One did not look
for native kraals and the wild antelope, but for the square,
ivy-topped tower of the village church, the loaf-shaped hayricks,
slow-moving masses of sheep. But this that looks like a pasture
land is only coarse limestone covered with bitter, unnutritious
grass, which benefits neither beast nor man.
At sunset we anchored in the current three miles from Boma, and at
daybreak we tied up to the iron wharf. As the capital of the
government Boma contains the residence and gardens of the governor,
who is the personal representative of Leopold, both as a shopkeeper
and as a king by divine right. He is a figurehead. The real
administrator is M. Vandamme, the Secretaire-General, the
ubiquitous, the mysterious, whose name before you leave Southampton
is in the air, of whom all men, whether they speak in French or
English, speak well. It is from Boma that M. Vandamme sends
collectors of rubber, politely labeled inspecteurs, directeurs,
judges, capitaines, and sous-lieutenants to their posts, and
distributes them over one million square miles.
Boma is the capital of a country which is as large as six nations of
the European continent. For twenty-five years it has been the
capital. Therefore, the reader already guesses that Boma has only
one wharf, and at that wharf there is no custom-house, no warehouse,
not even a canvas awning under which, during the six months of rainy
season, one might seek shelter for himself and his baggage.
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