A FIAT TOWN 



The moment any white man walks to the edge of 

 the veranda a half dozen of the rickshaws across the 

 street career madly around the corners of the fence, 

 bumping, colliding, careening dangerously, to drop 

 beseechingly in serried confusion close around the 

 step. The rickshaw habit is very strong in Nairobi. 

 If a man wants to go three blocks down the street, 

 he takes a rickshaw for that stupendous journey. 

 There is in justification the legend that the white 

 man should not exert himself in the tropics. I fell 

 into the custom of the country until I reflected that 

 it would hardly be more fatal for me to walk a half 

 I hour in the streets of Nairobi than to march six or 

 seven hours — as I often did — when on safari or 

 in the hunting field. After that I got a little exercise 

 to the vast scandal of the rickshaw boys. In fact, 

 so unusual was my performance that at first I had 

 fairly to clear myself a way with my kiboko. After 



I a few experiences they concluded me a particularly 

 crazy person and let me alone. 

 Rickshaws, however, are very efl[icient and very 

 cheap. The runners two in number, are lithe little 

 round-headed Kavirondos, generally, their heads 

 shaved to leave a skullcap, clad in scant ragged 

 garments, and wearing each an anklet of little bells. 

 [Their passion for ornament they confine to small 

 bright things in their hair and ears. They run easily, 



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