On the Borders of Pigmy Land
Ruth B. Fisher
9781465549754
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
It was in the beginning of the year 1900 that a British India steamer cast anchor and set down on African soil a party of seven missionaries bound for distant Uganda. Six of that number might be termed “freshers,” for they were complete strangers to the “dark continent,” and absolutely uninitiated in the art of African travelling. It is a little difficult to define the feelings of a new arrival who has before him or her the prospect of life and work in that country. The memories of magnificent lives laid down for its people fill the heart with an intensely solemn sense of responsibility and dignity; records of travel and adventure kindle a love of daring, and a desire for opportunities of heroism; while the meagre knowledge that exists on the interior districts breaks the imagination of the traveller away from its leading strings. The port of British East Africa—the Island of Mombasa—is a typical foreign mercantile coast town, with its medley of craft, ships, yachts, tugs, boats and canoes manned by seamen of various nationalities, pushing, hustling and screaming in all the tongues of Babel. The handsome old Arab fortress that stands on its jagged rocky prominence as a sentinel at the entrance of the harbour, takes one back to the time before the port was taken over by the British, and when it was used by those who had carried on the terrible slave traffic in the interior. A little to the left is to be seen the British Consulate with its Union Jack fluttering from the mast as the emblem of liberty and justice to all who come under its jurisdiction. As we stepped from the ship’s deck on to the landing-stage the sun felt distinctly African. The dazzling white and somewhat congested streets seemed to singe our very boot leather. It was a relief to have pointed out a strip of bright green mainland which lay at the extreme end of a sheltered bay, as the place where hospitality would be offered me and two others of our party of seven, while preparations were being made for our journey up country. A short row brought us to this mission station of the Church Missionary Society—Freretown—the situation of which is very pleasing; in front stretches the transparent blue bay, beyond to the right the white minarets and red tiled roofs of Mombasa, and all around dense foliage—mango and banana trees, creepers and shrubs and flowers in tangled confusion. A warm English welcome awaited us from our missionary friends there who were domiciled in a solid two-storied brick house. The guest room delegated to me was evidently an afterthought, as it was constructed of corrugated iron with plaited grass stretched across for a ceiling. The room opened out on a broad balcony, and as it is the custom to leave open the doors at night to catch the least suspicion of a breeze that might blow in across the bay, the bats and rats made free use of my room until daybreak. The first night I found the rats had shewed an appreciative appetite for Cadbury’s chocolate, for they completely finished off my half-pound tin which had been tusselled for at a chess tournament on board ship.
