74 THE BONDS OF AFRICA 



rage at the little oasis of civilization in a desert 

 of primeval paganism, a cluster of palms in 

 the wilderness. For such it is. From the main 

 street of the little town you may see the kingly 

 koodoo in the surrounding hills. Yet here is the 

 pulse of an Administration which rules a territory 

 nearly 500 miles long and over 300 miles from 

 east to west. That pulse may beat but slowly, 

 yet it sends a flow of British justice to far-away 

 Mweru, even to the waters of Tanganyika. 

 Those who have to live in Fort Jameson for years 

 at a time may despise the sleepy monotony of 

 its ways, enlivened only by a " ulendo " (journey) 

 to the Luangwa in quest of big game, or the 

 arrival from England or departure of some 

 official on leave. But to me there is a distinct 

 charm about Fort Jameson and its people which 

 time will not efface from my memory. I think 

 of it as a primrose growing in the burnt stubble 

 of the African forests and plains. 



Life in Fort Jameson is, of course, vastly 

 more eventful than in the outlying stations. 

 Picture to yourself the lonely Native Commissioner 

 cut off from his kith and kin. Realize his 

 surroundings. Imagine the utter dreariness of 

 his existence. As I write there comes vividly 

 before me a picture of a typical " Boma " on 

 the fringes of the Awemba country. 



Imagine a belt of bushes surrounding a square- 

 cut clearing, in the centre of which the Union 

 Jack floats listlessly on the hot, feeble breeze. 

 Around the square a number of red-brick build- 

 ings and wattle-and-daub huts range themselves 

 against a background of green and bronze 

 leaves, scattered and stunted bushes, and rocky 

 little hillocks. In the centre of the square are 

 four or five well-set-up negroes, clad in khaki, 



