and when it had passed off, scrambled out and had another
try at the slide.
After this we have a stretch of rocky forest, and pass
by a widening in the path which I am told is a place where
men blow, i.e., rest, and then pass through another a little
further on, which is Buea’s bush market. Then through an
opening in the great war-hedge of Buea, a growing stockade
some fifteen feet high, the lower part of it wattled. Close
by is a cross put up to mark the spot where that gallant young
German officer fell last January twelvemonth, when on the
first expedition to open up this side of the mountain.
A t the sides of the path here grow banks of bergamot and
balsam, returning good for evil and smiling sweetly as we
crush them. Thank goodness we are in forest now, and we
seem to have done with the sword-grass. The rocks are
covered with moss and ferns, and the mist curling and
wandering about among the stems is very lovely. I have to
pause in life’s pleasures because I want to measure one of
the large earthworms, which, with smaller sealing-wax-red
worms, are crawling about the path. He was eleven inches
and three-quarters. He detained me some time getting this
information, because he was so nervous during the operation.
In our next ravine there is a succession of pools, part of a
mountain torrent of greater magnitude evidently than those
we have passed, and in these pools there are things swimming.
Spend more time catching them, with the assistance of Bum.
I do not value Kefalla’s advice, ample though it is, as being
of any real value in the affair. Bag some water-spiders
and two small fish. The heat is less oppressive than yesterday.
All yesterday one was being alternately smothered in
the valley and chilled on the hill-tops. To-day it is a more
level temperature, about yo°, I fancy.
The soil up here, about 2,500 feet above sea-level, though
rock-laden is exceedingly rich, and the higher we go there is
more bergamot, native indigo, with its under-leaf dark blue,
and lovely coleuses with red markings on their upper leaves,
and crimson linings. I, as an ichthyologist, am in the wrong
paradise. What a region this would be for a botanist!
The country is gloriously lovely if one could only see it for
the rain and mist; but one only gets dim hints of its beauty
when some cold draughts of wind come down from the great
mountains and seem to push open the mist-veil as with spirit
hands, and then in a minute let it fall together again. I do
not expect to reach Buea within regulation time, but at 11.30
my men say “ we close in,” and then, coming along a forested
hill and down a ravine, we find ourselves facing a rushing
river, wherein a squad of black soldiers are washing clothes,
with the assistance of a squad of black ladies, with much uproar
and sky-larking. I hesitate on the bank. I am in an
awful mess— mud-caked skirts, and blood-stained hands and
face. Shall I make an exhibition of myself and wash here, or
make an exhibition of myself by going unwashed to that unknown
German officer who is in charge of the station?
Naturally I wash here, standing in the river and swishing the
mud out of my skirts ; and then wading across to the other
bank, I wring out my skirts, but what is life without a towel ?
The ground on the further side of the river is cleared of bush,
and only bears a heavy crop of balsam ; a few steps onwards
bring me in view of a corrugated iron-roofed, plank-sided
house, in front of which, towards the great mountain which
now towers up into the mist, is a low clearing with a quadrangle
of native huts— the barracks.
I receive a most kindly welcome from a fair, grey-eyed
German gentleman, only unfortunately I see my efforts to
appear before him clean and tidy have been quite unavailing,
for he views my appearance with unmixed horror, and suggests
an instant hot bath. I decline. Men can be trying ! How in
the world is any one going to take a bath in a house with no
doors, and only very sketchy wooden window-shutters ?
The German officer is building the house quickly, as Ollendorff
would say, but he has not yet got to such luxuries
as doors, and so uses army blankets strung across the doorway
; and he has got up temporary wooden shutters to keep the
worst of the rain out, and across his own room’s window he
has a frame covered with greased paper. Thank goodness he
has made a table, and a bench, and a washhand-stand out of
planks for his spare room, which he kindly places at my
disposal; and the Fatherland has evidently stood him an iron
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