No Watchman Is Required To Wake You In The Morning On The Top Of A
Cameroon Foot-Hill By 5.30, Because About 4 A.M. The Dank Chill That
Comes Before The Dawn Does So Most Effectively.
One old chief
turned up early out of the mist and dashed me a bottle of palm wine;
he says he wants to dash me a fowl, but I decline, and accept two
eggs, and give him four heads of tobacco.
The whole place is swathed in thick white mist through which my
audience arrive. But I am firm with them, and shut up the doors and
windows and disregard their bangings on them while I am dressing, or
rather re-dressing. The mission teachers get in with my tea, and
sit and smoke and spit while I have my breakfast. Give me cannibal
Fans!
It is pouring with rain again now, and we go down the steep hillock
to the path we came along yesterday, keep it until we come to where
the old path cuts it, and then turn up to the right following the
old path's course and leave Buana without a pang of regret. Our
road goes N.E. Oh, the mud of it! Not the clearish cascades of
yesterday but sticky, slippery mud, intensely sticky, and intensely
slippery. The narrow path which is filled by this, is V-shaped
underneath from wear, and I soon find the safest way is right
through the deepest mud in the middle.
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