The next day, I went to see the Secretary General of the Imperial British Company who had been so kind as to send me this warning. I assured him on my conscience and my soul that we did not wish to engage in arms smuggling nor slave raiding, nor violate the laws of civilized conduct. Finally, our guns were marked with the sacramental stamp, which made them harmless in the future. We were given a document as proof. But while the guns were being stamped, I could not stop myself pointing out that we had the honor of being given the number one and to be the first to have our guns stamped, although before us, plenty of guns had been taken into the interior, perhaps for purposes less peaceful than our own.

      During the day, Mgr. de Courmont paid a visit to Sir Francis de Winton, who received him very well. He invited us to dinner. While he had the chance to see that our intentions were entirely honorable, we, on our side, concluded that there are some people who are much less frightening at table than when in their office. The next day, Mgr. de Courmont celebrated mass in a new house which he had been asked to bless. It had been put at our disposition by Mr. A. Pereira and Mr. D. Pereira, natives of Goa. Thirty people—the whole Catholic community—came to the mass.

      The next step was to recruit porters to replace those who had left us at Zanzibar. We had hopes of recruiting from among the 200 slaves whom the British Navy had captured, set free, and settled at Mombasa over the previous two years. Alas! The only signs of them were their wives and their houses, both equally shabby. The freed slaves themselves have been recruited by the company for large-scale expeditions in the interior. We were obliged to choose from among the innumerable crowd of runaway slaves, thieves, liars, drunkards, deserters, vagabonds, do-nothings, rogues, and caravan pirates, whose game is to get themselves taken on by newly arrived European travelers, ask for and get an advance, and then disappear. Messengers were sent into the suburbs and they came back with people they had found who looked useful. I had them put in line and started speaking to the man who had the most honest-looking face and with clear-cut features. However, he did not look as though he merited very high wages.

      I asked, “What is your name?”

      He replied, “Haroun-al-Rashid.”

      I said, “Excellent, but you look as though you have drunk a little too much.”

      “Oh, that’s not possible. I was released from prison less than an hour ago.”

      I have to say that for a Muslim who has simply been lacking politeness to a European by pinching his watch or emptying some of his bottles, or losing his wallet, a spell in prison does not damage his reputation. In fact it enhances it. However, it is from among such dodgy characters one has to choose. After some had been chosen, each was given a small advance payment—impossible not to do this—and the hour of departure was fixed, 2 p.m. on 14th July. And when two o’clock came, we found that five porters had disappeared. All the same, we had to get out of there. If we only considered the shelter given by the mango trees, we had a marvelous campsite. But, getting down to earth, we had to admit that this rural retreat had so strong a smell of rotting flesh and sewage as to reduce much of its charm. Moreover, the longer we stayed on the edges of the town, the more problems would we have: there is always something wrong with suburbs.

      And so the caravan set off. Striking southwards, we moved along the narrow pathways of the Isle of Mombasa without any great enthusiasm. These pathways run across modest rows of sweet potatoes, patches of peas, and cassava plants. On the burning sand, fat dung beetles were vigorously rolling the balls, an activity which for them is a career. There was no shelter, save here and there, near thick undergrowth, where the wild jasmine grew, whose white flowers cover the rubber creeper, and where also the swinging plume of the coconut tree and the majestic head of the mango trees spread out to attract our attention. At the Likoni ford, the boats were ready, and in less than an hour, everybody had crossed.

      But the first thing to do was to decide on the route to follow. Our target was Kilimanjaro. From Mombasa, the shortest route, and the one which most travelers had taken, was that through Taita. But water was very scarce at that time of year. Moreover, the area has already been explored, and, with the possible exception of one particular point, it does not seem to offer opportunities for missionary work. To the south we have the Digo country, which has been very little studied. If we passed through it, we could finish that part of the journey at Vanga, and, from there, go on to Sambara and Pare country, Lake Jipe, and Taveta. Such a journey would be twice as long as the other route; but, in making it, we would have water and food for the caravan, and we would be able to see the different areas where, sooner or later, missions must be started.

      Chapter 3: Delayed

      The First Difficulties.

      Likoni and the Country Outside Mombasa.

      The Caravan, its Members, and Equipment.

      When we had made the crossing, we set up our camp under the trees, near to an old well, and facing the blue sea. We were obliged to lose three, almost four days, and these extracts from the expedition diary show what happened.

      We spent our time like that. This part of the coast, like Mombasa Island, and like almost all the East African coast, rests on a bed of coral. For centuries, the wind and the waves have beaten against it, sometimes cutting it into sharp-pointed needles, sometimes hollowing out deep caves.

      The soil suitable for growing fruit trees is less thick than it is to the south, toward Bagamoyo. Nevertheless, it is put to good use. Coconut trees thrive, and they surround Mombasa Island with a half-crown of tropical greenery. Mango trees (Mangifera indica) do equally well. There are custard-apple trees (anona sqamosa) to be seen, as well as orange trees (citrus aurantium), lemon trees (citrus limonum), and milk-trees (Artocarpus integrifolia); the cashew tree (anacardium occidentale) is used for its wood, its fruit, and its nuts. Where fruit trees can no longer grow in the harsh and stony plain, the doum palms (hyphaene Thebaica) take their place.

      Here and there, small oblong houses are scattered under the green branches. Their occupants—a mixture of Swahili, Digo, and ex-slaves from all over, all more or less Islamized—seem to have little interest in world affairs. The children look after a certain number of cows, bringing them out into the unenclosed land, close to the sea; the women cultivate, apart from the ground around the coconut trees, little fields of cassava, sweet potatoes, beans, pistachio trees (harachys hypogoea), maize, guinea corn, and so on; the men are mainly interested in palm wine. It is generally known that this “wine,” which is produced by every variety of the palm tree, is simply the sap of the tree. With coconut trees, it is obtained by cutting the base of the branch which can produce flowers and fruit, and putting something there to receive the sap. The doum palm is less valuable; the branches are trimmed, leaving only one or two leaves on each, and afterwards abandoning it to its fate. Some die straightaway, others survive, though enfeebled. The sap is gathered three times in twenty-four hours, and each time approximately a glass of liquid is obtained. When it is fresh, it is whitish, sugary, and a bit cloying; after it has been left to ferment for a day, it acquires a sharp tang and can intoxicate. When it is left for a long time in the open air, it becomes really good vinegar.

      Some of the local people are fishermen. Some of them go out to the open sea to fish with a line; others use a fishing basket or a net; others, finally, profit from the changes of the tides to build barrages with narrow rods, where the fish can enter when the tide comes in. When the tide goes out, the fish remain; all that is needed is to take them by hand.