Most people have heard of Juja, the modern dwelling in the heart
of an African wilderness, belonging to our own countryman,
Mr. W. N. McMillan. If most people are as I was before I saw the place,
they have considerable curiosity and no knowledge of what it is
and how it looks.
We came to Juja at the end of a wide circle that had lasted three
months, and was now bringing us back again toward our starting
point. For five days we had been camped on top a high bluff at
the junction of two rivers. When we moved we dropped down the
bluff, crossed one river, and, after some searching, found our
way up the other bluff. There we were on a vast plain bounded by
mountains thirty miles away. A large white and unexpected sign
told us we were on Juja Farm, and warned us that we should be
careful of our fires in the long grass.
For an hour we plodded slowly along. Herds of zebra and
hartebeeste drew aside before us, dark heavy wildebeeste-the
gnu-stood in groups at a safe distance their heads low, looking
exactly like our vanished bison; ghostlike bands of Thompson's
gazelles glided away with their smooth regular motion. On the
vast and treeless plains single small objects standing above the
general uniformity took an exaggerated value; so that, before it
emerged from the swirling heat mirage, a solitary tree might
easily be mistaken for a group of buildings or a grove.
