a good-bye north I realized
that I was divorcing myself from comfort and companionship. In thirty
hours I was in sun-scorched Bukama, the southern rail-head of the
Cape-to-Cairo Route and my real jumping-off place before plunging into
the mysteries of Central Africa.

Here begins the historic Lualaba, which is the initial link in the
almost endless chain of the Congo River. I at once went aboard the first
of the boats which were to be my habitation intermittently for so many
weeks. It was the "Louis Cousin," a 150-ton vessel and a fair example of
the draft which provides the principal means of transportation in the
Congo. Practically all transit not on the hoof, so to speak, in the
Colony is by water. There are more than twelve thousand miles of rivers
navigable for steamers and twice as many more accessible for canoes and
launches. Hence the river-boat is a staple, and a picturesque one at
that.

The "Louis Cousin" was typical of her kind both in appointment, or
rather the lack of it, and human interest details. Like all her sisters
she resembles the small Ohio River boats that I had seen in my boyhood
at Louisville. All Congo steam craft must be stern-wheelers, first
because they usually haul barges on either side, and secondly because
there are so many sand-banks. The few cabins--all you get is the bare
room--are on the upper deck, which is the white man's domain, while the
boiler and freight--human and otherwise--are on the lower. This is the
bailiwick of the black. These boats always stop at night for wood, the
only fuel, and the natives are compelled to go ashore and sleep on the
bank.

The Congo river-boat is a combination of fortress, hotel, and menagerie.
Like the "accommodation" train in our own Southern States, it is most
obliging because it will stop anywhere to enable a passenger to get off
and do a little shopping, or permit the captain to take a meal ashore
with a friendly State official yearning for human society.

The river captain is a versatile individual for he is steward, doctor,
postman, purveyor of news, and dictator in general. He alone makes the
schedule of each trip, arriving and departing at will. Time in the Congo
counts for naught. It is in truth the land of leisure. For the man who
wants to move fast, water travel is a nightmare. Accustomed as I was to
swift transport, I spent a year every day.

The skipper of the "Louis Cousin" was no exception to his kind.
He was a big Norwegian nam