Chapter 13 - The Gazelles and the Gazellines

"Are we all ready?” Major Thys suddenly asks as he joins us from his private quarters in the barracks, followed closely by Commander Rom. “Then let’s have breakfast. It will be a long day."

This time I eat a hearty breakfast, for I am ravenous. Hardly surprising, after nearly two days without food. It does not feel appropriate, but my body is screaming and so I obey its needs. Fried eggs and fatty sausage are served at the officers’ table this morning. I devour it all with such greed that it makes the others laugh, all except Louis, who still broods over our confrontation earlier. By now everyone has heard of my adventures after that dinner in Matadi, and especially of the outcome on the balcony the following morning.

"Careful, Jan, or you’ll vomit on Bourgeois here!" I hear Captain Roger roar with laughter, pointing at the sub-lieutenant sitting beside me. The others laugh too, and I join in so as not to seem too much the outsider, in spite of their mockery. But nobody laughs with Mr. Harris, who also vomited yesterday and in full view of everyone, merely because they executed yet another monkey. He sits at the end of the table and does not speak to anyone. I wonder how he spent the night, since I never saw him again after that scene at the station when he had slumped against the wall beside his own sick. I doubt he took advantage of the “gift” we were given for the night. More likely, he was not even offered one. Nor do I see Brother Jacob, though I suppose he has in the meantime joined the mission of the White Fathers here in the village.

After the meal the servants clear the plates. I notice them furtively eating the few scraps that remain, but soon my attention returns to the table where the major has spread out a large map of the region.

"Mr. Christensen," he addresses the Danish engineer, "would you kindly tell us the current situation, please?"

The engineer rises, steps to the major’s side, smooths his rather long blond hair, and begins his report.

"Well... the railway is complete up to six miles east of Songololo."

"Complete?" the major interrupts. "Complete as in ready for commercial use?"

"Yes, Major."

"Ah, so you have at least accomplished something in my absence. And after that?"

"After that, we have already dug the foundations for another four miles, as far as the Kula mountains. All that remains is to lay the rails, which should go fairly quickly."

"How quickly?" the major demands sternly.

"Well... with a bit of luck..." Christensen hesitates. "Two hundred... two hundred and fifty yards a day."

"Not good enough!" the major cuts him off. "We are talking about flat ground with no obstacles and the foundations already in place. I want to see double that."

"D... double?" Christensen stutters.

"Yes, engineer. You heard me. Or there will be consequences."

"In that case... we shall do our very best. But..."

"Deghendt!" the major suddenly barks my name. "What do you think? In my opinion Mr. Christensen is far too pessimistic."

I freeze. What does the major want from me? How could I possibly give an informed opinion on a situation I know nothing about? I have not seen the foundations, the ground, the materials; I do not know the labourers, their methods or their experience. But there is no doubt what the major expects: he wants me to say that doubling the output will be easy, that building five hundred yards of railway in a single day without so much as a crane will be no problem at all.

I rise to step closer and look at the map myself. Engineer Christensen fixes me with his piercing pale-blue eyes, and I return his gaze. I have no desire whatsoever to contradict my distinguished colleague, but I am forced to. I have no choice. I study the map.

"What have you used to fill the railway bed?" I ask.

"Gravel from the Lufu river... It is rather sandy, but I believe firm enough, and of course it is the closest and easiest to transport here."

Sandy... exactly what I feared. Damn!

"And how deep is it?"

"I would say... a foot... a foot and a half."

One foot... truly the bare minimum, assuming the subsoil is firm enough to absorb the blows of the load. I have already seen that the soil here is very clayey, so yes, it will be firm and absorbent. But will it endure? I have serious doubts, especially after witnessing yesterday’s deluge. A downpour like that could wash away whole sections of foundation in an instant on such clay ground, which allows no water to drain. I doubt they have considered drainage channels for the rainwater — at least, I saw none near the station. On the other hand, at first glance I have not seen damage either. So I pray to God and all His saints that I am not wrong in siding with the major. If anything goes wrong, it will be my head on the block, not his.

"Well... yes..." I answer at last, with great hesitation. "In my view, it would be possible to complete four... five hundred yards a day."

The major is satisfied.

"You see, Mr. Christensen? With a little optimism and good will, great things can be achieved!"

The engineer nods and lowers his head. Once more our eyes meet, and I silently beg his forgiveness.

In the meantime, Chief Mokoko, with his bowler hat and medal pinned to his chest, joins us and greets the Belgian officers with a huge grin. He slaps his shoulders with his fly whisk, decorated with black feathers.

"Mbotè! Hello! Great Major Chief! Today is a beautiful day!"

If it is optimism the major is looking for, he finds it embodied in this man.

"Greetings, Chief Mokoko," the major replies, his voice warm and intense, his thick moustache not moving in the slightest.

"So, great Chief! Did you enjoy the pretty gazelles? Heheheee... Handsome Major Chief with pretty gazelleeee! Heheheee!"

The major has no intention whatsoever of answering such a question, though I am certain he had a fine time last night as well. His red, swollen head looks about to burst, but luckily for Chief Mokoko, it does not, otherwise his bowler would be decorating his shoulders by now. The chief, unconcerned, goes on, addressing all of us while waving his fly whisk.

‘Yes, yes... pretty gazelles for handsome men... heheheee! Fuckyfucky... pretty gazelles... heheheee!"

The others, especially Captain Roger, struggle hard not to burst out laughing. Their lips are pressed shut with all their strength. Chief Mokoko turns again towards the head of the table.

"What does Great Major Chief do today? Visit the beautiful railway? Heheheee...!"

"Yes, indeed. We are about to depart," the major answers sternly, "and you are coming with us."

I think it impossible, but these words pour over the chief’s hyper-euphoric mood like a bucket of iced water. He no longer knows what to say. Clearly, he is not at all keen on going to work and would much rather stay here with his gazelles.

"Good, allons-y!" the major commands, as he puts his white helmet back on his head. We rise and leave for the station, followed by the chief, whose steps now resemble those of a lumbering hippo rather than a frisky colt. There, the FP guards have already gathered the labourers and are waiting for us. The major, far from pleased, begins to roar furiously at the soldiers.

"What the hell were you thinking? Idiots! We don’t need the labourers here! They should already be at the end of the railway! Who told you to assemble them here?"

The soldiers cast stupid looks at each other but dare not reply.

"Then bloody get them moving! I want them at the site before we get there! At once, damn it!"

They hesitate not for a second and dash towards the large group of labourers, ordering them to get going. Chief Mokoko too shouts a few sharp words at them in their own tongue, likely feeling the need to prove to the others that he, too, belongs to the officer corps. The labourers now face a tough trial before the work itself: six cursed miles running barefoot under that merciless Sun. They are not allowed to take the train, for there is no space for all, and above all, the train consumes less fuel without the extra weight. The soldiers scream, strike blows, and do not hesitate to use their chicotte or the butt of their rifles. The labourers respond like a herd of cattle and begin to run in terror along the railway.

"And you will run after them to make sure they all arrive, understood?" the Major shouts again at the soldiers.

They understand.

"Now we go too. Forward!" he orders, and we climb back onto the train.

This time it is only a ten-minute journey. We soon pass the fleeing herd, still chased by the FP. Now we are not as many in the first-class carriage, and the air feels less suffocating, despite the officers puffing away with passion on their stubs. Commander Rom, especially, takes great pride in smoking almost continuously, exhaling the bluish smoke slowly through his narrow nostrils. Chief Mokoko, back in excellent spirits, even begins to sing, drumming his bench with his palms as though it were a djembé.

"The gazelles and the gazellines... tum tumda tum tum..."

The others watch him with great amusement, smirking and exchanging winks. The chief, undeterred, raises the volume.

‘The gaaaazelles and the gazellines... o... o... ooooo... tum tum tumda tum..."

He opens his throat to its fullest while his bowler slips even more askew upon his head. I notice he has a strange fibroma on the side of his left hand, shaped exactly like a miniature dandelion stalk pointing stiffly upwards. It is not the first fibroma I have ever seen, yet I wonder why his skin has chosen to grow in such a peculiar fashion.

‘The gaaaazelles... the gaaaazelles... and the gazelliiiines...!’ he builds to a crescendo.

"Mokoko, enough!" Major Thys silences him, and I am surprised he tolerated it so long before intervening. Usually, the major cannot bear cheerfulness for even a second.

Silence returns to the carriage. I gaze around me at this wild landscape, with its dense bushes in the most vivid green I have ever seen. On both sides, I see blacks wandering. Then I see it again: blacks, apparently painted entirely in white, returning from the forest. I am desperately curious, though I dare not ask. Luckily, I am not the only one.

"Who are they?" Louis asks the commander. The latter smiles.

"They are the rubber harvesters," he replies.

"But why are they painted like that?"

"They are not painted. That is the latex they have gathered," the major explains.

"Indeed," the commander continues, "they smear the latex over their bodies and then carry it to the collection point, where it is stripped off."

I almost let out a cry of "What?" in sheer outrage but restrain myself with difficulty.

"Yes...," the commander adds, "it is cheaper than supplying them with buckets, which are always lost anyway."

"Permit me, Commander," Captain Roger interjects, "but the coagulation on the skin improves the quality of the rubber because of the acidity of the flesh."

"Ah... indeed," the commander jokes, "our good Bernard Roger knows everything about rubber!"

"Well, I would not say everything, Commander," the captain answers humbly, "but having worked five years in the trade, I daresay I have gained a fair knowledge of the craft, yes."

By chance we pass closer to a collector, and I now see clearly. It is not paint that covers his almost entirely naked body, but a layer of latex almost an inch thick. Thus he walks through the jungle towards the Songololo depot, where it will be stripped from his body. I do not wish to imagine the pain this will surely cause. Now it is perfectly clear to me why the blacks here have no hair, not even the faintest down on their bodies.

There are others... many others... All white phantoms threading their way along the jungle tracks to deliver the liquid treasure hidden within the rubber trees.

"Tonight we will go to the depot to inspect," the major says. I never doubted it.

"The gazelles and the gazellines...,’ Chief Mokoko begins again softly.

"I said stop it!!!"