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Chapter Ten. Paradise in the Jungle |
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The village of Oting, in the shade of palms and high clumps of bamboos, was like some dream from the childhood of man. The crest of the long ridge, only 2,200 feet high, was covered with a tangle of vegetation far more luxuriant than the forest round Wakching. lt grew close up to the houses that stood singly and seemed almost crushed by the riot of untamed jungle. The branches of the orange trees bent under the weight of fruit, and yellow pomelos, as on some pictured tree of knowledge, shone from among dark leaves. The pulp inside the thick skin of these fruits is pink and reminds you of grape-fruit, but they are rather bitter, and I never learnt to like them. I preferred the tangerines, which the people brought me in great baskets. They did not look so good, for the skin was still bright green, but the fruit inside was deliciously golden. After the unvarying monotony of bananas they were a welcome change. It was fresh fruit that I missed most in Wakching. |
