REACHING OUR RENDEZVOUS 



side of the road close to the railway bridge. The native 

 " officer " on duty with rifle came to the salute as we 

 passed. A native girl, carrying an earthenware jar on 

 her head, with fresh green leaves stuffed into the neck 

 of the vessel, was arrayed in a gaily coloured cloth that 

 hung round her waist, beads and wire bangles adorned 

 her neck and arms, she stood aside as the gharri flitted 

 by and shouted some pleasantry to our boys, who laughed 

 in return to her sally, and began to sing something, in 

 which the word " Beebe " (girl) figured every now and 

 again. 



It would need a cleverer pen than mine to describe 

 the charm of a run on a gharri down the avenue at 

 Mombasa, a cloudless sky overhead. 



Perspiring natives chant weird songs as they run, 

 pushing our gharri. Curious-looking folk from Zanzibar, 

 the Persian Gulf, or India, their brightly coloured garments 

 contrasting vividly with the more sombre clothing of 

 the few European visitors, pass in continuous procession 

 on either side of the way, which is bordered with luxuriant 

 growth of palms, mangoes, and other fruit strange to 

 Western eyes. 



Picturesque bungalows nestle half revealed and half 

 concealed among the gorgeous vegetation. 



During my stay here I visited the Memorial Cathedral, 

 on whose walls are to be found brass tablets bearing 

 the names of pioneers of Empire who helped to open up 

 East Africa and Uganda in days gone by — missionaries, 

 bishops, soldiers, and others, struck down by fever, 

 murdered, or mauled to death by lions. 



My train left on the Wednesday morning, about 

 eleven a.m., running past Kilindini and over the Salisbury 

 bridge, a very fine structure some 1700 feet in length, 

 which connects the island with the mainland. Shortly 

 after crossing this we reached the station of Changamwe, 

 six miles up the line. On the platform there was a 



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