Chapter 5 - Matadi

The following day.

The Léopoldville has just moored at the first of the two quays in the port of Matadi. I lack the inspiration to describe this country without diminishing it. Everything here is amplified: the river, the cliffs, the forests, and the most hostile climate imaginable. We wrestled with the Congo for most of the day and managed barely thirty miles. Further upstream lie the most violent rapids in the world. Those who attempted them never lived to tell their tale, smashed against the rocks like insignificant insects or drowned in the brown froth of the waves. Even the great explorer Stanley tried to cross them, though only the final stretch. In the end, he reached Matadi with barely half the men he had left and escaped death himself only by a miracle.

Evening is approaching and still my eyes are forced to narrow almost completely against the yellow light, which remains unbearably bright. The oppressive heat, enough to melt lead, weighs on my shoulders and back, along which beads of sweat trickle endlessly. Worse still is the humidity and the dusty haze that limits the view to only a few miles. Yet the most terrible of all are the flies. Not hundreds, as on my grandparents’ farm. Here they are millions and aggressive beyond belief. They settle everywhere: on my clothes, my hands, my face, dozens at a time. I try to wave them away, only for them to land back in exactly the same place a moment later. They even dare to alight on my very eyes to drink the moisture. And I have not yet even set foot on land. I feel increasingly isolated, even though I am surrounded by colleagues. Aboard ship, we were still almost entirely white. Down there, we shall be an invisible minority.

I notice Mr. Harris a little further along the rail, busy immortalising the city. Curiosity draws me to greet him.

“Good morning, Mr. Harris! We’ve crossed paths several times already, but we’ve not yet had the chance to be properly introduced.”

“Ah… good morning, Lieutenant. Yes, you’re quite right. John Harris, photographer.”

He extends his hand a little nervously, and I shake it. For an Englishman, he speaks French remarkably well, and I find his accent rather amusing.

“Yes, in fact, I already knew you were here to document the conquest of the Congo. I see you’ve already begun?”

“Yes… yes, precisely so,” he continues, with a voice even more hesitant than his handshake. “It’s an extraordinary panorama, this new city encircled by green hills, don’t you think? I already took a photograph yesterday as we entered the river’s mouth, though I fear it didn’t come out well. The ship was pitching too much…”

He fumbles with his handkerchief, his gaze constantly darting.

“Indeed, it is a beautiful panorama. But what will you photograph mainly? The nature? The buildings we’ve raised? The people of the Congo?…”

“To be honest, I don’t yet know,” he replies, removing the plate from his camera. “My intention was to decide in the moment, guided by inspiration, but… between us… the discussion during dinner yesterday, if we shall call it that, has given me pause. To be frank, the royal court has charged me with showing the World the magnificent work we are accomplishing in the Congo, and thereby bringing honour and glory to the King.”

Then, lowering his voice suddenly while mopping his brow with the large handkerchief, he adds:

“Lieutenant… I tell you this in confidence, because I trust you…”

I nod. I would never betray his trust. He continues.

“This commission does not please me in the least. Why send me here to document reality, when they have already decided from the outset what that reality is to be?”

His question's unexpected and it startles me. 

“So you have doubts about our mission then?”

“Doubts? I would not put it that way. I simply wish to show the truth of this country, pleasant or otherwise. Look down there, Lieutenant. I haven’t only been capturing the panorama…”

I glance down at the harbour, teeming with Africans. Porters, labourers, and servants, like ants in an anthill, controlled by only a handful of white officers who heighten their air of superiority by donning white uniforms. They are the commanders of the Force Publique and they hold a status that seems almost divine, judging by the way the locals treat, or rather avoid them. Yet my impression is that the townsfolk fear the FP soldiers even more. To my surprise, they are all black! Every last one of them. Here they are called the chosen, selected from among the most loyal and dependable natives, or else kin to chiefs whose friendship we seek to maintain. After all, we need native cooperation if the country is to function.

Unlike their white superiors, they wear blue uniforms with baggy zouave trousers, shirts with red epaulettes, and a distinctive cap of the same colour. They bark orders and shout incessantly at the porters unloading the ship. The one overseeing the gangway strikes me as particularly cruel, for he constantly tests the strength of his chicotte, a hippopotamus-hide whip, on the backs, arms, and legs of the labourers.

“Mbuá! Beno fufú!” he shouts at the poor souls. I have no idea what it means, but from the look on his face, it can hardly be anything kind. With a force that seems almost superhuman, and under relentless lashes, the men haul crate after heavy crate, an endless column. Railway materials, I think at first, until I notice with horror the inscription Fabrique Nationale d’Armes de Guerre, Herstal on the side of one. I had thought the Léopoldville packed with rails, sleepers, and nails. In truth, its main cargo is quite another matter. Weapons. A cursed heap of weapons!

Once again, I must admit to myself how little I know of this country, with its many dangers lurking in the shadows. Yet if they expect me to oversee the prompt completion of the railway, I had at least expected to be given the means to achieve it. Already during the voyage my enthusiasm for this adventure had suffered several blows. Now I am beginning to ask myself, in all sincerity, why I have been sent here. True, I was trained as a lieutenant of the Belgian armed forces, and if command orders me to take up the fight against that damned slaver Tippu Tip and his Arab army, I shall do my duty. Even though I am nothing more than an engineer.