Our experience next day especially proved this. At 6 a.m. a cloudless sky greeted us, and damp white mists were sleeping in each hollow. At the foot of the first hill we were confronted by a long swamp with tall papyrus grass growing on either side. We had recourse to the hammock, and as the water reached the carriers’ waists, one felt the canvas was some inches in water and that it was a case of floating through the dirty, stagnant river. I wondered if poor little Moses in the bulrushes ever felt as we did among the papyrus. The second swamp gave us a little variety, as the reed bridge had been broken down and the step down into the swamp was so steep that we felt uncomfortably like sliding over the front carrier, while the climb up at the other end gave us our first sensation of standing on our heads. At 11 o’clock we halted under a tree and feasted on sausages (tinned), sweet potatoes, cornflour, biscuits, and tea. Sausages are a great treat out here, and we only indulged as we were doing a double march to reach Toro that day week. We then waited till 2 p.m. so as to allow the sun to cool down a bit, and enjoyed reading an English newspaper, the “British Weekly,” of February 16th date. After that we felt quite ready to continue our march, reaching camp at 4 o’clock, only to find our tents had been pitched on such a disgustingly dirty old camping ground that they had to be taken up and erected some hundred yards further on. Diary-making that day was impossible. Our tent, from the bottom to the top, was literally lined with mosquitoes, and their singing quite put in the shade the Royal Choral Society at the Albert Hall. In the two previous camps they had covered the roof, but evidently never tasted the joys of European flesh and feared to descend. These others were more initiated.