BEYOND THE HILLS 248 



Continuing on my way toward the Vacuum Oil 

 Company office, I passed the shop where a few months 

 previously I had undergone the most uncomfortable 

 hair-cutting experience of my hfe. It made me itch 

 even to glance into this torture chamber which brought 

 back vivid memories of the slow-moving barber, of 

 the hairs floating down my neck and back in trickling 

 streams of perspiration as I sweltered in this Turkish 

 bath disguised as a barber shop. 



On the next corner stood the open-air cinema, or 

 picture theater, where every once in a while, conditions 

 permitting, they display to the pubhc gaze, for the 

 price of two shilUngs and sixpence, an ancient film. I 

 recalled that on my first visit to this movie palace I had 

 assisted to kill a cobra in the lobby, and I remember 

 that they stopped between each reel for a smoke 

 and refreshments. 



Even Mombasa has its traffic problems and occa- 

 sional smash-ups. At the main intersection a heavily 

 loaded wagon, pulled by a dozen husky black men and 

 pushed by as many more, had jammed traffic. A 

 gray-bearded, white-robed Hindu came buzzing along 

 on a motor cycle with his robes and beard fluttering 

 and traihng in the breeze. In trying to avoid the 

 wagon he crashed into a rickshaw. No one was hurt, 

 but I was heartsick because I could not photograph 

 this scene in sound. The actions and facial expressions 

 of blacks and Hindus, who joined in the argument, 

 the shouting in six different tongues, each individual 

 trying to top the others, offered a comedy that no 

 one could ever stage. The show was stopped by three 

 native policemen who waded into the center of things 

 using their clubs right and left. 



