1^8 JOURNEY WITHOUT MAPS

think he may have asked the chief to detain us, for
it became more and more difficult to get away. Not
that I really in my heart wanted to go from the
moment that the chief produced a bottle of French
white wine, an enamel cup, and a tin of French
cigarettes. It was like a dream: ever since we had
entered French Guinea our minds had continually
reverted to Dakar, to the cafes and the flowers and
what seemed to us now the delicious freshness of the
place where plague is endemic and the natives die of
the want of will to live. I had sometimes tormented
myself, washing out my mouth on the march with
the warm filtered water—fruit had long since given
out, without the thought of a bottle of wine.

And here it was. The chief sat grimly on the floor
among his girls, with only the faintest suspicion of
enjoyment about his mouth, and poured the warm
sweet delicious wine into the enamel cup. He drank
and passed it to me; I drank and passed it to my
cousin. Back it went to the chief and was refilled. It
didn't take long for the three of us to empty the
bottle. We were all a little drunk in no time; die heat
of the hut, the confused tumble of half-clothed girls
helped. As there was no sign of the promised chop
for my men, I sent a boy out to fetch a bottle of
whisky from my case. The chief had never tasted
whisky before, but he had innate taste; he didn't gulp
down the neat spirit like the chief in Duogobmai. He
sent a daughter for a pail of water and when the
water was brought, he smelt it. It didn't pass his
inspection, he emptied it on the ground and sent her
for more. Then he settled down to drink, became
grimly merry without moving from the floor and