1931 March 22 | TIME to PACK UP
Then – Last day at Camp Modja, on to Albertville
Ready to move then. One last time after 2 years in the bush. François slaps his notebook, satisfied. Every trunk, every crate and suitcase is recorded with its contents roughly noted. Fabric, sewing machine, shoes, dresses… He has written on each of them in white grease pen their number, side and top. 20 in total, 20 loads.
That meant 20 porters. For a 150 kilometres walk: quite the hike!
He looks at her and sighs. He knows, but he could not avoid being ruthless on this one. Camp Modja to Albertville, once again straight through the bush, nearly as the crow flies. No place for children like the ones the chief had tried to rent to him as “porters”. Some of them were clearly not even 12 years-old. He had a quiet word with a very unhappy headman, and had smoothened the decision with a kid goat. The departure had been postponed until a proper crew could be mustered.
Suzanne was standing by the trunks she had packed and nodded to him he had made the right call.
Everything was tucked and secured. Gifts for back home, memories, horns, gramophone, records,… it was all in deep storage now, wrapped, folded, rolled up. She had liberally sprayed Fly Tox over them: no need to lug around unwanted guests. Yet, they still had to live on the trail; so the essentials were kept at hand in a few designated trunks. And the bathtub: it was its own trunk after all, with a cover and locks, perfect to store what you wanted to have at hand.
With the eye and gestures of a veteran quartermaster, she shook a trunk here, tugged a strap, tightened up a rope there.
They beamed: this was their Congo.
Fluffy clouds, whispering long grass, the welcoming hut, a smiling Sun, and hard Transvaal-blue skies over packed trunks.
He read to her the list of stages he had finalised for the coming trek.
She would not walk this time; no way could she keep up. He had arranged for a tipoye, the traditional wooden sedan chair carried over the shoulder by 4 men. And what men! She could see them sitting on their haunches on their own, checking and rechecking their contraption. No maps or compass for them: they knew every track and every trail in the Tanganyika region. Hardened professionals, proud and openly dismissive of the “soft” villagers recruited as porters.
To come up with his route, François had used Union Minière maps and notes, of course, but had spent quite a long time with the head tipoyeur.
He had recorded the final version in pencil in his notebook, with that deliberate, precise draughtsman writing style.
Only problem with this, he said, keeping the suspense of the demonstration going. There are no supplies in Mulelwa, so we may have to take a slightly different path, we will assess that later. It means that we could follow:
| Albertville / Kalemie | Malundi | 6H 30 |
| Malundi | Kabulu | 6.4 |
| Kabulu | Lubungu | 5.3 |
| Lubungu | Lubuwe | 6.0 |
| Lubuwe | Kilela | 3.2 |
| Kilela | brousse/bush | 7.1 |
| brousse/bush | Modja | 5.0 |
He shuts down the notebook, satisfied. She dutifully nods and gives an appreciative grunt to the effort. Most of these villages are only recorded in this notebook, she has no idea where they are. But Albertville? Hell yes, that one means the boat back to France.
He looks at her with a mischievous grin: would we have time for one last picture darling dear? She laughs at the rhetorical question. Why not? After all, the goats have been gifted or sold, crates are packed, and 2 chickens roasted for the dinner tonight and the bivouac in the bush tomorrow. Tomorrow, the rooster and its surviving chicken will be clucking and grazing in the village, blissfully unaware that their lady and master had been whisked away that morning.
This sky! The bush! The tidy little hut! And our cat!
Click.
Now – Sitting on a suitcase in an empty living room
It does not take more than a few days for objects to start filling up space, any space: a house, a room or a tent. Cutlery and tableware spill over from cupboards, bookshelves groan and sag, wardrobe doors bulge open. And suitcases or backpacks cannot close anymore.
Spontaneous generation can happen: objects demonstrate it every day.
But the day you move on, it is Judgement Day: choices have to be made.
And, for the life of you, you cannot remember who bought this, or if you ever used that.
We have a name for it: the grigri.
You read part 17 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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