INTO THE BLUE 15 



friends, I returned to the station, to find the black 

 porters wildly flinging my cases on the motor lorries. 

 Since these contained the highest priced cameras 

 and camera materials I had ever owned, one may 

 imagine my feelings. Sometimes I think these 

 boys are thoroughly unreliable. Though they are 

 big and husky, they are so muscle-bound I can 

 out lift and outrim any of them. Again I like 

 them. At any rate, on this occasion, with a little 

 well applied persuasion, they were soon working 

 carefully and cheerfully, all singing away as if nothing 

 had happened. 



This singing of theirs, or rather chanting, is always 

 helpful as a stimulant to toil. I cannot transcribe 

 it in musical terms. There seem to be no formal 

 songs nor verses handed down from generation to 

 generation. The men sing, no matter at what task 

 they are engaged, handling luggage, thatching grass 

 huts, sharpening spears, skinning game. Even on 

 safari, they often break into song, unless too himgry 

 or tired. Each accompaniment suits the particular 

 task in words, tempo and rhythm of the tune. They 

 always stress particularly the note that accompanies 

 the heave or lift ; and when any task is done they wind 

 up with a sibilant psssstt! If you have ever seen sail- 

 ors working at the winch you can imagine the effect. 

 I'd call it a sort of negro Volga Boat Song or African 

 sea chantey. 



