LIFE ON THE NILE SOUTH OF FASHODA

On! the petty meannesses indelibly associated with travel in Africa, the attention to small details, the everlasting watch against the pettifogging persecutions to which the white traveller is unceasingly subjected! Most wearying to his self-respect and temper-is this continual conflict of civilised ideas with the native mind only intent on the gratifications of the moment. There is no end to it, no respite. From the time he opens his eyes in early dawn till, tired and sleepy, he seeks again the friendly hollow of his camp bed, the little worries of African travel crop up and crowd round with but few intervals of rest.

Thus we have the sojourner in these regions, on the march, tired and sunburnt after six hours' weary walk. His way has led through tall elephant grass; over undulating ridges broken and stony, with perhaps a river to ford at bottom; through stretches of burnt out scrub, where the ashes lie black and motionless, unless moved by the sudden miniature whirlwinds that swoop down from nowhere and as quickly vanish again into space. Then an interminably long stretch of dhurra cultivation appears, varied by semsem plants, looking like tall antirrhinums when in flower. Or else a patch of sweet potatoes with ivy leaves and purple convolvulus blossoms hanging limp in the heat, forming a dark refreshing carpet to the eye. Here and there lie uncouth looking gourds, big and heavy on the pregnant soil. Finally-most welcome sight of all-the deadwood stockade of the village where the day's halt will be made.

So far the time has not passed unpleasantly. The traveller has mooned mechanically along, for the most part wrapped deep in meditation, the dry monotony of the country unnoticed, not even a glimpse of game to afford a welcome break in his musings. But at the village, with the necessity for more varied action, peace flies and troubles commence anew. There is no decent camping-ground. The invitation to pitch the tent in the open space inside the boma is declined; a plague of flies and squalling babies not being relished. Outside, the conditions of the place are not hygienic, to put it mildly, and a weary tramp is made round and away, and yet further away, to find some shade and a spot that is tolerably clean. At length, in

desperation, a place is chosen only a little less uninviting than the others. All this time the tropical sun has been beating fiercely down, and the hot and perspiring traveller is only too glad to seek relief beneath the nearest tree, which happens to be the village loungingplace. Repeated experience has taught him that it is no use sending the tent-boy to choose a site, else his black mind would indubitably pitch upon the most ineligible place in the whole neighbourhood, miles away from water, bang in the open, and beside the community's refuse heap for choice. Loads are brought up and dumped down by the tired porters, and the boys and escort proceed with the tent pitching. Then there is a stop. Half a tent load is behind with a lagging porter. It's no use swearing-nothing for it but patience and philosophy and the blazing heat through the insufficient leaf shade. Close beside him is the village smithy, with the blacksmith hard at work fashioning his multi-barbed arrow-heads. Very primitive are the tools employed. The anvil is a stone, the hammer a cylindrical piece of iron about six inches long and pointed at one end, and polished by long use. The bellows are formed of two earthenware cooking pots covered with skins, and connected together by a Y-shaped clay tunnel leading down to a pile of glowing charcoal. A stick is attached to the centre of each skin, which two small boys work alternately, though now their interest in their occupation is gone, gazing fearfully at the white man so close to them. Rest after the continuous walking, and, perhaps, the dolce far niente attitude of porters and villagers who sit and lie around lazily discussing the curious paraphernalia strewn about, and its owner, are all conducive to a doze. Dreamily he hears the arrival of the missing load, the hammering of pegs, the chip-chip of the smith, the increased jabbering as the tent goes up. At length a boy comes to say it is ready; with a pious ejaculation stiffened limbs are pulled together and he stumbles towards the tent to wash and change and eat. There again is another check. Just as might be expected from the absence of a watchful eye, the tent is so placed that the sun-already declining can shine straight in all afternoon, till the canvas home becomes a furnace seven times heated. For an instant it is mentally debated whether to lump' it or repitch. Hunger and the claims of dry garments decide in favour of the former. While changing, up comes the cook to say that the meat is bad. He knows the white man's-to him curious-dislike of any taint in the food, and to save his skin considerately informs him beforehand. His master knows equally well the boys' liking for a finely flavoured-not to say gangrenous-smelling dish. The goat was killed the previous afternoon, and, with ordinary care, should have lasted a clear fortyeight hours; but carelessness, intentional or otherwise, has let the sun do its worst. The meat is condemned; is ordered to be thrown away. To ensure the effectual carrying out of the order, it is buried then and there within sight of the tent, so that the boys reap no

benefit from their little scheme. Pending the return of a messenger to the village with a fowl, tea and hot dhurra chapputties and wild honey are placed on the table. Meanwhile the Sheikh of the village arrives to pay his respects; a fat, uxorious looking beast, he stalks at the head of a small procession. Behind him is the headman and a slave carrying a skin in lieu of a chair; another leads a thin and spare looking goat or sheep, as the case may be, probably the worst in the flock; a third carries a gourd of eggs. Tired and hungry, the unfortunate officer sits in his tent and prepares to get the 'shauri,' or durbar, over as soon as possible. The skin is spread in front; the Sheikh and his people sit down; with many salaams the animal and eggs are presented, and, in all probability, a present in return demanded. Six 'hands'-about three yards-of cotton sheeting are meted out and placed in his lap. The Chief looks dissatisfied, a coloured cloth was his desire, or else, it may be, beads. Porters have to be obtained here to move on the loads to-morrow morning, the ones engaged that day returning to their homes. The fat beast, sitting stolidly on the ground, casting envious, drink-sodden eyes on the bag of beads, must be propitiated: he is the deus ex machina to forward the journey. A big handful is given; it is not enough, so more is added. There is an awkward pause in the transaction, which is in part filled up by lighting a pipe, striking the match in approved Perth style, to the great joy of the ragtag and bobtail following, who clutch the discarded vesta and pass it round for inspection. The porter question is gingerly broached: Can the Sheikh supply some men to-morrow morning?' 'Yes, he can. How many are required?' This is a better start than the traveller hoped for, and his face visibly lights up as he replies, 'Only thirty.' This apparently sets them all by the ears; there is much gesticulation and volubility among the crowd, the upshot of which is that twenty is named as the number. Down go the traveller's feelings to zero, and he proceeds to argue the point. The Sheikh is firm, twenty men only; the traveller is insistent, and finally waxes ironical in desperation. There are at least fifty loafers in the camp, yet Sheikh says he has only twenty men. Well, where is the big Sheikh of the place? He has no wish to bully a little one,' and so forth; all of which is quite lost. After endless trouble and delay the deadlock is removed by a promise of thirty men, the extra ten to be raised from a neighbouring village, a man being sent that afternoon to warn them. Before the deputation moves off, there is one more request, this time from the officer. He hears the Sheikh has cows, will he let him have some milk? This promised, it is intimated that the shauri is over, the Chief and his retinue depart, and the white man turns in to enjoy his frugal meal. Troubles are not over yet-the day's porters are clamorous for payment and to be off. To save the inevitable row, three strings of beads per man are doled out; two are

really ample reward, but the march has been long and hot. Just as was to be expected, it is too little, and, further, they want a small white bead, not the big ones that are being counted out before them. It really is somewhat exasperating. In the load of trade goods there is, as the traveller imagines, every conceivable size, shape, and colour of bead that the most particular savage could desire, some trouble having been taken in the choosing; but this particular colour and size is not. He himself would willingly give the smaller size, because the smaller the bead, the more strings to the pound, and consequently the larger purchasing power. Both requests are sternly refused and payment goes on. The men move off really quite satisfied, tying up their strings in a corner of their loin skins. One man remains expectant. He turns out to be the headman and wants backsheesh. It is the custom, and he gets another three strings. He declines the beads, it's cloth that's wanted, enough to make a shirt. It takes five hands' to make a shirt, a Chief's present, so he only gets two; and, without waiting for further protests, the jaded traveller turns his back on him.

Still, there is no rest for the weary. The tent is too hot to write in, all the last mail's papers have been read from the Births to 'Printed and Published' paragraph at the end, and there is nothing for it but to close the western doors of the tent and swelter on the bed with Shakespeare in the hopes of a snooze blotting out discomforts for a bit. Somehow or other the afternoon wears through and the evening steals on. That unceasing fiery torment in the sky, which has all day belaboured the backs of toiling humanity below, sinks lower and lower, to disappear at last in a dull opaque haze of yellow and red. The air is once more cool and refreshing; it is the time for the hot bath and pyjamas. Life is once more worth living. The promised milk arrives and is brought up for inspection in the washing jug; it looks so inviting that the temptation to slake a parched and over-smoked throat cannot be resisted; a cup is called for; but, O merciful heavens! one mouthful is enough, and gone are all dreams of tea with real milk and a real milk pudding, for that evening, at any rate. There was an old Scotch gardener who was once asked by a fair visitor how it was he grew such excellent roses, and she but only half comprehended when the terse answer came back, Muck and bree.' Her hostess could have told her how regularly once a week the garden was rendered uninhabitable by the odorous bree. As with roses, so it is with milk to the natives of this land. To increase the richness and quality of the milk it is the custom to wash the milking gourd in 'bree.' Most wanderers through these lands know that fact generally by bitter experience. Where milk is obtainable it is a standing rule that the tent boy superintends the dairying operations himself with a saucepan, jug, or washing basin, whatever utensil is most available. This time the

boy forgot his work over a pot of merissa beer in the delight of bragging to the villagers of what he had seen or done, or of his master's prowess in the hunting-field. The precious fluid is too rarely seen for the fault to be overlooked. It's a heinous crime, and there is a temporary scene for a few moments, with a feeling after it is over that there has been another lapse of dignity on the white man's part.

To cool his ruffled temper he shouts for dinner, and is promptly answered by the cook in one of the most irritating phrases in the whole of Africa's babel of tongues, Bado kidogo'—' After a little.' Everything is by and bye in Africa. It's about the first word the newly landed officer picks up on the East Coast. There is one man on whose ears the phrase grated so harshly that it is a penal offence for any servant of his to use it. Punishment, swift and sure, followed. On this occasion the answer is overlooked, not to afford the shadow of an excuse for a badly cooked meal. But when at last dinner is served, of a certainty it is a failure. The soup, made from the fowl, is watery and greasy; the fowl, first parboiled and then roasted in semsem oil, must have been the patriarch of the flock, it almost beats a hunting knife to dismember; there is no pudding; tea is milkless. With a feeling of injured innocence, solaced somewhat by a pipeful of English tobacco from a sadly diminishing hoard, the burden and trials of the day at last over, at the unfashionable hour of 8.30 the traveller turns in to sleep the sleep of the righteously tired.

Next morning, refreshed and vigorous, he is up betimes, and ere ever the sun is well clear of the horizon, he is half way through breakfast, and loads are being rapidly packed for an immediate start. Already there has been one disappointment, yesterday's present of eggs are all bad; but there is the addition to the morning's menu of dhurra porridge and milk-fresh and uncontaminated. With all the bustle there is an ominous absence of porters. An urgent message is despatched to the Sheikh, who after an exasperating delay arrives on the scene with a few sturdy youths. The other contingent has not arrived; another messenger is despatched. After an hour's irksome inactivity, when both mind and muscles are on the qui vive and eager for the tramp, the missing warriors turn up. To each man is apportioned a load, and the traveller rejoices to think that he is off at last. Not so, however; two loads lie forlornly on the ground -his tin bath and tin box-always the baggage to give the most trouble. The Sheikh has nothing to say, only suggests that tomorrow enough men will unfailingly turn up if another day is spent at his village-an offer flatly refused. He sits stolidly smoking his pipe, quite unimpressed by the gravity of the situation. After endless talking and expostulation the block is unexpectedly ended by two smiling ladies who say they would like to carry loads for the white