HIS EXCELLENCY THE PRESIDENT 143

of stunted charred trees like funeral cypresses or a
fence of woven palm leaves. A few banana trees at
the edge of one village were fenced in: "the devil's
bananas".

It was odd in this shabby lost bush to be told by
one's guide, pointing to a tiny path, that that was
the 'road' to Voinjema. The carriers were still near
their own country, and though the paths were some-
times as numerous and apparently as random as a
child's criss-cross scrawlings on a sheet of paper, Babu
knew his way. He didn't have to hesitate; to show
the route to those who came behind he would close
the wrong paths with sprays of leaves. These were
the only road signs in the bush.

Under the vertical sun we reached another village,
I and my two spare hammock-men and Amedoo.
They led me to the palaver-house, the low thatched
barn in the middle of the village where the old men
were drowsing out their siesta. I sat down in a ham-
mock which was slung on one side, and the old
men ranged themselves opposite and blinked and
scratched. It was too hot to talk. A woman lay in a
patch of shade, on her face in the dust, and slept.
The chickens scratched on the floor for the grains of
rice which sometimes fell between the slats of the
roof. A long time passed; I wanted to scratch too.
I wasn't bitten; it was a nervous reaction. The old
men blinked and scratched their armpits and heads
and thighs; they burrowed inside their loose robes to
find a new spot to scratch. It was too hot to be really
curious about anyone, though a few of the younger
men of the village stooped under the thatch and sat
down and stared and began to scratch. The