It was towards noon on March 1, 1898, that I
first found myself entering the narrow and
somewhat dangerous harbour of Mombasa, on the east
coast of Africa. The town lies on an island of the
same name, separated from the mainland only by
a very narrow channel, which forms the harbour;
and as our vessel steamed slowly in, close under
the quaint old Portuguese fortress built over
three hundred years ago, I was much struck
with the strange beauty of the view which
gradually opened out before me. Contrary to
my anticipation, everything looked fresh and
green, and an oriental glamour of enchantment
seemed to hang over the island. The old
town was bathed in brilliant sunshine and
reflected itself lazily on the motionless sea; its flat
roofs and dazzlingly white walls peeped out
dreamily between waving palms and lofty
cocoanuts, huge baobabs and spreading mango trees;
and the darker background of well-wooded hills
and slopes on the mainland formed a very effective
setting to a beautiful and, to me, unexpected
picture.

The harbour was plentifully sprinkled with Arab
dhows, in some of which, I believe, even at the
present day, a few slaves are occasionally smuggled
off to Persia and Arabia. It has always been a
matter of great wonder to me how the navigators of