130 JOURNEY WITHOUT MAPS

The chief at Kpangblamai was overpoweringly
hospitable. I hadn't time to sit down and rest and
take a drink before the old man arrived, wizened and
reserved, in a turban and a kind of liberty robe which
was like the tea-gowns worn at Edwardian literary
teas. He brought with him his headman, who wore a
robe of the ordinary blue and white striped native
cloth and a battered bowler hat. He was even older
than the chief, they neither could speak a word of
English, but while from the chiefs manner I
gathered an impression of a rather sad tired
benevolence, the headman was full of shrewdness,
satire, salacious humour. He giggled in a sly way;
he had, I felt sure, the low-down on the whole town;
he wasn't, like the chief, an idealist; if he had
belonged to another race, he would have been one of
those elderly 'men who pinch girls' bottoms on buses
in a friendly, harmless way. Chief and headman were
inseparable; they went everywhere together like the
higher and the lower nature.

Now they had brought with them a basin full of
eggs (every one of which proved to be bad), a huge
basket of oranges, and three gourds of palm wine.
For the first time I was thirsty enough to enjoy palm
wine; I drank one gourdful not realising the danger
of dysentery if it wasn't fresh or the gourd was dirty;
it was the colour of stone ginger beer and had a soft
flat taste like barley water. The chief and the head-
man sat down on the native bed and I gave them
cigarettes. Nobody spoke. Presently they got up and
went away, but a minute later the chief returned with
a chicken. That first day I didn't know the right
etiquette; I dashed back for each present when it