The bushmen generally shaved the edges of their wool to leave a nice
close-fitting natural skull cap, wore a single blanket draped from one
shoulder, and carried a war club. The ear lobe seemed always to be
stretched; sometimes sufficiently to have carried a pint bottle. Indeed,
white marmalade jars seemed to be very popular wear. One ingenious
person had acquired a dozen of the sort of safety pins used to fasten
curtains to their rings. These he had snapped into the lobes, six on a
side.
We explored for some time. One of the Swahilis attached himself to us so
unobtrusively that before we knew it we had accepted him as guide. In
that capacity he realized an ideal, for he never addressed a word to us,
nor did he even stay in sight. We wandered along at our sweet will,
dawdling as slowly as we pleased. The guide had apparently quite
disappeared. Look where we would we could in no manner discover him. At
the next corner we would pause, undecided as to what to do; there, in
the middle distance, would stand our friend, smiling. When he was sure
we had seen him, and were about to take the turn properly, he would
disappear again. Convoyed in this pleasant fashion we wound and twisted
up and down and round and about through the most appalling maze. We saw
the native markets with their vociferating sellers seated cross-legged
on tables behind piles of fruit or vegetables, while an equally
vociferating crowd surged up and down the aisles.
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