1929 July 1 | Porters and Trackers

Then – Recruitment of the caravan to the Kiymbi river

Over here, in Fizi, it is the rainy season, the ground is still glistening, deep orange, turning to slush once a day. This morning, Suzanne has cast a wary eye to the skies; she learnt the hard way not to dismiss these tropical “showers”. They are showers as in “do you want a shower”, more so than “it may shower”. Then, raindrops hit the ground so hard that they splash right back up in 10 centimetres high corollas, high-calibre bullet impacts in the mud. Not a weather for any known fabric umbrella, possibly a metal cone she muses. But no, it seems that the Sun will keep all day today. 

At least until 17h00.

She cast an eye one last time on the locks and ropes on the trunks and crates. The whole important leather cases holding the instruments are on one side, ready to be entrusted to the most trustworthy and surefooted porters. The rest can be kicked and bumped, for all it matters, but these? Well, they were the reason they would be walking the jungle in the coming month. Apart from these, and the guns, everything was broken down into 20 kilos chunks. 20 kilos and 10 miles, that is the fair, mandatory and immutable regulation per porter. 

Talking about which, she turns around as a declamation starts.

On the main square, François sits in the shade with the chief under the squat hut awning. He is on a smaller seat, as protocol and manners dictate, leaning forward intently, scrutinising a line of local candidates standing at rest in the sun. The griot/féticheur/ healer stands behind the Chief, witness of the ancestors’ approval. Everyone speaks Bembe here. François will certainly not understand most of what is said, but he has seen it and done it himself so often that there is little point to it anyway: the centuries old ritual of the recruitment of the caravan. 

The Guide kneels to the left of the Chief, reciting.

He points, raises fingers and points at the trunks: caravan needs, supplies required, duration of the trek. A month straight South from Fizi, to the Kiymbi, as the crow flies. A month! That much to carry! The Healer tskks. The little theatre continues as long as needed to show to the eager audience lining the square, how important and invested in this mission both the Chief and the Guide are. But all good things must come to an end and, quickly, under an hour, an agreement is reached. Suzanne has long quit the square and sits on a crate of biscuits and canned beef. 

With a flourish, the Guide stands up and start introducing to the august trio under the dais his selection. 

He projects pride and professionalism. Walking the trails is no mean feat, but, this time, there was even a whiff of adventure in the air. That is why men and youngsters have shown up in force at sunrise to attend the pre-selections. A month on the trail! Better than cultivating manioc, certainly, more money, more prestige even, and a chance to see what is beyond the horizon of the muddy hill. And at the very least a golden occasion to get out of shouting distance from the wife. 

80 kilometres as the crow flies, that is a month walking, conservatively, and that is assuming there are at least some hunting trails. 

The Kiymbi runs deep in the hills above Lake Tanganyika, primeval territory of ancient giants and wild beasts. What hides in its shadows? And, of course, what could be found underground! This is deeper into Africa than Suzanne has ever been. Actually more than most human beings have ever been. Even François is a bit awed. He has spent the last days reading and re-reading any report available and making notes on a blank map. 

So far, all they had done was following the old roads, more often than not, the very same old slavers’ trails followed for centuries. 

Their camps had hopped from a settlement checkpoint to the next, filling out blank areas on maps, taking a sample here and confirming another one there. Sure, that was pretty much the way Stanley and Livingstone had done it, too, I presume. That was 50 years ago, and just on the opposite shore of Lake Tanganyika. Neighbours of sorts. Then, they had walked among landscapes, trees, tribes, animals and languages new to them, and a mystery back home: they met at the centre of the blank space that Africa was then, not far from here. 

But these territories were only terra incognita if you were looking for a graph paper map. 

Not so this time for them. She remembered with a smile the old toothless hunter behind the tree, on the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere between two villages. He had popped out from the shadows, just to make sure he was not dreaming, and laugh at their efforts to hold on their dignity, and their hats, as the truck merrily jolted along the rod’s muddy ruts. None of this was the green desert Europe seemed to think it was. 

That was the Africa where no trail was unknown, just unrecorded. 

This time, however, this was the real deal. Draw a line from Fizi to the Kiymbi, that would be their aim. Leave the village and head straight into the truly untouched. The jungle, not the bush. The spaces between settled spaces North and South on the map. Off the self-styled Nationale 5, driving towards Lubumbashi, leaving Lubitchako to your left, and into the Green! Under the green shade of giants, disturbing air not breathed by humans in centuries, if ever. The areas that were too poor to be cultivated, too difficult to be easily walked. Possibly hunted, but as ever in Congo, rich in new stones and minerals. 

An “X marks the spot” adventure. She could feel the vibration in the air.

None of this was possible without a team, so let’s get on with it. The Guide has finished his proclamations, François speaks, she turns around. He beckons to the porters one by one, and signs for them to introduce themselves. A clever trick to assess the candidates discreetly in a flash, she thought. As should be expected, one or two hobbled, another had a bandage trying to hide a loa loa, the parasitic worms, peeping from his foot; some were just too young or clearly village boys, not trackers. Some of them may be the Chief’s relatives, others may have greased some palm or promised something. More probably they had just blagged their way to take their chance in that line-up. 

No one needed to lose face, so, the short catwalks done, François just pointed out to select 10, and thanked with a bow the Chief and the Guide in Swahili. 

His gesture had an air of finality; as was their wont, some of the rejected men pleaded their case, some vehemently, some clearly with an eye on the audience in the square. With a click of the tongue, The Guide raises the decorated walking stick that shows his station; the complaints fade away. The chief swishes his flywhisk, opines and claps his hands once. Done deal. He would get his cut, and in exchange, guarantee the men. The Guide sits up, bows to both hierarchs seating under the porch and instantly starts rounding up the team. 

The chosen porters eagerly chose and pick up the individual trunks and crates, getting a feel for their load for the coming days. 

With one last look around, the Guide/foreman shouts them in line, he reviews and secures the loads on heads, shoulders and backs as each has his favourite. Some clearly have little clue, so he helps them come to the right conclusion with some pointed comment.  

A last wave at the elders, a final sight of the school building, now truly empty until September, and the column is off. 

After the first road bend, on the 1^st of July 1929, Fizi is already but a filed memory. 

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You read part 10 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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