FISHING ON LAKE VICTORIA 
45 
teems with countless tsetse fly (G. palpalis), the conveyor of 
the fell disease termed ‘ sleeping sickness.’ 
In past years the solitude of this vast area was invaded 
only by a few fishermen who spent the fishing season working 
their enormous basket seines, catching the small fish which, 
when dried, is termed ‘ nkeje ,’ and is so much relished by the 
natives as a toothsome morsel eaten with their ‘ matoke ’ 
(steamed unripe bananas). 
These seines, extending sometimes to over 400 yards from 
the shore, and the method of working them, are well worth a 
short notice, as their use, on the Uganda side of the lake at least, 
has ceased, owing to the operation of the Sleeping Sickness 
Ordinance ; in fact, under the two-mile rule of this ordinance the 
solitude of this area must remain unbroken save for the weird 
roar of the crocodile and the grunting of the hippo, and I have 
little doubt will soon be a fine breeding ground for the lake birds. 
‘ So it ’s an ill wind that blows nobody good,’ but keen regret 
must always be felt when one contemplates the consequences 
of this awful epidemic which has been such a curse to what 
would otherwise be a beautiful and fertile part of this Pro- 
tectorate, viz. the lake shore ; and moreover the destruction 
of the fishing industry is to be deplored. 
A typical scene in that part on a morning brilliant with 
sunshine, as yet pleasant since an early start about 6 a.m. is 
made, all requisites having been packed into the native canoe 
manned by twelve sturdy paddlers, we coast gently along the 
white sandy beach against which the wavelets, sparkling in 
the sunshine, gently ripple with a droning musical note, 
giving no indication of the fury with which they so soon lash the 
shore when great rollers have been roused from their slumbers. 
Standing waist-deep in the water, constantly casting their 
lines, fishing for the small ‘ nkeje,’ is a long line of youths and 
grey -haired men like silhouettes against the sunshine ; anon 
a wriggling silvery object at the end of a line denotes some 
hapless sprat secured, and a pleased grin spreads over the 
lucky owner’s face as he rebaits and casts anew. Further 
on are quaint rafts built of the dried leaf ribs of the Raphia 
Palms, growing so plentifully in the silent depths of the swamp, 
which extends back for some four or five miles inland, a lonely 
