ropes, disinfectants, gorgeous sentries--in front--and official
inspection went solemnly on. Great, even in Africa, is the god of red
tape.

Our only possible plan, in the circumstances, was to recruit the men
outside the town, to camp them somewhere, march them across country to a
way station, and there embark them. Our goods and safari stores we
could then ship out to them by train.

Accordingly we rode on bicycles out to the Swahili village.

This is, as I have said, composed of large "beehive" houses thatched
conically with straw. The roofs extend to form verandas beneath which
sit indolent damsels, their hair divided in innumerable tiny parts
running fore and aft like the stripes on a water melon; their figured
'Mericani garments draped gracefully. As befitted the women of
plutocrats, they wore much jewellery, some of it set in their noses.
Most of them did all of nothing, but some sat half buried in narrow
strips of bright-coloured tissue paper. These they were pasting together
like rolls of tape, the coloured edges of the paper forming concentric
patterns on the resultant discs--an infinite labour. The discs, when
completed, were for insertion in the lobes of the ears.

When we arrived the irregular "streets" of the village were nearly
empty, save for a few elegant youths, in long kanzuas, or robes of
cinnamon colour and spotless white, on their heads fezzes or turbans, in
their hands slender rattan canes. They were very busy talking to each
other, and of course did not notice the idle beauties beneath the
verandas.