1941 January 31 | On The Colonel Klobb To Congo
Then – Douala, Cameroon
It went smoothly, as far as these things can go. Suzanne had of course to speed the process along. Yes, the passport is expired. Yes, it says one child, male. No, it is two, females, here one, there two. Claude is also a female first name, but what do you expect from Belgians, pfff… probably a Flemish guy! Oh, really? Noooo. Promised, we will go straight to the passport office and get it sorted on arrival in Congo. Then the French barrage of rubber stamps, rustling duplicates, triplicates, piled snugly in labelled trays, and fountain pens silkily signing off application forms.
Convinced, convincing.
Françoise on her hip, the little family files out of the sweltering room of the Commissariat Special for Diplomatic Affairs and Security. They pass by the Commissioner himself, accompanying an Adamawa chieftain, complimenting him on his horse. They cross the overcrowded waiting room and its collection of personal tragedies, adventures, stories, hopes and fears. Non-one travels for fun these days, do they?
Remember taking the train, a week ago?
François had gone in Yaoundé to get his hunting permits: something has to explain away the bundle of guns. On boarding the train, security check. And stamp. On disembarking in Douala, more stamps and security checks. It was a perpetual motion. Now, waiting for the documents to be scrutinised in the stifling heat, her mind wanders briefly into the future: she bats it away. Pointless until we are there. So far, car, train, boat and across. Then we can breathe in the halfway house at the White Fathers Mission, with Fr. Dietrich recommendation.
A rational, practical, functional end journey, that makes sense to anyone, even the police. And then, François will hunt around. For a job, that is.
When the train had left Yaoundé, Lheureux waved at them and then turned back to his tough little Renault Primaquatre. Everyone has shown up for François’ leaving do. Time to say goodbye, already? It feels like you only arrived yesterday! Let’s meet again soon! Don’t forget to write! Hollow words, the social ex-votos of expats no-one truly believes. The only overlap between their realities is already only the shared Past. Like the horns of Bongo antelopes from Kissi François has left to his colleagues.
Doctor Ivanoff, who had delivered both kids, had come: a White Russian, a stateless citizen, like all of them for now.
Suzanne has put the dungarees and colonial helmet away for the trip, and dusted off her modern wife attire. In her bag, a light pastel blue gingham apron, in case. A practical look, the understated elegance of the Vichy pattern, and the discreet message of the Kölnisch Wasser 4711, all of it allows her to pop in and out of character whatever is needed: Frontier Suzanne or Madame Dulière. She bought the newspaper, L’Éveil, for the trip. That is a keeper.
It is not every day that you leave a country to jump into the unknown.
The docks now. Or the beach that passes for one. The last gatekeeper, sweating under an umbrella, stamps at the ready. Do you have gold, diamonds? No? Stamp. Enjoy.
There is a before the gangway, and an after it.
Suzanne climbs it, Claude holding her hand, France straddling her hip. Both kids are silent, wrapped up in the bustling activity and the sheer amount of people. The Colonel Klobb is a paddle-wheel boat, the funnel is bent, the decks worn. An antique, baked in the tropics, tough as teak. A stubborn old lady of a ship. For the moment, she is gently rocking between two wooden barges that cling to her like skirts, one a makeshift quay, the other an impromptu commercial gallery for one last souvenir.
An inspiring mix of gasoil, sweat, mould and brine wafts over the top deck by 32ºC and 80% humidity. Truly the tropics, that.
The Klobb has one last statement to make. A majestic, oversized captain’s wheel takes price of place on the upper deck: I have with a real captain, with a wheel to turn, and a steam-horn to toot. I may be covered in tarps, planks and canvas sheets like a sailing caravan, but I am a ship!
A shadow drifts above the timeline, a creeping sense of déjà-vu.
This is the sister-ship to the SS Baron Dhanis, in May 1931. Suzanne is in Albertville once again. 10 years ago, only. 10 years ago, already. This had been their Africa, the Africa of the Tanganyika, of the Mutambala, of the Congo river-boats, the Nellie in the Heart of Darkness, the African Queen. Once, the warped wood, the bent funnels, the patched decks had been romance, marvel, thrill. Suzanne looks at the passengers crowding the railing as if taking a tram: yes, it had been. It was now just transportation.
It had its time! We move on.
And so does Africa. It is ever so, eternally young and new, ancient and decrepit. Nothing between hours and centuries, as if yesterday never existed, only Now and Then.
The wood is loaded. The decks heave with passenger. The trunks and crates have been loaded, the merchants packed their wares, François has taken his pictures.
The ship is ready to head for the High Seas. Will there be U-Boots?
Toot Toot. To Congo!
Now – Wednesday 25th May 2016, Foreign Registration Office Gurgaon, India, 3rd Floor, Room 312, Mini Secretariat, Gurgaon Court, 14h00
No proud slogan, just grimy terracotta, lists after lists of offices hiding disjointed bricks: the décor is set.
Off from the street and the blinding Sun into the long shadows of the gatehouse. A dusky courtyard after the cavernous doorway, lit by collapsing windowpanes. A cliff-face of heavyset balconies, stacked against the metal sky. Cables, ropes and strings gaily dangle in a tangled web, each desperately trying to snare enough energy for their allotted office. Some have frayed into corroded twigs, failures, as lost as the desks they powered. Iridescent clouds of dust motes swirl playfully in the light beaming from holes in the walls and broken roller blinds.
An indifferent crowd files in, silent, subdued; another files out, still stunned.
And at the back of the void deck, a choice. A lift. So says the sign. Part of it lounges on the floor, something drips from the call button. Paint? Oil? An armed guard dares you to try. Or narrow cinderblock staircases, dark caverns taunting you. Pick one. Climb.
Room 312 is packed, the silence reverent, the heads bowed.
Here, justice is served, fate is decided.
The space is divided between the half crammed with wire chairs, where else sit all 25 of them, and the other half at the centre, of which sits a mahogany desk. Chairs are packed in narrow lanes, forcing awkward access. Escape routes are a second thought here, if not a fifth. A compact scrum of knees to chin, knees to metal backrest, fidgeting elbows each side finish box you in. Stare in the void. Start waiting. The desk stays empty.
A mechanical counter over the door ratchets noisily the tally so far: any number between 30 and 38, 3∩ as the second number fell asleep mid-way in the afternoon torpor, stuck as a tantalizing ˘. The docket says 64.
39C outside. Inside? A guess. Sweat streams in rivulets on everyone’s faces. A heady scent of gasoil gratefully switches off any sense of smell. A thin veil blurs your sight: the AQI is a languid 135 PM2.5, enough to evacuate Denmark. The walls and ceiling are pitted with mould, gently flaking. The delicate eggshell tint is the fading reminder of a time when smoking was not a sin, but an attitude.
The Sun glares diffusely through grimy de-polished glass, matted perplex and sagging plastic sheets.
Distraction is provided: peep through the cracked floor plates, finger-wide gaps between concrete slabs, a panorama of the 2 levels below if aligned correctly. A chaiwala sets a tea on the scuffed desk. In the silence and devotion, an invisible back door opens, squeaks painfully and the Authority makes its entrance. Sits. Sips. The statutory pause is not yet finished, just bask in the utter omnipotence, here and now.
Look upon his work, and despair.
The docket, a plastic folder with 4 photos of standard regulatory size (51mm x 51mm), and a crispy 100 Rupees banknote for the processing fee.
The cup of tea clinks. The stamp booms like a gavel. A file changes tray on the desk.
A nod to the counterwala and 3∩ clanks to 31.
Only 33 to go then.
First step of leaving Cameroon is by train
“Chief Adamaoua in front of the Bureau Indigene”
Commissariat Special for Diplomatic Affairs and Security
François Duliére’s hunting license for a medium Caliber Mauser 9.3
You read part 33 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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