1931 May 9 | Albertville, Back to Future Africa

Then – Congo, Albertville

After 2 years in the bush, Suzanne thought, I can surely survive a bit of Sun. Just a peek at shops, pick up a few fresh fruits, maybe a naughty pastry, you know? And here she was, swimming against the street current away from the sea front for the past 15 minutes. Street? Shops? The sidewalk was simply the ground area the furthest away from the geometric centre of the road, lined up with dark cubes of bricks, piles of crates and towers of boxes topped by garish signs. Retailing peeled back to its essence.

A flow of humanity, trucks and animals all running to or from the water in a cloud of diesel smokes and dust.

She starts retreating towards the hotel. The humidity is cloying. Rising from the Lake, it mixes with laterite dust to pulverise into an airborne mist, and dissolves in her sweat, until she can feel the grime dripping down her body. My kingdom for a bath! By now, she cannot really think past the next few meters. The buildings, the roads have not been thought for this weather, this crowd; they are random shelters, as if living here had just been an afterthought. 

She missed Baraka’s lazy shaded passages and swaying palm trees; or the villages. That had actually made sense. This did not. 

Porters pass by, dangerously swaying trunks on their head. Couriers race each other, tickertapes streaming from their hands. Businessmen in Panama hats casually clear a path with their walking sticks. Office boys march on, impeccably dressed in white shirts and cream trousers. A pair of tall black policemen cruise the human stream, all professional boredom and suspicion, red fez bobbing on the current. 

Energy, exuberance. Heat. Albertville. Kalemie one day. 

She ducks and sidesteps, weaves and pushes back against the human flow until she reaches the hotel; she hops the last few steps. Once in the shade of the entrance, she stops for a second, once again able to think. That noise… that din! That speed. Since she had hit the ground back at the end station, she had felt swept up by a rushing river. What was it with these people? As if every second counted! She had an actual headache from it. She reaches the Stanley Lounge, on the First Floor. A wooden plaque by the door said: Honoured Hotel Guests Club and Lounge, By Invite of the Management Only. And Honoured Guests the employees of the UMHK were. Despite the pompous feel of it, Suzanne has to admit it is actually more like it. It feels… right, she nods to herself. 

She pushes in and selects a small table on the covered veranda overlooking the river. François is getting the mission signed off and will be in shortly.

There is a bit more breeze here. All along the waterfront, cranes squeal, chains rattle, metal shrieks and boats blow their steam horn. The smell of dank water, tepid sweat, spilled oil and overheated machine grease reaches even here, and lingers over everything. She could not help but think that they had played a part in this. 

Industry, Progress, Future. Were they not their zealot representatives for the past 2 years? 

Still… This heat is stifling. Some things never change; indeed, the punkah wallah is dozing by the wall. She tssks and the heavy ceiling fans slowly start stirring the dusty air. Still no white wine. The Stanley Lounge crackles with a new energy she can’t quite place: not exploration, not discovery anymore, business, creation. 5 or 6 businessmen sit at a table in the main room, reports, ashtrays, glasses of scotch and sodas. 

She casts sideways glances at them. 

They wear what she would call the African businessman uniform: white short-sleeved shirt with one breast pocket, long straight pants, khaki or tan, leather shoes, English style, brogues. She records a list of up-to-date man business attire. She listens to mannerisms and turn of phrases; François will need to get up to speed with that as soon as possible. Two years of slacks and tennis shoes was all right when alone in the jungle, but, back among the Bula Matari, Bushman François had to dress and act the part. 

And starting with that, she really had to stop using native expressions, it sounded so out of place now. 

Speaking of which, she suddenly realised something odd. None of the businessmen has so much as looked in her direction so far. Annoying. Irritating. Not that she ever was bothered with that. She was famous for not caring about that. On the contrary. But… New list then: dress(es) and hairdresser whenever practicable. They both had to blend back… Exactly, that was the real problem, wasn’t it? 2 years alone being actually their own little society… That had to go. 

Starting with the dresses. Entire new leaf.

Shame about the little number she is just wearing. She pats her dress, sighing; she loves it, she looks so good in it. She put it on especially as a celebration for the mission Marin signing-off. Blue and white stripes, with a discreet lamé effect, round neck, knee high. She could still remember the first time she wore it, François had just stood there, stunned. Not that she pranced around in it for a day… Well, it was a goner now. Just a look at the magazines on the display tells her what she had missed: everything, the pattern, the cut, the colours, the fabric, all of it were antiques. She sighs again and tightens the thread and cuts it with her teeth. 

There, done. Why did everyone stop talking?

She lifts her head, the entire table seems to be staring at her. What? What is it? Never saw anyone sewing, did you? No dear, not here, no; her mind tells her urgently. She catches herself in time, needle in her hand, cocks her head, smiles sweetly and drops everything back in the bag. They return to their grave discussions with a shrug and a sigh. Women!

She chides herself for the faux-pas. 

Knitting in a cocktail bar. What’s next my girl? Feeding the goat? Why not knitting a nice long scarf for the winter, like an Auntie? Talking of which, please do notice the reaction to the once failsafe cutesy smile. Gone as well, dear. Wake up, you are a wife. Act the part. Something else that had never been an issue on the trail, until yesterday. 

These were their natural social environment; regrettably, yet unavoidably.

She took a second look: a random group of men, sweating, balding white men, not one of the devil-may-care mischievous energy of the prospectors, for sure. Would you rather go back to the same old innuendoes then? Nah. They would have to deal with this lot then. They even feel compelled to advertise their station with the number of pens stuck in their breast pockets. Pathetic. The higher the title, the less and bigger pens you display it seems.

What a theatre! 

One Big Gold Fountain Pen, the boss then, has launched in his favourite monologue: everyone is incompetent, his employees in general, but this lot in particular. 2 Mechanical Pens and 3 Pencils, the engineering crew, are silently mouthing verbatim the performance, a clear bravura of his. One Small Pen, the loyal chorister, just glares at the lack of respect of the two pen pushers. 

Two black waiters hiding behind a curtain mimic the waddling and wobbling pantomime. 

And, of course, that is the moment François decides it is a great time to make his entrance, ducking under the door, gangly arms and legs, safari shirt opened on a white singlet, pith helmet under the arm. Dangling a piece of stamped paper around, he smiles: and here he is!

Oh dear! You sure are. 

The Lounge looks at him, mesmerised. No mockery, just sheer disbelief that a lost human species just walked past the bar, one last time. 

Did you leave the horse outside, she asks icily.

Tomorrow starts now. This is Future Africa, look it up! 

She turns to the lake: waters here do not lap at the shore, they ooze up it, iridescent with the shimmering rainbow of diluted diesel. 

She cannot wait for a real bath. 

---

You read part 18 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.  

Follow the story, sign up here to receive the weekly article. More photos and videos on Facebook, Instagram and TikTok.