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GOOD-BYE SERGOIT 
HE Nzoia Plateau and the country to north of it bounded 
by the Suk mountains, is only a little corner in the 
great and very imperfectly known territory called British 
East Africa, but for travellers and sportsmen its interests 
are unsurpassed. I feel I have good grounds for urging 
its claims on all who, like myself, enjoy seeing the strange 
things and people of this old world of ours, before they are 
changed beyond recognition. 
Under these inevitable processes we call civilizing, 
all things belonging to savage man suffer change. The 
tribes lived and only lived by struggling; failed in the fight 
or won. Some quality, not unworthy to survive, there always 
must have been. 
We come suddenly, ruthlessly; and in a few years the 
long past is swallowed up and forgotten, as though it had 
never been. 
We call them, nay we force them, from paths and cus- 
toms and laws they knew, to ways they know nothing of; our 
ways, not their ways. 
We take from them what they have slowly learned to 
approve and value; we give them in exchange, what costs 
us little, sometimes alas, our cheapest and our worst, both 
in vices and in men. 
Kindly pardon my digression and let me get back to 
my last, involuntary, lion ride. 
Our camp was pitched ten miles north of the Rock by 
a little sluggish stream that crawled down to the sources 
of the Nzoia. 
239 
