In that year the question of boundary line between Belgian and British territory was again raised to be finally marked out. The decision would either result in the district of Mboga being retained by the British, or given over to the Belgians in exchange for a strip of land farther south, in which latter case the River Semliki would form the natural dividing line. It was considered expedient, pending the arrangement between the two Governments to strengthen in every way possible the mission work at Mboga so that it might not be shaken should it ultimately lie outside the Uganda Protectorate. It was, therefore arranged that in the five months remaining before leaving for furlough in England we should fit in a visit to that district. The time of year fixed on for starting was a little unfortunate, as the wet season was in full working order, and that never adds an enviable charm to the gipsy life of African travelling. It was evident that we were getting near the end of the prescribed period of service, for instead of gaily trudging off in stout boots and puttees, we pushed off from Kabarole with a donkey and a hammock, the only available modes of conveyance. When only three miles out we were overtaken by one of Toro’s special storms. The heavily laden clouds had been running off towards the west when Ruwenzori stood in their way and forbade them. So, in a terrible temper, they turned back and gave us the full benefit of their tears. My hammock bearers did not seem to mind; certainly they had nothing on that would spoil, and I believe these casual drenchings are the only occasions on which many of them feel the touch of water on their bodies. I have often seen them trying to avoid even this by taking shelter under a tree and holding a huge banana leaf over their head, when only clothed in a tiny goat skin. The donkey slipped along behind with its rider enveloped in a commodious mackintosh that left only the donkey’s nose and feet visible. In order to get to the mission station of Busaiga, where we were to spend a day, we had to turn off for two miles along a sloppy kind of sheep-track path, which the donkey managed better than my men, who stumbled along in the mud, very fearful lest they should let their burden down. The man carrying our bath went before to warn them of danger; but we passed him half-way, for with a splash he fell. No one seemed to regard it as anything unusual, and continued marching on. Looking over the side of my hammock, the last I saw of him was a hopeless mix-up of black man’s limbs and bath sitting in inches of mud.