1939 January | Blood, Hippos, Teeth and Toes

Then – Hippos on the Lom River in Cameroon

This is an unforgiving land. That suited both of them. She liked the way it was merciless to the unwary, the uninterested, but generous and welcoming to the respectful. He liked the way it made you work for everything, but for what rewards! There are rivers and woods, trees and grass, yet you can smell the desert on the Northern wind, feel its heat and see the red dust rising. 

Suzanne and François are in Bangbel, on the hill overlooking the River Lom, their island in the middle of the Sun, the blood and the teeth. 

Just North of Bétaré Oya, a stone throw from Suka, a walk from Kissi. They still greet and cheer at the chief of Suka, Kombo. Kombo, the Dapper in Swahili, a somewhat misleading nickname. Always at the forefront of any event, his word the ultimate law, whether to settle land disputes, fine people or share the meat after the hunt. And a knack to find himself at the centre of any photo. A benign chieftain, helpful, generous, magnanimous, whether he rules, judges or weds a new bride. 

Suzanne and François know him since they first landed in the region in 1937. 

There have been lows, like when local hunters shot a female waterbuck: Kombo had led a procession around the village, prancing like a drum major, all the men of the village hoisting the carcass on their shoulders. The chief had been rather insufferable that day, basking in the demonstration of his juju, the prosperity he brought to the villages. What more could you ask? The law of humanity since the dawn of time, Suzanne nods to herself. 

Natural selection, not election. 

All the villages around here are Gbaya, one of the ethnic groups of Cameroon. Not one of the biggest, nor one of the most prestigious. The region, just at the border between Adamawa and the East, was bounced between the raids of the Sokoto caliphate in the West and the Fulani cattle herders from the East. Threats from afar, threats from the next village.

A population that had stubbornly resisted slavers, bandits, raiders. And now, would-be colonisers, she smiles to herself.

Some of the men keep at home Gbaya throwing knives, with their unique design, a throwback to these fights, not so long ago. And spears, and flintlocks. An entire region always on the lookout, alert, twitchy, suspicious of anyone, ready to resist any odds. The last uprising was less than 10 years old, and the local defiance remained palpable. The fact that the previous invaders, the German Muzungu, had been beaten by the latest French Muzungu, just proved that there was no inevitability to their presence. 

Suzanne and François know that respect from these people had to be earned, as much as the respect from Nature. 

Truth be told, the relationship with the locals seemed to only become harder, harsher, more complex. More demanding. But amongst his peers, François was one of the few that made a real effort to understand, if not mingle. Imagine that, he had started a Gbaya-French dictionary. Not to publish, although there was none, but to understand. How else do you get to know a culture if not by speaking the language. French is the language of the latest empire around, Peul or Swahili, vehicular languages. Tool, not soul. Gbaya is. 

François is, as always, on a mission to discover, to dig out hidden gems, whatever and wherever they may be. 

For the other engineers, it was more a job, in an exotic setting. They kept the suits, the social habits, the Sunday lunches and talking about Montmartre or Saint Germain. Suzanne now had a natural proximity to the Missionaries, and François had come around on the White Fathers from another angle. They themselves were not anymore the rolled-up-sleeves-bruising crusaders of yesteryear. They understood the need to delve deeper locally, listen and see, rather than slap a righteous layer of propriety. Zealous, not zealots.

And so, François, Suzanne and Father Dietrich would endlessly talk about the news and hubbub in Suka, Bangbel or Bétaré Oya, around a Boeuf Marengo and a bottle of red. 

They discuss Kombo and his people, local beliefs, traditions and laws. Even the less palatable ones. The Gbaya, after all, are known throughout West Africa for being cannibals. True, it was officially not happening anymore. Never. Nowhere. But there were the lookouts, the whispers and torches in the night. Not the bubbling cauldrons of legs and hands Western cartoons insisted on to describe Africa and Africans. Rituals. Like the rumour that, once a year, the local chief and spiritual leaders could claim the heart of a boy to replenish the energy spent for the village prosperity during the year. In a way, it had its own internal logic. 

Religion here was not something optional, it was about piling on layers of protection. 

No religion or belief covered all angles, so you had to be creative. First, it sounded only absolutely logical to follow a creed to protect your eternal soul, from the list of the ones that existed in the region, and had proven their power. Another layer to satisfy the spirits of the ancestors, always greedy. And at least another one, to defend and attack on the immaterial plane. It was just about being thorough. Father Dietrich had developed an entire repertoire of arguments, but he had to admit that Simon the Magician was often more intelligent, and certainly more fun, than Peter the Fisherman. Only after a few glasses of course. 

Not that Suzanne did not have her own opinion on any of that. She found particularly grating the annual parade of the latest brides of the chief. 

But such was their tradition, their belief, their people. Their cross to bear, she would huff. She has her own.

Suzanne lives on the Frontier, among hippos and crocodiles that run amok amongst the fields and herds at sunset, leopards and snakes that slither, tsetse flies and clouds of locusts swarms that buzz around. Nature is there, twitching in the bushes, looking for your next mistake, if only to remind you that you are the intruder here. 

And so, she retreats more and more to her cabin on top of the hill, in the wooden fort overlooking the land of blood and gold. From that outpost, she can keep watch on the vegetable patches, on Claude and Nanny in the garden, on François’ team drilling in the valley below, Boy zooming around after rodents or other ghosts. Her laager.

Suzanne has a deal with Africa. 

Africa is not hers, and it will never be. 

But she is welcome here.

At home. 

---

You read part 28 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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