Escape to Africa. Henri Diamant
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an international border, and I was going to spend several hours flying V.F.R. (Visual Flight Rules) over a large swath of unknown territory. Visual Flight Rules are the flight guidelines used by pilots that have only a rudimentary compass on board (magnetic compass), and nothing else to guide them to their destination. I had no electronic equipment in my Piper Super Cruiser, not even a basic radio to request landing instructions upon my descent into Luanda’s airport (in a future chapter I will talk about flying in the Congo “by-the-seat-of-my-pants”). But, I rose to the challenge and successfully plotted my course with good landmarks for points-of-reference. Also, I arranged for the refueling of the plane and for customs clearance formalities at Matadi’s airport, the only projected stop in the Congo. It took two hours to fly from Leopoldville to Matadi, with another three hours to get to Luanda. The Super Cruiser came from the Aero Club Royal du Congo Belge, and since I was one of the member pilots, I was able to sign it out for a whole week at a very low cost. By the way, Harry and a mutual friend went along on this flight.
We reached Luanda in one piece and, after clearing customs, took a cab to our hotel. We spent the rest of that day on the beach, ate an early dinner, and literally collapsed in our beds. It had been a long day.
Our vacation started well, but it became even better after I flew the manager of our hotel, and his photographer, over the city so they could take aerial photos and have new post cards printed for the hotel’s gift shop. From then on we were given full use of the hotel’s limousine, enjoyed freely all of the hotel’s amenities, and even became the guests of honor at the unforgettable New Year festivities that lasted well into the wee hours of the morning. Those were the times great memories are made of. Anyway, I wonder whether the hotel, the Grand Hotel Universo, is still in business and whether the gift-shop still offers the aerial postcards that were made so many years ago.
Now, let us return to Lobito and our short stroll from the ship to the hotel. Although brief, this first walk among Africans was absolutely thrilling for me. Of course, I was immediately struck by the fact that most of them wore no shoes on their feet and that they appeared totally unaffected by the heated pavement of the dock. Then I saw an Albino. He was a young man with milky-white skin, white hair and pinkish eyes that he kept half closed against the sun’s bright light. I understand that this condition is due to a deficiency of pigment or dark coloring matter, and that it is inherited. I also saw many light-colored natives. They were mulattos, the children of mixed marriages. I really did not know where to look first and had a difficult time keeping up with the rest of the family.
As we reached the hotel, a single story whitewashed building topped with an oversized roof, and made ourselves comfortable on its huge veranda, I finally got an unobstructed view of the harbor that had welcomed us to Africa. It was a sweeping natural harbor protected by a breakwater sandbar over 3 miles long, with a 700 yard-wide navigable channel at its entrance. This wide channel allowed vessels to proceed to the port’s deep-water berths without pilots or tugboats.
A strong ocean breeze kept us fairly comfortable during the sumptuous lunch that was served on the vast veranda. The tables were covered with crisp white tablecloths and the napkin holders were large ivory rings with beautiful carvings. But it was the African waiters that most impressed us. They were efficient and responsive to all our needs, even though we had to communicate with them by gestures, as they understood only the Portuguese language. They were dressed in white shirts and shorts. But, as you may have guessed by now, they were all barefoot.
Our first meal on African soil was unforgettable and, if this was a harbinger of things to come, we had little to fear about our future lives in the tropics (strictly my own opinion at the time).
When the departure time drew closer, we finished our refreshments and moved leisurely to the adjacent rail-siding where the Benguela train was being readied for the long journey into the interior of the continent. The trip was to take three full days, and would cover some 1,400 miles from Lobito to Elisabethville. By the way, due to a unique agreement between the Compagnie Maritime Belge and the Benguela Railway, that particular train was reserved exclusively for the passengers who arrived from Antwerp, and no one else was allowed to board it either in Lobito or during the entire trip. The train stopped only to replenish its wood and water supplies, both of which the gigantic steam locomotive used in considerable amounts.
By the way, “Benguela” is also the name of the ocean current that draws icy waters from the South Ocean and carries them northward along the South West Coast of Africa. Because they release only small amounts of evaporation, these icy waters do not generate the heavy rain clouds that warmer ocean waters produce in other regions of the coast. Accordingly, the Benguela Current is responsible for the parching of South West Africa and is the primary cause for the Kalahari and Namib Deserts.
Once we climbed on board the train, we were shown to a nice Pullman compartment, with a washbasin and a small folding table. It was clean and appeared comfortable enough for a three-day journey. However, when we returned from the dining car later that evening, it had become quite cramped. The porter had turned the compartment into a sleeper for four, by locking the two top berths into their horizontal positions. During the day these berths were kept out of the way, flush against the side bulkheads, adding much room to the compartment.
One real drawback was the lack of a bathroom within the privacy of our compartment. We had to use the public shower and toilet in the passageway, at the end of the rail car. If it had not been for that, I would have felt right at home during that long trip.
Construction on the Benguela Railway started in 1903, but reached the Congo area only in 1928. The snail-like progress was caused by the ruggedness of the route. From Lobito, the line runs across a narrow coastal plain for some 30 to 40 miles, before it climbs abruptly up a steep escarpment to a large inland plateau, part of which tops out at 8,596 feet. That escarpment is so sheer that a five-mile stretch of the track had to be made into a rack-and-pinion section. Many years later that section was converted to a normal track, however, even with today’s powerful locomotives, lower loads must be used on that sheer grade.
The Benguela Railway had to resolve other difficulties.
One such difficulty was the problem of maintaining a steady supply of water for the trains. Sufficient supply was rather unreliable on the semi-arid plateau, and the railway had to drill deep wells to find adequate water for the passengers and thirsty locomotives.
Then there was the need for large stock-piles of firewood. That need was resolved by large plantations of fast growing eucalyptus trees that the railroad set up at various points along the route.
The first day in Africa tired me out completely. That night, I fell asleep before my head hit the pillow in one of the top berths of our compartment. The monotonous clicking of the wheels kept me in a very deep sleep, so much so that I did not witness the train’s laborious climb up the escarpment, and missed its final thrust upon the edge of the plateau. When I woke up, the train was winding its way through a panorama of grasslands, and the sun’s bright rays were bouncing brightly across our compartment.
After a solid breakfast, we settled on a daily routine that kept us pleasantly occupied over the whole journey. The meals in the dining car were totally enjoyable; the food and the service were excellent. For instance, I remember that we had, in addition to all kinds of African fruits (I love fruits), fresh strawberries that grow at certain elevations in the tropics. The waiters were well trained and quick to grin. In their impeccable white jackets and gloves, they kept pouring refreshments no matter how much time we spent at our table.
Whenever the train stopped to re-supply the locomotive with water and wood, natives swarmed up and down the tracks with woven baskets full of local fruits and small handicrafts that they tried to peddle before we resumed our trip. They hawked their wares to any passenger who leaned outside the window of his compartment. Moreover, a throng of persistent vendors would assail anyone who decided to step outside the Pullman. As might be expected, prices dropped the minute the whistle announced the imminent departure of the train.