VICTORIA NYANZA 111 



As it was too muddy to put up the tent, we placed 

 the tarpaulin over the truck in order to sleep inside. 

 Our boy made some hot tea, Bud opened a can of 

 herring, and I opened a can of beans. With these 

 and a loaf of bread supplied by pishi before we left, 

 we managed to have a very fine repast. The shadows 

 from the flickering oil lantern threw grotesque shapes 

 against the canvas. Outside we could hear the dismal 

 patter of the rain as it drizzled down upon the lone- 

 some veldt. Its monotonous drip-drip as it fell off 

 the eaves of the cab and the end of the tarpaulin, 

 caused Bud to say: 



"I know a country where sometimes a few rain 

 drops fall during the course of a year — where every- 

 thing is burned to a crisp and not many white men visit. 

 It is the Land of Thirst, in the heart of the Taru, a 

 country of thorn scrub and scattered hills. Old Maniki 

 knows the place for it is the home of the Wakamba. 

 Dad, Mike, and I went out there in 1927, a short time 

 before they closed the district to elephant hunting. 



"The day after we arrived the three of us went 

 scouting around to see what we could find and were 

 bouncing over the veldt in an old tin hzzie when sud- 

 denly from the other side of a large patch of thorn 

 bush, the biggest herd of bull elephants in all Africa 

 crashed out. We sat there in astonishment, counting 

 forty-two of them, I think, every one buUs, and all car- 

 rying good ivory. Not long after that we ahnost 

 bumped into all the cow elephants in that part of 

 Africa and the three of us decided to get out and look 

 them over — there might be a couple of good bulls 

 among them. We got separated and after awhile I 

 found a big old buU who looked like the possessor of 



