AFRICAN CAMP FIRES 



perhaps I should say the necessity, to slumber for 

 an hour after the noon meal. Certainly sleep 

 descending on the tropical traveller is armed with 

 a bludgeon. Passengers, crew, steerage, "deck," 

 animal, and bird fall down then in an enchantment. 

 I have often wondered who navigates the ship during 

 that sacred hour; or, indeed, if anybody navigates 

 it at all. Perhaps that time is sacred to the genii 

 of the old East, who close all prying mortal eyes, but 

 in return lend a guiding hand to the most pressing 

 of mortal affairs. The deck of the ship is a curious 

 sight between the hours of half-past one and three. 

 The tropical siesta requires no couching of the form. 

 You sit down in your chair, with a book — you fade 

 slowly into a deep, restful slumber. And yet it is a 

 slumber wherein certain small pleasant things persist 

 from the world outside. You remain dimly conscious 

 of the rhythmic throbbing of the engines, of the beat 

 of soft, warm air on your cheek. 



At three o'clock or thereabout you rise as gently 

 back to life; and sit erect in your chair without a 

 stretch or a yawn in your whole anatomy. Then 

 is the one time of day for a display of energy — if 

 you have any to display. Ship games, walks — 

 fairly brisk — explorations to the forecastle, a 

 watch for flying fish or Arab dhows, anything until 

 tea time. Then the glowing sunset; the opalescent 



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