The study of the gentle mule, as a matter of fact, occupied most of the
first part of our time with the regiment. We camped along the railway
line, and the entraining of mules is one of the most exciting pastimes
I know, although the procedure is simple enough. One man leads the mule
up to the door of the horse-box, whilst two others link arms across
its hindquarters and heave or push it on board before it has had time
to realize their intention. Sometimes it realizes first, and then
heartless spectators gather round and yell with joy at the stirring
scene. The man who pulls at the bridle has a busy time, for if the box
is nearly full when he packs his steed in he has to quit through a
storm of hoofs and teeth, and I've caught fragments of conversation on
these occasions that would turn a dock-laborer green with envy.
Mules are utter hypocrites. There is no animal living that can assume
an expression of such injured innocence as a mule when he has "done you
down" properly. When, at the end of the first round of that exciting
bout miscalled "stables," you abandon currycomb and brush and pause to
consider the possibilities of the situation, your mount gazes at you
more in sorrow than in anger, suggesting that _he_ is the stranger
in a pest-ridden country, and that he merely acted in self-defence.
Of course, grooming is a painful process for both parties, for unless
the beasts have been well sprayed with disinfectant beforehand, the
clustered fauna of Africa display a desperate tenacity. The insect
pests were, by the way, one of the chief features of the East African
campaign; after patrol we used to feel as if we wanted spraying
ourselves.
Pack-mules provide some exacting moments when you are moving camp in a
hurry. On our forced march into Aruscha--a matter of some seventy-five
miles, with short intervals for food and sleep--the dawn of one day
found us enticing some of the dear things over plank bridges laid
across a ravine. There was a nightmare suggestion about the scene that
only Sime could have done justice to; for it was still too dark to see
to the bottom of the ravine, and the swaying bridges seemed to stretch
into eternity.
Our first camp was in a bit of the Southern Game Reserve--a lovely
place. The signallers were perched on a rocky peak, surrounded by
clumps of low hills, which merged into stretches of plain, covered
with thorn scrub. After rain the hills used to turn to a heavenly
blue, with shifting lights of mauve and purple as the cloud shadows
slid over them, and we could see Meru, which we then looked upon as
the first place we had to take, a jagged and formidable peak; and,
sometimes, when the air was very clear, Kilimanjaro appeared like a
big, flat-topped cake with powdered sugar dusted over it.