140 To Sanga-Tanga and Back . 
sand and the still deeper blue. Far to the south 
lay the Serna or prairillon of Sanga-Tanga, a 
rolling patch, “ or, on a field vert,” backed by the 
usual dark belt of the same, and fronted by strag¬ 
gling dots that emerged from the wave—they 
proved to be a thin line of trees along shore. We 
were lying inside the mouth of the “ Habanya,” 
alias the Shark River, which flows along the south 
of a high grassy dome, streaked here and there 
with rows of palms, and broken into the sem¬ 
blance of a verdure-clad crater. According to the 
people the Nkonje ( Squalus ) here is not a dan¬ 
gerous “ sea-tiger ” unless a man wear red or 
carry copper bracelets ; it is caught with hooks 
and eaten as by the Chinese and the Suri Arabs. 
The streamlet is a favourite haunt of the hippopo¬ 
tamus ; a small one dived when it sighted us, and 
did not reappear. It was the only specimen that 
I saw during my three years upon the West 
African Coast,—a great contrast to that of Zan¬ 
zibar, where half a dozen may be shot in a 
single day. The musket has made all the dif¬ 
ference. 
At 6 a.m. on Friday, March 28, the boat was 
safely carried over the bar of Shark River, and we 
found ourselves once more hugging the shore south¬ 
wards. The day was exceptional for West Africa, 
and much like damp weather at the end of an 
English May ; the grey air at times indulged us 
