"'You forget, dear Charlie, that workers deserve their pay,' she said happily. It's strange how far from reality women can be. They live in their own world, a beautiful world unlike anything else. But if they tried to make it real, it would fall apart immediately. Some basic fact that men have always known would ruin it all.
Then she hugged me, told me to wear warm clothes and write often, and I left. In the street, I felt like a fraud. It's strange, because I'd always been ready to go anywhere at a moment's notice, but now, facing this ordinary task, I hesitated for a moment. I felt like I was going to the center of the earth, not just to the center of a continent.
I sailed on a French ship, and it stopped at every single port along the way. It seemed the only reason was to drop off soldiers and customs officials. I watched the coast line. Watching a coast go by is like trying to solve a mystery. It's beautiful, ugly, inviting, impressive, or scary – and always silent, as if saying, "Come and find out." This coast was almost without features, like it was still being formed, with a constant, dark look. A huge, dark green jungle, almost black, bordered by white waves, stretched far away along a blue sea. The sun was strong, and the land looked hot. Here and there, you could see small, grey and white spots near the waves, with flags maybe. Villages, hundreds of years old, yet tiny compared to the not touched land around them.
We sailed, stopped, landed soldiers; sailed again, landed customs officials to collect taxes in what looked like an empty place, just a small metal building and a flag. More soldiers were landed – to protect the customs officials, I guess. I heard some drowned in the waves, but no one seemed to care. They were just sent there, and we moved on. Every day the coast looked the same, but we passed places – trading posts – with names like Gran' Bassam, Little Popo; names that sounded like a silly play in a dark setting. Being a passenger, feeling alone among all these men I didn't know, the calm sea, and the unchanging coast, made me feel disconnected from reality, lost in a sad, senseless fantasy. The sound of the waves was a welcome change, like a friend's voice. It was natural, with a reason, a meaning. Sometimes a boat from the shore would bring me back to reality. Black people worked there. You could see the white of their eyes from far away. They shouted, sang; sweat poured from their bodies; their faces were like strange masks – but they were strong, full of life, and moved with energy, as natural as the waves. They didn't need a reason to be there. It was good to see them. For a while, I felt I was back in a world of simple facts; but it wouldn't last. Something would always happen to change that.
Once, we saw a warship at sea. There wasn't even a building there, and it was firing into the jungle. It turned out the French were fighting a war there. Its flag hung motionless; the cannons stuck out; the waves gently rocked the ship. In the vast space of the earth, sky, and water, it was there, shooting at the continent. A cannon fired; a small flame, a bit of smoke, a tiny shell – and nothing happened. Nothing could happen. It felt crazy, strangely funny; and it didn't help when someone told me there was a hidden enemy camp nearby.
