Dis' Taste

By Caven Tootell

Set in pre-WWI Congo Free State, the story follows two Belgian Colonial officers, Philippe and Augustine and the latter’s wife, Clementine.
Augustine brings his new wife into country; to bring a piece of normality into their lives, the two men strike up a friendly challenge to host each other to lavish dinner parties using exotic local foods and recipes. The story then follows the three characters, their interactions with each other, other Europeans, Africans, and the oppressive state sponsored rape of the country.

The violent environment creates a surreal world where each person attempts to forge a new life for themselves, but eventually descend into an ever darkening world of lost dreams, disillusionment and hatred. At the start, Philippe is brutally and savagely maimed in an attack. The aftermath causes him to deal with an ever increasing post-traumatic shock, whilst managing a company rubber plantation, using opium as a crutch.

All characters strive to build themselves an elusive, better life, but the oppressiveness of the country overtakes their lives. Philippe questions the ethics of what they are doing, whilst working his plantation with local assistants and an indigenous woman.

Caution: This story has contextual violence, drug use and racism in line with the time and environment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Caven Tootell
• Release date: Oct 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463007303

Caven Tootell

In the past I served for over 20 years in the Royal Australian Navy as a Combat Warfare Officer before moving across to Intelligence where I finished my career as Deputy Director Navy Intelligence. During my career I served in a combat role in Desert Storm II, as well as HQ intelligence staff for the operation to stabilize East Timor. I also served in exchange postings in Malaysia and Indonesia.After leaving the Navy I worked briefly in the mining industry as a consultant in Indonesia, then took up several contracts in Afghanistan assisting the UNAMA mission and other contract clients over a seven year period, finishing in 2010 conducting the civilian side of a US counterinsurgency mission, in essence living by myself out in Afghan townships and managing local civil engineering projects with villages (wells, road rehabilitation, farm land clearing etc.) paying locals to encourage them not to take up offers from the Taliban for paying work. At times though this meant, due to the isolation of this work, having to gain the local Taliban commander’s approval for the work to proceed. I have recently returned from a 2 year contract constructing the new Metro rail system in Doha, Qatar.At present I am completing my second Master’s degree, but have always felt I could write a historical (colonial) novel in the genre most associated with my favourite authors, Graham Greene, Joseph Conrad, Somerset Maugham and Rudyard Kipling.

Book preview

Dis’ Taste

By Caven Tootell

Copyright @2018 by CaTo eBooks & Caven Tootell.  All rights reserved.

First Edition

ASIN: B076ZKH243  (eBook)

ISBN-13: 9781973184102

ISBN-10: 1973184109(paperback) /

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without express permission of the publisher or author.

A Note on the Text

Dis’ Taste contains extreme violence, cruelty, racism and swearing.  This is in context with the setting and times of the story.  It also uses creole and French words and the main spelling is in Standard English (not US English) so many may find the spelling and use of words confronting and appear in error.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 – Initial Attack

Chapter 2 – Recuperation / Clem Arrival

Chapter 3 – Train Trip

Chapter 4 – The Plantation

Chapter 5 – 1st Meal

Chapter 6 – Leopoldville

Chapter 7 – 2nd Meal, Leopoldville

Chapter 8 – 3rd Meal

Chapter 9 – Final Meal

Chapter 1 – Initial Attack

Philippe crouched a little lower in the prow of the canoe as it slid under some low hanging branches and was enveloped in almost complete darkness.  The claustrophobic feeling of entering a long dark tunnel engulfed them.  Philippe overcome by a strong desire to strike a match just so he could push away the unknowns of the darkness surrounding and pressing in on him, it was almost unbearable.  Philippe realised the rising fear in him was growing as he struggled to push it back down, to somewhere he could hold it and not let it take control of him.  The leaves brushed against him, along with a thick branch.  As he tried to move his head away from the branch, something else made a dull, hollow scraping sound as it rubbed and bounced down the outer hull.  It caused a disturbingly deep and low booming, an empty large tree trunk was floating right beside him, and they all felt the noise in their joints.  The sound sucked the air out of the scene, each man felt as if it was an unnervingly loud klaxon peal, warning every person and animal within kilometres of their immediate area, of their presence and intent.  A torrent of warm water fell off the leaves of the overhead trees and onto his tunic and down his back. 

The canoe in which Philippe was riding was over four metres long, rudely cut from a large tree and it was obviously very old and had been used considerably.  There was a thick layer of slime and mud coating the lower deck which stunk of unwashed bodies and rotting food and Philippe’s boots slid as he tried to steady himself by leaning heavily on the side of the canoe.  The water sloshed up over his laces and left a layer of vile smelling sludge on top of his boots. 

With one hand Philippe gripped what passed as a gunwale, the rough wood finish bit into his hand, but he dared not let go in case he toppled over in front of the Company’s askari soldiers riding with him.  Up ahead feeble shafts of moonlight reflected sporadically in the gloom as one of the Africans poled with his paddle as they neared the shore, while others fended off the foliage with their hands.  The eight Force Publique conscripts were huddled low in the boat, now lifting their oars as they neared the bank.  They were all very quiet, yet at the same time nervous and excited, their Belgian Albini rifles slung across their backs, the heavy stock pulled down on the sling and the raised hammer occasionally making a low clang as they bumped the wooden canoe hull.  The askari were the company’s locally conscripted soldiers, forced into enlisting in the Force Publique.  Most were from tribes and nations further afield than where they were deployed or stationed.  This was to cut all emotional ties with locals when they were used to enforce the company’s will and rule.  An added benefit was that if they were attacked they were highly unlikely to desert to the attackers, fearing the locals’ retribution.  As outsiders their life and health were dependent on the control and dominance of the company.  In essence they were simple, uneducated mercenaries, often co-opted into years of service.  Their corporals were usually just the few who could hold and maintain the Europeans’ instructions and manage to instil fear into their subordinates.

There was a slight but growing lightening of the sky in the east so Philippe knew they had to get ashore quickly and get into cover before they were spotted.  It was eerily quiet, some indeterminate jungle sounds resonated in their ears and bodies, as if the jungle itself was breathing as it slept and then this was broken by an occasional slap of water as some fish started its day of struggling through life.

Over the side of the canoe the water was menacingly dark in this low light, it swirled sluggishly as if it was oil, they were close to landfall, the river gripping and pushing them forward then fighting with the paddlers and trying to push them away from the closing bank.  Hollow thuds sounded as the river pushed the paddles against the hull, then the straining of the Askari as they struggled to regain mastery over the lump of wood and bend it and the river to their will and objective. 

Philippe strained his eyes in the darkness.  He had become accustomed to the low light in mid-stream as they left the paddle steamer, but here under the drooping river foliage there was a different kind of darkness.  It seemed thicker, more sinister and he could only make out the white tunics of the Askari ahead of him.  He heard another much louder splash of some river dweller way off to his right, too far out into deep water to be a crocodile, maybe a tiger fish or a bird making an early start to its day’s hunting.  Way off in the distance he could hear the very faint rumblings of the rapids as the Congo river finished its greatest falls from higher up and turned itself into a wide sluggish river and winding down to the coast and Matadi. 

To get to this point, it had taken the small detachment the best part of a day and the last night to reach close to their destination of the Inga valley, on the company’s riverboat.  The steamer was a broad beamed vessel, obviously with its best days well behind it.  The boat was now just another old, tired steamer, struggling like an old warhorse, proving its worth to its owner, so it would not be discarded.  Forward on deck, immediately behind the open wheelhouse were several small spaces which were ironically, or in some gross error, labelled as cabins.  Aft of this area was an open deck for tying down cargo for transport up and down the river.  A short ladder on each side led down to other open spaces running down each side of the vessel, where hammocks were slung and general cooking and cleaning areas were laid out for the Africans. Twin, small smokestacks rose through the decks, pumping out its noxious smelling exhaust which clung to everything and ingrained itself in the food, clothes and drinking water no matter what measures were taken to cover them.  The steamer’s bow was grandly high and pointed, as if its speed was sufficient to require that to push the water aside. 

Philippe along with the German, Messerli and Philippe’s fellow, Belgian countryman, Augustine had relaxed on the upper deck as the boat chugged its way the previous night, upstream against the current. They had played baccarat whilst the European Sergeant had supervised the Askari, making sure their weapons were cleaned and serviceable, down on the quarterdeck under the awning.  For a short time the officers had gone below deck to oversee the work, but the heat, stink and frustrating incompetence of the Africans proved too painful for them to endure and they finally retreated back to their own whites’ only deck away from it all.  At sunset whilst the men prepared their meals and sang, the three officers, tunics unbuttoned under the oppressive heat had drunk a bottle of cognac Augustine had brought with him.  The cabin boy also brought a bottle of gin and two beers to table as they relaxed in the canvas chairs, absentmindedly watching the river banks as they slipped by. 

The riverside scene had also proved tedious to maintain the concentration of the party. With almost no break, there was simply a solid green wall of jungle down to and out over the water.  As the steamer neared a bend it appeared the jungle had won its struggle over the river and had actually closed off their path, until at the last moment, the boat rounded the corner and the next monotonous reach unveiled itself in front of them.  Every now and then there was a small beach, often no longer than the steamer itself, and even at one very rare moment a primitive wharf showed through the trees, a jumbled collection of pilings and branches, leading back up and away to some desolate and forlorn local village.  No villagers ever came out to look at the boats transiting the river, either because everyone had deserted the area, being driven out by the Company with its commercial practices or they had learnt of the officers’ predilection for taking pot shots at what they referred to as ‘game’.

Messerli had his new Mauser he had recently had shipped to him from Germany.  It was a splendid looking weapon with its newer lines, compared to the standard Albini rifle, which the Company issued to its employees. Messerli played with the bolt several times, revelling in the smooth action.  With a beer bottle in one hand and the barrel supported by his boot resting on the boat’s railing he seemed intent on shooting at whatever strayed into his line of fire.  Philippe leant back in his chair, stretched his legs and lazily put his feet up on the rail as well.  He drank deeply from his bottle of beer and grinned at Messerli and his antics.

The jungle overhangs were of such vivid and loud green colour that they overwhelmed the senses. Without the dirty brown of the water and occasional less dirty brown beaches and embankments, if you stared outboard your world was absolute green; it overpowered the senses and acted if it was the source of the heat and humidity rather than the unseen sun.

Each side of the river worked as huge lungs, sucking the coolness and freshness out of the river and its passengers into its darkness and exhaled it as a wet sticky heat, as if the men were trying to breath under water.

Do you think you can kill any wild pygmies from here Richard? Philippe enquired jokingly of Messerli.

Messerli turned his head slowly and peered at Philippe, Most definitely my friend, could not miss if he was related to a Belgian! grinning and turning back to his field of fire.  With a conspiratorial smile, Messerli clicked the five round box magazine into the magazine spring.  This was one of the nice improvements over the earlier single shot Albini with its front hinged; forward lifting breech and large flintlock striker.

The heat and humidity was becoming unbearable, even this close to the water and under shade.  Smiling at his friend Messerli squinted and scanned the jungle lining the river banks.  The steamer grunted and belched smoke as it pushed against the current in its never-ending trip up river.  Its progress was slow as if it too was pushing through the water logged air and cloying vegetation.  Messerli looked down the barrel and sight taking aim at something imaginary on the near bank.  Intermittently they would see a troop of monkeys screaming and clamouring in the overhanging trees, but Richard’s shots would drive them back into the safety of the deep treetops.  Philippe took a long draught from his bottle of beer and threw the empty over the side.  Absentmindedly he called for the serving boy to bring him another from the tub of water below where they were kept in pretence to keep them cool.  The boy dressed in crisp white, looking slightly ridiculous in his livery against the wild background setting from the deck, dashed off to comply with the white man’s order.

"Have you chaps had any encounters with this Inga village before?’ Augustine interjected into the quiet reverie.  He looked like he had been half asleep in the torpor.

What killing the kaffirs? questioned Messerli,  no they are more shit scared than any locals closer downstream near us, but they seem to have upset the District Officer up here and that is why we are going to make sure they understand the law and what they should be doing.  He punctuated his sentences by raising his Mauser and clicking the empty chamber at a log floating past them.

‘I have though enjoyed a close liaison with what looked like an Inga woman!’, he replied over his shoulder with a mocking sneer, curling his lips.  ‘She stunk to high heaven and had some weird scars all over her tits, but she was a wild fight, hey.’

Philippe and Messerli had been in country for over two years now and while both men had differing opinions on how things had to be done, they both had developed a sharp hatred for the locals and their way of life.  Messerli had an evil streak in him which at times made Philippe uncomfortable.  Philippe had seen Messerli beat a local man to death for dropping a rubber sap collection can on his boots.  As he beat the man with his chicotte, he spewed an uninterrupted torrent of invective.  Messerli whipped him for almost five minutes, the blows landing all over the screaming worker.  Large cuts had opened on his skin and quickly large splashes of bright red blood covered the ground surrounding him.  This seemed at the time to spur Messerli on, continuing without a break or concern, while the man’s screams , after reaching a nauseous crescendo, tapered off to animalistic grunts and groans replicating those emanating from Messerli’s own exertions, only going deadly quiet when the poor wretch lost consciousness. 

During the ordeal, Messerli’s eyes focused on an object in the distance, he gave the outward appearance of being detached from the horror he was committing, as if he was merely cleaning his boots, all the while taking very shorts breaks to mop his brow, look dispassionately at his victim, then to start afresh.  Slowly and purposely, looking at the bleeding and moaning man, Messerli would pause before choosing the next untouched piece of skin, to lay the hide whip onto. Blood was flowing freely all over from the boy and the mud around him turned a gruesome dark maroon colour, of dead earth and life’s essence. The boy’s skin was slick with congealing blood, changing the hue of his natural colour to a darkest black against the vibrant green of the undergrowth.  When Messerli had finished, he simply went quiet, smiling to himself, took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead, ‘God damned dirty bastards,’ he muttered arrogantly, turned on his heels and walked off.  With trepidation and never taking their eyes off Messerli, fearful of setting him off again, the beaten man’s friends gingerly approached the prostrate body, like cringing dogs approaching the leftover carcass of a lion’s meal, wary if the beast turned on them for committing some unknown transgression or just because it felt like hurting them.  Philippe had no real sympathy for the natives, they were a lazy, dirty and uncivilised rabble and his drive was to make a success of his life, maybe even make some money, so he had almost no feelings towards them if they stood in his way.  But also he did not go out of his way, as did Messerli, to harm them.  They were simply human-like tools to exploit and use, Philippe would not be cruel to a workhorse, that would be counter-productive to his objectives, but he would not spare the whip to push it onwards.

In these quiet times, travelling on the river and between the rare exciting periods, with so much dead time the officers often talked about what they would do when they finished their contracts and returned to Europe as moderately rich men.  The places they would live, women they would court and what they would do for the rest of their lives.  They all knew though deep down that the Congo had infected them, changed them.  The last time Philippe returned home, really to see his father and visit some old military friends, the overriding influence on his return was that it was all like some exotic disease, the colonial lifestyle, with its dangers, jewels, filth and personal compromises, was deep within them and they knew it affected their dreams, it all made it seem so surreal.  At home the weather was atrociously cold and Philippe found it difficult to sleep at night.  He had spent some time with his father, reminiscing about his life and what he hoped for.  His father had never achieved the high goals he had set himself and tended to live through Philippe.  While he was never openly critical, he never seemed to reach the heights of pride Philippe had hoped with his father.  Philippe’s escape from the formal constraints of a peacetime Belgian army to the Congo seemed to rip another source of pride from the old man and he simply drifted now, drinking more heavily, talking about his wife, dead but ever present in his father’s world, and tending the small vegetable patches he owned close to his house. 

All of Philippe’s friends also had settled into a more steady life, something Philippe felt he longed for but not on the terms life seemed to have dealt for him.  Philippe went out and had drinks late into the night, visited the whores in Patershol quarter, a rabbit warren of ancient streets and laneways, sat innocently at his friends’ dinner tables with their wives and children.  All of the time he felt distant, he was a visitor not from their shared lives but someone looking from the outside in on them.  They seemed either happy with the mediocrity and daily sameness or growing embittered on not achieving some mythical goal in their lives which in essence had only been a mere dream.  Their mindless chatter was superficial, Philippe could not relate to it at all, it had no substance, it was pointless, and he only attended because he thought he should, some long lost drive to stay connected because that is what normal people did, yet it was a superficial treatment of a deeper injury.  Nights were probably the worst for Philippe, he would wake violently, trying to jump out of his bed, grabbing for a gun that wasn’t there; then followed sheer terror of an unknown.  This thing stalking him was faceless and formless but his half-awake mind knew there was something there close just about to pounce but always outside of grasp of his consciousness and alert brain. Then he would endure long minutes sweating, straining his eyes in the darkness trying to make sense of his surroundings, an inner sense of reality trying to tell him that he was safe, but a deeper urge wanting to strike out at the shadows, either in front of him or inside him. 

Alcohol sometimes helped and sometimes made it worse.  He spent many nights lying and staring at the ceiling or waking early in the morning, just sitting and looking out at the deadly quiet and uninviting street from his grey room.  Even worse were the nights he sat with his father in the gloom and oppressive atmosphere of the kitchen, all windows long rusted shut, glass panes smeared with years of sorrow and lost hope.  His father would pour out the pooled bitterness of his life, hour after hour all the while drinking himself towards a welcome release, often repeating himself, often contradicting himself but always with the same underlying pain that Philippe could not assuage.  In the darkness his father always appeared smaller than he actually was both physically and mentally.  He was shrinking downwards and into his own personal hell, reliving disappointment after loss.  Philippe saw him not as someone living but a shadow of someone already dead, not aware that they were dead and for some morbid reason clinging to the mortal sphere.  Hour after hour this would go on half in an alcohol fuelled delirium, railing against real and imaginary injustices of his life.  Philippe watched and listened to his father who was always on the wrong side of everything.  The shell that was left, what made the man what he was, the essence of his father, poured out of him through the darkness of the room to embed itself in the walls and add further grime to the windows.  The despair and sickness of the old man was thick and cloying, reaching in and affecting everything in the room, including Philippe, leaving its own horror ingrained on what it touched.  But the most unsettling aspect was the transfer of the hopelessness onto Philippe.  He absorbed the distraught emptiness and it was filling him with a dread he had to escape because he knew it would eventually subsume him as well.

Slowly Philippe returned to his present environment on the river, it was early in the night when they had all tried to get a few hours’ sleep before they had to transfer to the canoes for the trip to the village.  It was still extremely hot; the thunderstorm around midnight did little to quell the heat.  Philippe lay on top of the bunk in the tiny claustrophobic cabin.  Outside he could hear the heavy rain smashing onto the deck above and somewhere close by a small torrent gushing down on the steamer’s upper deck guttering with the creaking of the hull, and underlying that the constant thud, thud of the engines, and countless rattles as small objects moved or rolled in the cabin kept him in a dreamy half asleep state.  Finally he mercifully drifted off to sleep and once again dreamt unhappily of home.

At around four in the morning the sergeant banged on the door, waking all, it was time to move out.  Quickly pulling on his boots, Philippe picked up his weapon, checking its load out and grabbed the light pack he had readied earlier in the night.  After a quick wash in the tepid water basin and throwing on his creased uniform coat, he walked aft.  His boots thudded heavily on the wooden deck in the still dark morning with the engines off and the jungle mostly asleep, it felt like he was in a large hall, the smallest sounds echoing and making more noise than expected.  The native soldiers had already lowered one of the canoes they had brought with them and were scaling down a jumping ladder to get themselves seated.  It was only a metre drop over the side, on the sheltered side of the steamer, and it was relatively easy to simply step down, although the more people clambering into the canoes caused them to bob in the current.  With little talk other than some muffled threats of death from the Sergeant, Philippe’s canoe pushed off first, he was to land about a kilometre downstream from the village with a dozen or so natives.  The steamer was to move further up river, so Augustine could accompany Messerli’s main force.  Augustine would hold his section back in reserve as Messerli circled the village and attacked from the east.  The stink of the river was cloying, dead vegetation moved reluctantly past the steamer on its way to its fate at the mouth.  A familiar sense of purpose started to grip the men; minimum talk took over everyone, melding them from different backgrounds and tribes into one purposeful force.

A quick wave to his two colleagues, Philippe’s canoe was soon swallowed in the blackness of the early morning and shadows from the jungle.  The scouts had told them that there was a good landing site close by so they made directly for the near bank, probably less than a few hundred metres.  The natives on both sides of the canoe struggled with their oars trying to keep the canoe straight and pointed towards the banks, all the while the river attempted to claim them as another piece of rubbish or flotsam and take them to its conclusion in the sea.

After only twenty minutes or so they neared what looked like the spot.  From what Philippe could make out in the darkness there was a small break in the larger tree line and a muddy beach of sorts. The oarsman in the prow held his paddle slightly ahead of himself, reaching out for and pushing against some higher branches overhanging the landing point, trying to keep a heading towards the small clearing.  Philippe could feel his chest tightening, the first rush of nerves, breathing shallowing, so he took a moment to draw in a long deep breath and slowly let in out through his nose – trying to keep his actions from the Africans he was leading.  It was probably an hour before sunrise, and while it had been cool during the time they had been paddling from the steamer now further upriver, it was starting to warm up.  Sweat was running down his back, and he casually wondered whether it was from the heat and the closely packed bodies or another symptom of his nerves.  The smell of the natives, their sweat and their fear was pungent and forced Philippe to cover his nose and mouth with his hand.  A strong scent of rotting vegetable matter hung in the air; the large masses of plants carried down the river and were now caught in the tangled undergrowth lining the bank.  It was a rich stink, in the heat giving a heavy underlying flavour to the whole environment.  It wasn’t, at first, too bad, but the continued assault and immersion to their sense of smell became nauseating.  In patches where some of the rotting debris had been sitting stagnant longer, it induced a gag reflex.  In yesterday’s daylight these plant islands as they floated past them on their way downstream looked solid and strong enough to walk on.  In the darkness now they were just black inky blotches which soaked up any available moonlight, and added to the complete darkness around them. 

Their canoe had separated from the rest of the detachment soon after leaving the boat they were instantly alone, unsupported, vulnerable and could only rely on themselves.  Philippe knew that Augustine, as the second lieutenant would soon be ashore and working his way with his small squad further inland.  The main party under Captain Messerli was at least five kilometres further east, to strike from the rear of the Inga village.  Philippe had served with Messerli, a very good military man, but he tended towards arrogance and with a distinct sadistic side to him, particularly with the natives.  They had fought together on several small battles in which both of them had been injured, but with their superior weapons, always victorious.  Augustine was different though.  He had only been in country for a few weeks and seemed pleasant enough.  Philippe had heard over drinks in their mess one night