The steering is done by one man at the pole or tongue in front.  This individual also sets the key to the song by which in Africa all heavy labour is carried forward.  He cries his wavering shrill-voiced chant; the toilers utter antiphony in low gruff tones.  At a distance one hears only the wild high syncopated chanting; but as the affair draws slowly nearer, he catches the undertone of the responses.  These latter are cast in the regular swing and rhythm of effort; but the steersman throws in his bit at odd and irregular intervals.  Thus: 

Headman (shrill):  “Hay, ah mon!”

Pushers (gruff in rhythm):  “Tunk!—­tunk!—­tunk!—­” or: 

Headman (and wavering minor chant):  “Ah—­nah—­nee—­e-e-e!”

Pushers (undertone):  “Umbwa—­jo-e!  Um-bwa—­jo—­e!”

These wild and barbaric chantings—­in the distance; near at hand; dying into distance again—­slow, dogged, toilsome, came to be to us one of the typical features of the place.

After breakfast we put on our sun helmets and went forth curiously to view the town.  We found it roughly divided into four quarters—­the old Portuguese, the Arabic, the European, and the native.  The Portuguese comprises the outer fringe next the water-front of the inner bay.  It is very narrow of street, with whitewashed walls, balconies, and wonderful carven and studded doors.  The business of the town is done here.  The Arabic quarter lies back of it—­a maze of narrow alleys winding aimlessly here and there between high white buildings, with occasionally the minarets and towers of a mosque.  This district harboured, besides the upper-class Swahilis and Arabs, a large number of East Indians.  Still back of this are thousands of the low grass, or mud and wattle huts of the natives, their roofs thatched with straw or palm.  These are apparently arranged on little system.  The small European population lives atop the sea bluffs beyond the old fort in the most attractive bungalows.  This, the most desirable location of all, has remained open to them because heretofore the fierce wars with which Mombasa, “the Island of Blood,” has been swept have made the exposed seaward lands impossible.

No idle occupation can be more fascinating than to wander about the mazes of this ancient town.  The variety of race and occupation is something astounding.  Probably the one human note that, everywhere persisting, draws the whole together is furnished by the water-carriers.  Mombasa has no water system whatever.  The entire supply is drawn from numberless picturesque wells scattered everywhere in the crowded centre, and distributed mainly in Standard Oil cans suspended at either end of a short pole.  By dint of constant daily exercise, hauling water up from a depth and carrying it various distances, these men have developed the most beautifully powerful figures.  They proceed at a half trot, the slender poles, with forty pounds at either end, seeming fairly to cut into their naked shoulders, muttering a word of warning to the loiterers at every other breath—­semeelay! semeelay!  No matter in what part of Mombasa you may happen to be, or at what hour of the day or night, you will meet these industrious little men trotting along under their burdens.