Escape to Africa. Henri Diamant
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more acrid in the world), etc.
But, by contrast, sailors are treated harshly and without the least compassion during the entire hazing process. The ordeals reserved for them are unpleasant, occasionally offensive and definitely grueling. There is lathering with grease and tar, crawling through slop, cutting or dyeing of hair, and other preposterous trials meant to leave a lasting impression on the unfortunate candidates.
One more thing needs to be said about the equator. While it is the mid-line on the globe, it is also the latitude where the earth’s seasons reverse; when it is winter in the north of the quator, it is summer in the south. For us, that meant that we had transitioned, within a few days, from Europe’s chilly winter right into Africa’s hot and humid summer. Initially, the change was not perceptible, but eventually the intense heat and burning sun became hard to tolerate. Our cabin, without air-conditioning (remember that this was in 1939), became really uncomfortable and we ended up spending all our waking hours topside, under the canopy that covered the deck.
And suddenly, here was our last day on board. It was marked by the crew’s scramble to prepare the ship for next day’s early arrival in port, and by the Lobito passengers packing their possessions.
As for me, I could hardly believe that the magic day, the day I so longed for, was finally within reach, and that I was going to take my first steps on the African mainland within the next few hours. The anticipation was killing me, and sleep eluded me for a while during that final night in our stuffy cabin.
Then morning came and, as I awakened, I could tell that something had changed. The ship was not moving. We had arrived. Still half asleep, I clambered topside and found that we were actually moored to a pier in the Angolan port of Lobito.
After two weeks on the ocean, here was Africa at last.
08. First Glimpse of Afirica
Harry had also come topside and, standing side by side, we gaped at the incredible hustle and bustle all along the dock. The unfamiliar sounds and sights were so unique that it took some time before our senses were capable of taking them all in. But that was not the case with the sickening stench that hit both of us fast and hard. And though we did not know it at the time, it appears that we had just been exposed to a strong “essence” of drying fish (drying acts as a preservative and keeps the fish edible for several weeks) mixed, for good measure, with decaying sea-creatures and rotting vegetation. This was a combination of overpowering smells, and it assaulted our nostrils with the foulest odor we had ever encountered.
Still, my dismay over the pervasive foul odor dissipated quickly enough, and I was able to re-focus my attention on the colorful tableau that stretched all over the dock at our feet. And I immediately became conscious of the fact that I was gawking right there at more black people than I had ever seen before in my whole life. Most of the men wore ordinary shorts with an occasional shirt or undershirt. But the women’s outfits were anything but ordinary. They wore vividly colored wrap-around pieces of cloth (called “pagnes” in French), and whenever they moved out of a shaded area into a fiery shaft of bright sunlight, they seemed to burst into a flood of multi-colored lights (a boyish mind is full of imagination). Amazingly, it appeared that each pagne was dyed in its own combination of bright colors, because none of them looked alike to me.
The next thing I noticed was that both the men and the women carried almost everything on their heads. And while some used their hands to keep the various items from falling off, others kept their loads safe by merely holding their heads level and their backs ramrod straight (isn’t that what fashion models practice in order to develop a perfect posture?). Several of the women carried babies on their backs, held comfortably in place by pieces of cloth wrapped tightly around their bodies.
Various groups of white people were making their way to the ship, and I instantly noticed the sun helmets on their heads. That was when I remembered, with somewhat of a thrill, that we had bought our own helmets in Antwerp, and that I shall be wearing one myself when we disembarked later that day. The expats that were coming on board must have completed their tour of duty in the tropics, and were taking the ship back to Europe for a well-deserved leave.
Tropical sun helmets are made from a strong cork compound. They are lightweight and, for added protection, have brims that guard the wearer’s face and the nape of his neck from the unforgiving sun. They must be worn from eight in the morning until four in the afternoon because that is when the danger of strokes is at the highest. I am talking about sunstrokes that are caused by an excessive exposure to the sun, and are usually the source of grim health problems. The stricken person becomes temporarily unconscious and usually ends up being paralyzed. I witnessed this when, many years later, it struck down a family friend playing in a soccer match in Leopoldville. He was one of a number of reckless Europeans who did not care about wearing sun helmets and was running around the field without proper head protection. He lost consciousness and was immediately rushed to the hospital, where he remained until flown back to Europe. Unfortunately, he had to endure complete paralysis for the rest of his life.
Before concluding my remarks about sunstrokes, I should mention the insidious aspect of the danger. Insidious because sunstrokes strike in a random way and give no warnings. For instance, a person may decide, from time to time, to venture out into the sun without a helmet. Experiencing no problems, he becomes nonchalant about the whole thing and decides against using a sun helmet altogether. But one day, without any indication, the sun’s rays might strike his head at the wrong angle, ruining his health and devastating the rest of his life.
Anyway, as we were about to rejoin our parents, Harry gave a yell and pointed to something on the dock, near the gangplank. I gave a look in the direction of his finger and burst out laughing so hard that my sides started to ache. A native had just left the gangplank with a large legal envelope held fast on his head by the weight of a large umbrella. As I found out later, this was the quintessential African messenger.
Eventually, we tore ourselves away from the railing and rejoined our parents in the cabin. They had just finished packing the remainder of our personal items and were ready to go to breakfast. That was to be our last meal on board.
After breakfast there were all kinds of time-consuming formalities that father took care of; such as settling up with the ship’s purser, completing Angola’s Transit and Customs formalities, etc.
It was shortly before noon that we left the SS Leopoldville.
09. Lobito
We stepped off the covered gangplank into the sweltering sun, and proceeded to a hotel that was within a short walking distance from the ship. All the passengers bound for Eastern Congo were assembling there for lunch and the ensuing boarding of the train that was to take them to their final destination in the very heart of Africa.
However, before talking about our train journey, I shall mention a couple of interesting facts about Angola, and say something about the rest of our day in Lobito.
Angola’s coastal region, except for the brief period from 1641 to 1648, has been under Portuguese rule from 1575 to1975. During the few years in question, the Dutch tried to set up their own coastal stations in that region because they needed to provide support for their oceangoing trade between Europe and Asia. Their efforts failed and they left the coast.The Portuguese colony was eventually named Angola, and the city of Luanda (Sao Paulo de Loanda) became its capital. Luanda is still a capital, but in 1975 it became the capital of the Republic of Angola. Luanda is a major port with a bustling metropolitan center and beautiful sandy beaches that extend up and down the coast. Tragically though, it is a city with a dreadful past. For some 200 years, it had been the hub of the slave trade between Portuguese Africa and Brazil.
I can personally attest to the charm of Luanda’s sandy beaches because I enjoyed them for several days over the 1953/1954 New Year’s holiday. I had earned my pilot’s license in the Congo just a few months earlier, and had decided to undertake a long-distance flight over the holidays. I picked Luanda because I had heard that it was an attractive city, and because I wanted to spend time at the ocean (the ocean is quite a draw for anyone living in the interior of Africa). However, once I had made my decision, I became a little apprehensive about what I was getting into. As an inexperienced pilot, I was going to