1929 June 13 | The Truck

Now – Gate C 65 the designated seating area

A moment in limbo. Transport itself has not yet started; it will, soon, not yet. It is a captive moment, expecting, where individual realities overlap, merge and collide. Listen to everyone speaking: they are alone in their own world in these most alien of surroundings. 

Everyone signals and no-one listens. Words have no meaning and yet communication is overwhelming. The sounds exchanged, the discussions, go far beyond words. 

A language only becomes an identity once it goes beyond a dictionary. Else, it is just an assembly of words, and rules, and usage, available for anyone to acquire. And yet, none of this is sufficient to be truly understood. Observe passing conversations without understanding a single word, and even less sentences: without any context, without sometimes even seeing the faces, you catch an impression, a nebula. 

You understand.

Then – Baraka, Tanzania, 13^th June 1929

She was trying not to be, but she was impressed. The squat truck literally growled, a predator waiting to be unleashed. Technology had usually little to no interest for Suzanne. Men and their toys, right? As a man, François was duty bound to pace around it, follow the station quartermaster and listen with that unique fervour men have to show whenever they listen to technical specifications spoken out loud: so many pistons (many), so much horsepower (much), and, behold, the top speed (you shall never reach)… In this two men procession, the quartermaster was roving preacher and car salesman, consecrating a sold truck one last time.

A brand-spanking new 1927 Chevrolet Commercial Line 4×4 flatbed truck 6, the biggest engine available, Congo-customised and every possible bell and whistles; the Union Minière way made flesh. 

That was something more than mere technology. Of course, there had been trucks in France, but nothing quite like that. They had looked cobbled together by people who had never met, trying to sneak in the changes in transportation; horse carriages with an engine bolted on. This here was the future: engineered without remorse nor regrets. Even the wheels were not anymore pretend-wagon spoked wheels. This truck was a personal tool, your own future. Made for you to perform, not an after-thought utility. Even the toolbox was invitingly full to the brim: come and have fun with me! 

Power. Industry. Design. The Future growling, legacy-free, raring to go right here in city at the heart of Africa, percolating shade from plastered arcades and ancient trees. 

She was struck as how the roar of this engine had pushed her over a border. 

Until now, everything had been the memories of others: books, stories, evocative names, architecture and cities. A world of jungles, memsahibs, butlers and afternoon teas that she had listened to, not a little envious. When the truck exploded to life, something else had sprung to her face. From that moment onwards, all of it was now her memories to tell: the faces, the names, the rivers would be exotic episodes of her personal story. 

From this point on, here, there was only now. And she had to wade into it.

Her role was cut out: stepping over the edge of the map was his, hers was the infrastructure, human and otherwise. She turns, nabs the cargo manifesto from the hands of burly quartermaster. He scowls sideways at François: in his own courtyard! Undeterred, she goes through every item listed, as she had been taught by Grandfather Masson, Dijon biggest grocer, rue du Transvaal. Barrels, cans, beans etc…, she knows. And when she does not, she heartily laughs about it with the older man, bringing him onside instantly. Look at this foldable sewing machine, black inlaid in gold! Yes, please, take it out, yes, it needs checking, you know how they are! 

It is her new world, hers: a gleaming future. She looks up from the crate. François’s turn.

He stands on the running board of the truck, in full safari outfit, leather leggings and all. He addresses the small team in Swahili. This usually gets basic goodwill instead of the usual sullenness. This time though, nothing. Not a nod, not a sinew moves. The smiles remain encouraging, eager even. It may be the accent, Kiswahili is at best a vehicular language. He repeats and then gestures the sentences: first, this one goes there, that one goes there… 

The piles of crates and barrels remain entirely unmoved.  

The foreman, a huge man in an immaculate and many-pocketed safari shirt catches his attention with a respectful short bow, and points with his thumb at the semi-circle: Bembe, Bwana, they are Bembe, they do not understand Kiswahili. All the faces look up with pride at the word and now broadly smile. François nods his thanks, bien sûr, of course, and repeats the orders to him in French. Like lightning, the foreman starts barking his men into action. Whenever the men move too slovenly for his taste, or fail to follow his orders, his tongue clicks like a whip.

Suzanne observes the exchange, the posture, the tone, the reactions. 

Short, descriptive sentences. Nothing fancy, elegant or nice. Just dispassionate instructions. Military. No affect nor judgement in the tone. She would imitate that tone; everyone seemed a little puzzled at her flowery French. Her energetic delivery got it there, eventually, but to hell with that, she would adapt. She smiles at her own swearing, even if it was not spoken.

She makes a silent vow to Saint Joan of Arc, patron saint of profanity. 

She clicks her tongue, annoyed at her own conceit. That sound, she likes. There is something discreet, yet final about it; familiar yet alien.

The first hour of their new life over here. So much!

---

You read part 5 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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