They are worn to a mirror-like smoothness, and from their
surface the sun strikes between your eyes, at the pit of your
stomach, and the soles of your mosquito boots. The three streets
lead to a parade ground no larger than and as bare as a brickyard.
It is surrounded by the buildings of Bula Matadi, the post-office,
the custom-house, the barracks, and the Cafe Franco-Belge. It has a
tableland fifty yards wide of yellow clay so beaten by thousands of
naked feet, so baked by the heat, that it is as hard as a brass
shield. Other tablelands may be higher, but this is the one nearest
the sun. You cross it wearily, in short rushes, with your heart in
your throat, and seeking shade, as a man crossing the zone of fire
seeks cover from the bullets. When you reach the cool, dirty
custom-house, with walls two feet thick, you congratulate yourself
on your escape; you look back into the blaze of the flaming plaza
and wonder if you have the courage to return.
[Illustration: Bush Boys in the Plaza at Matadi Seeking Shade.]
At the custom-house I paid duty on articles I could not possibly
have bought anywhere in the Congo, as, for instance, a tent and a
folding-bed, and for a license to carry arms. A young man with a
hammer and tiny branding irons beat little stars and the number of
my license to _porter d'armes_ on the stock of each weapon. Without
permission of Bula Matadi on leaving the Congo, one can not sell his
guns, or give them away.
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