THE CARAVAN'S MARCH. 



345 



60° F. — and they hurry to bring food. Appetite some- 

 what difficult at this hour, demands a frequent change 

 of diet, we drink tea or coffee when procurable, or we eat 

 rice-milk and cakes raised with whey, or a porridge not 

 unlike water-gruel. Whilst we are so engaged, the 

 Baloch chanting the spiritual songs which follow 

 prayers, squat round a cauldron placed upon a roaring 

 fire, and fortify the inner man with boiled meat and 

 grain, with toasted pulse and tobacco. 



About such time, 5 a.m., the camp is fairly roused, 

 and a little low chatting becomes audible. This is a 

 critical moment. The porters have promised overnight, 

 to start early, and to make a long wholesome march. 

 But, " uncertain, coy, and hard to please," they change 

 their minds like the fair sex, the cold morning makes 

 them unlike the men of the warm evening, and perhaps 

 one of them has fever. Moreover, in every caravan 

 there is some lazy, loud-lunged, contradictory and un- 

 manageable fellow, whose sole delight is to give trouble. 

 If no march be in prospect, they sit obstinately before 

 the fire warming their hands and feet, inhaling the 

 smoke with everted heads, and casting quizzical looks 

 at their fuming and fidgety employer. If all be una- 

 nimous, it is vain to attempt them, even soft sawder is 

 but "throwing comfits to cows." We return to our 

 tent. If, however, there be a division, a little active 

 stimulating will cause a march. Then a louder con- 

 versation leads to cries of Kwecha ! Kwecha ! Pakia ! 

 Pakia! Hopa ! Hopa! Collect! pack! set out! Safari! 

 Safari leo ! a journey, a journey to-day ! and some 

 peculiarly African boasts, P'hunda ! Ngami ! I am an 

 ass ! a camel ! accompanied by a roar of bawling voices, 

 drumming, whistling, piping, and the braying of Bar- 



