Continue with Madness and Ardor! God Saves the Protestant's Serfs by Maxim Gorky.
STORY THIRTY - THE RUBBER PLANTATION Rubber is the material that drives much of the industrial world. But, with hundreds of millions of people in the developed world, that require a mind-bogglingly huge quantities of rubber to be extracted. While much of our demands are satisfied from synthetics rubber, the natural counterpart is still incredibly important. I have sometimes wondered, with the large amount such materials imported into Mother Russia everyday, what are the sources like, and how do the African colony of Prussia could satisfy not only us Russians, but millions more in the NECs and North America? I found that out, and it was not a nice sight. The story is best compared with the Kartoga Tales [1], but at least Kartoga is a worthy punishment to correct those stubborn criminals and turns them useful for society, not a show to gawk at and contemplate how labors could be used for immeasurable profits.
What does a rubber plantation in Lieb, Gabon Province, of Prussian Kongo, look like? I had the fortune to witness one, and actually, one of the largest plantation complexes in Kongo. It belonged to the mayor of Lieb and a famous veterinarian – Friedrich Weber – whom was notoriously wealthy and methodically ruthless in his worker management techniques. A property that has an area of six-thousand hectares. It was so large that I had a feeling of standing in the middle of Siberia, but with unbearable humidity and filled with destitute humans. Whilst terrible, the Prussian doctor was not far from hiding the secrets behind the plantations, and even opened public tours to business students or curious persons who would like to experience how a profitable and productive farm should be run. I was on one of such tours to visit Weber’s plantation, on a sunny morning of December 1931, to bring the colonial stories back to Russia. The tour was, of course, terribly expensive to keep profits high, and lasted for two days.
The bus started its engine, and the passengers were boisterous, excited to witness a glorified farm ran on essentially forced labor. We arrived at the main gate, an imposing iron work flanked by two yellow-painted brick columns, decorated on top with European-style lantern. About fifty-meter away was the towering mansion, following the design of Lodewijk Palace [2] of Saigon. With a fountain stood in the middle of a beautifully-maintained garden, containing sculptures and covered under the lush green canopy of great tropical trees, the property was as grand as its empty morale. We were guided into the main hall, where the floor was laid with black-and-white square marble bricks, and the ceiling, an at least ten-meter tall dome-shaped one, wrapped over. One may have stuck here to marvel at the fine architecture and ignore the devil den surrounding it, forever encased in the opulent bubble.
Lieb Plantation, Aerial View, circa December 1931
Then, my observation ended. A tour guide broke the silent to gather everyone attention towards a man. The man, he was the infamous Weber. A man of beginning 40s, tall, stern-looking, angular face structure, his eyes were sharp and focused, and his forehead tall and broad. And with a pair of glass and dark hair, Weber looked like a titular Germanic. The story was that he moved from Rheinbund to Prussian Kongo to make better fortunes in a pretty much uncharted territory, which he eventually managed to. Now, he began his welcoming speech:
Greetings to all gentlemen gathered here. We are glad to welcome our visitors to the Weber Industrial Crops Farm, among the largest plantations in all realms of Kongo. We are here to get everyone ready to take their rooms first, and then to begin the first part of our tour. First we start at the rubber forests, where we will see the hard-working natives performing the crucial steps in collecting rubber or taking care of these precious trees. After that, we move on to tour the rubber processing factory, which are run flawlessly by our competent managers who could bend even the unruliest, grumpiest workers to become happy and obedient. Yes, everyone hears that right. To conclude our first day, we will have a fine-dining experience on the mansion’s outdoor garden, with dishes from both the native and Prussian cuisines, and of course, cold beers.
Friedrich Weber, in his new-model Prussian Uniform
Weber concluded his speech. And we started the ride to the plantation’s rubber forests. The dense, impeccably-placed, and straight trees began appearing, and where I saw groups of native workers doing their tasks of collecting rubber latex, a precursor to dry rubber mass. These workers tapped in the bark of the trees, and then a flow of milky white substance – the latex – flew down in spiral to collectors placed on to the trunks. For any group of three to five natives, there was a European overseer, who held a pistol on his belt and a baton on his hand. The overseer, whose best contribution would probably be uncivilized beating, was nevertheless well-fed and healthy. In contrast, the workers themselves could be best described as in sorry shape. Their facial expression only hinted at some sorrowfulness, with their eye lids always in a state of trying to close, as if they were seeking some rests; while their bodies looked like they would give up or collapse at any moment. Not by any mean they were lacking foods, but more like they were reflecting a perfect image of profitable exploitation made by long work hours and inadequate caring. It was a sad scene to view, for it reminded me of Imperial serfdom back in the long, long past.
Weber began raising his voices. And like any demeaning manager, he stared down in his giant glass and spoke in a prideful, exaggerating tone, while grinning in an uncomfortable smile:
In front of your eyes are the vast forest of rubber trees, the pride of our plantation. We recruit more than 1000 workers to work on the vast plantations, collecting tens of thousands tones of rubber annually. To make it more profitable, we only hire local workers, and house them near to the plantation. But that is not enough. We need to keep them discipline, they are too demanding and verbal about getting “better treatments”. Well for sure we give them jobs and some places to stay, and that are decent during this time for blacks. They do not need much more than that. That’s why we have our overseers here, composed of loyal, hardworking Europeans, who will maintain workers’ discipline and put the blacks to their rightful place.
It was all bad, blatant propaganda. Not even nice at all, and just plain terrible to listen to. But for any standard Protestant colonialist, these words were righteous and acceptable, and even sometimes considered as facts. No need for condemning the practices, and the end justified the means for them. I tried to move myself into thinking about something else, just to temporarily forget the harsh reality of the surrounding environment, and the incessant words of a proud exploiter.
And now the tour moved to a new section - the processing plants. If the forests were considered like a green prison, the factory was like a grey hell, utterly devoid of anything half-decent. Its atmosphere was oppressive, its air difficult to breathe, and its people were either pitiful or ruthless. The pity and sympathetic feeling that I had felt was replaced with a subtle fear, a fear fabricated by the so-called competent manager who were inherently no different from the goons of Goodyear Enterprise, but wearing khaki suits. I also happened to see some kind of guard posts, with African and White troops alike, equipped with colonial-style uniform and military graded weapons. Pitting natives against natives, I supposed, or maybe those Africans were the Yankee mercenaries. Regardless of their origins, they still carried a sense of sternness, distance and unforgivingness, ready to smack down on any smallest sign of disobedience. They always had their batons ready, and their rifles fully loaded, not to mention of their grinder-buggies roaming the perimeter, creating an invisible, tight and hopeless box to trap the workers’ inside. Of course, that did not happen today, because of the tour, and their images must be kept clean.
Weber himself finally said again:
You see, our boys in green and yellow are always ready to act upon the slightest sight of disobedience. They’re armed to teeth, and they’re professionally trained to do their jobs, which they usually accomplish well. Let me tell you about an incident when there was a strike to raise more incomes for those damn pygmies. Instead of complying with their demands – which would ruin the business and of course, the whole rubber supply for our glorious Prussia – we simply used our troops. Ja, the workers immediately backed down upon seeing such a large number of well-equipped and fearsome men, and we arrested their leaders and conspirators. To set and example, we fired one of them and branded him a mark “terrible”, which for sure will ruin his future prospect. Nein, no need for brutally murdering them, just expel and punish them well.
Those words were just sugar-coating. I knew certainly when he said “back down” that was to hide to fire at will on the workers, and “arrest” is just a cover for torturing, usually in medieval methods. Still, I almost vomited upon imagining what Weber just said.
The crowd, except for me, cheered or expressed admiration of such a large but “well-run” and profitable business model. Indeed, profits were high, so high that it would make many Russian businessmen jealous, but not to be admired by us. It was amusing to observe, at least, but after the initial impression, a rather evil feeling kept encircling me. That feeling came from me refocused to pay attentions towards the plant workers. The workers, seemed fear of being hit by the factory goons, silently continued working and keeping their heads low, never dare to move their attention elsewhere. It was sad to witness, but again, no one, except me, felt even a little pity for them. Had the Prussians been stepping to become the next Yankees? Apparently so, with their souls so imbued with Teutonic superiority complex, thinking that they could abuse anyone for their profits.
Finally, twilight came down, and it was the moment to exit this purgatory existence on the Earth. I returned back to the mansion, the empty shell of morale, the decadent piece of exploitative colonialism. I was bit exhausted, partially by the heat, but mostly by the stifling morale environment which the Prussian created here, and the dinner alleviated my exhaustion quite a bit. I dined alone, and rarely exchanged much conversations with the different-minded colonial admirers.
When I returned back to my room, it was eight-thirty. In a dry, clear night, I sat, continued my pondering on these colonial experiences. The night was cool and soothed my disturbed soul a bit, allowed me to fall back to resting. But thoughts soon returned back to mind. Everyday just unveiled to me newer and sometimes more nightmarish stories, or atrocities that these Protestants so cherished and so proud about. Images of exploited Africans, of scrawny, nutrient-deficient, stunted people, lacking clothes and means of defense, only got more and more prevalent by the day.
I did not put much thought during the second day. It was all a repetition of the first day, with less sinister images and more of the colonialists’ enjoyment of the bourgeoisie beauty of the plantation. From my room, high above the ground, I viewed the scene. A lush garden, with dense forests surrounded it, extended till the end of the horizon. The humid and sultry atmosphere bore heavily on myself, and perhaps also on the plantation workers who got paid only enough to feed themselves, and never adequate to treat the immense injuries – physical and mental – that had been wrought upon them.
Leaving the mansion, I did not forget to write down the address of the place. I finally got my relief back, during the return to the main city. But it was all short live. The images of the plantation and its terrible conditions continued their returns. Nevertheless, in my mind, I reminded myself that there would be more heinous stories from the Protestant Dark Continent, and must I brave through all of them for invaluable historical records. May God Bless the serfs of the Protestant, for their eternal exiles from their happiness by the Teutons.
Kongo Plantation Workers, 1930. Men, women, and children alike were put to work long hours in the harsh tropical environment to satisfy rubber demands.
[1] – Somewhat equivalent to The Gulag Archipelago, and less brutal. I plan to write about this later but in a documentary style.
[2] – OTL Saigon Norodom/Independence Palace
STORY THIRTY - THE RUBBER PLANTATION
What does a rubber plantation in Lieb, Gabon Province, of Prussian Kongo, look like? I had the fortune to witness one, and actually, one of the largest plantation complexes in Kongo. It belonged to the mayor of Lieb and a famous veterinarian – Friedrich Weber – whom was notoriously wealthy and methodically ruthless in his worker management techniques. A property that has an area of six-thousand hectares. It was so large that I had a feeling of standing in the middle of Siberia, but with unbearable humidity and filled with destitute humans. Whilst terrible, the Prussian doctor was not far from hiding the secrets behind the plantations, and even opened public tours to business students or curious persons who would like to experience how a profitable and productive farm should be run. I was on one of such tours to visit Weber’s plantation, on a sunny morning of December 1931, to bring the colonial stories back to Russia. The tour was, of course, terribly expensive to keep profits high, and lasted for two days.
The bus started its engine, and the passengers were boisterous, excited to witness a glorified farm ran on essentially forced labor. We arrived at the main gate, an imposing iron work flanked by two yellow-painted brick columns, decorated on top with European-style lantern. About fifty-meter away was the towering mansion, following the design of Lodewijk Palace [2] of Saigon. With a fountain stood in the middle of a beautifully-maintained garden, containing sculptures and covered under the lush green canopy of great tropical trees, the property was as grand as its empty morale. We were guided into the main hall, where the floor was laid with black-and-white square marble bricks, and the ceiling, an at least ten-meter tall dome-shaped one, wrapped over. One may have stuck here to marvel at the fine architecture and ignore the devil den surrounding it, forever encased in the opulent bubble.
Lieb Plantation, Aerial View, circa December 1931
Greetings to all gentlemen gathered here. We are glad to welcome our visitors to the Weber Industrial Crops Farm, among the largest plantations in all realms of Kongo. We are here to get everyone ready to take their rooms first, and then to begin the first part of our tour. First we start at the rubber forests, where we will see the hard-working natives performing the crucial steps in collecting rubber or taking care of these precious trees. After that, we move on to tour the rubber processing factory, which are run flawlessly by our competent managers who could bend even the unruliest, grumpiest workers to become happy and obedient. Yes, everyone hears that right. To conclude our first day, we will have a fine-dining experience on the mansion’s outdoor garden, with dishes from both the native and Prussian cuisines, and of course, cold beers.
Friedrich Weber, in his new-model Prussian Uniform
Weber concluded his speech. And we started the ride to the plantation’s rubber forests. The dense, impeccably-placed, and straight trees began appearing, and where I saw groups of native workers doing their tasks of collecting rubber latex, a precursor to dry rubber mass. These workers tapped in the bark of the trees, and then a flow of milky white substance – the latex – flew down in spiral to collectors placed on to the trunks. For any group of three to five natives, there was a European overseer, who held a pistol on his belt and a baton on his hand. The overseer, whose best contribution would probably be uncivilized beating, was nevertheless well-fed and healthy. In contrast, the workers themselves could be best described as in sorry shape. Their facial expression only hinted at some sorrowfulness, with their eye lids always in a state of trying to close, as if they were seeking some rests; while their bodies looked like they would give up or collapse at any moment. Not by any mean they were lacking foods, but more like they were reflecting a perfect image of profitable exploitation made by long work hours and inadequate caring. It was a sad scene to view, for it reminded me of Imperial serfdom back in the long, long past.
Weber began raising his voices. And like any demeaning manager, he stared down in his giant glass and spoke in a prideful, exaggerating tone, while grinning in an uncomfortable smile:
In front of your eyes are the vast forest of rubber trees, the pride of our plantation. We recruit more than 1000 workers to work on the vast plantations, collecting tens of thousands tones of rubber annually. To make it more profitable, we only hire local workers, and house them near to the plantation. But that is not enough. We need to keep them discipline, they are too demanding and verbal about getting “better treatments”. Well for sure we give them jobs and some places to stay, and that are decent during this time for blacks. They do not need much more than that. That’s why we have our overseers here, composed of loyal, hardworking Europeans, who will maintain workers’ discipline and put the blacks to their rightful place.
It was all bad, blatant propaganda. Not even nice at all, and just plain terrible to listen to. But for any standard Protestant colonialist, these words were righteous and acceptable, and even sometimes considered as facts. No need for condemning the practices, and the end justified the means for them. I tried to move myself into thinking about something else, just to temporarily forget the harsh reality of the surrounding environment, and the incessant words of a proud exploiter.
And now the tour moved to a new section - the processing plants. If the forests were considered like a green prison, the factory was like a grey hell, utterly devoid of anything half-decent. Its atmosphere was oppressive, its air difficult to breathe, and its people were either pitiful or ruthless. The pity and sympathetic feeling that I had felt was replaced with a subtle fear, a fear fabricated by the so-called competent manager who were inherently no different from the goons of Goodyear Enterprise, but wearing khaki suits. I also happened to see some kind of guard posts, with African and White troops alike, equipped with colonial-style uniform and military graded weapons. Pitting natives against natives, I supposed, or maybe those Africans were the Yankee mercenaries. Regardless of their origins, they still carried a sense of sternness, distance and unforgivingness, ready to smack down on any smallest sign of disobedience. They always had their batons ready, and their rifles fully loaded, not to mention of their grinder-buggies roaming the perimeter, creating an invisible, tight and hopeless box to trap the workers’ inside. Of course, that did not happen today, because of the tour, and their images must be kept clean.
Weber himself finally said again:
You see, our boys in green and yellow are always ready to act upon the slightest sight of disobedience. They’re armed to teeth, and they’re professionally trained to do their jobs, which they usually accomplish well. Let me tell you about an incident when there was a strike to raise more incomes for those damn pygmies. Instead of complying with their demands – which would ruin the business and of course, the whole rubber supply for our glorious Prussia – we simply used our troops. Ja, the workers immediately backed down upon seeing such a large number of well-equipped and fearsome men, and we arrested their leaders and conspirators. To set and example, we fired one of them and branded him a mark “terrible”, which for sure will ruin his future prospect. Nein, no need for brutally murdering them, just expel and punish them well.
Those words were just sugar-coating. I knew certainly when he said “back down” that was to hide to fire at will on the workers, and “arrest” is just a cover for torturing, usually in medieval methods. Still, I almost vomited upon imagining what Weber just said.
The crowd, except for me, cheered or expressed admiration of such a large but “well-run” and profitable business model. Indeed, profits were high, so high that it would make many Russian businessmen jealous, but not to be admired by us. It was amusing to observe, at least, but after the initial impression, a rather evil feeling kept encircling me. That feeling came from me refocused to pay attentions towards the plant workers. The workers, seemed fear of being hit by the factory goons, silently continued working and keeping their heads low, never dare to move their attention elsewhere. It was sad to witness, but again, no one, except me, felt even a little pity for them. Had the Prussians been stepping to become the next Yankees? Apparently so, with their souls so imbued with Teutonic superiority complex, thinking that they could abuse anyone for their profits.
Finally, twilight came down, and it was the moment to exit this purgatory existence on the Earth. I returned back to the mansion, the empty shell of morale, the decadent piece of exploitative colonialism. I was bit exhausted, partially by the heat, but mostly by the stifling morale environment which the Prussian created here, and the dinner alleviated my exhaustion quite a bit. I dined alone, and rarely exchanged much conversations with the different-minded colonial admirers.
When I returned back to my room, it was eight-thirty. In a dry, clear night, I sat, continued my pondering on these colonial experiences. The night was cool and soothed my disturbed soul a bit, allowed me to fall back to resting. But thoughts soon returned back to mind. Everyday just unveiled to me newer and sometimes more nightmarish stories, or atrocities that these Protestants so cherished and so proud about. Images of exploited Africans, of scrawny, nutrient-deficient, stunted people, lacking clothes and means of defense, only got more and more prevalent by the day.
I did not put much thought during the second day. It was all a repetition of the first day, with less sinister images and more of the colonialists’ enjoyment of the bourgeoisie beauty of the plantation. From my room, high above the ground, I viewed the scene. A lush garden, with dense forests surrounded it, extended till the end of the horizon. The humid and sultry atmosphere bore heavily on myself, and perhaps also on the plantation workers who got paid only enough to feed themselves, and never adequate to treat the immense injuries – physical and mental – that had been wrought upon them.
Leaving the mansion, I did not forget to write down the address of the place. I finally got my relief back, during the return to the main city. But it was all short live. The images of the plantation and its terrible conditions continued their returns. Nevertheless, in my mind, I reminded myself that there would be more heinous stories from the Protestant Dark Continent, and must I brave through all of them for invaluable historical records. May God Bless the serfs of the Protestant, for their eternal exiles from their happiness by the Teutons.
Kongo Plantation Workers, 1930. Men, women, and children alike were put to work long hours in the harsh tropical environment to satisfy rubber demands.
[2] – OTL Saigon Norodom/Independence Palace
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