I take charge of Fate and wade
If you find yourself feeling miserable about the rain this dreary February, just be thankful you’re not Mary Kingsley (1862-1900), armed with only an umbrella against the Cameroonian monsoons during her travels in West Africa in the late nineteenth century. Witnessing the destruction of cultural conventions caused by missionisation, Mary was known for her radical criticism of the colonial endeavour to convert African people to Christianity.
However, on this occasion, her aim was the less futile one of mountain climbing. While scaling a peak via dirt tracks and dense forest, with muddy torrents swirling around her ankles and rain so thick that visibility was one or two yards, Mary explains her approach to the inevitability of saturation;
Into the rain I go and off we start… I conscientiously attempt to keep dry by holding up an umbrella, knowing that though hopeless, it is the proper thing to do… Presently we come to a lovely mountain torrent flying down over red-brown rocks in white foam; exquisitely lovely, and only a shade damper than the rest of things. Seeing this I solemnly fold up my umbrella… My relations, nay, even Mrs. Roy, who is blind to a large percentage of my imperfections, say the most scathing things about my behaviour with regard to water. But really my conduct is founded on sound principles. I know from a series of carefully conducted experiments, carried out on the Devonshire Lynn, that I cannot go across a river on slippery stepping-stones; therefore, knowing that attempts to keep my feet out of water only end in placing the rest of my anatomy violently in, I take charge of Fate and wade.
Although this feeling may be familiar to those of us here in the Adam Matthew office, traversing Marlborough High Street at lunchtime in search of sandwiches, at least we don’t have to worry about what may be lurking in the swirling torrents. During an earlier voyage inland, when Mary was canoeing through mangrove swamps, she relates a crocodile attack;
On one occasion, a mighty Silurian, as The Daily Telegraph would call him, chose to get his front paws over the stern of my canoe, and endeavoured to improve our acquaintance. I had to retire to the bows to keep the balance right, (it is no use saying because I was frightened, for this miserably understates the case), and fetch him a clip on the snout with a paddle, when he withdrew, and I paddled into the very middle of the lagoon, hoping the water there was too deep for him or any of his friends to repeat the performance. Presumably it was, for no one did it again.
It was unheard of for Victorian women to travel alone, let alone scale the unchartered territory of Mount Cameroon, fighting man-eating reptiles and improperly getting their ankles wet. Apparently Mary Kingsley was frequently subjected to enquiries about where her (non-existent) husband was; but presumably the scorn of her contemporaries would be of little concern, as this was a lady who didn’t bat an eyelid over fetching a crocodile a clip on the snout.
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