Needless to say, the doctor's house was carefully enclosed in mosquito-proof wire, and I dined in an oppressive atmosphere that nearly drove me distracted. The bungalow was set high on a hilltop, in the middle of a garden that should one day be beautiful, but he has of course cut down every native tree, and owing to the mosquito-proof wire we got no benefit from the cool breeze that was blowing outside. He took me to see the new native village he was building, a place that left an impression of corrugated iron and hard-baked clay. Trees, of course, and all vegetation were taboo, but I am bound in justice to say that the old village, a place teeming with inhabitants, drawn from all corners of West Africa, attracted by the lust for gold, was just as bare and ugly, and a good deal more unkempt.
He took me out, and pointed out to me the principal hill in the centre of Prestea, on which are the mining manager's and other officials' houses, and he pointed it out with pride.
“There's a nice clean hill for you.”
The sun glared down fiercely on corrugated-iron roofs, the soil of the hill looked like a raw, red scar, and there was not so much as a blade of grass to be seen. I did not wonder that the unfortunate women of Prestea had gone home sick if they had been compelled to live in such a place.
I said, “It's a horrible place. I never saw a beautiful place more utterly spoiled.”
He looked at me with surprise, and his surprise was thoroughly genuine. “Why, what's the matter? It's nice and clean.”
I pointed to the beautiful hills all round.
“Mosquitoes,” said he, with a little snort for my ignorance.
“But you want some shade?”
He shook his head doubtfully.