112 JOURNEY WITHOUT MAPS

more than ever to wish I hadn't got to go at dawn.
The process of psycho-analysis may be salutary, but
it is not at first happy. This place was luxury, it was
civilised in a way that I was used to and could under-
stand. It was foolish to be dissatisfied, to want to
penetrate any further. People had made their home
here. I thought of the five sisters who had come from
Malvern; I thought of the young German doctor with
his duelling scars and his portrait of Hitler. He was
the best kind of Nazi; he had been given the strength
and the enthusiasm and the hope, and he hadn't been
in Germany to see the dirty work done. His wife,
dark and thin and lovely in a fierce tired way, had
borne her first child at the mission three weeks
before. Bolahun in the early morning of the last day
seemed a lovely place, where oranges were twelve a
penny and mangoes three for a farthing and bananas
so cheap that one hadn't time to eat them before the
ants and flies got into them. These were what I
remembered most clearly through the monotony of
the forest: the lovely swooping flight of the small
bright rice-birds, the fragile yellow cotton flowers
growing with no stalk directly out of the canes, some-
thing like a wild rose, transparent primrose petals
with a small red centre and a black stamen; butter-
flies, palms, goats and rocks and great straight silver
cotton trees, and through the canes the graceful walk-
ing women with baskets on their heads. This was
what I carried with me into new country, an in-
stinctive simplicity, a thoughtless idealism. It was
the first time, moving on from one place to another,
that I hadn't expected something better of the new
country than I had found in the old, that I was