MEN OF THE TREES 



f ul interpreter, who could speak seven different dialects. 

 He always accompanied me on my big treks and assisted 

 me in the Forest Palavers. I have often been alone with 

 him in many a tight corner, but there is one occasion 

 which indelibly impressed itself on my mind. My loads 

 had gone on ahead in the early morning by canoe to a 

 distant rest house, and as I had work to do in some of 

 the Forest concessions I had to travel by a circuitous 

 route and took with me Igabon who rode in my side 

 car. Late in the afternoon, when we were still ten or 

 twelve miles from our destination, an unexpected tropi- 

 cal downpour began. The rain came down as it only can 

 do in those Rain Forests of the Southern Provinces of 

 Nigeria. I was already late keeping an appointment I 

 had with Chiefs at my destination. Just when I was in 

 a particular hurry, and already drenched to the skin in 

 the storm which continued without abating its fury, 

 my motor bicycle stopped. I repeatedly worked the self- 

 starter, but nothing happened. I carefully examined the 

 machine for any trouble, but everything seemed to be 

 in perfect order, and yet it positively refused to go. All 

 this time the storm was getting worse, and now it burst 

 with all its fury right overhead. Vivid lightning lit up 

 the canopy of the Forest and deafening thunder, peal 

 upon peal, became incessant. The narrow Forest trail 

 had turned into a raging torrent, and still I struggled 

 unsuccessfully to make my machine respond to my 

 urgent call. We were indeed in a perilous condition, 

 miles from camp and any sort of habitation, soaked to 



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