On vacation last week, I read “In Africa,” John T. McCutcheon’s stories of his safari in Africa at the turn of the 20th century, first serialized in the Chicago Tribune. It’s light-hearted, easy to read, and charming. (Presuming you can get over the fact that they are slaughtering animals. Having made my peace with that from information I’ve read about the amount of overall good hunting licenses in Africa do to protect wildlife, I was mostly okay with it. Everything but the elephants, at least.)

While it feels mostly modern—and McCutcheon’s Africa is certainly already over the crest of colonization—there are points where you can get a glimpse of the otherworldliness Africa must have once held. Over a hundred porters carrying gear through the long grass of veldts thousands of feet above sea above sea level. A bright, burgeoning Mombasa. Or this anecdote below, of a tribe of natives living in a cave high up the slopes of Mount Elgon.

It was nearly an hour’s climb to the ledge where the cave entrance appeared. Several naked men armed with spears stood upon the rocks, outlined in bold and striking relief against the velvety blackness of the cave entrance. They appeared curious but not unfriendly as we breathlessly panted our way on to the ledge where they stood waiting, spears in hand.

Our first impression was one of gasping wonderment. We seemed to stand upon a great stage of an immensity which words can not describe. It was a stage proportioned for giants. The rock prosscenium arched above us seventy feet and the stage was nearly two hundred feet wide. As an audience chamber one could look out over twenty-five thousand square miles of Central Africa.

The dimensions and the imposing magnitude of the place almost took one’s breath away. Two regiments of soldiers could have marched upon that stage. There was even room for a squadron of cavalry to manœuver. Upon the well-beaten floor were the tracks of cattle, showing that from time immemorial the cave people had driven in their herds for shelter or for safety in times of tribal warfare; and in places the solid rock was worn smooth and deep by the bare feet of centuries of naked people.

And yet, in spite of the titanic proportions of the cave, there was something quite homelike about it. It almost suggested a prosperous farm-yard. There were chickens walking about, with little chickens trotting alongside. There were wickerwork graneries standing here and there, while around the inner edge of the great entrance hall were little mud and stick woven houses five feet high, which gave the effect of a small village street.

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Previously: Great Men: Peter Hathaway Capstick, Hunter and Writer [Dethroner]