1930 May until April 1931 | Camp Modja, Digging for Gold

Then – Congo, pushing the edge of the map

Once, the path to the office had been nothing more than a trail in the grass, a vague outline snaking towards the woods, the hills and the streams to explore. Now, weeks later, it was a grove dug by shuffling feet, brushing shoulders, careless spades and freshly sharpened machetes, sanded down to orange laterite. On the way out, it was dug after François summoned the team by clanging the makeshift tubular bells. And on the way back, it was dug further by the column of men shuffling back from the daily dig. Every day, for a hundred days. 

A trail now, a street tomorrow, and one day, maybe a road.

They emerged back from the grass around five, everyone covered in rust-orange dust, carrying theodolites, shovels and sieves, if the dig was still live. And when they had finished recording and sampling the particular location, they carried back the enormous drill segments. Then, the crew walks past the office’s window, stacks the tools for a quick count and inspection, stretches and talk about what they will do tonight. Everything accounted for and functional? Then the day would end there and then. Sometimes, maybe a drill auger would need first fixing, or a spade handle replaced. And always sieves cleaned: no forgotten soil to spoil tomorrow’s sample cores. With a final clap of his hands, the team turns to the village, the ritual is performed. 

François enters the office to file away the day’s samples: site xx/xx, red sandstone. Check. Time for a well-earned Camel. 

Sometimes, Suzanne walks the short path up to the office hut, once the crew has scattered back to the village. She pushes the little door and smiles her way in. The precious theodolite leans on the wall in pride of place, as it should: it is the whole reason they are here. Measuring, checking, recording. She trills: did the shovelling go well today? Broke another spade, or did you find gold and diamonds for my wedding present yet? There, the mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

At the familiar dig, François slowly lifts his head and sighs. 

He carefully puts the stylus in the designated table grove, closes the lid of the ink pot, dabs the blotter on the map and with utmost care squeaks the stool around, his face unreadable. He stands, and with the sweeping gesture of an Imperial general over the annotated map, points at a location and then stabs at the freshly drawn cross. 

Oh, quite well, dear, quite well. Judge for yourself. 

For a start, I found the usual gold, diamonds, emeralds and moonstone, but the best? She smiles, looking for this evening performance. I found a promising mine of sausages and a seam of treacle. At that rate – he lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, theatrically looks over his shoulder at the window and mouths – I think I could find King Solomon’ secret chocolate mines … it is probably here, under the speculoos tree, he quips. 

They both laugh heartily, and he launches after her. As she is expected, she backs a bit into the wall. They beam at each other; there it is.

No, but, seriously? She asks. He turns around, face slightly closed: well, that’s where we stand today. He points at their location on the map, Camp Modja, then at the latest cross on the map, the current end of an arrow-straight line of similar crosses and coordinates across the map: each location reckoned, checked, dug and sampled, one after the other. The grid fills in, a few little squares at a time, a few more ticks and marks at a time. Blank spaces shrink as progress is recorded. By now, the mapped locations nearly reach the rivers that mark the limits of their prospection parcel.

It is the mission, the map the physical embodiment of already 6 months of crawling efforts.

But, yes dear, today was tough: straight down the sandstone, until the bedrock. And we got stuck. Again. I thought so, she says, I heard the hammering. Yes, he nods, we were trying to straighten back the drill head. Trench digs are easier as you can mostly guess what’s coming up with the next swing of the pickaxe. But, it would be a massive overkill for this. So, we are left with knowing that, 200 meters as the crow flies from the current spot you dug, at exactly 10 meters down, you will hit the same bedrock. And, even if you are careful, there is a chance to get stuck again. And then, you stop, you twist around the drill, hopeful to get it out, and if not, the fun starts to un-stuck the drill. 

At least, we did not have to abandon the drill in the hole like last time. So much admin around these. Record this, type, depth, location of course,… 

She smiles at his fatalism. Come on, you know that soon you will be back by the river. I know you love it!

I would rather have a steam engine core drill frankly, he counters, but one, it is impossible to maintain and two, dragging it on foot on the trail… and every two hundred meters but yes, river sampling soon. We already prepared a large barge, you know. I will stand on the shore, with my rifle, ready for crocs and hippos. The crew will be bobbing up and down on the tall screw, pushing the metal drill down in the riverbed. Certainly a cooler and easier screwing work than today, but still with its load of mosquitoes. 

Oh, a stream flowing with gold, or diamonds, that’s what would really be the jackpot and a welcome bonus. They found some not so far away from here when they mapped the other side of the hill last year. 

Well, that’s what so magical about the source of the Congo, is it not? Anything could be true.  

He folds the map and secures it in the small safe. In go as well the glittering samples. 

The locks turns. 

The day is officially over.

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You read part 15 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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