On every fifth day the Tanga people hold at the neighbouring village of Ambo-ni a market with the savages of the interior. Having assumed an Arab dress—a turban of portentous circumference, and a long henna-stained shirt—and accompanied by Said bin Salim with his Excalibur; by the consumptive Jemadar who sat down to rest every ten minutes, and by Khalfan bin Abdillah, an old Arab who had constituted himself cicerone, we attended the ‘Golio’ on January 29. Walking along the coast, we passed through a village rich in cocoas and in iron forges, which were hard at work: a school of young hopefuls was busily employed in loud reading and in swaying the body. The country was pretty and fertile, rich in manioc and cocoas, in plantains, and the Ricinus shrub; there were a few mangoes—the people asked for the stones to plant—and many Dom or Theban palms (Crucifera Thebaica), whose bifurcations and re-bifurcations are so remarkable, and whose crimson fruit is eaten as in West Africa. Formerly the land was harried by the beef-eating Wamasai, hence the scarcity of cattle. After two miles we crossed some tidal creeks, corded over with creepers, and tree roots growing from black mire; we waded a sandy inlet, and we forded the small sweet surface drain Mtofu, which had water up to the waist. Another mile brought us to the River Mvo-ni (of Behemoth), here called the Zigi—two names in three miles, a truly African fashion! Salted by the tide, it flows under banks forty to fifty feet high, crowned with calabash and other jungle trees. Women were being ferried over: in ecstasies of terror they buried their faces between their knees till the moment of danger had passed away. These savages are by no means a maritime race, they have no boats, they rarely fish, and being unable to swim, they are stopped by the narrowest stream unless they can bridge it by felling a tree in the right direction, as it is said the beavers do.