Beneath them was only a small matter of ferns to clear away.

Before us the sodded bank rounded off ten feet the river itself.
At this point far up in its youth it was a friendly river. Its
noble width ran over shallows of yellow sand or of small pebbles.
Save for unexpected deep holes one could wade across it anywhere.
Yet it was very wide, with still reaches of water, with islands
of gigantic papyrus, with sand bars dividing the current, and
with always the vista for a greater or lesser distance down
through the jungle along its banks. From our canvas chairs we
could look through on one side to the arid country, and on the
other to this tropical wonderland.

Yes, at this point in its youth it was indeed a friendly river in
every sense of the word. There are three reasons, ordinarily, why
one cannot bathe in the African rivers. In the first place, they
are nearly all disagreeably muddy; in the second place, cold
water in a tropical climate causes horrible congestions; in the
third place they swarm with crocodiles and hippos. But this river
was as yet unpolluted by the alluvial soil of the lower
countries; the sun on its shallows had warmed its waters almost
to blood heat; and the beasts found no congenial haunts in these
clear shoals. Almost before our tents were up the men were
splashing. And always my mental image of that river's beautiful
expanse must include round black heads floating like gourds where
the water ran smoothest.

Our tents stood all in a row facing the stream, the great trees
at their backs. Down in the grove the men had pitched their
little white shelters. Happily they settled down to ease.