We’ve already been on the move for three hours. Fortunately, the mindless shouting and swearing didn’t last long, and now silence reigns in the carriage, broken only by the mechanical noises, the repetitive deng-deng of the rails, the blasts of steam from the locomotive, and its regular whistles. More than once I’ve wondered how that engine managed to haul all its load up the steep track along the cliffs of the Mpozo River. Afterwards, we crossed the hills of Lower Congo with their ravines and peaks. I was often afraid, seeing the train teetering between the rocks and the gorge, which must have been at least six hundred feet deep. I cannot even imagine how a railway was ever carved through here, but in the end the train passed without mishap.
That said, my backside is aching badly and I’d gladly get up from this hard bench. It would be a very poor idea, though, as the jolts of the train are far too violent and I’ve no wish to end up in Commander Rom’s lap. I haven’t spoken again with the friar beside me since our earlier conversation, nor have I felt the urge to resume it, even though that small voice within me keeps whispering. Perhaps the friar was right when he said I was here to learn, and so we shall see.
The journey is decidedly calmer now that we’ve crossed the Lufu River and left the steepest hills behind. I even find myself beginning to enjoy it a little, despite the utter lack of comfort. We are gliding above the canopy of the rainforest, and I am deeply moved by this immense sea of green. We have not yet seen many animals, apart from a few monkeys, but judging from the countless different cries this immense forest must be teeming with life. I don’t know why, but even the heat seems more bearable today. Perhaps here on this plateau, a thousand foot above sea level, the humidity weighs less heavily than down by the Congo River? Or perhaps in Congo the weather can change as wildly from one day to the next as it does in Belgium? A light breeze brushes my face and does me good. My stomach holds for now. The flies no longer attack me by the million. I try to savour this brief moment of peace of mind.
The station of Songololo cannot be far now, and then the real work will begin. Congo has overwhelmed me, and I realise I shall need time to adapt fully. Yet this little train journey has restored some confidence, and I dare say that now I look forward to meeting the engineers already on site, to discuss with them the progress of the railway construction. The solutions we shall have to devise in order to cross this wild land with its meagre means will have to be ingenious and this is precisely the sort of challenge I relish: always at the limits of technology and human ingenuity.
The forest begins to open, giving way to a wide clearing covered in red, iron-rich earth. The train slows and then comes to a halt. At first glance it looks as though we have arrived in the very middle of nowhere, but then, to the right of the train, I see Songololo station. It is much like Matadi’s, only smaller, with a veranda all around the central little building. Like Matadi, it is decked with a host of flags on its roof, lending a festive air. Unlike Matadi though, which can rightly be called a small town, here there is nothing at all. The station stands on stilts about four foot high, reached by a flight of steps up to the veranda. Then one crosses through the station itself, steps down another staircase at the rear, and beyond that… nothing, save for a few shacks a little further to the right. Not even a road. Nothing.
It strikes me as odd, because the main road from Léopoldville to Matadi ought to pass through here. Yet I see no sign of it. Only red earth and rainforest stretching all the way to the horizon. But then I realise I was mistaken. A little further back I can just make out a local village, with dozens of dwellings, or rather huts of wood and thatch, that blend so seamlessly into the browns and greens of the forest that they are difficult to discern. Only the thin plumes of smoke rising slowly into the white sky betray their presence. There too lies the local warehouse for rubber collection, a wooden structure in the colonial style showing clear signs of neglect: the slats on its walls stained with patches of black rot.
And that is not all. In fact, there is something else, and the reality strikes me like a blow to the face. Behind the shacks near the station, as far as my eyes can reach to the edge of the forest, lie black men sprawled and sitting on the bare ground. Without so much as a cloth to shield them from the merciless Sun. They appear almost naked, filthy, and terribly malnourished. And then I smell it… not the strong odour of Africa that so crushed me at first but to which I am slowly growing accustomed, but a revolting stench of rot and human excrement.
This is Songololo. A station which, in this setting, resembles a royal palace with its cheerful flags fluttering, surrounded by a human cesspit stretching as far as the eye can see. The contrast could not be more shocking. I long to cover my nose and mouth with a handkerchief, but since no-one else does, I cannot yield to the temptation. The friar beside me is still sitting motionless, as he has done the whole journey, his gaze fixed outside. Now I regret having been a little curt with him, since I must admit he was right… life is the greatest of schools, and I am learning indeed, more than I ever wished to.
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