I
Two days more of travelling on the Lower Lualaba brought us to
Ponthierville, a jewel of a post with a setting of almost bewildering
tropical beauty. Here we spent the night on the boat and early the
following morning boarded a special train for Stanleyville, which is
only six hours distant by rail. Midway we crossed the Equator.
Thirty miles south of Stanleyville is the State Experimental Coffee Farm
of three hundred acres, which produces fifteen different species of the
bean. This institution is one evidence of a comprehensive agricultural
development inaugurated by the Belgian Government. The State has about
10,000 acres of test plantations, mostly Para rubber, cotton, and cacao,
in various parts of the Colony.
One commendable object of this work is to instill the idea of
crop-growing among the natives. Under ordinary circumstances the man of
colour in the tropics will only raise enough maize, manioc, or tobacco
for his own needs. The Belgian idea is to encourage co-operative farming
in the villages. In the region immediately adjacent to Stanleyville the
natives have begun to plant cotton over a considerable area. At Kongolo
I saw hundreds of acres of this fleecy plant under the sole supervision
of the indigenes.
Stanleyville marked one of the real mileposts of my journey. Here came
Stanley on his first historic expedition across Central Africa and
discovered the falls nearby that bear his name; here he set up the
Station that marked the Farthest East of the expedition which founded
the Congo Free State. Directly south-east of the town are seven distinct
cataracts which extend over fifty miles of seething whirlpools.
Stanleyville is the head of navigation on the Congo and like Paris, is
built on two sides of the river. On the right bank is the place of the
Vice-Governor General, scores of well stocked stores, and many desirable
residences. The streets are long avenues of palm trees. The left bank is
almost entirely given over to the railway terminals, yards, and repair
shops. My original plan was to live with the Vice-Governor General,
Monsieur de Meulemeester, but his establishment was so taxed by the
demands of the Ministerial party that I lodged with Monsieur Theews,
Chief Engineer of the Chemin de Fer des Grands Lacs, where I was most
comfortable in a large frame bungalow that commanded a superb view of
the river and the town.
At Stanleyville the Minister of the Colonies had a great reception. Five
hundred native troops looking very smart were drawn up in the plaza. On
the platform of the station stood the Vice-Governor General and staff in
spotless white uniforms, their breasts ablaze with decorations. On all
sides were thousands of natives in gay attire who cheered and chanted
while the band played the Belgian national anthem. Over it all waved the
flag of Belgium. It was a stirring spectacle not without its touch of
the barbaric, and a small-scale replica of what you might have seen at
Delhi or Cairo on a fête day.
I was only mildly interested in all this tumult and shouting. What
concerned me most was the swift, brown river that flowed almost at our
feet. At last I had reached the masterful Congo, which, with the sole
exception of the Amazon, is the mightiest stream in the world. As I
looked at it I thought of Stanley and his battles on its shores, and the
hardship and tragedy that these waters had witnessed.
Stanleyville is not only the heart of Equatorial Africa but it is also
an important administrative point. Hundreds of State officials report to
the Vice-Governor General there, and on national holidays and occasions
like the visit of the Colonial Minister, it can muster a gay assemblage.
Monsieur Franck's presence inspired a succession of festivities
including a garden party which was attended by the entire white
population numbering about seventy-five. There was also a formal dinner
where I wore evening clothes for the first and only time between
Elizabethville and the steamer that took me to Europe three months
later.
At the garden party Monsieur Franck made a graceful speech in which he
said that the real missionaries of African civilization were the wives
who accompanied their husbands to their lonely posts in the field. What
he said made a distinct impression upon me for it was not only the truth
but it emphasized a detail that stands out in the memory of everyone who
visits this part of the world. I know of no finer heroines than these
women comrades of colonial officials who brave disease and discomfort to
share the lives of their mates. For one thing, they give the native a
new respect for his masters. All white women in the Congo are called
"mamma" by the natives.
The use of "mamma" by the African natives always strikes the newcomer as
strange. It is a curious fact that practically the first word uttered by
the black infant is "mamma," and in thousands of cases the final
utterance of both adult male and female is the same word. In northern
Rhodesia and many parts of the Congo the native mother frequently refers
to her child as a "piccannin" which is almost the same word employed by
coloured people in the American South.
Stanleyville's social prestige is only equalled by her economic
importance. It is one of the great ivory markets of the world. During
the last two years this activity has undergone fluctuations that almost
put Wall Street to the blush.
During the war there was very little trafficking in ivory because it was
a luxury. With peace came a big demand and the price soared to more than
200 francs a kilo. The ordinary price is about forty. One trader at
Stanleyville cleaned up a profit of 3,000,000 francs in three months.
Then came the inevitable reaction and with it a unique situation. In
their mad desire to corral ivory the traders ran up the normal price
that the native hunters received. The moment the boom burst the white
buyers sought to regulate their purchases accordingly. The native,
however, knows nothing about the law of demand and supply and he holds
out for the boom price. The outcome is that hundreds of tons of ivory
are piled up in the villages and no power on earth can convince the
savage that there is such a thing as the ebb and flow of price. Such is
commercial life in the jungle.
Northeast of Stanleyville lie the most important gold mines in the
Colony. The precious metal was discovered accidentally some years ago in
the gravel of small rivers west of Lake Albert, and near the small towns
of Kilo and Moto. Four mines are now worked in this vicinity, two by the
Government and two by a private company. At the outbreak of the war this
area was on the verge of considerable development which has just been
resumed. At the time of my visit all these mines were placers and the
operation was rather primitive. With modern machinery and enlarged white
staffs will come a pretentious exploitation. The Government mines alone
yield more than $2,000,000 worth of gold every year. Shortly before my
arrival in the Congo what was heralded as the largest gold nugget ever
discovered was found in the Kilo State Mine. It weighed twelve pounds.
Stanleyville has a significance for me less romantic but infinitely more
practical than the first contact with the Congo River. After long weeks
of suffering from inefficient service I sacked Gerome and annexed a boy
named Nelson. The way of it was this: In the Katanga I engaged a young
Belgian who was on his way home, to act as secretary. He knew the native
languages and could always convince the most stubborn black to part with
an egg. Nelson was his servant. He was born on the Rhodesian border and
spoke English. I could therefore upbraid him to my heart's content,
which was not the case with Gerome. Besides, he was not handicapped with
a wife. In Africa the servants adopt the names of their masters. Nelson
had worked for an Englishman at Elizabethville and acquired his
cognomen. I have not the slightest doubt that he now masquerades under
mine. Be that as it may, Nelson was a model servant and he remained with
me until that September day when I boarded the Belgium-bound boat at
Matadi.
Nelson reminded me more of the Georgia Negro than any other one that I
saw in the Congo. He was almost coal black, he smiled continuously, and
his teeth were wonderful to look at. He had an unusual capacity for
work and also for food. I think he was the champion consumer of
_chikwanga_ in the Congo. The _chikwanga_ is a glutinous dough made from
the pounded root of the manioc plant and is the principal food of the
native. It is rolled and cut up in pieces and then wrapped in green
leaves. The favorite way of preparing it for consumption is to heat it
in palm oil, although it is often eaten raw. Nelson bought these
_chikwangas_ by the dozen. He was never without one. He even ate as he
washed my clothes.
The Congo native is in a continuous state of receptivity when it comes
to food. Nowhere in the world have I seen people who ate so much. I have
offered the leavings of a meal to a savage just after he had apparently
gorged himself and he "wolfed" it as if he were famished. The invariable
custom in the Congo is to have one huge meal a day. On this occasion
every member of the family consumes all the edibles in sight. Then the
crowd lays off until the following day. All food offered in the meantime
by way of gratuity or otherwise is devoured on the spot.
In connection with the _chikwanga_ is an interesting fact. The Congo
natives all die young--I only saw a dozen old men--because they are
insufficiently nourished. The _chikwanga_ is filling but not fattening.
This is why sleeping sickness takes such dreadful toll. From an
estimated population of 30,000,000 in Stanley's day the indigenes have
dwindled to less than one-third this number. Meat is a luxury. Although
the natives have chickens in abundance they seldom eat one for the
reason that it is more profitable to sell them to the white man.
It is not surprising, therefore, that the Congo native suffers from
ailments. Unlike the average small boy of civilization, he delights
in taking medicine. I suppose that he regards it as just another form of
food. You hear many amusing stories in connection with medicinal
articles. When you give a savage a dozen effective pills, for example,
and tell him to take one every night, he usually swallows them all at
one time and then he wonders why the results are disastrous. A sorcerer
in the Upper Congo region once obtained what was widely acclaimed as
miraculous results from a red substance that he got out of a tin. It
developed that he had stolen a can of potted beef and was using it as
"medicine."
[Illustration: CENTRAL AFRICAN PYGMIES]
Stanleyville was called the center of the old Arab slave trade. While
the odious traffic has long ceased to exist, you occasionally meet an
old native who bears the scars of battle with the marauders and who can
tell harrowing tales of the cruelties they inflicted.
The slave raiders began their operations in the Congo in 1877, the same
year in which Stanley made his historic march across Africa from
Zanzibar to the north of the Congo. It was the great explorer who
unconsciously blazed the way for the man-hunters. They followed him down
the Lualaba River as far as Stanley Falls and discovered what was to
them a real human treasure-trove. For twenty years they blighted the
country, carrying off tens of thousands of men, women and children and
slaughtering thousands in addition. This region was a cannibal
stronghold and one bait that lured local allies was the promise of the
bodies of all natives slain, for consumption. Belgian pioneers in the
Congo who co-operated with the late Baron Dhanis who finally put down
the slave trade, have told me that it was no infrequent sight to behold
native women going off to their villages with baskets of human flesh.
They were part of the spoils of this hideous warfare.
Tippo Tib was lord of this slave-trading domain. This astounding rascal
had a distinct personality. He was a master trader and drove the hardest
bargain in all Africa. Livingstone, Cameron, Stanley, and Wissmann all
did business with him, for he had a monopoly on porters and no one could
proceed without his help. He invariably waited until the white man
reached the limit of his resources and then exacted the highest price,
in true Shylockian fashion.
According to Herbert Ward, the well-known African artist and explorer,
who accompanied Stanley on the Emin Pasha Relief Expedition, Tippo Tib
was something of a philosopher. On one occasion Ward spent the evening
with the old Arab. He occupied a wretched house. Rain dripped in through
the roof, rats scuttled across the floor, and wind shook the walls. When
the Englishman expressed his astonishment that so rich and powerful a
chief should dwell in such a mean abode Tippo Tib said:
"It is better that I should live in a house like this because it makes
me remember that I am only an ordinary man like others. If I lived in a
fine house with comforts I should perhaps end by thinking too much of
myself."
Ward also relates another typical story about this blood-thirsty bandit.
A missionary once called him to account for the frightful barbarities he
had perpetrated, whereupon he received the following reply:
"Ah, yes! You see I was then a young man. Now my hair is turning gray. I
am an old man and shall have more consideration."
Until his death in 1907 at Zanzibar, Tippo Tib and reformation were
absolute strangers. He embodied that combination of cruelty and
religious fanaticism so often found in the Arab. He served his God and
the devil with the same relentless devotion. He incarnated a type that
happily has vanished from the map of Africa.
The region around Stanleyville is rich with historic interest and
association. The great name inseparably and immortally linked with it is
that of Stanley. Although he found Livingstone, relieved Emin Pasha,
first traversed the Congo River, and sowed the seeds of civilization
throughout the heart of the continent, his greatest single achievement,
perhaps, was the founding of the Congo Free State. No other enterprise
took such toll of his essential qualities and especially his genius for
organization.
Stanley is most widely known as an explorer, yet he was, at the same
time, one of the master civilizers. He felt that his Congo adventure
would be incomplete if he did not make the State a vast productive
region and the home of the white man. He longed to see it a British
possession and it was only after he offered it twice to England and was
twice rebuffed, that he accepted the invitation of King Leopold II to
organize the stations under the auspices of the International African
Association, which was the first step toward Belgian sovereignty.
I have talked with many British and Belgian associates of Stanley.
Without exception they all acclaim his sterling virtues both in the
physical and spiritual sense. All agree that he was a hard man. The best
explanation of this so-called hardness is given by Herbert Ward, who
once spoke to him about it. Stanley's reply was, "You've got to be hard.
If you're not hard you're weak. There are only two sides to it."
Stanley always declared that his whole idea of life and work were
embodied in the following maxim: "The three M's are all we need. They
are Morals, Mind and Muscles. These must be cultivated if we wish to be
immortal." To an astonishing degree he worked and lived up to these
principles.
No explorer, not even Peary in the Arctic wilds, was ever prey to a
larger isolation than this man. In the midst of the multitude he was
alone. He shunned intimacy and one of his mournful reflections was, "I
have had no friend on any expedition, no one who could possibly be my
companion on an equal footing, except while with Livingstone."
I cannot resist the impulse to make comparison between those two
outstanding Englishmen, Rhodes and Stanley, whose lives are intimately
woven into the fabric of African romance. They had much in common and
yet they were widely different in purpose and temperament. Each was an
autocrat and brooked no interference. Each had the same kindling ideal
of British imperialism. Each suffered abuse at the hands of his
countrymen and lived to witness a triumphant vindication.
Stanley had a rare talent for details--he went on the theory that if you
wanted a thing done properly you must do it yourself--but Rhodes only
saw things in a big way and left the interpretation to subordinates.
Stanley was devoutly religious while Rhodes paid scant attention to the
spiritual side. Each was a dreamer in his own way and merely regarded
money as a means to an end. Rhodes, however, was far more disdainful of
wealth as such, than Stanley, who received large sums for his books and
lectures. It is only fair to him to say that he never took pecuniary
advantage of the immense opportunities that his explorations in the
Congo afforded.
Still another intrepid Englishman narrowly missed having a big rôle in
the drama of the Congo. General Gordon agreed to assume the Governorship
of the Lower Congo under Stanley, who was to be the Chief Administrator
of the Upper Congo. They were to unite in one grand effort to crush the
slave trade. Fate intervened. Gordon meanwhile was asked by the British
Government to go to Egypt, then in the throes of the Mahdist uprising.
He went to his martyrdom at Khartoum, and Stanley continued his work
alone in Central Africa.
While Stanley established its most enduring traditions, other heroic
soldiers and explorers, contributed to the roll of fame of the Upper
Congo region. Conspicuous among them was Captain Deane, an Englishman
who fought the Arab slave traders at Stanley Falls and who figured in a
succession of episodes that read like the most romantic fiction.
With less than a hundred native troops recruited from the West Coast of
Africa, he defended the State Station founded by Stanley at the Falls
against thousands of Arab raiders. Most of the caps in his rifle
cartridges were rendered useless by dampness and the Captain and his
second in command, Lieutenant Dubois, a Belgian officer, fought shoulder
to shoulder with his men in the hand-to-hand struggle that ensued.
Subsequently practically all the natives deserted and Deane was left
with Dubois and four loyal blacks. Under cover of darkness they escaped
from the island on which the Station was located. On this journey Dubois
was drowned.
For thirty days Deane and his four faithful troopers wandered through
the forests, hiding during the day from their ferocious pursuers and
sleeping in trees at night. On the thirtieth day he was captured by the
savages. Unarmed, he sank to the ground overcome with weariness. A big
native stood over him with his spear poised for the fatal thrust. A
moment later the Englishman was surprised to see his enemy lower the
weapon and grasp him by the hand. He had succored this savage two years
before and had not been forgotten. Deane and his companions were
convoyed under an escort to Herbert Ward's camp and he was nursed back
to health.
Deane's death illustrates the irony that entered into the passing of so
many African adventurers. Twelve months after he was snatched from the
jaws of death on the banks of the Congo in the manner just described, he
was killed while hunting elephants. A wounded beast impaled him on a
tusk and then mauled him almost beyond recognition.
II
Since Stanleyville is the head of navigation on the Congo there is
ordinarily no lack of boats. I was fortunate to be able to embark on the
"Comte de Flandre," the Mauretania of those inland seas and the most
imposing vessel on the river for she displaced five hundred tons. She
flew the flag of the Huileries du Congo Belge, the palm oil concern
founded by Lord Leverhulme and the most important all-British commercial
interest in the Congo. She was one of a fleet of ten boats that operate
on the Congo, the Kasai, the Kwilu and other rivers. I not only had a
comfortable cabin but the rarest of luxuries in Central Africa, a
regulation bathtub, was available. The "Comte de Flandre" had cabin
accommodations for fourteen whites. The Captain was an Englishman and
the Chief Engineer a Scotchman.
On this, as on most of the other Congo boats, the food is provided by
the Captain, to whom the passengers pay a stipulated sum for meals. On
the "Comte de Flandre," however, the food privilege was owned jointly by
the Captain and the Chief Engineer. The latter did all the buying and it
was almost excruciatingly funny to watch him driving real Scotch
bargains with the natives who came aboard at the various stops to sell
chickens, goats, and fruit. The engineer could scarcely speak a word of
any of the native languages, but he invariably got over the fact that
the price demanded was too high.
The passenger list of the "Comte de Flandre" included Englishmen,
Belgians, Italians, and Portuguese. I was the only American. The
steerage, firemen, and wood-boys were all blacks. With this
international congress over which beamed the broad smile of Nelson, I
started on the thousand-mile trip down the Congo River.
It is difficult to convey the impression that the Congo River gives.
Serene and majestic, it is often well-nigh overwhelming in its
immensity. Between Stanleyville and Kinshassa there are four thousand
islands, some of them thirty miles in length. As the boat picks its way
through them you feel as if you were travelling through an endless
tropical park of which the river provides the paths. It has been well
called a "Venice of Vegetation." The shores are brilliant with a
variegated growth whose exotic smell is wafted out over the waters. You
see priceless orchids entwined with the mangroves in endless profusion.
Behind this verdure stretches the dense equatorial forest in which
Stanley battled years ago in an almost impenetrable gloom. Aigrettes and
birds of paradise fly on all sides and every hour reveals a hideous
crocodile sunning himself on a sandspit.
Night on the Congo enhances the loneliness that you feel on all the
Central African rivers. Although the settlements are more numerous and
larger than those on the Lualaba and the Kasai, there is the same
feeling of isolation the moment darkness falls. The jungle seems to be
an all-embracing monster who mocks you with his silence. Joseph Conrad
interpreted this atmosphere when he referred to it as having "a
stillness of life that did not resemble peace,--the silence of an
implacable force brooding over an inscrutable intention." This is the
Congo River.
The more I saw of the Congo River--it is nearly twice as large as the
Mississippi--the more I realized that it is in reality a parent of
waters. It has half a dozen tributaries that range in length from 500 to
1,000 miles each. The most important are the Lualaba and the Kasai.
Others include the Itimbiri, the Aruwimi and the Mubangi. Scores of
smaller streams, many of them navigable for launches, empty into the
main river. This is why there is such a deep and swift current in the
lower region where the Congo enters the sea.
[Illustration: WOMEN MAKING POTTERY]
[Illustration: THE CONGO PICKANINNY]
The astonishing thing about the Congo River is its inconsistency.
Although six miles wide in many parts it is frequently not more than six
feet deep. This makes navigation dangerous and difficult. As on the
Lualaba and every other river in the Colony, soundings must be taken
continually. This extraordinary discrepancy between width and depth
reminds me of the designation of the Platte River in Nebraska by a
Kansas statesman which was, "A river three-quarters of a mile wide and
three-quarters of an inch deep." Thus the Congo journey takes on a
constant element of hazard because you do not know what moment you will
run aground on a sand-bank, be impaled on a snag, or strike a rock.
Although the "Comte de Flandre" was rated as the fastest craft on the
Congo our progress was unusually slow because of the scarcity of wood
for fuel. This seems incredible when you consider that the whole Congo
Basin is one vast forest. Millions of trees stand ready to be sacrificed
to the needs of man, yet there are no hands to cut them. In the Congo,
as throughout this distracted world, the will-to-work is a lost art, no
less manifest among the savages than among their civilized brothers. The
ordinary native will only labour long enough to provide himself with
sufficient money to buy a month's supply of food. Then he quits and
joins the leisure class. Hence wood-hunting on the Congo vies with the
trip itself as a real adventure. The competition between river captains
for fuel is so keen that a skipper will sometimes start his boat at
three o'clock in the morning and risk an accident in the dark in order
to beat a rival to a wood supply.
All up and down the river are wood-posts. Most of them are owned by the
steamship companies. It was our misfortune to find most of them
practically stripped of their supplies. A journey which ordinarily takes
twelve days consumed twenty. But there were many compensations and I had
no quarrel with the circumstance:
I had the good fortune to witness that rarest of sights that falls to
the lot of the casual traveller--a serious fight between natives. We
stopped at a native wood-post--(some of them are operated by the
occasionally industrious blacks)--for fuel. The whole village turned out
to help load the logs. In the midst of the process a crowd of natives
made their appearance, armed with spears and shields. They began to
taunt the men and women who were loading our boat. I afterwards learned
that they owned a wood-post nearby and were disgruntled because we had
not patronized them. They blamed their neighbours for it. Almost before
we realized it a pitched battle was in progress in which spears were
thrown and men and women were laid out in a generally bloody fracas. One
man got an assegai through his throat and it probably inflicted a fatal
wound.
In the midst of the mêlée one of my fellow passengers, a Catholic priest
named Father Brandsma, courageously dashed in between the flying spears
and logs of wood and separated the combatants. This incident shows the
hostility that still exists between the various tribes in the Congo. It
constitutes one excellent reason why there can never be any concerted
uprising against the whites. There is no single, strong, cohesive native
dynasty.
Father Brandsma was one of the finest men I met in the Congo. He was a
member of the society of priests which has its headquarters at Mill Hill
in England. He came aboard the boat late one night when we were tied up
at Bumba, having ridden a hundred miles on his bicycle along the native
trails. We met the following morning in the dining saloon. I sat at a
table writing letters and he took a seat nearby and started to make some
notes in a book. When we finished I addressed him in French. He answered
in flawless English. He then told me that he had spent fifteen years in
Uganda, where he was at the head of the Catholic Missions.
The Father was in his fifth year of service in the Congo and his
analysis of the native situation was accurate and convincing. Among
other things he said, "The great task of the Colonial Government is to
provide labour for the people. In many localities only one native out of
a hundred works. This idleness must be stopped and the only way to stop
it is to initiate highway and other improvements, so as to recruit a
large part of the native population."
Father Brandsma is devoting some of his energy to a change in copal
gathering. This substance, which is found at the roots of trees in
swampy and therefore unhealthy country, is employed in the manufacture
of varnish. To harvest it the natives stand all day in water up to their
hips and they catch the inevitable colds from which pneumonia develops.
Copal gathering is a considerable source of income for many tribes and
usually the entire community treks to the marshes. In this way the
lives of the women and children are also menaced. The Father believes
that only the men should go forth at certain periods for this work and
leave their families behind.
Father Brandsma was the central actor in a picturesque scene. One Sunday
morning I heard a weird chanting and I arose to discover the cause. I
found that the priest was celebrating mass for the natives on the main
deck of the boat. Dawn had just broken, and on the improvised altar
several candles gleamed in the half light. In his vestments the priest
was a striking figure. All about him knelt the score of naked savages
who made up the congregation. They crossed themselves constantly and
made the usual responses. I must confess that the ceremony was strangely
moving and impressive.
As soon as I reached the Congo River I saw that the natives were bigger
and stronger than those of the Katanga and other sections that I had
visited. The most important of the river tribes are the Bangalas, who
are magnificent specimens of manhood. In Stanley's day they were masters
of a considerable portion of the Upper Congo River region and contested
his way skilfully and bitterly. They are more peacefully inclined today
and hundreds of them are employed as wood-boys and firemen on the river
boats.
The Bangalas practice cicatrization to an elaborate extent. This process
consists of opening a portion of the flesh with a knife, injecting an
irritating juice into the wound, and allowing the place to swell. The
effect is to raise a lump or weal. Some of these excrescences are tiny
bumps and others develop into large welts that disfigure the anatomy.
Extraordinary designs are literally carved on the faces and bodies of
the men and women. Although it is an intensely painful operation,--some
of the wounds must be opened many times--the native submits to it with
pleasure because the more ornate the design the more resplendent the
wearer feels. The women are usually more liberally marked than the men.
Cicatrization is popular in various parts of Central Africa but nowhere
to the degree that it prevails on the Congo River and among the
Bangalas, where it is a tribal mark. I observed women whose entire
bodies from the ankles up to the head were one mass of cicatrized
designs. One of the favorite areas is the stomach. This is just another
argument against clothes. Cicatrization bears the same relation to the
African native that tattooing does to the whites of some sections. Human
vanity works in mysterious ways to express itself.
In this connection it is perhaps worth while to point out one of the
reasons why the Congo atrocity exhorters found such ready exhibits for
their arguments. The Central African native delights in disfigurement
not only as a sign of "beauty," but as a means of retaliation for real
or fancied wrongs among his own. In the old days dozens of slaves, and
sometimes wives, were sacrificed upon the death of an important chief.
Their spirits were supposed to provide a bodyguard to escort the
departed potentate safely into the land of the hereafter. One of the
former prerogatives of a husband was the sanction to chop off the hand
or foot of a wife if she offended or disobeyed him. Hence Central Africa
abounded in mutilated men, women and children. While some of these
barbarities may have been due to excessive zeal or temper in State or
corporation officials there is no doubt that many instances were the
result of native practices.
The reference to cicatrization brings to mind another distinctive
Central African observance. I refer to the ceremony of blood
brotherhood. When two men, who have been enemies, desire to make the
peace and swear eternal amity, they make a small incision in one of
their forearms sufficiently deep to cause the flow of blood. Each then
licks the blood from the other's arm and henceforth they are related as
brothers. This performance was not only common among the blacks but was
also practiced by the whites and the blacks the moment civilization
entered the wild domains. Stanley's arms were one mass of scars as the
result of swearing constant blood brotherhood. It became such a nuisance
and at the same time developed into such a serious menace to his health,
that the rite had to be amended. Instead of licking the blood the
comrades now merely rub the incisions together on the few occasions
nowadays when fealty is sworn. I am glad to say that I escaped the
ordeal.
Much to my regret I saw only a few of the much-described pygmies who
dwelt mainly in the regions northeast of Stanleyville, where Stanley
first met them. They are all under three feet in height, are light brown
in colour, and wear no garments when on their native heath. They are the
shyest of all the tribes I encountered. These diminutive creatures
seldom enter the service of the white man and prefer the wild life of
the jungle. I was informed in the Congo that the real pygmy is fast
disappearing from the map. Intermarriage with other tribes, and
settlement into more or less permanent villages, have increased the
height of the present generation and helped to remove one of the last
human links with Stanley's great day.
The Congo River native is perhaps the shrewdest in all Central Africa.
He is a born trader, and he can convert the conventional shoe-string
into something worth while. One reason why the Bangalas take positions
as firemen and woodboys on the river boats is that it enables them to go
into business. The price of food at the small settlements up river is
much less than at Kinshassa, where navigation from Stanleyville
southward ends. Hence the blacks acquire considerable stores of palm oil
and dried fish at the various stops made by the steamers and dispose of
it with large profit when they reach the end of the journey. I have in
mind the experience of a capita on the "Comte de Flandre." When we left
Stanleyville his cash capital was thirty-five francs. With this he
purchased a sufficient quantity of food, which included dozens of pieces
of _chikwanga_, to realize two hundred and twenty francs at Kinshassa.
These river natives are genuine profiteers. They invariably make it a
rule to charge the white man three or four times the price they exact
from their own kind. No white man ever thinks of buying anything
himself. He always sends one of his servants. As soon as the vendor
knows that the servant is in the white employ he shoves up the price. I
discovered this state of affairs as soon as I started down the Lualaba.
In my innocence I paid two francs for a bunch of bananas. The moment I
had closed the deal I observed larger and better bunches being purchased
by natives for fifty centimes.
This business of profiteering by the natives is no new phase of life in
the Congo. Stanley discovered it to his cost. Sir Harry Johnston, the
distinguished explorer and administrator, who added to his achievements
during these past years by displaying skill and brilliancy as a
novelist, tells a characteristic story that throws light on the
subject. It deals with one of the experiences of George Grenfell, the
eminent British missionary who gave thirty years of his unselfish life
to work in the Congo. On one of his trips he noticed the corpse of a
woman hanging from the branches of a tree over the water of the great
river. At first he thought that she had been executed as a punishment
for adultery, one of the most serious crimes in the native calendar. On
investigation he found that she had been guilty of a much more serious
offense. A law had been imposed that all goods, especially food, must be
sold to the white man at a far higher price than the local market value.
This unhappy woman had only doubled the quotation for eggs, had been
convicted of breaking the code, and had suffered death in consequence.
Since I have referred to adultery, let me point out a situation that
does not reflect particular credit on so-called civilization. Before the
white man came to Africa chastity was held in deepest reverence. The
usual punishment for infidelity was death. Some of the early white men
were more or less promiscuous and set a bad moral example with regard to
the women. The native believed that in this respect "the white man can
do no wrong" and the inevitable laxity resulted. When a woman deserts
her husband now all she gets is a sound beating. If a man elopes with
the wife of a friend, he is haled before a magistrate and fined.
[Illustration: THE HEART OF THE EQUATORIAL FOREST]
III
On the Congo I got my first glimpse of the native fashion in mourning.
It is a survival of the biblical "sackcloth and ashes." As soon as a
death occurs all the members of the family smear their faces and bodies
with ashes or dirt. Even the babies show these rude symbols of woe. It
gives the person thus adorned a weird and ghastly appearance. When ashes
and dust are not available for this purpose, a substitute is found in
filthy mud. The mourner is not permitted to wash throughout the entire
period of grief, which ranges from thirty to ninety days.
Like the Southern Negro in America these African natives are not only
born actors but have a keen sense of humour. They are quick to imitate
the white man. If a Georgia darkey, for example, wants to abuse a member
of his own race he delights to call him "a fool nigger." It is the last
word in reproach. In the Congo when a native desires to express contempt
for his fellow, he refers to him as a _basingi_, which means bush-man.
It is a case of the pot calling the kettle black.
Up the Kasai I heard a story that admirably illustrates the native
humour. A Belgian official much inclined to corpulency came out to take
charge of a post. After the usual fashion, he received a native name the
moment he arrived. It is not surprising that he became known as _Mafutta
Mingi_. As soon as he learned what it meant he became indignant. Like
most fat men he could not persuade himself that he was fat. He demanded
that he be given another title, whereupon the local chief solemnly
dubbed him _Kiboko_. The official was immediately appeased. He noticed
that a broad smile invariably illumined the countenance of the person
who addressed him in this way. On investigation he discovered that the
word meant hippopotamus.
The Congo native delights in argument. Here you get another parallel
with his American brother. A Bangala, for example, will talk for a week
about five centimes. One day at Dima I heard a terrific shouting and
exhorting down at the native market which is held twice a week. I was
certain that someone was being murdered. When I arrived on the scene I
saw a hundred men and women gesticulating wildly and in a great state of
excitement. I learned that the wife of a wood-boy on a boat had either
secreted or sold a scrap of soap, and her husband was not only berating
her with his tongue but telling the whole community about it.
The chief function of most Belgian officials in the Congo is to preside
at what is technically known as a "palaver." This word means conference
but it actually develops into a free-for-all riotous protestation by the
natives involved. They all want to talk at the same time and it is like
an Irish debating society. Years ago each village had a "palaver
ground," where the chief sat in solemn judgment on the disputes of his
henchmen. Now the "palavers" are held before Government officers. Most
of the "palavers" that I heard related to elopements. No matter how
grievous was the offense of the male he invariably shifted the entire
responsibility to the woman. He was merely emulating the ways of
civilization.
Between Stanleyville and Kinshassa we not only stopped every night
according to custom, but halted at not less than a dozen settlements to
take on or deliver cargo. These stations resemble each other in that
they are mainly a cluster of stores owned or operated by agents of
various trading companies. Practically every post in the Congo has, in
addition, a shop owned by a Portuguese. You find these traders
everywhere. They have something of the spirit of adventure and the
hardihood of their doughty ancestors who planted the flag of Portugal on
the high seas back in that era when the little kingdom was a world
power.
Some of them have been in the Congo for fifteen and twenty years without
ever stirring outside its confines. On the steamer that took me to
Europe from the Congo was a Portuguese who had lived in the bush for
twenty-two years. When he got on the big steamer he was frightened at
the noise and practically remained in his cabin throughout the entire
voyage. As we neared France he told me that if he had realized
beforehand the terror and tumult of the civilization that he had
forgotten, he never would have departed from his jungle home. He was as
shy as a wild animal.
One settlement, Basoko, has a tragic meaning for the Anglo-Saxon. Here
died and lies buried, the gallant Grenfell. I doubt if exploration
anywhere revealed a nobler character than this Baptist minister whose
career has been so adequately presented by Sir Harry Johnston, and who
ranks with Stanley and Livingstone as one of the foremost of African
explorers. In the Congo evangelization has been fraught with a truly
noble fortitude. When you see the handicaps that have beset both
Catholic and Protestant missionaries you are filled with a new
appreciation of their calling.
The most important stop of this trip was at Coquilhatville, named in
honor of Captain Coquilhat, one of the most courageous of the early
Belgian soldier-explorers. It was the original Equatorville (it is at
the point where the Equator cuts the Congo), founded by Stanley when he
established the series of stations under the auspices of the
International African Association. Here dwells the Vice-Governor of the
Equatorial Province. Near by is a botanical garden maintained by the
Colonial Government and which contains specimens of all the flora of
Central Africa.
At Coquilhatville I saw the first horse since I left Rhodesia and it was
a distinct event. Except in the Kasai region it is impossible to
maintain live stock in the Congo. The tsetse fly is the devastating
agency. Apparently the only beasts able to withstand this scourge are
goats and dogs. The few white men who live in Coquilhatville have been
able to maintain five horses which are used by the so-called Riding
Club. These animals provide the only exercise at the post. They are
owned and ridden by the handful of Englishmen there. A man must drive
himself to indulge in any form of outdoor sport along the equator. The
climate is more or less enervating and it takes real Anglo-Saxon energy
to resist the lure of the _siesta_ or to remain in bed as long as
possible.
Bolobo is a reminder of Stanley. He had more trouble here than at any of
the many stations he set up in the Congo Free State in the early
eighties. The natives were hostile, the men he left in charge proved to
be inefficient, and on two occasions the settlement was burned to the
ground. Today it is the seat of one of the largest and most prosperous
of all the English Baptist Congo missions and is presided over by a
Congo veteran, Dr. Stonelake. One feature of the work here is a manual
training school for natives, who manufacture the same kind of wicker
chairs that the tourist buys at Madeira.
The farther I travelled in the Congo the more deeply I became interested
in the native habits and customs. Although cluttered with ignorance and
superstition the barbaric mind is strangely productive of a rude
philosophy which is expressed in a quaint folklore. Seasoned Congo
travellers like Grenfell, Stanley, Ward, and Johnston have all recorded
fascinating local legends. I heard many of these tales myself and I
shall endeavour to relate the best.
Some of the most characteristic stories deal with the origin of death.
Here is a Bangala tradition gathered by Grenfell and which runs as
follows:
The natives say that in the beginning men and women did not die.
That one day, _Nza Komba_ (God) came bringing two gifts, a large and
a small one. If they chose the smaller one they would continue to
live, but if the larger one, they would for a time enjoy much
greater wealth, but they would afterwards die. The men said they
must consider the matter, and went away to drink water, as the
Kongos say. While they were discussing the matter the women took the
larger gift, and _Nza Komba_ went back with the little one. He has
never been seen since, though they cried and cried for Him to come
back and take the big bundle and give them the little one, and with
it immortality.
The Baluba version of the great mystery is set forth in this way:
God (_Kabezya-unpungu_) created the sun, moon, and stars, then the
world, and later the plants and animals. When all this was finished
He placed a man and two women in the world and taught them the name
and use of all things. He gave an axe and a knife to the man, and
taught him to cut wood, weave stuffs, melt iron, and to hunt and
fish. To the women he gave a pickaxe and a knife. He taught both of
them to till the ground, make pottery, weave baskets, make
oil,--that is to say, all that custom assigns to them to-day.
These first inhabitants of the earth lived happily for a long time
until one of the women began to grow old. God, foreseeing this, had
given her the gift of rejuvenating herself, and the faculty, if she
once succeeded, of preserving the gift for herself and for all
mankind. Unfortunately, she speedily lost the precious treasure and
introduced death into the world.
This is how the misfortune occurred: Seeing herself all withered,
the woman took the fan with which her companion had been winnowing
maize for the manufacture of beer and shut herself into her hut,
carefully closing the door. There she began to tear off her old
skin, throwing it on the fan. The skin came off easily, a new one
appearing in its place. The operation was nearing completion. There
remained the head and neck only when her companion came to the hut
to fetch her fan and before the old woman could speak, pushed open
the door. The almost rejuvenated woman fell dead instantly.
This is the reason we all die. The two survivors gave birth to a
number of sons and daughters, from whom all races have descended.
Since that time God does not trouble about His creatures. He is
satisfied with visiting them incognito now and again. Wherever He
passes the ground sinks. He injures no one. It is therefore
superfluous to honour him, so the Balubas offer no worship to Him.
The animal story has a high place in the legends of these peoples. They
represent a combination of Kipling's Jungle Book, Aesop's Fables, and
Br'er Rabbit. Nor do they fail to point a moral. Naturally, the elephant
is a conspicuous feature in most of them. The tale of "The Elephant and
the Shrew" will illustrate. Here it is:
[Illustration: NATIVES PILING WOOD]
[Illustration: A WOOD POST ON THE CONGO]
One day the elephant met the shrew mouse on his road. "Out of the
way," cried the latter. "I am the bigger, and it is your place to
look out," replied the monster. "Curse you!" retorted the shrew
mouse furiously. "May the long grass cut your legs!" "And may you
meet your death when you walk in the road!" replied the other
crushing him under his huge foot. Both curses have been fulfilled.
From that day the elephant wounds himself when he goes through the
long grass, and the shrew-mouse meets her death when she crosses the
road.
The story of the elephant and the chameleon is equally interesting. One
day the chameleon challenged the elephant to a race. The latter accepted
the challenge and a meeting was arranged for the following morning.
During the night the chameleon placed all his brothers from point to
point along the length of the track where the race was to be run. When
day came the elephant started. The chameleon quickly slipped behind
without the elephant noticing. "Are you not tired?" asked the monster of
the first chameleon he met. "Not at all," he replied, executing the same
manœuvre as the former. This stratagem was renewed so many times that
the elephant, tired out, gave up the contest and confessed himself
beaten.
In the wilds, as in civilization, the relation between husband and wife,
and more especially the downfall of the autocrat of the home, is a
favorite subject for jest. From the northeastern corner of the Congo
comes this illuminating story:
A man had two wives, one gentle and prepossessing, the other such a
gossip that he was often made angry. Neither remonstrances nor
beating improved her, and finally he made up his mind to drive her
into a wood amongst the hyenas. There she built herself a little hut
into which a hyena came and boldly installed herself as mistress.
The wife tried to protest but the hyena, not content with eating and
drinking all that the wife was preparing, compelled her furthermore
to look after her young. One day the hyena had ordered the woman to
boil some water. While waiting the wife had the sudden idea of
seizing the young hyenas and throwing them into the boiling water.
She did this and then she ran trembling to take refuge in the home
of her husband whom she found calmly seated at the entrance of the
house, spear in hand. She threw herself at the feet of her spouse,
beseeching him for help and protection. When the hyena arrived
foaming with rage her husband stretched it dead on the ground with a
blow of his spear. The lesson was not lost on the wife. From that
day forth she became the joy and delight of her husband.
The Congo can ever reproduce its own version of the fable of "The Goose
that Laid the Golden Egg." It is somewhat primitive but serves the same
purpose. As told to the naked piccaninnies by the flickering camp-fires
it runs thus:
Four fools owned a chicken which laid blue glass beads instead of
eggs. A quarrel arose concerning the ownership of the fowl. The bird
was subsequently killed and divided into four equal portions. The
spring of their good fortune dried up.
To understand the significance of the story it must be understood that
for many years beads have been one of the forms of currency in Central
Africa. Formerly they were as important a detail in the purchase of a
wife as copper and calico. The first piece of attire, if it may be
designated by this name, that adorns the native baby after its entrance
into the world is an anklet of blue beads. Later a strand of beads is
placed round its loins.
When you have heard such stories as I have just related, you realize
that despite his ignorance, appetite, and indolence, the Congo native
has some desirable qualities. He is shiftless but not without human
instincts. Nowhere are they better expressed than in his folklore.
IV
Two stops on the Congo River deserve special attention. In the Congo
there began in 1911 an industry that will have an important bearing on
the economic development of the Colony. It was the installation of the
first plant of the Huileries du Congo Belge. This Company, which is an
offshoot of the many Lever enterprises of England, resulted from the
growing need of palm oil as a substitute for animal fat in soap-making.
Lord Leverhulme, who was then Sir William Lever, obtained a concession
for considerably more than a million acres of palm forests in the Congo.
He began to open up so-called areas and install mills for boiling the
fruit and drying the kernels. He now has eight areas, and two of them,
Elizabetha and Alberta,--I visited both--are on the Congo River.
For hundreds of years the natives have gathered the palm fruit and
extracted the oil. Under their method of manufacture the waste was
enormous. The blacks threw away the kernel because they were unaware of
the valuable substance inside. Lord Leverhulme was the first to organize
the industry on a big and scientific basis and it has justified his
confidence and expenditure.
Most people are familiar with the date and the cocoa-nut palms. From the
days of the Bible they have figured in narrative and picture. The oil
palm, on the other hand, is less known but much more valuable. It is the
staff of life in the Congo and for that matter, practically all West
Africa. Thousands of years ago its sap was used by the Egyptians for
embalming the bodies of their kingly dead. Today it not only represents
the most important agricultural industry of the Colony, having long
since surpassed rubber as the premier product, but it has an almost
bewildering variety of uses. It is food, drink and shelter. Out of the
trunk the native extracts his wine; from the fruit, and this includes
the kernel, are obtained oil for soap, salad dressing and margarine; the
leaves provide a roof for the native houses; the fibre is made into
mats, baskets or strings for fishing nets, while the wood goes into
construction. Even the bugs that live on it are food for men.
The "H. C. B." as the Huileries du Congo Belge is more commonly known in
the Congo, really performed a courageous act in exploitation when it set
up shop in the remote regions and devoted itself to an absolutely fresh
enterprise, so far as extensive development is concerned, at a time when
the rich and profitable products of the country were rubber, ivory and
copal. The company's initiative, therefore, instigated the trade in
oleaginous products which is so conspicuous in the economic life of the
country.
The installation at Alberta, while not so large as the Leverville area
on the Kwilu River, will serve to show just what the corporation is
doing. Five years ago this region was the jungle. Today it is the model
settlement on the Congo River. The big brick office building stands on a
brow of the hill overlooking the water. Not far away is the large mill
where the palm fruit is reduced to oil and the kernels dried. Stretching
away from the river is a long avenue of palms, flanked by the commodious
brick bungalows of the white employes. The "H. C. B." maintains a store
at each of its areas, where food and supplies are bought by the
personnel. These stores are all operated by the Société d'Entreprises
Commerciales au Congo Belge, known locally under the name of "Sedec,"
formed as its name indicated, with a view of benefiting by the great
resources opened to commerce in the Colony.
For miles in every direction the Company has laid out extensive palm
plantations. In the Alberta region twenty-five hundred acres are in
course of cultivation in what is known as the Eastern Development, while
sixteen hundred more acres are embodied in the Western development. An
oil palm will bear fruit within seven years after the young tree is
planted. The fruit comes in what is called a _régime_, which resembles a
huge bunch of grapes. It is a thick cluster of palm fruit. Each fruit is
about the size of a large date. The outer portion, the pericarp, is
almost entirely yellow oil encased in a thick skin. Imbedded in this oil
is the kernel, which contains an even finer oil. The fruit is boiled
down and the kernel, after a drying process, is exported in bags to
England, where it is broken open and the contents used for salad oil or
margarine.
Before the war thousands of tons of palm oil and kernels were shipped
from the West Coast of Africa to Germany every year. Now they are
diverted to England where large kernel-crushing plants have been
installed and the whole activity has become a British enterprise. With
the eclipse of the German Colonial Empire in Africa it is not likely
that she can regain this lost business.
The creation of new palmeries is merely one phase of the company's
development. One of its largest tasks is to safeguard the immense
natural palmeries on its concessions. The oil palm requires constant
attention. The undergrowth spreads rapidly and if it is not removed
is liable to impair the life of the tree. Thousands of natives are
employed on this work. A large knife something like the Cuban machete is
used.
[Illustration: RESIDENTIAL QUARTERS AT ALBERTA]
[Illustration: THE COMTE DE FLANDRE]
Harvesting the _régimes_ is a spectacular performance not without its
element of danger. The _régime_ grows at the top of the tree, usually a
height of sixty or seventy-five feet and sometimes more. The native
literally walks up the trunk with the help of a loop made from some
stout vine which encircles him. Arriving at the top he fixes his feet
against the trunk, leans against the loop which holds him fast, and
hacks away at the _régime_. It falls with a heavy thud and woe betide
the human being or the animal it strikes. The natives will not cut fruit
in rainy weather because many have slipped on the wet bark and fallen to
their death.
So wide is the Alberta fruit-producing area that a narrow-gauge railway
is necessary to bring the fruit in to the mill. Along its line are
various stations where the fruit is mobilized, stripped from the
_régime_ and sent down for refining in baskets. Each station has a
superintendent who lives on the spot. The personnel of all the staff in
the Congo is almost equally divided between British and Belgians.
While the "H. C. B." is the largest factor in the palm oil industry in
the Congo, many tons of kernels are gathered every year by individuals
who include thousands of natives. One reason why the savage takes
naturally to this occupation is that it demands little work. All that he
is required to do is to climb a tree in the jungle and lop off a
_régime_. He uses the palm oil for his own needs or disposes of it to a
member of his tribe and sells the kernels to the white man.
The "H. C. B." is independent of all other water transport in the
Congo. Its river tonnage aggregates more than 6,000, and in addition it
has many oil barges on the various rivers where its vessels ply. The
capacity of some of the barges is 250 tons of oil. They are usually
lashed to the side of the steamer. The decks of these barges are often
piled high with bags of kernels and become a favorite sleeping place for
the black voyagers for whom the thousands of insects that lurk in them
have no terrors. No bug inflicts a sharper sting than these pests who
make their _habitat_ among the palm kernels.
One of my fellow passengers on the "Comte de Flandre" was I. F. Braham,
the Associate Managing Director of the "H. C. B." in the Congo. Long the
friend and companion in Liberia of Sir Harry Johnston, he was a most
desirable and congenial companion. It was on his suggestion and
invitation that I spent the week at Alberta and he shared the visit. Our
hosts were Major and Mrs. Claude Wallace.
Major Wallace was the District Manager of the Alberta area and occupied
a brick bungalow on the bank of the river. He is a pioneer in
exploration in the French Congo and Liberia and went almost straight
from the battlefields of France, where he served with distinction in the
World War, out to his post in the Congo. His wife is a fine example of
the white woman who has braved the dangers of the tropics. She left the
luxury and convenience of European life to establish a home in the
jungle.
It is easy to spot the refining influence of the woman in the African
habitation. You always see the effect long before you behold the cause.
One of these effects is usually a neat garden. Mrs. Wallace had half an
acre of English roses in front of her house. They were the only ones I
saw in Central Africa. The average bachelor in this part of the world is
not particularly scrupulous about the appearance of his house. The
moment you observe curtains at the window you know that there is a
female on the premises.
My life at Alberta was one of the really delightful experiences in the
Congo. Every morning I set out with Braham and Wallace on some tour of
inspection. Often we rode part of the way on the little light railroad.
The method of transport was unique. An ordinary bench is placed on a
small flat car. The propelling power is furnished by two husky natives
who stand on either side of the bench and literally shove the vehicle
along with long sticks. It is like paddling a railroad canoe. This
transportation freak is technically called a _maculla_. The strong-armed
paddlers were able to develop an astonishing speed. I think that this is
the only muscle-power railroad in the world. Light engines are employed
for hauling the palm fruit trains.
After our day in the field--for frequently we took our lunch with us--we
returned before sunset and bathed and dressed for dinner. In the Congo
only a madman would take a cold plunge. The most healthful immersion is
in tepid water. More than one Englishman has paid the penalty with his
life, by continuing his traditional cold bath in the tropics. This
reminds me of a significant fact in connection with colonization.
Everyone must admit that the Briton is the best colonizer in the world.
One reason is that he knows how to rule the man of colour for he does it
with fairness and firmness. Another lies in the fact that he not only
keeps himself clean but he makes his environment sanitary.
There is a tradition that the Constitution follows the flag. I contend
that with the Englishman the bath-tub precedes the code of law and what
is more important, it is in daily use. There are a good many bath-tubs
in the Congo but they are employed principally as receptacles for food
supplies and soiled linen.
Those evenings at Alberta were as unforgettable as their setting. Braham
and Wallace were not only men of the world but they had read extensively
and had travelled much. A wide range of subjects came under discussion
at that hospitable table whose spotless linen and soft shaded lights
were more reminiscent of London and New York than suggestive of a
far-away post on the Congo River on the edge of the wilderness.
At Alberta as elsewhere, the "H. C. B." is a moral force. Each area has
a doctor and a hospital. No detail of its medical work is more vital to
the productive life of the Colony that the inoculation of the natives
against sleeping sickness. This dread disease is the scourge of the
Congo and every year takes toll of hundreds of thousands of natives. Nor
is the white man immune. I saw a Belgian official dying of this
loathsome malady in a hospital at Matadi and I shall never forget his
ravings. The last stage of the illness is always a period when the
victim becomes demented. The greatest boon that could possibly be held
out for Central Africa today would be the prevention of sleeping
sickness.
Another constructive work carried out under the auspices of the "H. C.
B." is embodied in the native schools. There is an excellent one at
Alberta. It is conducted by the Catholic Fathers of the Scheut Mission.
The children are trained to become wood-workers, machinists, painters,
and carpenters. It is the Booker Washington idea transplanted in the
jungle. The Scheut Missionaries and their Jesuit colleagues are doing
an admirable service throughout the Congo. Some of them are infused with
the spirit that animated Father Damien. Time, distance, and isolation
count for naught with them. It is no uncommon thing to encounter in the
bush a Catholic priest who has been on continuous service there for
fifteen or twenty years without a holiday. At Luluaburg lives a Mother
Superior who has been in the field for a quarter of a century without
wandering more than two hundred miles from her field of operations.
V
Now for the last stage of the Congo River trip. Like so many of my other
experiences in Africa it produced a surprise. One morning when we were
about two hundred miles north of Kinshassa I heard the whir of a motor
engine, a rare sound in those parts. I thought of aeroplanes and
instinctively looked up. Flying overhead toward Coquilhatville was a
300-horse power hydroplane containing two people. Upon inquiry I
discovered that it was one of four machines engaged in carrying
passengers, mail, and express between Kinshassa and Coquilhatville.
The campaign against the Germans in East Africa proved the
practicability of aeroplanes in the tropics. The Congo is the first of
the Central African countries to dedicate aviation to commercial uses
and this precedent is likely to be extensively followed. Fifteen
hydroplanes have been ordered for the Congo River service which will
eventually be extended to Stanleyville. Only those who have endured the
agony of slow transport in the Congo can realize the blessing that air
travel will confer.
I was naturally curious to find out just what the African native thought
of the aeroplane. The moment that the roar of the engine broke the
morning silence, everybody on the boat rushed to some point of vantage
to see the strange sight. The blacks slapped each other on the shoulder,
pointed at the machine, and laughed and jabbered. Yet when my secretary
asked a big Baluba if he did not think that the aeroplane was a
wonderful thing the barbarian simply grunted and replied, "White man can
do anything." He summed up the native attitude toward his conqueror. I
believe that if a white man performed the most astounding feat of magic
or necromancy the native would not express the slightest surprise.
[Illustration: A TYPICAL OIL PALM FOREST]
[Illustration: BRINGING IN THE PALM FRUIT]
At Kwamouth, where the Kasai flows into the Congo River, we entered the
so-called "Channel." From this point down to Stanley Pool the river is
deep and the current is swift. This means that for a brief time the
traveller enjoys immunity from the danger of running aground on a
sandbank. The whole country-side is changed. Instead of the low and
luxuriantly-wooded shores the banks become higher with each passing
hour. Soon the land adjacent to the river merges into foothills and
these in turn taper off into mountains. The effect is noble and
striking. No wonder Stanley went into ecstasies over this scenery. He
declared on more than one occasion that it was as inspiring as any he
had seen in Wales or Scotland.
In the "Channel" another surprise awaits the traveller. The mornings are
bitterly raw. This is probably due to the high ground on either side of
the river and the strong currents of air that sweep up the stream. I can
frankly say that I really suffered from the cold within striking
distance of the equator. I did not feel comfortable until I had donned a
heavy sweater.
This sudden change in temperature explains one reason why so many Congo
natives die under forty. They are scantily clad, perspire freely, and
lie out at night with scarcely any covering. They go to sleep in a humid
atmosphere and wake up with the temperature forty degrees lower. The
natural result is that half of them constantly have colds and the
moment pneumonia develops they succumb. Congestion of the lungs vies
with sleeping sickness as the ravager of Middle Africa, and especially
certain parts of the Congo.
Kinshassa is situated on Stanley Pool, a lake-like expansion of the
Congo more than two hundred square miles in area. It is dotted with
islands. Nearly one-third of the northern shore is occupied by the rocky
formations that Stanley named Dover Cliffs. They reminded him of the
famous white cliffs of England and with the sunlight on them they do
bear a strong resemblance to one of the familiar signposts of Albion.
More than one Englishman emerging from the jungle after long service
remote from civilization has gotten a thrill of home at the name and
sight of these hills.
Stanley Pool has always been associated in my mind with one of the most
picturesque episodes in Stanley's life. He tells about it in his
monumental work on the Congo Free State and again relates it in his
Autobiography. It deals with Ngalyema, who was chief of the Stanley Pool
District in the early eighties. He demanded and received a large
quantity of goods for the permission to establish a station here. After
the explorer had camped within ten miles of the Pool the old pirate
pretended that he had not received the goods and sought to extort more.
Stanley refused to be bullied, whereupon the chief threatened to attack
him in force. Let Stanley now tell the story, for it is an illustration
of the way he combated the usury and cunning of the Congo native.
I had hung a great Chinese gong conspicuously near the principal
tent. Ngalyema's curiosity would be roused. All my men were hidden,
some in the steamboat on top of the wagon, and in its shadow was a
cool place where the warriors would gladly rest after a ten-mile
march. Other of my men lay still as death under tarpaulins, under
bundles of grass, and in the bush round about the camp. By the time
the drum-taps and horns announced Ngalyema's arrival, the camp
seemed abandoned except by myself and a few small boys. I was
indolently seated in a chair reading a book, and appeared too lazy
to notice anyone; but, suddenly looking up and seeing my "brother
Ngalyema" and his warriors, scowlingly regarding me, I sprang up and
seized his hands, and affectionately bade him welcome, in the name
of sacred fraternity, and offered him my own chair.
He was strangely cold, and apparently disgruntled, and said:--
"Has not my brother forgotten his road? What does he mean by coming
to this country?"
"Nay, it is Ngalyema who has forgotten the blood-bond which exists
between us. It is Ngalyema who has forgotten the mountains of goods
which I paid him. What words are these of my brother?"
"Be warned, Rock-Breaker. Go back before it is too late. My elders
and people all cry out against allowing the white man to come into
our country. Therefore, go back before it be too late. Go back, I
say, the way you came."
Speech and counter-speech followed. Ngalyema had exhausted his
arguments; but it was not easy to break faith and be uncivil, with
plausible excuse. His eyes were reaching round seeking to discover
an excuse to fight, when they rested on the round, burnished face of
the Chinese gong.
"What is that?" he said.
"Ah, that--that is a fetish."
"A fetish! A fetish for what?"
"It is a war-fetish, Ngalyema. The slightest sound of that would
fill this empty camp with hundreds of angry warriors; they would
drop from above, they would spring up from the ground, from the
forest about, from everywhere."
"Sho! Tell that story to the old women, and not to a chief like
Ngalyema. My boy tells me it is a kind of a bell. Strike it and let
me hear it."
"Oh, Ngalyema, my brother, the consequences would be too dreadful!
Do not think of such a thing!"
"Strike it, I say."
"Well, to oblige my dear brother Ngalyema, I will."
And I struck hard and fast, and the clangourous roll rang out like
thunder in the stillness. Only for a few seconds, however, for a
tempest of human voices was heard bursting into frightful discords,
and from above, right upon the heads of the astonished warriors,
leaped yelling men; and from the tents, the huts, the forest round
about, they came by sixes, dozens, and scores, yelling like madmen,
and seemingly animated with uncontrollable rage. The painted
warriors became panic-stricken; they flung their guns and
powder-kegs away, forgot their chief, and all thoughts of loyalty,
and fled on the instant, fear lifting their heels high in the air;
or, tugging at their eye-balls, and kneading the senses confusedly,
they saw, heard, and suspected nothing, save that the limbo of
fetishes had suddenly broken loose!
But Ngalyema and his son did not fly. They caught the tails of my
coat, and we began to dance from side to side, a loving triplet,
myself being foremost to ward off the blow savagely aimed at my
"brothers," and cheerfully crying out, "Hold fast to me, my
brothers. I will defend you to the last drop of my blood. Come one,
come all."
Presently the order was given, "Fall in!" and quickly the leaping
forms became rigid, and the men stood in two long lines in beautiful
order, with eyes front, as though "at attention!" Then Ngalyema
relaxed his hold of my coat-tails, and crept from behind, breathing
more freely; and, lifting his hand to his mouth, exclaimed, in
genuine surprise, "Eh, Mamma! where did all these people come from?"
"Ah, Ngalyema, did I not tell you that thing was a powerful fetish?
Let me strike it again, and show you what else it can do."
"No! no! no!" he shrieked. "I have seen enough!"
The day ended peacefully. I was invited to hasten on to Stanley
Pool. The natives engaged themselves by the score to assist me in
hauling the wagons. My progress was thenceforth steady and
uninterrupted, and in due time the wagons and good-columns arrived
at their destination.
[Illustration: A SPECIMEN OF CICATRIZATION]
[Illustration: A SANKURU WOMAN PLAYING NATIVE DRAUGHTS]
Kinshassa was an accident. Leopoldville, which is situated about ten
miles away and the capital of the Congo-Kasai Province, was expected to
become the center of white life and enterprise in this vicinity. It was
founded by Stanley in the early eighties and named in honour of the
Belgian king. It commands the river, cataracts, forests and mountains.
Commerce, however, fixed Kinshassa as its base of operation, and its
expansion has been astonishing for that part of the world. It is a
bustling port and you can usually see half a dozen steamers tied up at
the bank. There is a population of several hundred white people and many
thousands of natives. The Banque du Congo Belge has its principal
establishment here and there are scores of well-stocked mercantile
establishments. With the exception of Matadi and Thysville it has the
one livable hotel in the Congo. Moreover, it rejoices in that now
indispensable feature of civic life which is expressed in a cinema
theatre. In the tropics all motion picture houses are open-air
institutions.
In cataloguing Kinshassa's attractions I must not omit the feature that
had the strongest and most immediate lure for me. It was a barber shop
and I made tracks for it as soon as I arrived. I was not surprised to
find that the proprietor was a Portuguese who had made a small fortune
trimming the Samson locks of the scores of agents who stream into the
little town every week. He is the only barber in the place and there is
no competition this side of Stanleyville, more than a thousand miles
away.
The seasoned residents of the Congo would never think of calling
Kinshassa by any other name than "Kin." In the same way Leopoldville is
dubbed "Leo." Kinshassa is laid out in streets, has electric lights, and
within the past twelve months about twenty automobiles have been
acquired by its residents. There is a gay social life, and on July
first, the anniversary of the birth of the Congo Free State, and when a
celebration is usually held, I saw a spirited football game between
British and Belgian teams. Most of the big international British trading
companies that operate in Africa have branches in Kinshassa and it is
not difficult to assemble an English-speaking quorum.
In the matter of transportation Kinshassa is really the key to the heart
of the Congo. It is the rail-head of the narrow-gauge line from Matadi
and all merchandise that comes from Europe is transshipped at this point
to the boats that go up the Congo river as far as Stanleyville. Thus
every ton of freight and every traveller bound for the interior must
pass through Kinshassa. When the railway from the Katanga is constructed
its prestige will increase.
Kinshassa owes a part of its development to the Huileries du Congo
Belge. Its plant dominates the river front. There are a dozen huge tanks
into which the palm-oil flows from the barges. The fluid is then run
into casks and sent down by rail to Matadi, whence it goes in steamers
to Europe. More than a hundred white men are in the service of the "H.
C. B." at Stanley Pool. They live in standardized brick bungalows in
their own area which is equipped with tennis courts and a library. On
all English fête days the Union Jack is hoisted and there is much
festivity.
Two months had elapsed since I entered the Congo and I had travelled
about two thousand miles within its borders. This journey, short as it
seems as distances go these days, would have taken Stanley nearly two
years to accomplish in the face of the obstacles that hampered him. I
had only carried out part of my plan. The Kasai was calling. The time
was now at hand when I would retrace my way up the Congo River and turn
my face towards the Little America that nestles far up in the wilds.
[Illustration: THE BELGIAN CONGO]