424 AFRICA SPEAKS 



oceans of mud; nights of wretchedness beneath drip- 

 ping skies, sleeping in wet clothes under soggy blankets ; 

 days when we worked like mad to get through to 

 Rahamma, expecting to find it around every turn in 

 the trail or over the top of each hill. Storms and 

 floods engulfed us, converting the roads into roaring 

 torrents, the country into an endless sea. 



One evening, as darkness neared and the water 

 deepened, Jones was driving ahead while I attempted 

 to follow in his tracks. Without warning, my truck 

 fell into a deep hole near which he had passed. We 

 were in the lowest part of a swamp, with water stand- 

 ing from three inches to two feet deep all over the 

 place. It was soon inky black, and, as further progress 

 was out of the question, I took a gasoline lantern and 

 went in search of a site on which to erect the tent. 

 I often think of this incident, of how I went around 

 with this hght in one hand and a stick in the other, 

 measuring the depth of the water, seeking a shallow 

 spot for camp. After searching for an hour in the 

 rain, I found the driest location to be four inches under 

 water, so here we pitched our tent. 



We were all wet to the skin and shivering with cold ; 

 it was difficult to get a fire started ; mosquitoes buzzed 

 around in glee; then, to add to our contentment, we 

 found that the tent was now leaking like a sieve! 

 Sitting on the edge of our cots, with our feet danghng 

 in the flood, we feasted on cold beans and herring, then, 

 removing our boots, crawled beneath wet blankets, 

 where, due to exhaustion, we soon dropped off to sleep. 



Next morning we gazed on a cheerless world, for, 

 although the rain had stopped, the sun failed to shine. 

 In the gloomy swamp we slushed around in the mud 



