They Are Away
For Many Months At A Time On These Expeditions,
And Consequently - As They Cannot Spend Money
On
The march - they have a goodly number of
rupees to draw on their return to Mombasa.
These generally disappear with
Wonderful rapidity,
and when no more fun can be bought, they join
another caravan and begin a new safari to the
Great Lakes, or even beyond. Many a time
have I watched them trudging along the old
caravan road which crossed the Tsavo at a
ford about half a mile from the railway station:
here a halt was always called, so that they might
wash and bathe in the cool waters of the river.
Nothing ever seems to damp the spirits of
the Swahili porter. Be his life ever so hard, his
load ever so heavy, the moment it is off his back
and he has disposed of his posho (food), he
straightway forgets all his troubles, and begins
to laugh and sing and joke with his fellows as if
he were the happiest and luckiest mortal alive.
Such was my cook, Mabruki, and his merry laugh
was quite infectious. I remember that one day
he was opening a tin of biscuits for me, and
not being able to pull off the under-lid with his
fingers, he seized the flap in his magnificent teeth
and tugged at it. I shouted to him to stop,
thinking that he might break a tooth; but he
misunderstood my solicitude and gravely assured
me that he would not spoil the tin!
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