THE CUSTOM HOUSE. 



93 



foot above the street, and the owners sit or 

 squat, writing upon a knee by way of desk, with 

 the slow, absorbing reed-pen and the clotted 

 clammy fluid called ink. Behind, and hard by, 

 is the fish-market, which is tolerably supplied 

 between 4 and 6 p.m. — in the morning you buy 

 the remnants of the last day. Further eastward, 

 in the Melindini quarter, is the Suk Melindi, 

 where the butchers expose their vendibles. As 

 in most hot countries, the best articles are here 

 sold early, at least before 7 a.m. A scarcity of 

 meat is by no means rare at Zanzibar, and some- 

 times it has lasted four or five months. 



In the Furzani quarter, eastward of and close 

 to the salt bazar, stands the Custom House. 

 This is an Arab bourse, where millions of dollars 

 annually change hands under the foulest of 

 sheds, a long, low mat-roof, supported by two 

 dozen rough tree-stems. From the sea it is con- 

 spicuous as the centre of circulation, the heart 

 from and to which twin streams of blacks are 

 ever ebbing and flowing, whilst the beach and the 

 waters opposite it are crowded with shore-boats, 

 big and small. Inland, it is backed by sacks and 

 bales, baskets and packages, hillocks of hides, 

 old ship's-tanks, piles of valuable woods, heaps 

 of ivories, and a heterogeneous mass of waifs and 



