CHAPTER III 



" JAMBO, BWANA " 



To return to the scene of our departure from Kampala. 

 Taking farewell of our friends we set off down the street 

 in single file, passing through the Indian Bazaar among 

 the hundreds of people loudly recommending their wares, 

 the carriers taking farewells of their friends and relatives 

 who had gathered to see us off. 



Shortly after climbing up on to the road for Hoima, 

 we passed the first mile post, a small iron plate, partly 

 hidden in the grass at the side of the road. We had 127 

 more to do before reaching Hoima, and we allowed our- 

 selves ten days for the journey. 



When a few miles out of Kampala, I chanced to look 

 back, and espied between two hills, several shining tin roofs 

 far behind. It was our last glimpse of Kampala for some 

 months to come. Beautiful trees clothed hill and dale, 

 gay plumaged birds flew from branch to branch, a galaxy 

 of colour on every hand, wild bananas with their huge 

 leaves rustled in the morning breeze, butterflies of 

 gorgeous colours abounded, buzzing insects made them- 

 selves heard above the marching song of the carriers, 

 overhead the great blue heavens looked down on the 

 weirdly dressed natives and Indians arrayed in their 

 long coloured robes, with turbans or fez caps. Native 

 women drew meekly aside into the grass as we passed 

 slowly wending our way down the beautiful avenue. 

 Odd parties of carriers taking loads for the trading com- 

 panies between Hoima and Kampala passed by in either 



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