WESTERN LIBERIA IQJ

these improvised dances again and again during the
long trek. The slightest hint of a tune would set
them off; if there was no music someone would tap a
twig on an empty tin. They were more easy to
appreciate than the communal dances. They had
obvious dramatic qualities and one could see hidden
under the personal idiosyncrasies the germ of the
Charleston. But to the native, I suppose, the com-
munal dance was on a higher, more subtle level; only
one hadn't oneself got a clue to their appreciation. I
saw such a dance in the village. A band of youths
with drums chanted an air, while about seven boys
shuffled in a small circle with their hands at their
sides, one foot forward, the other brought up beside
it, then forward again. Presently three girls joined
them and the circle became smaller than ever: a
girl's nipples bulged against the back in front, her
buttocks were pressed by the girl behind. Round and
round they went to the monotonous beat, a snake
eating its own tail.

That night of dancing on the verandah was
specially memorable because it was the last at
Bolahun. The next day the real journey was going to
begin. Amedoo had returned from hospital; even
Van Gogh, pale as a ghost under his bleached gold
stubble, a curiously intellectual sensitive face for a
prospector (he treated the natives with a harsh lack of
consideration one would never have guessed existed
behind the horn-rimmed glasses), had staggered over
for a cup of tea. Long study of the manuscript maps
the Dutch prospectors had made of the Western
province, consultations with the German linguist, had
decided us to take a different and longer route. I