BUJONGOLO 91 



meanders over a gravelly bed, as perfect a trout 

 stream in appearance as one could wish to see. 

 On either side are steep rocks and slopes covered 

 with heath-trees looming like ghosts upwards into 

 the everlasting- fog. At its upper end the meadow 

 is bounded by an almost precipitous wall, over 

 which the Mubuku falls in a splendid cascade. 



A slippery scramble in pouring rain brought us 

 to the top of the last great step in the valley, and 

 soon afterwards to our camping-place, Bujongolo 

 (12,461 feet). It should be remarked that 'camping- 

 place' is a very flattering description of a space 

 about 10 feet square under the shelter of an over- 

 hanging cliff, and surrounded by huge blocks that 

 had fallen therefrom. Our porters found refuge in 

 all sorts of queer holes and crannies amongst the 

 rocks. There was not space enough to pitch a tent, 

 and we were a miserable little party as we sat 

 huddled round a fire of sodden heath logs, which 

 produced only an acrid and blinding smoke. Not 

 for the first time did I bless the inventor of the 

 Wolseley valise, when I crept into mine and tried 

 to accommodate my bones to the bumps of our 

 rocky floor. Our successors at Bujongolo, more 

 blessed with means and men than we were, cut 

 down many of the trees to build a platform, upon 

 which they pitched their tents and made a fairly 

 comfortable camp for their six weeks' stay. 



The cliff overhead is the haunt by day of large 

 fruit-eating bats {Rousettus lanosus), which measure 



