By dodging from street to street Mohammed and I succeeded in circling
the whole disturbance, and so came at length to a public square. Here
was a vast throng, and a very good place, so I climbed atop a rescued
bale of cotton the better to see.

Mombasa has no water system, but a wonderful corps of water-carriers.
These were in requisition to a man. They disappeared down through the
wide gates of the customs enclosure, their naked, muscular, light-brown
bodies gleaming with sweat, their Standard Oil cans dangling merrily at
the ends of slender poles. A moment later they emerged, the cans full of
salt water from the bay, the poles seeming fairly to butt into their
bare shoulders as they teetered along at their rapid, swaying, burdened
gait.

The moment they entered the square they were seized upon from a dozen
different sides. There was no system at all. Every owner of property was
out for himself, and intended to get as much of the precious water as he
could. The poor carriers were pulled about, jerked violently here and
there, besought, commanded, to bring their loads to one or the other of
the threatened premises. Vociferations, accusations, commands arose to
screams. One old graybeard occupied himself by standing on tiptoe and
screeching, "Maji! maji! maji!" at the top of his voice, as though that
added anything to the visible supply. The water-carrier of the moment
disappeared in a swirl of excited contestants. He was attending strictly
to business, looking neither to right nor to left, pushing forward as
steadily as he could, gasping mechanically his customary warning,
"Semeelay! Semeelay!" Somehow, eventually, he and his comrades must have
got somewhere; for after an interval he returned with empty buckets.
Then every blessed fool of a property owner took a whack at his bare
shoulders as he passed, shrieking hysterically, "Haya! haya! pesi!