1931 May 11 | First Last Day

Then – Starboard cabin of the SS Baron Dhanis

She puts the suitcase and the hatbox on the ground. And with that, they are off. 

Oh, sure, Africa has tried to tie them down: the broken tipoye, the tropical rain, the missing trails and delayed supplies. That had been the “pleasant hike down” to Albertville, a trip not even worth recording. At least, it had burnt the mixed feelings out of her. She now stood resolute: time to move on. And then, Albertville itself had been the last drop. She looks around at the rusted ship: this steamer will not change her mindset. 15 years was an eternity in the tropics, and even if she is a Great War veteran, with a grand name, the SS Baron Dhanis has seen better days. 

Venerable, as in tatty retired British India colonel, Suzanne thought.

On the gantry, in front of the narrow door to the tiny cabin, she can easily imagine soldiers lining up next to their bunkbeds. And that was how she felt just a few meters after clearing the boarding bridge. There even had been a ticket controller punching the travel documents; like a bus! She shakes her head; no, she knew better, she did not expect a fanfare and a bunch of flowers. Still! After 2 years traipsing in the bush, how about some more refinement than a portly and doubtfully shaven boat conductor. 

Later, the Sun will sink over the mountain ridge one last time, at 17h55. Then Suzanne and François will eat. He will smoke. They will sit on deckchairs.

The SS Dhanis finally huffs and puffs away from the quay, towards Kigoma. Honestly? That was it? She had made quite the effort for this: the Vichy dress, with definitely a longer hem since the Lounge episode, and the fetching white helmet. She still had it in her. What for, for whom? She could as well have worn her dungarees. Fortunately, this was only for one night, then a short boat hop, the nice train to Dar Es Salaam, a German steamer and off to a brand-new cruise liner. That was the style. 

After the light fades, the other passengers start settling for the night. She enters her narrow cabin for the overnight crossing, and shuts down the hissing storm lamp. 

Better. These last frantic weeks… First, finally a bath in the Albertville hotel; a real one, where you could actually stretch your legs. Deserved. Relief. Back to the world it seemed. No warm tap water yet, but certainly progress. And like that, time spools back slowly, until there is nothing left to reminisce; what would she actually remember from these last few weeks? Not much. 

The little steamer chugs, coughs and howls on Lake Tanganyika. Midnight bell. 

Blankets reek of humidity and diesel oil. Can’t sleep. But the trail, the forest, the villages, the bush, that was memories for a lifetime, she would bet! That time when that bullfrog croaked all night long, in … ah come on, you know, … that village with the huge palm tree and the albino healer? What was the name, Suzanne, you know it, we stayed there for days. Kalumbu? Malumbu?

Not helping. And tomorrow? Ah yes, the train, Kigoma-Tabora-Dodoma; it sounds like old friends.

Come to think of it, this now feels like a different Africa. Like the old pictures of Rhodesia François showed me. It was landscapes of lawns, hedges, bungalows and grass; and roads leading into Africa. Oh, they will step off the train first at Tabora, and waddle into European crowds, into one of these bubbles of lodges, high tea and afternoon tennis. Safari Africa the bushmen called it. And yes, she had felt at home in the bush, a transplant for sure, purposeful, accepted, yet always other. That had made sense then. 

Yes, the camps, the tent, the daily wonders were fading on the horizon: that had been her and his Africa. 

Well, still not helping at all sleeping. So, yes, they will soon belong again. Not sure about that yet, but excited. Just imagine! Real Dijon Mustard. Not the American or British try-hard copies of the supply crates. Maille. The brand now belonged to the Baron of Rothschild. Just figures. And then, a generous portion of Boeuf Bourguignon, slow cooked with real French Bourgogne wine, not again these South African table wines. And of course, cheese; good, real cheese, which means messy, runny, gluey, stinky cheese. She smiles to the disapproving world: cancoillote, and especially Époisse. 

Washed down with a glittering glass of Pouilly-Fuissé. Maybe even another one: there she could be tipsy. 

The inner camera pans out. Yes, where? That was still in discussion. Certainly not the dreadful Jura. Nor Charleroi, thank you Sir. It was as eternally soggy as Burgundy, come to think of it… Soissons? If they had finished rebuilding it. Dijon? Yes, that was a loaded question. They were both heading back towards The Families. She had packed trunks with enough gifts (plural) for everyone. How could they not like these? They will love them! Intricate African wickerwork baskets, traditional pipes and arrows; horns of course. And she will tell them the Stories of Africa. 

Yes, they will be so proud of them, of her.

She was so looking forward to share everything she had done, … So many stories to tell: how she dealt with healers and bokors, bonesetters and herdsmen. She knew all their tricks now! She could raise goats and chicken, chose cattle, grow wheat, and cook 10 different ways manioc. And she could enthusiastically barter and banter for vegetables with local tradesmen. Excellent! Could not wait to tell them all about that. 

She could picture the look of admiration of tough ol’ Grand-Father Bailly, the Aunties, and especially Mummy and Lil’ Dad Dearest.

To lay the groundwork, she had fired off a barrage of letters over the last month, a carefully synchronised salvo of joy and enthusiasm to announce their safe return, the looking forward to see them all again, and a negotiable draft calendar of visits to plan. Celebrations, really. Yes, that one. She had had to rack her brain to juggle everything with rusty, but still peak, social performance: (his) Father and Mother, (her) Mam and Dad, Gran and Gran, then the Aunties, the Cousins, his cousins, the other cousins … right, that was done and gone… 

Again, not helping! She sighed audibly. 

How to know the latest social map: who liked who, and, especially, who did not talk anymore to whom and why? That had been two thirds of her social life in Soissons, so, there was no reason they had changed. But she did. Nevertheless, she had carefully assembled the little packages of letters, postcards and exotic stamps: each different, but measurably similar, volume and value wise. They would compare the posting time, contents and news next Sunday, so no need starting already some Gulliverian war. 

Still, one absolute positive: whatever next, there would be no travelling bathtub, she tittered to herself. 

And I am not seasick. 

François is still on deck, probably leaning on the stern rail, smoking and looking at the lights blinking on the horizon. Would he be trying to guess which of them was one of their former camps? Yes, that sounds like him.

She starts finally to drift away. He should start thinking about his next job, but hey, he knows best. Always. 

She is slipping in the “forever after”. 

She will miss the animals.

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You read part 19 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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