Lake Victoria to Khartoum 



I was very sorry to say good-bye to the place. 

 The varied scene of colour, of humanity, and of 

 trade and traffic all jumbled together in a strange 

 country was interesting in the extreme. The 

 streets and bazaars are thronged by the dusky 

 descendants of an old-time people, crying their 

 wares, shouting to their animals, or squatting 

 on the ground in clumps of threes and fours, 

 earnestly whispering and busily concocting a 

 plan for extracting an extra farthing a bushel for 

 their corn from some unfortunate individual, who 

 on being landed with the bargain would turn 

 round and do to some other person as had been 

 done unto him. The faint whistle of the train 

 over the river, the swish of water churned up by 

 the stern-wheel gunboats, and, nearer at hand, the 

 squeaking creak of the water-wheels turned 

 by the mild-eyed oxen, provide an abundance of 

 sound, whilst the rustle of the trees and the 

 glory of the flowers are provocative of slumber 

 before the grateful evening breezes ripple across 

 the water and render the air cool enough for an 

 evening ride. 



The journey back entailed a weary two 

 months' trek, and although it was likely to 

 prove exciting and interesting from a sporting 

 point of view, I was loth to leave civilization to 

 return by myself along a route I had just come 

 over in congenial company. Therefore, as we 

 steamed once more into the night it was with 



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