Observe Extremely Neatly Igalwa Built Huts, People
Sitting On The Bright Clean Ground Outside Them, Making Mats And
Baskets.
"Mboloani," say I. "Ai!
Mbolo," say they, and knock off
work to stare. Observe large wired-in enclosures on left-hand side
of road - investigate - find they are tenanted by animals - goats,
sheep, chickens, etc. Clearly this is a jardin d'acclimatation. No
wonder the colony does not pay, if it goes in for this sort of
thing, 206 miles inland, with simply no public to pay gate-money.
While contemplating these things, hear awful hiss. Serpents! No,
geese. Awful fight. Grand things, good, old-fashioned, long skirts
are for Africa! Get through geese and advance in good order, but
somewhat rapidly down road, turn sharply round corner of native
houses. Turkey cock - terrific turn up. Flight on my part forwards
down road, which is still going strong, now in a northerly
direction, apparently indefinitely. Hope to goodness there will be
a turning that I can go down and get back by, without returning
through this ferocious farmyard. Intent on picking up such an
outlet, I go thirty yards or so down the road. Hear shouts coming
from a clump of bananas on my left. Know they are directed at me,
but it does not do to attend to shouts always. Expect it is only
some native with an awful knowledge of English, anxious to get up my
family history - therefore accelerate pace. More shouts, and louder,
of "Madame Gacon! Madame Gacon!" and out of the banana clump comes
a big, plump, pleasant-looking gentleman, clad in a singlet and a
divided skirt. White people must be attended to, so advance
carefully towards him through a plantation of young coffee,
apologising humbly for intruding on his domain. He smiles and bows
beautifully, but - horror! - he knows no English, I no French.
Situation tres inexplicable et tres interessante, as I subsequently
heard him remark; and the worst of it is he is evidently bursting to
know who I am, and what I am doing in the middle of his coffee
plantation, for his it clearly is, as appears from his obsequious
bodyguard of blacks, highly interested in me also. We gaze at each
other, and smile some more, but stiffly, and he stands bareheaded in
the sun in an awful way. It's murder I'm committing, hard all! He,
as is fitting for his superior sex, displays intelligence first and
says, "Interpreter," waving his hand to the south. I say "Yes," in
my best Fan, an enthusiastic, intelligent grunt which any one must
understand. He leads the way back towards those geese - perhaps, by
the by, that is why he wears those divided skirts - and we enter a
beautifully neatly built bamboo house, and sit down opposite to each
other at a table and wait for the interpreter who is being fetched.
The house is low on the ground and of native construction, but most
beautifully kept, and arranged with an air of artistic feeling quite
as unexpected as the rest of my surroundings.
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