The tiny tracks of the unique street car
system run everywhere any one would wish to go; branching off even into
private grounds and to the very front doors of bungalows situated far
out of town. Each resident owns his own street car, just as elsewhere a
man has his own carriage. There are, of course, public cars also, each
with its pair of boys to push it; and also a number of rather decrepit
rickshaws. As a natural corollary to the passenger traffic, the
freighting also is handled by the blacks on large flat trucks with short
guiding poles. These men are quite naked save for a small loin cloth;
are beautifully shaped; and glisten all over with perspiration shining
in the sun. So fine is the texture of their skins, the softness of their
colour--so rippling the play of muscles--that this shining perspiration
is like a beautiful polish. They rush from behind, slowly and steadily,
and patiently and unwaveringly, the most tremendous loads of the
heaviest stuffs. When the hill becomes too steep for them, they turn
their backs against the truck; and by placing one foot behind the other,
a few inches at a time, they edge their burden up the slope.
The steering is done by one man at the pole or tongue in front. This
individual also sets the key to the song by which in Africa all heavy
labour is carried forward. He cries his wavering shrill-voiced chant;
the toilers utter antiphony in low gruff tones.
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