Setting forth how the Voyager is minded to ascend
the mountain called Mungo Mah Lobeh, or the Throne
of Thunder, and in due course reaches Buea, situate
thereon.
After returning from Corisco I remained a few weeks
in Gaboon, and then left on the Niger, commanded by
Captain Davies. My regrets, I should say, arose
from leaving the charms and interests of Congo Francais,
and had nothing whatever to do with taking passage
on one of the most comfortable ships of all those
which call on the Coast.
The Niger was homeward-bound when I joined her, and
in due course arrived in Cameroon River, and I was
once again under the dominion of Germany. It
would be a very interesting thing to compare the various
forms of European government in Africa—English,
French, German, Portuguese, and Spanish; but to do
so with any justice would occupy more space than I
have at my disposal, for the subject is extremely
intricate. Each of these forms of government
have their good points and their bad. Each of
them are dealing with bits of Africa differing from
each other—in the nature of their inhabitants
and their formation, and so on—so I will
not enter into any comparison of them here.
From the deck of the Niger I found myself again confronted
with my great temptation—the magnificent
Mungo Mah Lobeh—the Throne of Thunder.
Now it is none of my business to go up mountains.
There’s next to no fish on them in West Africa,
and precious little good rank fetish, as the population
on them is sparse—the African, like myself,
abhorring cool air. Nevertheless, I feel quite
sure that no white man has ever looked on the great
Peak of Cameroon without a desire arising in his mind
to ascend it and know in detail the highest point
on the western side of the continent, and indeed one
of the highest points in all Africa.
So great is the majesty and charm of this mountain
that the temptation of it is as great to me to-day
as it was on the first day I saw it, when I was feeling
my way down the West Coast of Africa on the S.S.
Lagos in 1893, and it revealed itself by good chance
from its surf-washed plinth to its skyscraping summit.
Certainly it is most striking when you see it first,
as I first saw it, after coasting for weeks along
the low shores and mangrove-fringed rivers of the
Niger Delta. Suddenly, right up out of the sea,
rises the great mountain to its 13,760 feet, while
close at hand, to westward, towers the lovely island
mass of Fernando Po to 10,190 feet. But every
time you pass it by its beauty grows on you with greater
and greater force, though it is never twice the same.
Sometimes it is wreathed with indigo-black tornado
clouds, sometimes crested with snow, sometimes softly
gorgeous with gold, green, and rose-coloured vapours
tinted by the setting sun, sometimes completely swathed
in dense cloud so that you cannot see it at all; but
when you once know it is there it is all the same,
and you bow down and worship.
