358 IN AFRICA 



ment. The plaster remained on until, weeks after- 

 ward, it fell off from sheer weariness. 



And once in a while there would be knife wounds, 

 for whenever we killed a zebra as meat for the 

 porters there would be a frenzied fight over the 

 body. Each man, with knife out, was fighting for 

 the choice pieces. It was like a scrimmage of human 

 vultures fighting, clawing, slashing and rending, 

 with blood and meat flying about in a horrifying 

 manner. I used to marvel that many were not 

 killed, because each one was armed with a knife 

 and each one was frenzied with savage greed. 

 However, only once in a while did we have to treat 

 the injured from this cause. Two men could fight 

 for ten minutes over a piece of meat or a bone, but 

 when finally the ownership was settled the victor 

 could toss his meat to the ground with the certainty 

 that no one else would take it. 



Jumma was my tent boy a Wakamba with filed 

 teeth. Jumma is the Swahili word for Friday and 

 is about as common a name in East Africa as John 

 is in white communities. I suppose I ought to call 

 him "my man Friday," but he was so dignified that 

 no one would dream of taking such a liberty with 

 him. Jumma's thoughts ran to clothes. He wore 

 a neat khaki suit blouse and "shorts," a pair of 

 blue puttees, a pair of stout shoes, and a dazzling 

 red fez, from which sprang a long waving ostrich 

 feather. My key ring hung at his belt, while around 

 his wrist a neat watch was fastened. The longest 

 march, through mud and rain and wind and sun, 



