THE LAND OF FOOTPRINTS 



air and plunged over the edge of the bench. I sig- 

 nalled the camp — in plain sight — to come and get 

 the head and meat, and sat down to wait. And while 

 waiting, I looked out on a scene that has since been 

 to me one of my four symbolizations of Africa. 



The morning was dull, with gray clouds through 

 which at wide intervals streamed broad bands of 

 misty light. Below me the cliff fell away clear to a 

 gorge in the depths of which flowed a river. Then 

 the land began to rise, broken, sharp, tumbled, 

 terrible, tier after tier, gorge after gorge, one twisted 

 range after the other, across a breathlessly immeasur- 

 able distance. The prospect was full of shadows 

 thrown by the tumult of lava. In those shadows 

 one imagined stranger abysses. Far down to the 

 right a long narrow lake inaugurated a flatter, alkali- 

 whitened country of low cliffs in long straight lines. 

 Across the distances proper to a dozen horizons the 

 tumbled chaos heaved and fell. The eye sought 

 rest at the bounds usual to its accustomed world — 

 and went on. There was no roundness to the earth, 

 no grateful curve to drop this great fierce country 

 beyond a healing horizon out of sight. The im- 

 mensity of primal space was in it, and the simplicity 

 Qf primal things — rough, unfinished, full of mystery. 

 There was no colour. The scene was done in slate 

 gray, darkening to the opaque where a tiny distant 



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