CHAPTER X é 



THE DANCE OF THE M ANT AS 



TROPICAL Africa eats, grows, dies and regenerates in 

 jerks. The chrysalis explodes into a butterfly under your 

 nose. Nature changes by revolutions. The gentle transforma- 

 tions of the temperate latitudes are unknown. 



I saw a peach-tree at Asmara, five thousand feet above sea 

 level, which reminded me of the religious allegories of the 

 Middle Ages. Some of its branches were dry as in winter. 

 Some had buds. Some carried broad, green leaves, others 

 small bitter fruit. And there were in addition ripe peaches 

 and peaches in decay. That tree had no seasons, no sleep, no 

 rest. All the trees of Asmara and high Africa lack a sense of 

 time. They are Hegelian trees in a state of becoming. 



But while that peach-tree flourished and died on the same 

 branch and with the same lymph, down at Dur Ghella in 

 hot Africa, nature had been burnt dead for a year. If you 

 hit the trunks of the trees with the butt of a rifle, you heard 

 the echo of hollow wood. It was a knock on a coflfin. 



One night it rained, really rained, for the first time in a 

 year. The warm water came down in big heavy drops from 

 one o'clock until four. There was no wind and the rain 

 dropped with the sound of a waterfall. The tent was flooded. 

 The rubber mattresses floated and everything was soaked. 

 We sat in the dark in a couple of inches of water and listened 



