Chapter twenty one:
For the Congo V--- 1907
The train ride for this leg of the journey was mercifully brief, spanning just two days—a relative luxury considering the vast distances typical of African travel.
The sheer scale of African distances is nearly impossible to grasp, for even after countless glances at maps. The land seems almost otherworldly, a tapestry of features we passed, of deep forests, dense jungles, towering mountains, and sprawling rivers that defy my description.
During the ride, my thoughts often turned to what our destination might hold. Would it be a compact town, its buildings packed tightly to conserve space? Or perhaps a chaotic sprawl of haphazard structures, caught between order and disarray? I wondered if the architecture would bear the hallmark of Belgian precision or devolve into a crude imitation of minimalism.
When Nicholas, Conrad, and I finally stepped off the train—carefully navigating the alarmingly wide gap between the carriage and platform—I was met with a scene that encapsulated all my musings and added new shades of disappointment.
What greeted us was a sight of utter disrepair. The semi-enclosed station building bore cracks that ran jagged across the floor, some of which revealed patches of open dirt hastily filled with loose gravel. The roof, stained with water damage, sagged ominously at its corners.
To my left, near where the train had departed, I noticed a tree growing precariously close to the tracks. Its presence was a stark emblem of neglect—a living testament to the decay of societal order or, perhaps, its complete absence.
My expectations, already lowered by the state of the Belgian port and the first station we visited, were nonetheless shattered. Was this crumbling infrastructure truly the foundation of Leopold's vast wealth? It resembled the work of children—hastily planned, poorly constructed, and ineptly maintained. The sight kindled a fury within me I hadn't anticipated.
Granted, it had been four years since the newspapers exposed Leopold's methods of exploitation. Perhaps this station had been abandoned as part of a broader retreat? Yet the level of decay defied reason. Could mere neglect wreak such havoc in so short a time? The answer seemed implausible.
If this station was representative of the Congo's infrastructure, the region would be fortunate to have anything functional by 1920. Without a significant change to disrupt the status quo, decline seemed inevitable.
Suppressing a weary sigh, I turned my focus away from the pitiful station and followed Nicholas and Conrad, who bore their arms openly as if daring the world to challenge us. We passed by an indifferent attendant, slumped half-sleep, as we stepped through a single door propped ajar by two lone bricks.
Through the veil of thick morning fog, I strained to take in the town's layout. At first glance, I counted twenty buildings—no, closer to thirty, scattered haphazardly.
The buildings mirrored the train station's pitiful state. Water damage streaked their walls and roofs, with some windows boarded up and others left as yawning gaps where glass once was. Devoid of signs or any ornamental flourishes, these wooden structures betrayed their transient nature, built without foresight or care—a temporary answer to a problem no one intended to solve.
The few natives who caught sight of us quickly turned away, retreating into nearby buildings and shutting their doors—if they even had doors to close. Their avoidance was deliberate, almost instinctual, as if our very presence was unwelcome or foreboding.
I came to an abrupt halt to avoid colliding with Nicholas, who had stopped ahead of me and was now speaking.
"Let's head to the well and fill our canteens before moving on," Nicholas said, his voice tinged with unease. "I don't like how empty this place feels."
Conrad added firmly, "Pay attention to the buildings—their windows, roofs, vegetation, everything. Memorize it all."
We silently nodded our agreement and began walking, careful to avoid the puddles scattered along the dirt road. Conrad's instructions were sound, and I followed them diligently, scanning the roofs and windows, trying to piece together a pattern from the town's disarray. Yet Conrad's vigilance outstripped us both. His head moved in an erratic rhythm—left to right, up and down—while his hands gripped his rifle, ready for action. The sight unsettled me, and I suspected it had the same effect on Nicholas.
As we walked, my mind churned with questions. How could the infrastructure have fallen into such disrepair? Why was a station, vital to any settlement's survival, left to rot? It felt deliberate, as though this place had been abandoned by design. No competent governor, mayor, or colonial official would risk their reputation by allowing such neglect. Something about this place was deeply, fundamentally wrong.
After fifteen minutes of aimless searching, we finally located the well. I hauled up a bucket of murky water, and the three of us filled our canteens, handling the bucket with deliberate care before lowering it back into the depths.
None of us dared to drink. We knew better than to trust water from an unfiltered source. Iodine would have to suffice for purification, as there was no time to boil it. The urgency of our departure pressed heavily upon us, but first, we needed to prepare—both our gear and ourselves—for the trek ahead.
Setting our rucksacks down, I pulled out my map and compass, placing them on a nearby rock to prepare for our navigation.
I lagged behind the others as we dressed, fumbling slightly but recalling the steps well enough. Carefully, I wrapped white cloth around the gap between my boots and the cuffs of my leggings, tying it tightly to secure the seal. After repeating the process for my arms, I waited as Conrad and Nicholas assisted each other with their own wrappings.
When they finished, I handed them my remaining cloth, and they carefully wrapped it around my neck, both lower and upper, and even around my ears. Every exposed inch of skin was covered with precision, ensuring minimal vulnerability to the jungle's many dangers.
Though the jungle's sweltering heat could climb to 29-32 degrees Celsius (84-90°F), the layers of cloth were a necessary burden. The discomfort of sweat-soaked fabric paled in comparison to the potential horrors of contracting a deadly jungle fever.
After verifying Nicholas's compass work against the map, we oriented ourselves toward the opposite edge of the town. There, amidst the dense foliage, lay the path that would lead us to the secluded rubber village.
Fifteen minutes of trudging under the oppressive heat and enduring the watchful eyes of the town's inhabitants brought us to the edge where open grassland met dense jungle. Before us lay a choice: a faint path where the vegetation thinned slightly. Was it truly a trail, or a deceptive opening leading to nothing?
With the settlement all but abandoned, there was no governing body to maintain the trails, nor any translator to secure a local guide. The path ahead was ours to navigate alone, fraught with uncertainty and isolation.
It was here that we faced a critical decision: to gamble on the unknown trail or retreat to seek another way.
The agreement that the arguments for pressing onward outweighed the risks. Armed with a compass and a methodical approach to tracking our movements on paper, we felt equipped to navigate the wilderness.
As should all else fail, we could always rely on a simple fallback plan: travel west until we reached the railway tracks, then follow them northwest back to the station.
After deliberating for several minutes, weighing the pros and cons, we unanimously agreed to proceed. Conrad's heightened vigilance—his sharp, darting gaze—only underscored the unease that lingered from the village.
The journey through the jungle was a grueling march. We paced ourselves at a mere one to one and a half miles per hour, striving to avoid overheating. Despite my logical understanding that the temperature hovered around 30 degrees Celsius, the oppressive humidity and layers of gear made it feel closer to 36. Yet I kept my discomfort to myself, stifled by a tedium that left me humming softly to pass the time.
Our decision to wrap ourselves proved wise. Roughly two hours into the trek, we passed what I assumed was a small pond, only to be swarmed by mosquitoes. We broke into a light jog, hoping the motion would make it difficult for the pests to settle on the scant patches of exposed skin. Those that managed to land were swiftly swatted away in a rhythm of desperation. For twenty agonizing minutes, it was an unrelenting cycle of movement—up, down, swipe—until, mercifully, the swarm dissipated.
The torment of those twenty minutes stretched into what felt like an eternity. In that miserable span, I made a solemn vow: never again would I willingly set foot in a jungle after this journey. It is a promise I have kept unwaveringly to this day.
Once the mosquito onslaught subsided, we were left with nothing but monotonous jungle for the next nine hours. Our eventual decision to stop was not driven by injury or exhaustion, but simply by the encroaching darkness. The dwindling light made further progress treacherous, forcing us to rest for the night.
Veering off the trail by roughly 50 to 70 meters, we set up our tents in a small clearing amidst trees and vegetation. Exhaustion overcame us, leaving no energy to clear the ground of sticks or undergrowth, let alone build a fire. We simply crawled into our tents after removing the wrappings from our boots and pants, peeling off our sweat-soaked socks. Though the oppressive heat—still hovering near 30 degrees Celsius—made restful sleep elusive, we seized whatever comfort we could.
The journey thus far had been nothing short of hell, and we were only slightly beyond the halfway mark. By our estimates, if we pressed on at first light, we could hope to reach the village by midday or, at worst, early evening.