“All aboard!” the conductor yells.
Major Thys is the first to climb into the carriage, followed by the others according to rank or social standing. I let everyone go before me, because I have not yet had the chance to admire the train, or rather what is supposed to pass for one. The locomotive is a small Belgian-built Cockerill 0-4-0T. On one hand, I understand that transporting a locomotive all the way to the Congo is no everyday feat. But if the purpose is to haul heavy tonnages of goods from the heart of the country to the port of Matadi, since further upriver the stream is impassable, I would have chosen a more powerful model. I cast one last glance at the cliffs surrounding the town and my doubts grow stronger still. Then I notice the little train has a track gauge of only thirty inches, which means the wagons are just as limited. I shake my head and keep my opinion to myself, as no-one would appreciate it anyway.
Behind the locomotive and its tender of wood comes the first-class carriage. The gentlemen and the White Fathers have settled comfortably by the windows, full of excitement as if on a school outing. They wave at their loved ones staying behind in Matadi, point into the distance and laugh loudly. Next is an open goods wagon carrying railway material: rails, sleepers and trolleys. The last two wagons are closed. Without doubt, they contain the baskets marked FN that I saw unloaded from the Léopoldville yesterday. I now notice they are indeed locked with padlocks. I am curious to know what is really inside, but I shall no doubt discover it when we arrive in Songololo.
The locomotive whistles and I am the last to board. The carriage bears a sign reading première classe, but it is hardly better than a third-class carriage in Belgium. One sits on the narrowest of wooden benches lining either side of the aisle, without even a cushion to soften what promises to be a very jolting journey. Judging from the loud and cheerful chatter, the gentlemen seem not in the least concerned. I push my way through the heavy tobacco smoke and take a seat beside a White Father. I had not seen him on the ship, and the deep red of his skin suggests he has been here for some time. His beard is long and as white as his robe, and he peers at the world outside through a pair of tiny spectacles. Who knows what those eyes have seen in his lifetime! At first glance, he shows no interest in the man who has just sat down beside him, but continues gazing into the distance. It makes me uneasy: should I disturb him with an introduction, since we shall be travelling companions for three hours, or leave him in his own world, which seems so far above ours? In the end, I decide courtesy is what distinguishes us from the animals, and I extend my hand.
"Erm… allow me to introduce myself. Lieutenant Jan Deghendt. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Father."
The priest slowly turns towards me, studies me with his dark eyes, and then accepts my hand. His grip is firm.
"Father Jacob, a pleasure," he replies, "and if you prefer, I also speak Flemish."
His reply is brief, yet it surprises me nonetheless, for my mother tongue is considered nothing but a rustic peasant dialect in my home country, unworthy of use by those who consider themselves important, Flemish or not. It implies that this priest has truly embraced the life prescribed by Christ, without looking down upon anyone. I feel immediately at ease.
"Thank you, Father. After so many weeks I am glad to be able to use the language of my ancestors. Where are you from?"
"Bruges, the fair city. And judging by your accent, you are from Antwerp, am I right?"
"Indeed, Father. You seem to know quite a lot."
"One learns much when one travels, Lieutenant. Is that not the reason you have come here?" he asks unexpectedly.
"How… I beg your pardon?" I reply, unprepared for his deeply philosophical question.
"To learn," he repeats.
"Er… no, Father, I have come to contribute to the building of the railway," I explain.
"Of course. Certainly," he says with a slight undertone of jest.
The priest turns his head back towards the view, leaving me with a strange feeling. What did he mean?
"Best hold on tight, Lieutenant," he suddenly resumes, "we’re off, and I assure you it will be rougher than going on pilgrimage to Santiago on the back of an old mule."
Scarcely has he spoken when the train lurches into motion, the carriage rocking violently from side to side. Each junction between the rails delivers a jolt, and I have to concede the Father may be right: an old mule might have been preferable. The noise within the carriage grows, and all those on the right-hand side stand and lean out of the windows to wave farewell to their loved ones, who slowly vanish upon the receding platform. From my side, I enjoy the sight of the great Congo River, which makes my dear Scheldt of Antwerp seem but a country brook in comparison. Across the river, green hills rise in a faint haze, a rugged land where no man has ever set foot. I do not feel in the best of spirits to fully appreciate the scene, but I must admit the Congo is a magnificent country. It could almost be a paradise, were it not so wild.
"Forgive me, Father, but what did you mean by… to learn?" I insist.
He sighs deeply. A long pause. The train sways on.
"My dear Lieutenant, learning is the highest possession we have. The soul grows only through learning, so that it may reach further towards divine enlightenment. Thus I would say you are here to learn."
"But what am I to learn? There are no schools here, not even a church worthy of the name!"
"Life is the greatest school. One need only look outside."
We are passing through a less attractive part of the town, where the houses are no longer houses but shacks and huts, built from primitive and the most surprising materials, mostly branches and palm leaves. Smoke rises everywhere from the many fires the women have lit for cooking, and the natural scent of the land is mixed with another, far more bitter one: that of a poverty I could never have imagined before. Countless children run about naked, their bodies thin, their bellies swollen, covered in flies they make no effort to chase away. The women, too, wear nothing but a cloth tied around their hips and bear clear signs of malnutrition. Perhaps it is true they are not human beings like us, yet even my grandparents’ horse was not forced to live in such wretched conditions. What strikes me most of all, however, is that the women are doing the hardest labour, while most of the men I see are merely sitting in the shade. I watch women carrying bundles of firewood upon their heads that must weigh ten stone, or else performing other tasks that demand the strength of men. They do it without complaint, and with the same pride I had noticed in that woman with the amphora whom I saw yesterday in town. And now that I pay attention... the women appear to outnumber the men significantly, unless most of the men are asleep at home. Or rather, in those huts of wood and leaves.
"Did you know that Major Thys gave his own name to this part of the town?" the friar suddenly whispers in my ear, "And he is very proud of it!"
I do not know what to say. I am too bewildered, and a little agitated. I understand the friar meant to draw my attention to the poverty that lurks behind every corner in this underdeveloped country. But he has no right to strike such a low blow at a man who deserves, more than any other, our respect and admiration for having brought civilisation to this forsaken hole of the world.
"Excuse me, Father, but what are you trying to imply?" I reply with irritation. "That our Major takes pleasure in the natives living in these conditions?"
"I did not say that," he answers with the same calm. "But the question is whether he truly intends to change things for the good of these poor people."
"Is that not obvious, then?" I burst out. "The fact that we are here to bring our civilisation and Christianity, of which you are the very representative, is that not proof enough?"
"Lieutenant, you are still young, and full of idealism. It is a thing you should never lose, that idealism, for it will give you strength to continue fighting for a good cause. But I pray that the good Lord will also grant you the strength to distinguish good from evil, also when the difference between them is not so clear."
He turns again towards the open window and continues to gaze at the panorama of the Congo River. I turn a little the other way. I feel shaken and angry, but also confused. I look for Mr. Harris. At first I cannot spot him, his small figure lost among the crowd in this packed carriage, but then I see him a little further towards the centre of the carriage. He too is looking out in silence, clutching his camera tightly, while around him the others continue to chatter. From the very beginning a small voice inside me had already warned that something was not right about the Congo... that something was unjust. Now it feels as though that same voice is shouting in my face. The difference between good and evil is not clear... I had always thought it was, and tried to act according to my Christian conscience. Sometimes I have regretted not fulfilling my duty as I wished. Yes, I have already failed completely in this respect, and I am ashamed of it. I am human, therefore imperfect and prone to error. If this is what the friar meant by ‘learning’, he is right. Even a lifetime would not suffice to learn.
By now the Cité Thys has disappeared behind a steep bank. That tiny fraction of civilisation no longer exists here in the jungle that has suddenly swallowed us whole; it survives only on this train, with its men and their bravado. Barely twenty minutes have passed and I already feel as though I am being lowered on a rope from a bridge into the abyss. Down below lies the black depth of hell. The further the train moves from the station, the further the bridge recedes from me, and the more I descend into darkness. I had felt something of this already when the Léopoldville entered the mouth of the Congo River, but now the sensation is a thousand times stronger. I turn towards the other side... to the great river and the misty hills in the distance.
Marieke... my Marieke... you are so far away from me. I must confess I have not thought of you for a while. I know it is unforgivable, but circumstances have carried me away. I open the locket and see your smiling face, your inviting lips, your ginger curls, and you give me strength. I cannot give up, not now, not when the adventure has barely begun. Without your support I will not endure. But I know that you are thinking of me as I am thinking of you now, and I swear that I will make you proud of me. I will return to marry you.
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