One of his uncles, a politician, a member of the French senate, had arranged a job for him with a colonial firm. Timar was to take charge of a trading post 100 kilometers from the coast. The first thing he did was report to his new boss, who greeted him with a shrug. The man knew nothing of his appointment. The trading post to which Timar had been assigned was a ten-hour boat trip from Libreville, up where the river ended, "and for starters, the motorized canoe has a hole in it, and second of all, that post is manned by an old nut who's sworn he'll put a bullet in anyone who tries to take his job. You figure it out for yourself, it's none of my business." Even before his bags were unpacked, Jo Timar had been sacked, with nothing to show for it; in Gabon, the backwoods of Africa, where the Depression had hit every bit as hard as in Europe, where the extreme humidity made it insalubriously hot, 'feverishly hot, the heat of a hospital ward'.