At one part of the shore a shed or two and a pier were visible, called Erema, and from this a “rail way” runs through the forest to Stephansort to kilometres away. I had heard much of the up-to-date attractions of the place—of its club, hospital, many plantations, and of the railway―and in my ignorance really imagined that there was a regular town here, and that Herbertshöhe was nothing to it.
As soon as possible we made for the shore, rowing, not to Erema, but some distance along the coast. The party consisted of the four British from the second cabin, the Professor, King Peter, Mr. Hesse the purser, and myself.
On landing, we visited the native village of Bokajim amidst the palms, our advent being heralded by the rapid disappearance of all the females into the houses in every direction, brown legs and feet vanishing into every aperture. They of course “keeked” at us through the chinks in the walls. The old chief, who received us with dignity, was very amusing. He graciously condescended to be photographed, and posed with ease. This brought the ladies forth in huddled, giggling groups, ready to bolt if we men showed signs of aggressive gallantry, but somewhat reassured by the sight of the ladies with us.
When the men—hugely delighted and full of conscious affectation—were photographed, the dusky ladies could not resist drawing nearer. I asked the chief's permission to give them cigarettes, and he waved to them to come near, and they thawed to me at once, giggling, coquetting, and making eyes for all they were worth. They smoked their cigarettes and strolled about full of airs and graces, thoroughly reassured, and by no means averse to a little flirtation—one eye on the chief all the same to see if he minded. However,
