awning and sniggers to François “what a …”. His eyes find her, but not his smile. Burrowing. “…interesting town” she closes the topic abruptly, emphatically ending in contemplation of the street. All buildings are one storey, fancy that. He was probably right, better not to start like that.
They walk the shaded gallery.
Here a Greek food/delicatessen/iron monger/anything eatable and usable store. There an Indian jeweller/gold/stones/anything valuable trader. Life and people are slower, more awake, more alert, yet cautious in their movement; prowling. This is the weariness of the Frontier, the Klondyke, not the Eldorado. It has possibly everything and possibly nothing. No one is sure about it yet. Everything was rougher here, nature and the buildings, the Blacks and Europeans. Any authority has a razor-sharp edge.
Everything is more alive, like more real.
And on the corner across, the representative office of the Union Minière du Haut Katanga, station Baraka. They just step in to the dusty desks. Things to organise, places to go, so, information to get. Tools, stores, and transport to arrange to the drop off point inland. She had seen the sketch of the area they were to cover in the coming months, and a brief commented itinerary of the control stations they were expected at and relieve.
Mayaliwa, Lubitchako, camp Mercier, camp this and that…
The names were lined up neatly like on a subway map on an otherwise blank sheet of grease paper. The emptiness he would start filling in, she understood. She inwardly shook her head. What they were told is nothing more than: you see the traffic light over there? No! No indeed, there is none. But imagine there is one, get over there, turn right, and start noting down what you observe.
See you in a year! They walked back out in the glare of the street.
You read part 4 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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