If You Paddle Into It You Go "Far Far," And Then "No More Water
Live," And You Get Out And Go Up The Tunnel, Which Is Sometimes
Broad, Sometimes Narrow, Sometimes High, Sometimes So Low That You
Have To Crawl, And So Get Out At The Other End.
One French gentleman has gone through this performance, and I am
told found "plenty plenty" bats, and hedgehogs, and snakes.
They
could not tell me his name, which I much regretted. As we had no
store of bush lights we went no further than the portals; indeed,
strictly between ourselves, if I had had every bush light in Congo
Francais I personally should not have relished going further. I am
terrified of caves; it sends a creaming down my back to think of
them.
We went across the river to see another cave entrance on the other
bank, where there is a narrow stretch of low rock-covered land at
the foot of the mountains, probably under water in the wet season.
The mouth of this other cave is low, between tumbled blocks of rock.
It looked so suspiciously like a short cut to the lower regions,
that I had less exploring enthusiasm about it than even about its
opposite neighbour; although they told me no man had gone down "them
thing." Probably that much-to-be-honoured Frenchman who explored
the other cave, allowed like myself, that if one did want to go from
the Equator to Hades, there were pleasanter ways to go than this.
My Kembe Island man said that just hereabouts were five cave
openings, the two that we had seen and another one we had not, on
land, and two under the water, one of the sub-fluvial ones being
responsible for the whirlpool we met outside the gateway of Boko
Boko.
The scenery above Boko Boko was exceedingly lovely, the river shut
in between its rim of mountains. As you pass up it opens out in
front of you and closes in behind, the closely-set confused mass of
mountains altering in form as you view them from different angles,
save one, Kangwe - a blunt cone, evidently the record of some great
volcanic outburst; and the sandbanks show again wherever the current
deflects and leaves slack water, their bright glistening colour
giving a relief to the scene.
For a long period we paddle by the south bank, and pass a vertical
cleft-like valley, the upper end of which seems blocked by a finely
shaped mountain, almost as conical as Kangwe. The name of this
mountain is Njoko, and the name of the clear small river, that
apparently monopolises the valley floor, is the Ovata. Our peace
was not of long duration, and we were soon again in the midst of a
bristling forest of rock; still the current running was not
dangerously strong, for the river-bed comes up in a ridge, too high
for much water to come over at this season of the year; but in the
wet season this must be one of the worst places.
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