A Thousand Miles in a Machilla 



and the road seemed endless. About 9 p.m. we 

 suddenly quitted the forest and entered what appeared 

 to be an open plain, and as the guide told us that 

 there was water and a village in the immediate 

 neighbourhood, we sent on ahead to stop the porters. 

 Soon afterwards ** Cooky" could be heard shouting 

 from what was apparently the head of the caravan, 



and A went forward to reconnoitre, but as in 



two or three minutes he found himself in a marsh 

 with reeds over his head, he declined to proceed, 

 and returning, ordered the tents to be pitched where 

 we had originally stopped. Confusion then reigned 

 supreme. Many of the most indispensable loads 

 were found to be missing, and to make matters 

 worse the invaluable Franco had run a thorn into 

 his foot, and could hardly put it to the ground. 

 "All's well that ends well." The missing porters had 

 merely followed ''Cooky" across what subsequently 

 turned out to be the Rukususi River, to a comfort- 

 able village on the far bank, and after much shouting 

 and lighting of fires, were all retrieved. The tents 

 were pitched by the light of torches made from dried 

 mealie stalks, and by 10 p.m. we were eating a rather 

 scratch dinner, and soon afterwards were safely in 

 bed and asleep. 



Next morning struck us as cold and damp, and 

 we found the camping place had been ill chosen in 

 the dark, and was too near the marshy river. The 

 crossing, however, which had appeared risky the 

 night before, was found to be easy by daylight. 



A went across to reconnoitre, chose a pleasant 



camping ground in the forest, a short distance from 



142 



