It is a happy, glorious morning. The air is fresh and cool.
The sky lovingly smiles on the earth and her children. The deep
woods are crowned in bright vernal leafage; the water of the Mkuti,
rushing under the emerald shade afforded by the bearded banks,
seems to challenge us for the race to Ujiji, with its continuous
brawl.
We are all outside the village cane fence, every man of us looking
as spruce, as neat, and happy as when we embarked on the dhows at
Zanzibar, which seems to us to have been ages ago - we have witnessed
and experienced so much.
"Forward!"
"Ay Wallah, ay Wallah, bana yango!" and the lighthearted braves
stride away at a rate which must soon bring us within view of
Ujiji. We ascend a hill overgrown with bamboo, descend into a
ravine through which dashes an impetuous little torrent, ascend
another short hill, then, along a smooth footpath running across
the slope of a long ridge, we push on as only eager, lighthearted
men can do.
In two hours I am warned to prepare for a view of the Tanganika,
for, from the top of a steep mountain the kirangozi says I can see
it. I almost vent the feeling of my heart in cries. But wait, we
must behold it first. And we press forward and up the hill
breathlessly, lest the grand scene hasten away. We are at last on
the summit.
