CHAPTER THIRTEEN 



SOURCE OF THE NILE 



WHEN Easter Sunday came to the capital of 

 Bardo Kidogo, Jones and I cleaned up a bit 

 and went to church. Few were there, most everyone 

 taking advantage of the four-day hohday to go on 

 short safaris. It was more important, after they left 

 East Africa, to be able to say they had shot one of 

 this and two of that than to brag of having gone to 

 church on Easter Sunday. Besides, maybe they 

 thought, as did one old-timer, *'The wilderness is 

 God's greatest cathedral!" 



Upon my return to the hotel, I took a seat on the 

 veranda, to watch the full-dress pioneers and the silk- 

 hatted frontiersmen, as they sped into town in their 

 Rolls Royces, Packards, Cadillacs, and other simple 

 conveyances of the strugghng settler. They did not 

 visit the city to sell steers or sheep, grain or poultry, 

 nor to attend land sales or to learn about market con- 

 ditions of crops, but to attend a dance, and inciden- 

 tally to drink their share of whisky and soda. 



I strolled back into the lounge to have refreshments 

 with an acquaintance, who, during the conversation, 

 gave me the definition of a wliite hunter. According 

 to him, *'A white hunter is a man who wears a big 

 hat and shorts, speaks Swahih, and takes tenderfeet 

 out into the blue, eats their grub, drinks their Hquor, 

 and keeps them away from the game until their money 



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