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.
We gave them the letters (I heard the men on that lonely ship were dying of fever, three a day) and continued. We stopped at several places with funny names, where death and trade mixed strangely, like a hot grave. The coast line was rough and dangerous, as if nature was trying to keep people away; we went up and down rivers, the thick water reaching into the twisted trees that seemed to struggle desperately. We didn't stay anywhere long enough to get a good look, but I felt a growing sense of mystery and anxiety. It felt like a long, tiring journey through scenes from a nightmare.