POET AMONG CANNIBALS

Greymouth Evening Star, 7 November 1933, Page 10

POET AMONG CANNIBALS

p,OOK OF QUEER ADVENTURES Twenty years ago the Sara Mountains, in Nigeria, wore still a danger zone of unsubdued' cannibals who used poisoned arrows—and who, so tradition alleged, transformed themselves at night into leopards to in owl around for their prey. Up into this perilous and barren region; with but a handful of unarmed natives, there penetrated a x man who was not an adventurer by inclination,, but of necessity-—a. man. with the .soul of a poet and the eye of an artist who had been driven out into the wilds of two continents, prospecting for metals, in order to set his once-wealthy family on its feet again—Mr. Frank PennSmith,. the ieptuagenarian author of “The Unexpected.”

Marching boldly into the middle of the cannibal village he installed himself under a tree in his' deck-chair at a camp table upon which his bearers proceeded to lay $. cloth, silver, glass, and china, to serwe his-dinner, watched by cannibals who squatted in rows upon the rocks around him. The meal over, he produce' 1 a mechanical toy with which he played,, to the amazement of the savages and consternation of the witch-doctor, who were persuaded to believe that it told its owner all that they were thinking and saying among themselves. Later his interpreter advised a demonstration of revolver-stooting, and stood the wooden lid of a box against a rock. Unfortunately Mr. Penn-Smith was not a good shot: — “I found myself assuming a masterful air of authority, and prepared to shoot. Calling upon the invisible guardian of my luck, I resolutely extended my arm and fired. “Nothing happened, . “A horrid certainty seized me—l had. missed!

“But the crowd was staring, fascinated, at me. They had no eyes for the box-lid.

“Quick as lightning the interpreter dashed over to this, seized and held it aloft—his finger pointing to a knothole—triumph! "There was a murmur of applause from the Kansas. ' ...

“At that I immediately retired, and the assembly dispersed. Everybody seemed much impressed. Whether by me, the unaccustomed explosion, or tho interpreter’s triumph, could not bo guessed. Nor, indeed, if he had specially selected a lid with a hole in it.

“All that I knew is that, from that time onwards, I could' do anything I liked with the people of Lugerri.” Thus did his coolness win him the friendship of the cannibals, amongst whom he returned during the War years to procure tin for shipment to English munition factories. Had he failed, his fate was certain. THE JUNGLE AT NIGHT. But it is with the pen that tho old adventurer excels. At the age of seventy, his wanderings ended, lie paints the scenes of his story in prose of exquisite beauty. Take this penpicture of a night’s camp in the dense bush beside a. Rhodesian river:— f “Duse the Dreamer, absorbed in his sourtt guitar, sat by the blazing end of a dead tree, burnt down to keep wild beasts away. Holding the gourd to his breast, he drew from the string; Jeep, throbbing notes. Then, lifting

it off his chest, he struck out lightei chords—.singing a low chant, a melancholy recitative. It was of the Umniati River; of Salamon; of mail, mali, mali—gold. Of digging deep, deep into the earth for gold. “Softly and still more softly he sang, as the creatures of night manifested themselves from the depths of the forest. . What intimidating scents on the warm air! What unfathomable sounds from the river! With distant cries, and murmurings of we knew not what. The monsters of darkness had come forth, to go about their secret business.” The rattling of frogs, the cough of the leopard, the churning of the mud by river beasts, the howling of hyenas, all drowned in turn the subdued voice of the singer, listening as he sang in the glow of the fire:— “But when, in the distance, a lion gave voice, all other utterance ceased. Beginning on a high querulous note, the sound descended by degrees to thunder, threatening, sepulchral. . . . The things of the wild held their breath, and a sinster slience lasted lor a time; except for the frogs, to whom that warning held no meaning. “As w<s listehed, a windy dark swept down upon us. The moonlight fled far away down the forest. Nature held its breath. Then . . . boom! A wet blast of sound surged up from the unseen river below; the monstrous sigh of the hippopotamus, when the moon goes behind a cloud. “The singer began again, gently strumming out his rhythmic movements. Something it was of the King of Night, who seeks his prey in the darkness.”

So from the majesty of the forest to tho burlesque of civilisation. In Swaziland Mr. Penn-Smitm employs natives as tin-workers. One day these labourers hold a great war dance and beer feast. The son of the late king, decked in leopard skin and red tassels, armed with assegais and shield, leads the phalanx of warriors in the dance; the hereditary com-mander-in-chief of the Swazis is seated in state on a Sunlight Soap box, receiving homage and calabashes of Kaffir-beer from the women. Next morning both king’s son and com-mander-in-chief will be slinking back to a labourer’s work! Such are the revolutions of the wheel of Fortune!