Sighhhhh.
Adventure novels from the 19th century. This is peak England when walrus Queen Victoria ruled the Empire with an iron fist, the British naval fleet were just wrecking continents left right and centre, outclassing their European compatriots with good measure, and yes, colonialism. The stench of it still stinks to this day, even with the gut-wrenching, adrenaline-pumping, Western-superior smugness of the 19th century adventure novel. This novel is like when you met an old dude at the bar, who sure, has got some interesting stories to tell, but he’s bigoted as shit, he’s pretty damned entitled and lets you know about it, and has that air about him that he’s a been there done that sorta guy.
I couldn’t care less about schmucks like that anymore. And I couldn’t care less about this novel, for King Solomon’s Mines is one of the finest example of condescending orientalism. Despite being the residents of their own continent, the Africans in the novel are otherised by the main white characters, who took centre stage and played their own hero. Yet, I am conflicted. Because I could forgive Margaret Mitchell’s depiction of African Americans in the plantations, but not this. Maybe it is the fashion that it is written. I detect an overwhelming sense of arrogance instead of heart, which was the inverse of Gone With the Wind. But then again, books are a personal thing.
The Plights of Allan Quartermain
Haggard is best known for his adventurer Allan Quartermain who earns his living by slaughtering elephants in Africa for the sale of the finest ivory. The world wasn’t all that great back then for big fat animals, but it was for men like him. When a stranger, Sir Henry Curtis approached him to try and locate his missing brother, deep in the jungles of Kukuanaland, he was behest to take up the offer out of humanitarian sentiments. Not to mention that he had also met a traveller who had once come across a map of glorious bounties left long ago by King Solomon thereabouts.
The land is hostile, as you would expect. The people even more so. The group procured the services of a young African, Umbopa who’s somewhat familiar with the lay of the land and communicates well, almost like royalty. The trouble is that he is a bit of an arrogant prick (according to Quartermain) and he should be shown his place. When the group comes across a sacrilegious village who’d sacrifice their villagers in a whim, the group decided to take charge. By fate, Umbopa (real name Ignosi) is also the long lost heir of the rightful king of the Kukuana tribe.
It was the group’s mission then to restore Ignosi to the throne, with a band of loyalists who are vastly outnumbered but superior in skill. When they rescued a maid who was about to be sacrificed, things got rolling really quickly, and the two sides battle it out in a Thermopylae-like battle. When the usurper king, Twala was defeated, the group was free to roam to locate the mines where hopefully, they can recover the body of Sir Henry’s brother and take home all the goods that they can carry home with them.
A pioneer in its time, but way, way outdated now
Again, books are a personal thing. And I guess if my background had been different, I might not really have been fazed by Quartermain’s interference into Africa. It still stands as an adventure novel in the vein of the fifties and sixties films where the adventurer and the damsel are faced by the threat of getting cooked in a large pot by spear-hurdling natives. It wasn’t a cliché then, but it is a cliché now. And for that purpose, it’s fine. In fact, Quartermain some say, was the prototype for Indiana Jones, who in this day and age has also deteriorated into a sort of cliché.
The overall depiction of the Africans bother me the most in this book. Although Umbopa has a voice, he was still seen as disdained by Quartermain when talking back smartly. Though this changes when Ignosi reveals that he is in fact royalty, the white men are still superior in terms of strategy and prowess. As in most literature of the era, the natives are generally portrayed with limited intelligence and animalistic, such as their reaction on the white exposed legs of Good, and their belief that the white men were travellers from the stars. They are also portrayed as wildly violent, violence embedded in their way of life and rituals.
The English also flays the superiority of their value like a banner, as Sir Henry remarked on Ignosi’s offer of the treasure:
‘Tell him, answered Sir Henry, ‘ that he mistakes an Englishman. Wealth is good, and if it comes in our way we take; but a gentleman does not sell himself for wealth…’
It’s this type of cringeworthy arrogance and tone that leaves a sour taste. Then there is the massacre of the elephants. Sir Henry, in a rush to find his brother who might be dying as he tried to find him, was willing to sacrifice an afternoon to kill a bunch elephants in cold blood. It might have been good fun then, but it’s sickening to read now.
We read adventure novels for its sheer escapism, as the characters push their boundaries of their courage and principles to save themselves from peril — mortal or moral. King Solomon’s Mines definitely ticks this box. But its condescending tone and the treatment of the natives of the continent for which the writer has enjoyed the profits from the book really bothered me. It’s a thankless and entitled attitude which infected the prose and took the enjoyment out of the adventure.
