35 8 
IN AFRICA 
ment. The plaster remained on until, weeks after¬ 
ward, it fell off from sheer weariness. 
And once in a while there would be knife wounds, 
for whenever we killed a zebra as meat for the 
porters there would be a frenzied fight over the 
body. Each man, with knife out, was fighting for 
the choice pieces. It was like a scrimmage of human 
vultures—fighting, clawing, slashing and rending, 
with blood and meat flying about in a horrifying 
manner. I used to marvel that many were not 
killed, because each one was armed with a knife 
and each one was frenzied with savage greed. 
However, only once in a while did we have to treat 
the injured from this cause. Two men could fight 
for ten minutes over a piece of meat or a l>one, but 
when finally the ownership was settled the victor 
could toss his meat to the ground with the certainty 
that no one else would take it. 
Jumma was my tent boy—a Wakamba with filed 
teeth. Jumma is the Swahili word for Friday and 
is about as common a name in East Africa as John 
is in white communities. I suppose I ought to call 
him “my man Friday,” hut he was so dignified that 
no one would dream of taking such a liberty with 
him. Jumma’s thoughts ran to clothes. He wore 
a neat khaki suit—blouse and “shorts,” a pair of 
blue puttees, a pair of stout shoes, and a dazzling 
red fez, from which sprang a long waving ostrich 
feather. My key ring hung at his belt, while around 
his wrist a neat watch was fastened. The longest 
march, through mud and rain and wind and sun, 
