So powerful were the sun’s rays that my chest, exposed for the coolness, was as though a strong mustard plaster had been administered. When the blistering and peeling process ensued I had some bad five minutes. My arms, the skin now quite dark and hardened by three months’ daily exposure on horseback to wind and sun, also blistered. The camera, of polished teak and with brass binding, specially made for the tropics, gave a tendency to stiffness of the joints due to warping, but the excellence of the wood and workmanship stood the test without impairing the apparatus for usefulness. A closed tin of butter, protected in a thick wooden box, melted and percolated through. I afterwards learnt that the temperature had been 139 degrees. So fresh is the atmosphere on the Bauchi Plateau that although I had given up my horse to another at half-past eight, and had, therefore, tramped with the carriers for two hours, I was not in the least fatigued, in spite of the heat. At 1.15 the doki boy was seen coming back. He was accompanied by three villagers who called that there was an easy ford a little higher up. Pointing, they made towards it, and Hanza and a couple of men went to verify the information. Pushing our way through grass higher than the tallest among us, we came to a clearance a few hundred yards above the falls where the stream had narrowed considerably, and here the villagers demonstrated by wading to the middle breast-high and holding up their arms. The carriers were brought round, and by 1.45 we were over, I going pick-a-back. And very cool and comforting the muddy water felt as it made its way between the leather riding leggings and through the laced boots. It then transpired there were two further streams near by to be got over. The next was a little deeper than the place just crossed, but presented no serious bar. The third, however, though not so deep as the first, was quite as broad, about 300 feet, and proved to be only just fordable. Some of the carriers would not venture with loads, which were, therefore, taken over by a few making double journeys, and I sailed across “flying-angel” fashion, the sturdy Amadu being the craft. Instead of the water going deeper by degrees, almost at once the furthest point down was touched and lasted half-way. Balanced aloft, it was not too pleasant feeling the moving foundation gently and tentatively feeling his foothold, suddenly immersed to the chin, and to be conscious of a fairly hard current washing over your knees. However, nothing worse than a ducking was possible, and that was avoided.