It is a hot, sticky day even by West African standards. A mid-afternoon drowsiness hangs over the hillside village. At one side of a small dusty compound a group of men are crouched, giggling and joking as they work. Before them stands a spherical water-jar that they are decorating with strips of cloth, horsetails and strange, metal objects. It is clear that the men have been drinking. At one stage, they have broken off their work and demanded more drink before consenting to continue.

Over the other side of the compound, a white man, an anthropologist, is slumped in the shade, notebook and camera abandoned beside him. He is haggard, having just suffered a bad bout of malaria. His hands tremble with incipient hepatitis. He sweats profusely and tries to keep his befogged mind on the events taking place before him. Slightly to one side, is another white man, a dentist, an American fresh from the United States. He glows with health and alert interest. He is simply visiting the area for the day, making a brief excursion from the world of mission bungalows and international hotels to see life in the bush for himself. He turns to the anthropologist and smiles endearingly. ‘Why are they doing this?’ he asks politely. ‘What does the jar mean?’

The anthropologist begins to mutter an interpretation. Each explanatory statement seems to demand four more to justify and interpret the one before. The dentist looks puzzled and disappointed. The anthropologist feels he is letting down his audience and betraying his art. He tries harder. Before he knows where he is, he is giving an introductory lecture on symbolic interpretation.