The Air Is Stiff With
Mosquitoes, And Saying A Few Suitable Words To Them, I Dash Under
The Mosquito Bar And Sleep, Lulled By Their Shrill Yells Of Baffled
Rage.
June 8th.
- In the morning, up at five. Great activity on beach.
Move synchronously taking on wood fuel and discharging cargo. A
very active young French pastor from the Kangwe mission station is
round after the mission's cargo. Mr. Hudson kindly makes inquiries
as to whether I may go round to Kangwe and stay with Mme. Jacot. He
says: "Oh, yes," but as I find he is not M. Jacot, I do not feel
justified in accepting this statement without its having personal
confirmation from Mme. Jacot, and so, leaving my luggage with the
Move, I get them to allow me to go round with him and his cargo to
Kangwe, about three-quarters of an hour's paddle round the upper
part of Lembarene Island, and down the broad channel on the other
side of it. Kangwe is beautifully situated on a hill, as its name
denotes, on the mainland and north bank of the river. Mme. Jacot
most kindly says I may come, though I know I shall be a fearful
nuisance, for there is no room for me save M. Jacot's beautifully
neat, clean, tidy study. I go back in the canoe and fetch my
luggage from the Move; and say good-bye to Mr. Hudson, who gave me
an immense amount of valuable advice about things, which was
subsequently of great use to me, and a lot of equally good warnings
which, if I had attended to, would have enabled me to avoid many, if
not all, my misadventures in Congo Francais.
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