UGANDA 239 



Equator, rises above the peaceful lake. " This 

 indeed, is Fairyland," you murmur. A few 

 hours elapse and a cool breath of wind blows 

 across the inland sea. Dark clouds take the 

 place of the brilliant azure of the sky. A brief 

 half-hour speeds by, and the rain comes down as 

 though the reservoirs of the heavens had burst 

 their walls. Angry wavelets instead of tranquil 

 pond, turmoil where peace reigned supreme, 

 tempestial torrents instead of restful blue. 

 " This, indeed, is tropical rage," you remark, 

 amazed at the rapidity of the change. 



On the eastern shores, where Kisumu nestles 

 below the towering cliffs of the Nandi escarpment, 

 the Kavirondo roam naked and unashamed. 

 They are the most moral tribe of the Victoria 

 Nyanza region. On the northern side, where 

 Great Britain administers Uganda at Entebbe, 

 and the old native kingdom has its capital at 

 Kampala, the Baganda, white-robed and enlight- 

 ened, live in an atmosphere of culture. They are 

 the Japanese of Africa. Southwards Germany 

 has peopled the lake shores with true sons of 

 the Fatherland. In white ducks and tall helmets 

 they mingle with Baziba barbarians, and send 

 the produce of their farms and plantations 

 across the lake to the terminus of the Uganda 

 Railway. 



On the great water modern steamships with 

 clean-clad naval officers cut across the bows of 

 native craft, lateen-sailed and crowded. A 

 twentieth-century railway runs down to the 

 water on the eastern side, and on the west you 

 may reach the slopes of the Mountains of the 

 Moon by ricksha and porters. This is, indeed, 

 a land of contrasts, and perhaps the greatest con- 

 trast of all is the old, old Nile flowing northwards 



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