-MSUATA. 195 
delicious freshness in the air, the sky is a pale washed-out 
blue, and the descending sun brings out all the forest 
background in exaggerated relief. 7 
We put on our thick boots and set off on a walk to the 
village. The path is not only marshy in parts, but even 
crosses positive lagoons, through which the Zanzibaris 
carry us on their backs. This watery ccndition of the 
route is owing to the recent heavy rainfall. As we enter 
the village and the first few people catch sight of us, the 
whole population is soon around us, shrieking out a 
welcome. “Susu. Mpembe wa Bui!” * they scream, 
announcing us to their chief, Gobila, who is seated in front 
of his house, in a little private square, picking over the 
remains of an old flint-lock gun. Gobila greets us with 
many grins and Mbotes, and extends a fat paw to be 
shaken. He is a man of about forty, but looks older. 
His figure was once fine and stalwart, but latterly, owing 
to a more slothful existence and good living, he has 
become too fat. His face is not unhandsome. He has 
eood clear eyes, a straightish nose, perfect teeth, save for 
the artificial chipping of the two middle incisors, a slight 
moustache and a peaked beard. His bull-neck is a column 
of streneth, but there are wrinkles of fat in the nape. 
Ilis arms are immense and tempt you to pinch thein, a 
pleasantry which makes him—for he is of a sunny nature 
—-roar with laughter. Gobila has almost pendant breasts 
like a woman, a thing constantly seen in these middle- 
aved men, and his thighs are somewhat misshapen with 
obesity. But for this full habit of body he appears a 
stately man, and in spite of his love of joking has a certain 
dignity of manner. Gobila does not like me very much— 
not half as much as Janssen. He cannot understand why 
I am always asking questions, why my black “stick” is 
always making marks on pieces of “cloth” (writing), why 
I gather herbs (unless for magic), and why I am anxious 
to take his portrait. This latter attempt has been a great 
* The “white fowl” and the “spider,” the native names of Janssen 
and myself. Janssen was called the “white fowl,” for some obscure 
reason, and I was nicknamed the “spider,” “ because I was always 
catching insects.” 
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