Under the broad-spreading mangoes near the villages we came upon many open markets in full swing.  Each vendor squatted on his heels behind his wares, while the purchasers or traders wandered here and there making offers.  The actual commerce compared with the amount of laughing, joking, shrieking joy of the occasion as one to a thousand.

Generally three or four degenerate looking dirty East Indians slunk about, very crafty, very insinuating, very ready and skilful to take what advantages they could.  I felt a strong desire to kick every one of them out from these joyful concourses of happy people.  Generally we sat down for a while in these markets, and talked to the people a little, and perhaps purchased some of the delicious fruit.  They had a small delicate variety of banana, most wonderful, the like of which I have seen nowhere else.  We bought forty of these for a coin worth about eight cents.  Besides fruit they offered cocoanuts in all forms, grain, woven baskets, small articles of handicraft—­and fish.  The latter were farther from the sea than they should have been!  These occasional halts greatly refreshed us for more of that endless road.

For all this time we were very hot.  As the sun mounted, the country fairly steamed.  From the end of my rifle barrel, which I carried across my forearm, a steady trickle of water dripped into the road.  We neither of us had a dry stitch on us, and our light garments clung to us thoroughly wet through.  At first we tried the military method, and marched fifty minutes to rest ten, but soon discovered that twenty-five minutes’ work to five minutes off was more practical.  The sheer weight of the sun was terrific; after we had been exposed to it for any great length of time—­as across several wide open spaces—­we entered the steaming shade of the jungle with gratitude.  At the end of seven hours, however, we most unexpectedly came through a dense cocoanut grove plump on the banks of the harbour at Kilindini.

Here, after making arrangements for the transport of our safari, when it should arrive, we entrusted ourselves to a small boy and a cranky boat.  An hour later, clad in tropical white, with cool drinks at our elbows, we sat in easy-chairs on the veranda of the Mombasa Club.

The clubhouse is built on a low cliff at the water’s edge.  It looks across the blue waters of the bay to a headland crowned with cocoa-palms, and beyond the headland to the Indian Ocean.  The cool trades sweep across that veranda.  We idly watched a lone white oarsman pulling strongly against the wind through the tide rips, evidently bent on exercise.  We speculated on the incredible folly of wanting exercise; and forgot him.  An hour later a huge saffron yellow squall rose from China ’cross the way, filled the world with an unholy light, lashed the reluctant sea to white-caps, and swooped screaming on the cocoa-palms.  Police boats to rescue the idiot oarsman!  Much minor excitement!  Great rushing to and fro!  We continued to sit in our lounging chairs, one hand on our cool long drinks.