This pudding is
composed of waterworn pebbles, bedded in a dark clayey soil which crumbles
under the touch. On an arenaceous strip projecting from the western edge
the women were washing and panning where the bottom of the digging was
below that of the river. This is an everyday sight on the Ancobra, and it
shows what scientific 'hydraulicking' will do. After six hours of
steaming, not including three to fill the boiler, we halted at Enframadie,
the Fanti Frammanji, meaning 'wind cools,' that is, falls calm. It is a
wretched split heap of huts on the left bank, one patch higher pitched
than the other, to avoid the floods; the tenements are mere cages, the
bush lying close to the walls, and supplies are unprocurable. In fact, the
further we go the worse we fare as regards mere lodgings; yet the site of
our present halt is a high bank of yellow clay, which suggests better
things. There is no reason why this miserable hole should not be made the
river-depot.
On March 4 we set out in the 'lizard's sun,' as the people call the
morning rays; our vehicle was the surf-boat, escorted by the big canoe.
Enframadie is the terminus of launch-navigation; the snags in the Dries
stop the way, and she cannot stem the current of the Rains.
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