The whole world is civilized now isn't it — charabancs and Cook's offices everywhere.”
“Yes, I suppose it is … I hope he's not brooding.
I shouldn't like to think of him being unhappy.”
“I expect he's getting used to things.”
“I do hope so.
I'm very fond of Tony, you know, in spite of the monstrous way he behaved.”
There was an Indian village a mile or two distant from the camp.
It was here that Tony and Dr. Messinger proposed to recruit porters for the two hundred mile march that lay between them and the Pie-wie country.
The niggers were river men and could not be taken into Indian territory.
They would go back with the boat.
At dawn Tony and Dr. Messinger drank a mug each of hot cocoa and ate some biscuits and what was left over from the bully beef opened the night before.
Then they set out for the village.
One of the blacks went in front with cutlass to clear the trail.
Dr. Messinger and Tony followed one behind the other; another black came behind them carrying samples of trade goods — a twenty dollar Belgian gun, some rolls of printed cotton, hand-mirrors in coloured celluloid frames, some bottles of highly scented pomade.
It was a rough, unfrequented trail, encumbered by numerous fallen trunks; they waded knee-deep through two streams that ran to feed the big river; underfoot there was sometimes a hard network of bare root, sometimes damp and slippery leaf mould.
Presently they reached the village.
They came into sight of it quite suddenly, emerging from the bush into a wide clearing.
There were eight or nine circular huts of mud and palm thatch.
No one was visible but two or three columns of smoke, rising straight and thin into the morning air, told them that the place was inhabited.
“Dey people all afeared,” said the black boy.
“Go and find someone to speak to us,” said Dr. Messinger.
The nigger went to the low door of the nearest house and peered in.
“Dere ain't no one but women dere,” he reported. “Dey dressing deirselves.
Come on out dere,” he shouted into the gloom.
“De chief want talk to you.”
At last, very shyly, a little old woman emerged, clad in the filthy calico gown that was kept for use in the presence of strangers.
She waddled towards them on bandy legs.
Her ankles were tightly bound with blue beads.
Her hair was lank and ragged; her eyes were fixed on the earthenware bowl of liquid which she carried.
When she was a few feet from Tony and Dr. Messinger she set the bowl on the ground, and still with downcast eyes, shook hands with them.
Then she stooped, picked up the bowl once more and held it to Dr. Messinger.
“Cassiri,” he explained, “the local drink made of fermented cassava.”
He drank some and handed the bowl to Tony.
It contained a thick, purplish liquid.
When Tony had drunk a little, Dr. Messinger explained,
“It is made in an interesting way. The women chew the root up and spit it into a hollow tree-trunk.”
He then addressed the woman in Wapishiana: She looked at him for the first time.
Her brown, Mongol face was perfectly blank, devoid alike of comprehension and curiosity.
Dr. Messinger repeated and amplified his question.
The woman took the bowl from Tony and set it on the ground.
Meanwhile other faces were appearing at the doors of the huts.
Only one woman ventured out.
She was very stout and she smiled confidently at the visitors.
“Good morning,” she said.
“How do you do?
I am Rosa.
I speak English good.
I live bottom-side two years with Mr. Forbes.
You give me cigarette.”
“Why doesn't this woman answer?”