HIPPOPOTAMUS 
201 
was one of those days when the merciful breeze from 
North dies away and is replaced by pestilent exudations 
from the Sudd. Our tribulations began at the start, 
for there was an initial mile of abominable bog to 
traverse. 1 The final goal, a couple of miles beyond, 
presented slightly firmer ground; but was heavily 
bushed, full of snakes, and everywhere intersected by 
a labyrinth of deep dongas each choked with papyrus 
12 feet high, all impenetrably bound up by trailing 
Landing a Bull-Hippopotamus. 
convolvuli, prehensile creepers, and other obstructions 
as bad as barbed wire. Quickly, however, I learned 
the secret, though the lesson cost one momentary thrill. 
Expecting nothing but buffalo, a sudden explosive grunt 
right under my nose, followed by the rush of a heavy 
beast, was apt to disconcert; but second thoughts had 
instantly identified that snort—it was not a buffalo, but 
1 A shy suspicion that my gallant collaborator will smile at this suggests 
itself; but, reader, it expresses the solid truth. That bog averaged well 
over knee-deep and was intersected by innumerable khors , quite indis¬ 
tinguishable, that were deeper still. Thrice I had to squat down suddenly 
to avoid falling flat lengthwise ; moreover, the cane-grass here was of that 
sort that fills arms, hands, and skin generally with thousands of tiny barbed 
spicules. But L., like Gallio, cares for none of these things. 
