We arrived back in Makokou at dusk. At the Roux house, Doug, Win and I sat in the hot front room in weathered cane chairs with stubbies of cold Regab – the local beer – in our hands. I couldn’t explain it to myself, but for the first time in my life I had a sense that a vital role awaited me, a role that would call on all my skills and resilience.
‘There’s one important person you still have to meet,’ Doug said. ‘The bloke cutting the road through the forest. I’m expecting him in for dinner. You’ll love him.’ Doug and Gina had mentioned Eamon Temple to us back in Libreville over dinner. We were on our second drinks when he pulled up outside the kitchen door and strode into the house wearing laced-up jungle boots and baggy knee-length shorts, his loose, short-sleeved cotton shirt hanging out. He was tall and wiry, around sixty, with tousled grey hair and arms and legs streaked with sweat and mud. Doug stood up and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Eamon, meet Win and Annette Henderson.’
A firm hand gripped mine, and Eamon’s steady gaze met my eyes uncompromisingly. ‘Glad to know you.’ His face creased into an exhausted smile. He spoke quietly with a mild Midwestern American accent, choosing his few words carefully. A glint of humour played around his eyes as he lowered himself slowly into an armchair.
Eamon was a native of Columbia, Indiana. He’d played a key role in the original establishment of Belinga, and he and his wife had raised their family there. Bethlehem Steel had brought him back for this second tour of duty because he knew the place better than anyone. He’d even known Schweitzer well. I was unaware then of Eamon’s status as a living legend. In the 1950s, when the Belinga ore deposit had been first explored, he had surveyed the route of the proposed Trans-Gabonese Railway from the coast to Belinga through hundreds of kilometres of swamps and forest, on foot – twice. For this, he had been awarded the Star of Gabon medal. All I could see in front of me that night was a man, no longer young, haggard and drawn from his battle with the terrain, whose whole being was invested in the task before him.
He’d based himself at a rough forest camp on the banks of the Djadié River, a tributary of the Ivindo. He and a team of Gabonese plant operators were carving the route through to Belinga with Caterpillar D8 and D9 graders and dozers. Fifteen Gabonese – men, women and children – headed by Biété Benoît, a local powerbroker, shared his camp. Eamon had come into town that night to pick up cigarettes and whisky for the men.
I watched and listened as he recounted the litany of problems associated with the work to Doug over dinner. Machines had broken down, parts were difficult to get, and the mountainous terrain was crisscrossed by rock outcrops that required lengthy detours. They were under pressure to finish before the onset of the next wet, and in time for a ceremonial road opening planned by the government. Once the road was through, Eamon would become chef de chantier or chief of works at Belinga, which would put him below Doug, but above Win, in the hierarchy.
On the flight back to Libreville, Win’s lack of French and the daunting task ahead of him occupied my thoughts most of the way. He had no aptitude for foreign languages, yet the job he faced would be a major challenge even without a language barrier. The tight project timetables would not allow much time for settling in.
Back at our beach campsite, there was little we could do towards our preparation until the shops opened on Monday, so we had the weekend free. After breakfast on the Saturday, I made my move. ‘I think it’s time I taught you a bit of French,’ I declared, fixing Win with my most assertive look. His glum expression told me what I already knew – this would be a battle.
‘Sit down here, and try to concentrate. Do you know what a noun is?’
‘Remind me.’
‘A noun is the name of something. For example, “table” and “chair” are nouns.’
‘Right.’
‘Okay. All nouns in French are either masculine or feminine. For example, “table” is feminine.’
‘How can a table be female? That’s bloody stupid!’
‘It doesn’t mean that it’s a woman – it’s just the way French grammar works. You simply have to accept it.’ Already his face was flushed crimson with irritation and I could feel his resistance building. I moved quickly on to forms of address.
‘Now when you’re speaking to people, it’s crucial that you use the correct form of “you”. When you’re addressing people of high status, people you don’t know well, or other men’s wives, you must use the word vous. That signifies respect and formality. The other form, tu, must be used only for close friends, children or your spouse. If you use the wrong one, you risk giving major offence to the person you are addressing. For example, if you use tu to someone else’s wife, it’ll be assumed that you’re having an affair with her.’
‘How bloody childish!’ The words exploded into the air. He stood up abruptly, shook his head and strode off down to the beach, swearing under his breath. I was left holding an exercise book and pen in my lap, with nothing written on the page.
Roger dropped by that morning, eager to hear every detail of our week en brousse (up country). He’d never been as far inland as Belinga. As I talked, his eyes shone.
‘I’ll help you prepare any way I can,’ he said. ‘You’ll need a short-wave radio up there so you can get world news. You’ll be able to receive Voice of America and BBC World Service, as well as Paris and South Africa. There’s a shop where I get ten per cent discount. When you’re ready, I’ll take you there.’
The plan for our departure had been agreed with Doug during discussions at the camp. Following our week of preparation in Libreville, we would travel in the Kombi up to Makokou, where we and the van would be transported upriver on the company’s barge. Initially, we would continue to live in it, but take our meals in the guesthouse with Mario and the surveyors. As time permitted, Win would convert part of the old sample shed into a flat for us. Doug had authorised us to buy linen, crockery and appliances before we left, and enough non-perishable food for three months. We had just five days to organise everything.
Our first call was to an import agency that dealt in heavy machinery. Win needed to choose machines that would equip the wood machine shop for every foreseeable task. They would have to come from France. The agent was courteous and keen to do business, but spoke no English. As I had no technical French and no knowledge of timber processing, it loomed as our first big test.
The agent motioned us to two armchairs and placed an armful of illustrated machinery catalogues, all in French, on a low table before us. An hour later, with the help of gestures, imitated sound effects and roughly sketched diagrams, we settled on a multi-function wood processing machine called a combinée. The price tag was US$40,000 – eight million Central African francs (CFAs). It would be delivered in two months and the machine weighed one metric tonne. We also ordered a breaking-down saw and a drop saw, which the agent could supply immediately from stock. He handed us colour brochures and a detailed quote and we left then to drop them off at Doug’s office.
That afternoon, we began our survey of the hardware stores. Win needed to equip himself and his crew with a full set of tools each, and order enough hardware, toilet suites, plumbing and electrical fittings and louvre windows to build the first three sets of mini-apartments. There were no plans or specifications for the dwellings: Win would be both designer and builder.
The manager of the third hardware store we visited spoke good English. When he realised the scale of our order, he suggested Win return after closing time, when they could compile it together. One evening stretched into two, and two into three. In the end, the order filled six foolscap pages.
Our days, meanwhile, were filled with myriad other practicalities – having blood tests for filariasis, stocking up on stationery and toiletries, filling prescriptions at the pharmacy and buying furnishings for the flat. We also called at the Banque Nationale de Paris, ever hopeful that our money had arrived from London, but it hadn’t. Last thing on Friday afternoon, I went with Roger to an electrical retailer and selected a Philips transistor radio with short wave.
Roger invited us for a farewell lunch with a group of his friends on the day before we left. He’d been cooking for three days and the five-course feast lasted all afternoon. Small groups of French expatriates arrived, wearing light summer clothing and talking volubly, and took their seats at the long table set under the coconut palms in his garden. They all seemed to know each other already and barely paused in their conversations when we were introduced. None of them seemed too happy to be in Gabon, and they showed little interest in two Australians destined for la brousse. From their conversations, their lives seemed to be focused on just two things: their next period of home leave, and gourmet food. As I listened to them I thought that Win and I were the lucky ones – we would experience the wildlife and the forest and the indigenous culture, a world their sheltered urban existence would never encompass.
Roger gave up his double bed for us on our last night, because the Kombi was stacked to the roof with all our purchases. We felt deeply indebted to him. His friendship and hospitality had smoothed our path and made our time in Libreville unforgettable, and the three of us had formed a bond that would last many years, long after we’d all moved on.
We left early on 21 June, with all the jerry cans full in case we struck petrol supply problems again. But the trip passed without incident: the dry season was well advanced, and the route had dried out so much that we made excellent time, reaching Makokou the next afternoon. Already we had learned that in the vast interior of Gabon, the pattern of the seasons critically affected transport logistics on the ground, by river and in the air. During the long wet season from February to late May when the dirt roads through the forest became quagmires of orange mud, it was not uncommon for dozens of long-haul trucks to become bogged end-to-end up to their axles for weeks at a time. Escape was only possible once the long dry season had set in. This lasted from the end of May until mid-September. In the wet, the rivers quickly rose to foaming torrents; in the dry, they fell just as dramatically. During the dry, thick cloud blanketed the sky most of the time, making navigation difficult and dangerous for aircraft when aviation beacons were out of order. The short rainy season occurred from mid-September to mid-December, followed by a short dry which ran until the end of January. Then the whole cycle began again.
When we caught up with Kruger, he was full of gloom about our chances of getting the Kombi upriver on the barge. The water level was low and falling fast, so large rock outcrops were already exposed, which meant the barge could easily run aground on sandbanks or rocks. And there were other problems. The last time the barge had been used, someone had forgotten to put oil in the motor and it had burnt out. No-one in town could repair it, and no local suppliers had a new Volvo marine diesel engine available. But he’d devised a compromise solution: two twelve-metre pirogues would be lashed to the barge – one each side – with two outboards mounted on each. With nearly five tonnes of barge and cargo, we could count on an eleven-hour trip at minimum, and that didn’t allow for breakdowns. There was no guarantee we would get there, either. Kruger had allocated his four best pinnassiers to the trip the next day. With these dire predictions in our ears, we retired to the Roux house and went to bed.
When we presented ourselves at the débarcadère at eight o’clock next morning, the pirogues had already been lashed to the barge, which lay at right angles to the riverbank. Two wheel ramps ran from the deck onto the mud, ready for the Kombi to be loaded. Kruger was pacing back and forth along the deck, barking orders and dodging groups of women and children, stacks of timber and a new desk for the office. He introduced the four pinnassiers – Soukabothe, Mobissa, Jean-Raoul and Jean-Baptiste. Soukabothe held a cow horn in his hand, with a short loop of rope attached to one end and a mouthpiece at the other.
By nine o’clock the Kombi was secured on deck and all was ready. The outboards chugged into life, and the barge reversed slowly out into midstream. Kruger stood on the riverbank waving half-heartedly, arms akimbo and legs planted firmly apart, his face set in a look of resignation. Soukabothe put the cow horn to his lips and blew hard into the narrow end, producing a blast of sound that would have been audible several kilometres away. Soon Makokou vanished from view.
The pinnassiers made it clear that they were tackling the trip under duress, and told me plainly that they weren’t happy about doing the journey in one day. With hindsight, I realised that this statement was the precursor of a trick they would pull that afternoon. Mid-morning I boiled the kettle in the van to make mugs of tea for all of us, unaware that Gabonese never drank tea. We had one battered packet of duty-free Gauloises left: I gave them to Soukabothe to pass around. But in my attempt to be gracious, I was unwittingly breaking all the social rules that governed relations between management and workers in the country, especially white managers and African workers. I had lost their respect.
Nevertheless, the trip progressed uneventfully until the early afternoon. The warmth of the day and the steady throb of the outboards had a soporific effect, and after lunch we had climbed into the Kombi and dozed off. When we woke some time after three, the speed of the barge had dropped. With grave faces, the pinnassiers announced that, unhappily, we would now have no chance of reaching Belinga by nightfall, and would have to spend the night on the river.
Win was immediately suspicious, in view of their earlier comments. He walked down to the stern to investigate and found that only two of the four outboards were operating. I watched from a distance, but said nothing. This would be his first test of authority. He looked each of them in the eyes, grinned widely, and indicated that he wanted the two idle motors to be restarted. The pinnassiers’ expressions fell as they moved slowly across to the starter levers. With a single pull, each motor turned over perfectly, and the barge picked up speed again. The pinnassiers retired to the bow looking sheepish and remained silent for the rest of the trip. Win had negotiated his first hurdle, and we were spared a cold night on the river. We could only guess at what lay behind their actions. In time we would learn the truth.
It was almost seven-thirty and dark when we arrived at Mayebut. Kruger’s estimate had been close – the trip had taken over ten hours. As the barge edged slowly onto the bank, flickering light from cooking fires dimly lit the dilapidated huts in the village. A couple of skinny dogs roamed around, and a baby cried somewhere.
Despite the incident during the afternoon, we shook hands with the pinnassiers and thanked them, then Win edged the Kombi slowly down the ramps and onto the bank. Libreville seemed a world away already. No moon lit the forest, and night sounds surrounded us. We climbed in, took deep breaths, and set out on the long drive up the mountain.