It reads like a Boys' Own Adventure – only
she’s a thirty-year-old woman, striding off, in her long skirts and her
corsets, to West Africa in the late years of the nineteenth century. Once there
she undertakes multi-day expeditions through trackless jungle, single-handedly fights
off crocodiles with the paddle of her canoe, survives falling into pits full of
sharpened stakes by merit of her thick wool skirt, and wades chin deep through
swamps with leeches attaching themselves around her neck like a ruff.
Maybe you have to take it with a grain of
salt. Is it really possible to wade neck deep through swamp in full Victorian
women’s garb, I wonder? Wouldn’t your waterlogged skirts slow you down and make
the whole thing impossibly exhausting? Or did she, like her native guides,
strip off and wade through with her clothes carried above her head? Perhaps she
did – you could see why she might not have shared that detail with her readership.
More scepticism-inducing even than the
tales of derring-do, though, is her tendency to take credit for every lifesaving
decision. It is she who notices that the bush is on fire and rouses her
companions from sleep just in time to prevent a fiery death. It is she who realizes
that the mangrove swamp through which they are hiking is tidal, and gives the
order to retrace their steps before they are drowned by the rising waters. And
it is she who takes the tiller of the boat when the crew falls asleep, guiding
them safely through the spectacularly starlit African night.
And yet – and yet – the whole book is a
lyrical delight. A keen observer with the talent to capture the detail on paper,
she brings her adventures to life in a quite addictive fashion, and you want to believe.
She’s a creature of her time, of course. As
an Englishwoman and a Victorian she simply assumes that the right to judge is
hers. Even the fact that many – if not most – of her judgements are positive (“he
is a splendidly built, square-shouldered man, a pure Benga, of the finest type”)
does not cancel out the hubris. What does
help – somewhat – is that she judges herself with the same wry eye she applies
to the rest of the world.
The tension between prejudice and
open-mindedness is most noticeable when she is talking about the habits of
thought needed to understand the people amongst whom she is living. You need to
let go of your preconceptions, she says. She tells the story of the game hunter
who cannot understand why, every time he comes within shot, the antelope take
fright and run away. He knows he and his party are upwind and have made no
sound. Eventually he discovers that his servant is triumphantly flourishing the
consular flag behind him every time he has an animal in his sights. This is the
key, says Kingsley – “if you go hunting the African idea with the flag of your
own religion or opinions floating ostentatiously over you, you will similarly
get very poor bag.”
Her choice of metaphor (“hunting the African idea”) is as damning
as it is redeeming. She’s still the
Victorian hunter-collector, trying to capture what she seeks in order to
display it, back at home, fangs and teeth rendered safely impotent. But she does at
least try to come at things with an open mind. And that’s the best any of us
can hope for, I guess.