Introduction

Abstract

The Dark Continent of Africa has a tenacious hold upon the European imagination. From the time of Prince Henry the Navigator in the fifteenth century to the present the mind of Europe has found Africa both fascinating and repellent, the home of the fabulous Prester John and the unspeakable rites of the cannibals. Out of this ambiguity there has developed a stereotype which is still very powerful. It is most familiar as a form of landscape, as in this description of a journey into Africa at the end of the nineteenth century:

Going up that river was like travelling back to the earliest beginnings of the world, when vegetation rioted on the earth and the big trees were kings. An empty stream, a great silence, an impenetrable forest. The air was warm, thick, heavy, sluggish. There was no joy in the brilliance of sunshine. The long stretches of the waterway ran on, deserted, into the gloom of over-shadowed distances. On silvery sandbanks hippos and alligators sunned themselves side by side. The broadening waters flowed through a mob of wooded islands; you lost your way on that river as you would in a desert, and butted all day long against shoals, trying to find the channel, till you thought yourself bewitched and cut off for ever from everything you had known once — somewhere — far away — in another existence perhaps. There were moments when one’s past came back to one, as it will sometimes when you have not a moment to spare to yourself; but it came in the shape of an unrestful and noisy dream, remembered with wonder amongst the overwhelming realities of this strange world of plants, and water, and silence. And this stillness of life did not in the least resemble a peace. It was the stillness of an implacable force brooding over an inscrutable intention. It looked at you with a vengeful aspect.¹