TAITA TO KILIMA-NJARO.
Having once more reassembled the men, rearranged the burdens, and left
behind what we could not carry in the kind charge of a missionary who
was temporarily residing on the summit of Ndara Hill, we started on a
day’s journey to Mwatate, passing through dense thorny bush, rocky
defiles, and dried-up stream courses, and finally reaching, to my joy,
the first channel of running water we had met with since leaving the
vicinity of the coast. The ground along its banks had been cleared and
cultivated; we crossed the stream on a rickety wooden bridge, and passed
up through fields of maize and brakes of sugar-cane to our
camping-place, under an umbrageous tree. Here pleasant-mannered natives
greeted us; we paid the small present demanded as an indemnity for
passing through their country and drinking “their” water, and then
enjoyed a welcome rest amid surroundings of quiet beauty. The next day
we were travelling through a Swiss-like country of mountain passes and
richly fertile valleys, and at length came to Bura, a camping-place at
the foot of the strangely peaked mountains of that name. Here we were
nearly having a skirmish with the natives, who demanded an exorbitant
payment for the right of drinking from their river. However, a resolute
attitude on our part preserved the peace, and we were soon on excellent
terms with the Wa-taita, buying fowls, maize, and honey at a great rate.
On the morrow we skirted the little river of Bura for a few miles, and
then, reluctantly leaving its belt of rich, majestic forest, plunged
resolutely into the waterless wilderness which separated us from the
base of Kilima-njaro.
[Illustration:
ANTELOPES AND ANT HILLS (THE RED HARTEBEEST).
To face page 65.
]
Although the journey before us was a far longer one than that terrible
march to Maungu, it was, nevertheless, marked by no sufferings from
fatigue and thirst, for I had the men now well in hand, and was careful
to ascertain that no one had started without a due supply of water. The
country we passed through was indeed a wilderness, but yet rather
parklike in its aspect. There was an entire absence of undergrowth, and
tallish trees with cedar-like crowns rose at regular intervals, looking,
in their uniformity of unvarying red trunks and bright green compact
foliage, like an unskilfully painted landscape. Other noticeable
features in the scene were the tall red ant-hills and, strange
imitation, the tall red antelopes, a species of hartebeest,[8]
resembling faintly in shape the form of a giraffe with sloping
hind-quarters, high shoulders, and long neck. Being a deep red-brown in
colour, and standing one by one stock-still at the approach of the
caravan, it was really most difficult and puzzling sometimes to know
which was hartebeest and which was ant-hill; for the long grass hiding
the antelope’s legs left merely a red-humped mass, which, until it
moved, might well be the mound of red earth constructed by the white
termites. The unconscious mimicry was rendered the more ludicrously
exact sometimes by the sharply-pointed, flag-like leaves of a kind of
squill—a liliaceous plant—which frequently crowned the summit of the
ant-hill, or grew at its base, thus suggesting the horns of an antelope,
rather with the head erect, or browsing low down. The assimilation
cannot have been fancied on my part, for it deceived even the sharp eyes
of my men; and again and again a hartebeest would start into motion at
twenty yards distance and gallop off, while I was patiently stalking an
ant-hill, and crawling on my stomach through thorns and aloes, only to
find the supposed antelope an irregular mass of red clay.
[Illustration]
[Illustration:
Fig. 20.—Zebras.
]
The great plain which lies between the country of Taita and the eastern
base of Kilima-njaro swarms with game, especially where the land slopes
gently towards Lake ǰipe, which may be descried to the southward as a
narrow slit of silvery white lying between a band of dull green forest
and the purple wall of the Ugweno Mountains. As we marched along herds
of hartebeest, gnu, eland, and buffalo defiled before us, wending their
way slowly along their own beaten tracks to the accustomed
drinking-place, where, poor fools, some of them were sure to lose their
lives, for, lying in ambush in the forest tunnel, down which the thirsty
creatures rush to the water, would be either lions, leopards, or human
hunters, armed with poisoned arrow and broad-bladed spear. But however
much a keen desire to drink might blind them to danger when they are
near their goal, they were wary enough now, and their sentinels kept a
sharp look-out on our movements; only the giddy zebras—most inquisitive
of animals—risked their lives by galloping up to inspect the passing
caravan. The sight of all this game was potent enough to stir a hunting
impulse in the soul of the most jaded traveller; and although I found it
hard enough to plod along the dusty track in the rear of the caravan,
and avoid the impulse to cast myself down and rest in every patch of
sparsely scattered shade, still I did every now and then make a sally at
some wondering antelope that stood in the distance staring, snorting,
and occasionally stamping petulantly with its fore-feet at the strange,
inexplicable, snake-like line of white-vestured men slowly winding over
the plain. But my attempts at stalking, and my snap-shots were too
impatient and hurried to meet with any definite success. The fact is, in
African travel, it is not easy to combine the accomplishment of twenty
or thirty miles walked every day on foot, with the exploits of the
chase, especially when haunted by the knowledge that every minute’s
delay that separates you from your water-supply is dangerous. You leave
the road just to stalk a group of zebras grazing not more than two
hundred yards off, and you think if you can only creep up to that
ant-hill and hide behind it, you will get a splendidly easy shot. Well,
the ant-hill is reached, but the zebras have moved off a little farther,
and now there is a stumpy mimosa-tree between you and your aim. However,
it is a matter of a few paces to crawl up to it and fire from behind its
branches. You reach the tree, and just as you are going to raise your
gun you crack a dead twig, and the zebras move and trot off some
distance farther. Now it is too long a shot to risk, but as the game is
grazing peacefully and unsuspiciously again, you may just as well creep
up a little nearer and then fire. So you go down on allfours in the
grass, and crawl along, putting your hands invariably down on cruel
thorns or sharp twigs every time they touch the ground; your back aches
with the snake-like posture you assume, and when at length you
cautiously raise your head above the grass and dare to look frankly
before you, you find the zebras have moved on again, and you either
crawl after them, infatuated with the love of hunting, or in desperation
foolishly fire your gun at a distant speck, and of course miss, when all
that remains of the animals you have stalked is a light cloud of red
dust hanging in the hot air. And now you become fully conscious of how
foolish you have been to leave the caravan. How hot the sun is! And your
blistered feet ache as you limp back through the stubbly grass to find
the track once more, of course tripping up a dozen times over unseen
stumps and stones, and finally reaching the road to see your caravan
represented by a few white specks in the extreme distance, these white
specks now hurrying on with aggravated speed, just as if they knew you
were limping painfully after them, and wished to pay you out for the
many times when, they being tired and halting, you, burdenless and
fresh, had remorselessly driven them on. And so with many sensible
reasons you vow that nothing shall tempt you from the road again, for,
even supposing you killed anything, can you stop the caravan for many
hours while the meat is cooked and the skin cured? Of course not,
why—and here you interrupt these reflections by exclaiming excitedly to
your servant, “Oh, look here; I can’t stand this. Give me my gun—sh!
don’t you see that sable antelope—_there!_ standing under the shade of
the big tree;” and so hurriedly taking aim you fire, and oh! joy, the
antelope falls, evidently wounded, but, alas! not to the death, for it
is up and off again before your next shot can finish the work, and like
an idiot, you forget your sore feet and fatigue, and go racing after it
over stocks and stones till once more you find it is in vain to combine
the cares of a marching caravan and the pleasures of the chase.
[Illustration:
Fig. 21.
Sable Antelope.
]
The expedition had been toiling on across the hot plains of Lanjora
through the sultry afternoon, and now towards evening stopped to lay
down its many burdens amid the dusty tufts of scorched grass round the
base of a great mimosa-tree. Only one hour might we rest, for water lay
two days behind us and one long day’s journey in front, and we intended
but to stretch our tired legs on the lumpy soil until the obscurity
prevailing after sunset was dispelled by the uprising of the full moon.
Then beneath her cooler rays we should journey on towards our goal for
half the night, and so be spared a longer walk through the heat of the
morrow’s sun. The day had been sultry, and, though the rainy season was
over, the western sky was a mass of lurid clouds, which in one part of
the horizon were particularly dark and concentrated. I knew what caused
this, and what object these cloud-masses were jealously concealing like
the courtiers and officials who surround the person of some Eastern
emperor; and I, who had journeyed many weary miles to see the greatest
snow-capped mountain of Central Africa, impatiently longed for some
giant broom to clear the sky of those heavy mists and vapours which now
hid him from my gaze.
Slowly a globe of yellow-white rose in the east and mounted into the
clouds, from whence a softened light descended, and showed the track
across the plain winding away like a crooked snake towards the west.
With many an impatient sigh and grunt the weary men took up their
burdens, and I, no less tired, but compelled to show my porters an
encouraging example, staggered on to my blistered feet and limped along
in front of the caravan, which, once more on the move, jogged on with
little heart till midnight. Then we could no more; so, making fires to
keep off the wild beasts, we stopped to rest till dawn. With the falling
temperature of the small hours, a brisk wind arose from the heated plain
and swept the clouds from off the sky, all except the mass that
obstinately clung to Kilima-njaro. Feverish and over-tired, I could not
sleep, and sat and watched the heavens, waiting for the dawn. A hundred
men were snoring around me, and the night was anything but silent, for
the hyenas were laughing hideously in the gloom outside our circle of
expiring embers. At five o’clock I woke my servant Virapan, and whilst
he was making my morning coffee I dropped into a doze, from which, at
dawn, he roused me, and pointed to the horizon, where, in the
north-west, a strange sight was to be seen. “Laputa!” I exclaimed; and
as Virapan, though he had read “Robinson Crusoe” and the “Arabian
Nights” in his native tongue, had never heard of “Gulliver’s Travels,” I
proceeded to enlighten him as to the famous suspended island of Swift’s
imagining, and explained my exclamation by pointing to the now visible
Kilima-njaro, which, with its two peaks of Kibó and Kimawenzi and the
parent mass of mountain, rose high above a level line of cloud, and
thus, completely severed in appearance from the earth beneath, resembled
so strangely the magnetic island of Laputa.
[Illustration:
THE FIRST VIEW OF KILIMA-NJARO.
]
Kilima-njaro was weird in the early flush of dawn, with its snowy crater
faintly pink against a sky of deep blue-grey, wherein the pale and faded
moon was sinking, and the stars were just discernible; but as the
stronger light of perfect day prevailed, and the clouds which concealed
the base of the mountain disappeared, its appearance was disappointing.
Owing to an atmospheric illusion Kilima-njaro, which was in reality
about forty miles distant, appeared to rise from the plain just beyond a
distant clump of trees, and its greater peak of snow, so distinctly
crater-like in form, together with the lesser and more jagged Kimawenzi,
were as hard and commonplace in look as the cheap Italian water-colour
drawings of Vesuvius, charged with “body-colour,” and devoid of ærial
effect. Kilima-njaro, now, was not imposing, and I soon ceased to
realize its great height when it looked not much farther off than the
farther groups of trees. As the day grew warm it was once more hidden
behind layers of clouds, and I marched on towards my destination
somewhat disappointed.
For some two days since leaving the mountains of Taita we had been
crossing a waterless tract with poor herbage of dusty-brown or
yellow-white, and grey, withered trees, and real verdure had been denied
us; but now on reaching a point within some thirty miles of Kilima-njaro
a change of an agreeable character came over the scene.[9] Tall
umbrageous trees cast a welcome shade over the short herbage, which was
closely cropped like a lawn by the many herds of antelopes. The bushes
were vividly green, and some of them bore tufts of bright-coloured
flowers. Many birds frequenting the bushy trees attested the proximity
of water—we were, indeed, close to a little affluent of Lake ǰipe—and
the feeling that we were now without threatened thirst added to the
pleasure of the morning’s walk, and promised for the future less arduous
journeyings. I was, therefore, beginning to relax my strict watch over
the men, and knowing there was no need for hurry now that we were
perceptibly nearing our goal, I was sauntering along easily in advance
of the caravan, when my servant Virapan tugged me by the shoulder, and
said, “What is that big animal, sir?”
I looked along the path in front, and saw, to my great astonishment, a
lion quietly trotting ahead of us. As he heard the sound of a voice he
unconcernedly looked round, gave us one penetrating glance, made a few
hesitating steps, and then stopped to stare again. A mad impulse to fire
seized me, and although my sporting gun was behind with the caravan, I
took the Snider from my servant’s hands, aimed it hastily, and fired. No
sooner had the smoke cleared away than I saw the lion bounding away in
great leaps over the low bushes, evidently untouched by the bullet. He
entered a dense mass of thorny acacias and there stopped. My
head-collector coming up, we followed him to this refuge, and I can
assure you I felt then anything but comfortable, for we could see, amid
the thickly-interlaced twigs, literally nothing, while a deep ominous
growling reached our ears, so strangely divested of “locality” that we
could neither of us determine the exact spot from which it proceeded. We
now decided to withdraw with all due caution, and backed respectfully
from the presence of the king of beasts till we had once more regained
the road, where we found most of the carriers awaiting anxiously the
result of our encounter. Disliking to be baffled, I proposed that we
should organize a regular battue, and drive the lion from his shelter,
but nobody liked the idea except my Indian servant, who was inadequate
for the task, so I reluctantly abandoned what might have been a spirited
lion hunt. Towards the afternoon of this day, which had begun in such an
exciting manner, first with the view of Kilima-njaro and next with the
lion, we left every trace of sterility behind us—the very mimosas and
acacias becoming changed and improved in their appearance, exhibiting
more foliage and less thorns—and the track winding through superb
avenues of lofty umbrageous trees. After many days of journeying in a
sun-scorched wilderness my tired eyes here rested with delight on the
soft green of the exuberant vegetation, while I no longer tramped along
a stony road under a blazing sun, but followed a soft leaf-covered path
plunged in absolute shade. We were now in the precincts of Taveita, but
before we actually entered that African paradise we were obliged to halt
at a gateway in the forest where the path was blocked with an immense
structure of tree-trunks. Just a tiny aperture was left, an entrance
three feet high in the shape of a delta, and through this we all had to
wriggle and crawl, while several of the loads would scarcely admit of
passing through, and only the most ingenious twisting and turning
effected this end.
The first barrier passed we found ourselves in a small square chamber,
really a space between two gateways, where in times of war and rapine
suspicious visitors could be inspected and interviewed before being
allowed to enter. There was, however, no one to scrutinize us in this
gateway, because the “passport” regulations of Taveita have been greatly
relaxed of late years, but a few decades back this elaborate hindrance
to free transit was the only protection the wretched Taveitans had
against the merciless assaults of the Masai robber bands. By erecting
these wooden obstructions across the only feasible approaches to their
forest stronghold they checked the impetuous onslaught of the brigands,
and were able, moreover, to kill many of the bewildered Masai with their
guns before these people could creep round or destroy the barrier. As
the Masai never throw their spears, but always use them and most of
their other arms in hand-to-hand conflict, they are naturally at a
disadvantage when opposed to an enemy who has entrenched himself behind
a slight fortification and can use his firearms to advantage.
Passing in through a second and easier doorway, we found ourselves in
full view of banana plantations, standing out in glistening green
against a background of stately forest. Here and there small groups of
beehive huts stood in a clearing, surrounded by tall wooden fences. We
had fired a salute of guns when approaching Taveita, to announce to its
inhabitants, with many a sonorous boom re-echoing through the forest
alleys, that strangers were arriving with peaceable and friendly
intentions, and a wish to trade. As I was in the act of crossing a
narrow rivulet, by means of the slippery stem of a banana that has been
thrown across it, I caught sight of the first natives, who were on their
way to inspect our caravan, and when I looked up, and they saw my white
face and strange costume, a glad shout of surprise went up from their
wide mouths, and they pushed forward to seize and shake me by the hand.
Such an unusual and demonstrative welcome gave me a pleasant impression
of Taveita to commence with, and this, I am glad to say, was
strengthened as time went on. Its inhabitants were, however, not only
remarkable for their _bonhomie_ and kindly disposition, but presented
other notable characteristics which were not long in impressing
themselves on my observation. Firstly, their hair was generally worn in
long strings, where the wool was stiffened with fat and red clay into a
number of rats’ tails. There were generally one or two incisors knocked
out in the upper jaw, the lobes of the ear were enormously distended
with wooden cylinders or rings, and lastly, the Wa-taveita, like most of
the natives of Inner Eastern Africa (and unlike those of the West), were
totally ignorant of what we call decency. I would like to express this
more delicately by saying that they were innocent of all clothing, but
this was not the case, as many of the inhabitants wore cloth, or skins,
round their shoulders, either for adornment or when the weather was
chilly with breezes blowing off the snow-capped mountain.
I felt at home with the Wa-taveita from the first, for they were
thoroughly conversant with Swahili, the coast language—the French of
Eastern Africa, and as I also knew this tongue we had at once a medium
of ready communication. So the natives who had come to meet our caravan,
and trotted along by my side to direct me to the accustomed
camping-place, chattered as we went and not only asked for, but
imparted, information. One of the first questions was, “What is your
name, white man?” “Johnston.” “Jansan?” they shrieked laughingly. “Why
you must me Tamsan’s (Thomson’s) brother.” (Mr. Joseph Thomson, on his
way to Masai-land, had passed through Taveita, leaving a very pleasant
impression behind him. As by an odd coincidence we were both white, and
our names, in the natives’ pronunciation, only differed in the initial
consonant, the evident inference was that, to use the natives’ phrase,
“We were of one mother.”) It would have been of such little use trying
to disabuse them of this happy and likely idea that I accepted tacitly
the suggested relationship, and it was soon noised about Taveita that
Bwana Tamsan’s brother was come, and many of Thomson’s old friends
flocked to greet me.
Our camp was established in one corner of a vast clearing, nearly square
in shape, whereon certain Swahili traders, _en route_ to Masai-land, had
built a temporary and straggling village of palm-thatched huts to
accommodate their wives and concubines during their absence in the
wilds. As soon as my tent was up, and my goods were properly stored and
placed under the supervision of a trusted man, a food allowance was
measured out to the hungry porters of the caravan. That is to say, a
bale of cloth was unpacked, and each man received three ells (or
“hands,” as they were here called) of white American sheeting, which was
to purchase him sufficient food for three days. After the distribution
of cloth the men dispersed for the rest of the day to forage in the
Taveita market, and I was free to attend to my own affairs and to
receive my new acquaintances. Firstly, however, the tent was closed, and
I had a good and much-needed bath, for almost since leaving the coast
water had been so precious that we had feared to lavish even a teacupful
on the toilet. But here we had a glorious running river, crystal clear,
and cool; and were it not for the inconvenient publicity which a dip in
the stream itself would occasion at this moment, I should have strongly
preferred it to a cramped bath in the hot tent. Nevertheless, a wash of
any kind and a complete change of clothes was very refreshing, and when
once more my tent door was thrown open to the throng, and I appeared
before the elders of Taveita seated on my camp chair, I felt sure my
white face was several shades lighter than on my arrival. This little
colony of quiet agriculturists, known as Taveita, is unlike the
neighbouring states in being a republic, or commonwealth, administered
rather than ruled by an oligarchy of four or five important men known as
the “Wa-zēē,” or elders. There are really two entirely distinct races
inhabiting Taveita—the Wa-kwavi, a tribe of settled Masai who have
turned from lawless robbers into honest, thrifty tillers of the soil,
and the Wa-taveita proper, a people of Bantu stock, allied in origin to
the A-kamba farther north and the Wa-čaga of Kilima-njaro. The
Wa-taveita predominate over the Wa-kwavi in numbers, and the elders are
mostly of the former stock. These functionaries had come to greet me
with little gifts and offerings such as they deemed most acceptable to
me, and, of course, expected an equivalent present on my part. One man
had brought a baaing, reluctant sheep, and tied it to the tent-pegs.
Another thrust into my lap a couple of fowls, strongly fastened together
by the legs, but otherwise not disturbed in equanimity, for they pecked
inquiringly at the buttons of my jacket. A third member of the Taveitan
Legislative Council pointed to a basket of corn-cobs as his donation,
and so on. Each in return received about twice the value of his
free-will offering in cloth and beads, and, I am sorry to say, in
accordance with African custom, they at first affected to be
dissatisfied with the return-gifts, and tried to haggle for an increase,
but finding this “try on” of no avail, immediately resigned themselves
to the inevitable, and marched off very contentedly with what they could
get. The remainder of the day was utilized by the men in buying food,
while I availed myself of the unwonted rest to recruit my strength, and
so did nothing in the way of active exertion beyond skinning a few
birds.
About half-past 7 a.m. on the morrow we resumed our journey towards
Kilima-njaro. I was going to establish myself at the Court of Mandara,
chief of Moši, a state on the southern flank of the mountain. Until my
return from East Africa so little was known of the politics of
Kilima-njaro, that it was popularly supposed there was but one paramount
ruler of the district, and he, Mandara, chief of Moši, who had sent
letters to and exchanged presents with Sir John Kirk, and had seen,
perhaps, each of the four or five Europeans who had approached
Kilima-njaro. The way to his country lay first west, then north-west of
Taveita, and the distance to be traversed was some twenty-seven miles.
After leaving our camp we first had to cross the River Lumi, over which
a curious bridge was thrown. Some years ago the Wa-taveita were much
inconvenienced by repeated floods, which rendered their river (fed from
the snows of Kilima-njaro) dangerous or impossible to ford, and
consequently cut off one-half of the colony from communication with the
other. The idea of bridging this five-yard-wide rivulet was too
difficult for the native mind, so the elders of Taveita contracted with
a Swahili trader to do the job. The price was to be a bullock. The
trafficker in ivory and slaves was not long in his operations. Selecting
one of the finest and straightest trees growing on the summit of the
river bank, he set to work with his followers, and with repeated chops
severed its trunk near the base. The tree fell forward straight across
the river from bank to bank, needing but the lopping of its superfluous
crown of leafy branches to from as satisfactory a bridge as the natives
required. As, however, its trunk remained rounded like a cylinder, and
was polished and extremely slippery with the constant passage of naked
feet, it offered anything but a secure foothold, and as a fall from any
part of the bridge would be rather dangerous, I preferred fording the
stream on a man’s back to risking the transit of the tree-trunk,
although all my men, with heavy burdens on their heads, crossed it
without mishap.
[Illustration:
Fig. 23.—The Strange Creeper.
]
Leaving the river, we walked for about two miles through very
magnificent forest, where Raphia palms reached a great development; next
we emerged abruptly on an unattractive wilderness of low thorny shrubs
and coarse grass. The land rose gently before us towards the huge mass
of Kilima-njaro, which was at present screened with louring clouds. In
the middle distance, were broken chains of jagged hills, interspersed
with isolated hillocks and mounds of conical shape, suggesting the idea
that when the great discharge of eruptive matter from the two huge
volcanoes of Kibô and Kimawenzi was temporarily or permanently checked,
the sick earth broke out all over the irritated surface with minor
pustules and pimples through which the disturbing matter was discharged,
the present aspect of the mountain and its vicinity being the result of
the scars and hardened scabs of these now healed-up earth-boils. We
walked for some ten miles over an unattractive country devoid of water,
and little better than desert. The hills were sparsely overgrown with
sad, grey-looking trees, almost leafless or else sprinkled with scanty
foliage of an olive-green. In the rolling plains at their base there was
little to break the monotonous yellow of the withered grass. Now and
then was seen a _Bauhinia_ shrub or stunted tree, with its bifid leaves
that afforded as little shade as the poor foliage of the eucalyptus, or
a thorny mimosa with flattened crown and red trunk, like a conventional
tree from a child’s box of toys; or, lastly, a few inconspicuous
nameless shrubs, with leaves of a shiny grey colour, like those of most
plants living in semi-desert countries. Once or twice we crossed the dry
bed of a torrent and found therein a more varied but scarcely more
pleasing vegetation. Rampant euphorbias, with fleshy, snake-like,
coiling stems armed with horrid spikes, trailed themselves triumphantly
over unresisting shrubs; acacias, which from sheer viciousness had
almost done without leaves to bestow all their productive powers on the
development of terribly efficacious thorns, threw out their cruel
grappling-hooks over the path and ripped up our faces, hands, or
clothing as we passed. Other plants of the lily tribe (debased and
wicked members of a beautiful family) grew like swords stuck in the
ground point upwards, and woe betide any careless person who put his
hand on the apex of their rigid, blade-like leaves—their rapier-points
would pierce his palm as readily as a sword of steel. But as we had
crossed a ridge stretching out into the plain, and our path, from
sloping upwards, descended a little on the other side, this fantastic
vegetation, befitting the precincts of some horrid mediæval monster’s
lair, modified its repulsive character, and became intermixed with
shrubs and grass of vivid green, while to our joy we descried some half
a mile ahead a belt of dense purple-green foliage, which in these
African wildernesses always denotes the presence of water. In fact, a
few minutes’ walk took us from the dull white glare of the hazy noontide
in the open, shadeless waste into a cool, delicious bower of deep green
shade, where at first, so great was the contrast, we blinked our eyes
and could see no details. Then I made out a clear limpid stream slipping
along over small stones, or forming still, quiet, mirror-like pools
between grey walls of smooth, massive tree trunks, which resembled stone
in their colour and polish. Often the severity of these broad wooden
bulwarks would be tempered with rich masses of foliage depending from
the smaller boughs above, and breaking up with graceful and fanciful
detail the somewhat formal outlines of the vista. The tree trunks that
bordered the stream were many of them singularly broad in girth. In one
or two cases they were grappled with by parasitic figs that wound
themselves round their stout victim like vegetable boa-constrictors, or,
as in the example illustrated, like some huge, long-bodied lizard. In
the shade of this green tunnel, where the little river—which the Swahili
traders call the Mto wa Habari, or “River of News”—bored its way through
the forest belt, we cast down our burdens and prepared to rest and eat
our midday meal. Succeeding the white glare of the shadeless open
country this sweet and cool retreat beneath a dense over-arching canopy
of foliage was inexpressibly soothing after our weary walk from Taveita.
The men went off to the other side of the stream, and were lost to sight
in the woodland; I only knew of their presence by the occasional murmur
of voices coming from their camp, and by the blue curling smoke of their
cooking fires, which ascended in gentle puffs through the network of
leafy boughs. My portable table and camp-chair had been unfastened, and
the former was set up on a level patch of sward by the waterside, and
was quickly covered with a snowy cloth from the canteen, while my
servant further laid it with the enamelled iron plates and knife and
fork and napkin for my solitary meal. To pass the time and forget my
impatient hunger whilst the repast was being prepared, I sat down on my
camp-stool and made the rough sketch of the stream which is presented
here: but my artistic labours were gladly laid aside at the announcement
that lunch was ready, and I sat down with keen satisfaction to my
tempting table, which had been further brightened by a little bouquet of
wild flowers gathered and arranged by Virapan. Would you like to know
what I ate? If so, I will endeavour to describe this one meal, so that
you may better realize how I ordinarily fared in Africa while on the
road. There was a plate of fowl soup to begin with, nicely flavoured
with onions, thickened with a little maize-flour and rice. Two thin
slices of toast lay beside it, made from some loaves my cook baked while
we rested at Taveita. After the soup was finished came a little good
curry made from the soup meat, and flavoured with cocoanut milk (for we
had carried a sack of cocoanuts from the coast). Then, when the curry is
eaten, a fresh plate was brought me, and a dear old battered calabash
about half-full of delicious honey, which tastes like the smell of
mimosa blossoms; and after eating some of this spread on a slice of
Taveitan bread (which deserves its recipe in brackets: two pounds of
maize-flour, half a cup of palm wine, a quarter of an ostrich egg, a
pinch of salt, and a spoonful of butter), I wound, up my lunch with a
cup of fragrant tea, and sat over an old book, while my men packed up
the _impedimenta_ once more, and started again on the road towards Moši.
[Illustration:
Fig. 24.—The River Habari.
]
The afternoon was sultry, and we felt so meritorious in having
accomplished our ten miles before lunch, that there was a general
disposition to take things easily; besides which, our path led us
through much more pleasing country than in the morning. We crossed a
biggish stream (which rises near the summit of Kilima-njaro, and is
called the Kilema River), then a smaller one, and at last, near our
preordained camping-place for the night—a charming “almost-island” (this
term sounds more expressive than peninsula), nearly surrounded by the
little Mkuyuni River. You could hardly imagine a more romantically
beautiful spot than this in which I camped. It was only approachable at
one point—where a huge tree trunk spanned the tiny gulf between the bank
and the island, and formed a bridge over which to pass to and fro. It
was this fallen tree which had made our camping-place a peninsula, for
in lying across the stream its lower branches acted as a kind of dam by
stopping all the stones, earth, and refuse washed down by the rivulet,
and so forming in time a firm barrier that sent all the water careering
round the other side of the island. In the centre of this pretty
peninsula rose a gigantic sycamore fig-tree (which among the Swahili
traders gave its name to this stream—_Mkuyu_—a sycamore; _Mkuyuni_—the
place by the sycamore)—and under the vast canopy of its mighty branches
the whole caravan encamped, feeling tolerably protected from the weather
by the leafy thatch o’er head.
In all my previous African experiences I had never known what it was to
be in real danger from the attacks of lions. The king of beasts had
hitherto exhibited a provoking shyness and a persistent dislike to
cultivate my acquaintance—so much so, that I often used to complain that
I gained nothing from my wish to know the lion at home and that I might
learn more about him in Regent’s Park than in the savagest wilds of
Africa. But ever since the troubled night which we spent at the Mkuyuni,
I ask no more for leonine visits, especially in the darkness of the
small hours, and will content myself with an occasional journey to the
Zoological Gardens, where I can see this grandest of cats in a safe and
comfortable cage. Soon after we had retired to rest on this occasion,
when the men had begun to snore round their fires, wrapped up in dusky
white cloths like so many mummies, and when the leader of the caravan
was curling himself snugly between the blankets, the most terrific roar
you ever heard startled us all into sudden wakefulness. Though the lion
that uttered it was probably forty or fifty yards distant, the sound of
his thunderous bellow seemed to come from our very midst. I sat up in
bed and looked uneasily around me, but nobody complained of being eaten,
so I lay down again, and even began to think this very interesting and
very African, full of local colour, and so on. But now on our right and
left, on either side of the river, a chorus of loud roaring began. The
night was as yet pitchy dark, for the moon would not rise till the early
morning. We could see nothing beyond the blaze of our cordon of fires.
However, feeling that it was despicably tame to lie still in bed and go
to sleep while my porters shivered with fear, I arose, took my gun, and
fired into the bushes where the roaring was loudest. This, the men
informed me, was the unwisest thing I could do; of course I killed
nothing, and the noise of the firearm, instead of aweing the lions into
silence, only seemed to exasperate them. I certainly never heard
anything like the noise they made. My men averred that we were
surrounded by ten beasts—I suppose they distinguished ten various
roarings; certainly, the next morning, when we examined the precincts of
our camp, the many footprints of different sizes which were marked in
the soft vegetable soil of the surrounding woodland and in the red soil
of the river bank, indicated unquestionably that a whole troop of lions
had been in our immediate vicinity during the night. I noticed a curious
fact connected with the unseen approach of these beasts. Whenever a lion
was nearing our camp, and before he attested his vicinity by a roar, we
were, when we had learned to read the warning, made aware of the fact by
the sudden nervous twittering of the small birds in the branches above.
It was a tremulous diapason of fear, most singularly impressive. On
several subsequent occasions the approach of large wild beasts has been
signified to me in the same manner.
The morning that succeeded this disturbed night saw us taking the road
soon after sunrise, all in the best spirits at the approaching
termination of a long tramp. We walked on for about two hours through
low forest country, clad with scrubby trees rarely exceeding fifteen to
twenty feet in height—an undergrowth of large-leaved solanaceous plants,
which grew so regularly and on a soil so tidy and devoid of weeds or
grass, that I at first took the country to be cultivated, and imagined
these thriving herbs to be some kind of native tobacco. The wild flowers
(ground orchids, hibiscus, clematis, and a kind of sunflower) were very
beautiful and quite brilliant in their displays of colour. Within about
an hour’s journey from the confines of Moši the path divides into two
tracks, one going still due west and keeping to the plains, the other
turning round towards the southern flank of Kilima-njaro, and mounting
upwards. Here, at this junction, we encountered some rather disreputable
Wa-swahili, shabbily clothed (it is the wearing clothes, by-the-bye,
which enables one in this country to distinguish between the Wa-swahili,
or natives of the coast, and the people of the interior), and armed with
Snider guns. They were courtiers of Mandara’s, sent thoughtfully by that
chief to meet us, and see we did not take the wrong road. Their
greeting, however, was too familiar and impudent, to my taste, and I
began to have a lurking presentiment that these scampish parasites of
the chief of Moši might prove inimical to my mission; for, in the
interior here, white men are looked upon by the coast traders as spies
on the slave trade, and though outwardly fawned on and flattered from
fear, yet are secretly thwarted and hindered in every possible way,
especially as regards the native chiefs, whom the Wa-swahili are
desirous of alienating from enlightenment. However, keeping these
reflections to myself, I toiled along the ascending path, and after an
hour’s stiff pull, caught a glimpse of an enchanting land. Hitherto our
track had led through thick bush, with every view of the surrounding
country shut out. Now we had entered a clearing, near to cultivation,
and nothing impeded our view. Northwards the vast mass of the mountain
stretched upwards into the heavens, its twin peaks shrouded in heavy
cumulus clouds, and below the clouds, the billowy swell of hill upon
hill and ridge succeeding ridge was a deep sullen blue under the heavy
shadow of lowering cumuli. Then came a few lines of dark purple-green
forest, still in shade, and, in the middle distance, where the sunlight
broke upon the scene, the gentle, rounded hills gleamed out against the
sombre background with their groves of emerald-green bananas marking the
commencement of the cultivated zone. Nearer to us succeeded deep
ravines, with thread-like cascades, clumps of tidy forest—just a few
tall trees left growing out of religious veneration—smooth, sunny downs,
whereon flocks of goats were grazing, patches of freshly-tilled soil,
cultivated fields, hedge-lined lanes, and lastly, the red denuded hill,
the No-man’s Land, the Pisgah, on which we were standing to gaze on this
Promised Land, towards which for thirteen days we had been toiling
through the wilderness. There was, however, no preordained restriction
to my entering it, nor was my lieutenant qualified to play the part of
Joshua, so I, who had been pausing here to let all my followers come up
with me and regain their breath, once more took up my staff and marched
into Mandara’s country. A ravine and a small stream separated us from
the collection of beehive huts and gardens which formed his capital, and
before crossing I stopped and gave the order for a salute of twenty-one
guns to be fired (Mandara had heard from the Arab traders that such was
the number of guns accorded to independent Royalty, and insisted on it).
This accomplished I climbed the steep red path before me, and arrived at
a kind of open green shaded by fine spreading trees. Here a lot of men
were squatted with their shining broad-bladed spears stuck upright into
the ground. They took but little notice of me, and I afterwards found
that Mandara’s soldiers think it beneath their dignity to be surprised
at anything. I nevertheless scanned them with considerable interest.
Many were in their war-paint and were dressed to imitate the dreaded
warriors of the Masai. On their heads would be either a huge circlet of
ostrich feathers, or an imposing head-dress made from the black and
white mane of the Colobus monkey. The same animal’s skin, with its long
silky hair, of a most startling contrast in colour, was roughly
fashioned into a covering for the shoulders, arranged so that a short
lappet hung over the breasts, and the hinder part of the skin covered
the back, while the long white tail of the monkey was disposed in such a
manner as to suggest its being actually a caudal appendage of the
wearer. Other soldiers wore, in place of Colobus skins, huge thick capes
round the neck and shoulders, resembling the fur capes of our coachmen.
These were generally made of cock’s feathers (black), or of the short,
dark feathers of the ostrich. Round the ankles were short “raffs” of
goat-skin, and often a “ring” of goat-skin—that is to say, a tag of hide
with a slit through it—was thrust on to the finger. The lobes of the
ears were distended with plugs of wood or hollow wooden rings, or hung
with an infinitude of very fine steel chains (a local manufacture).
Various other ornaments or charms decorated the body, but in all cases
adornments and coverings were so disposed as to strictly avoid any
purpose of what we should call decency, these people of Kilima-njaro,
like those of Taveita, showing no idea of employing clothes for
concealment.
I had time to pause and make these observations, for we had come to a
halt. After passing the groups of soldiers whose attire, or the want of
it, has just been described, we had gone through a hedge of dwarf
dracænas and scarlet-flowered aloes, and were arrived on another open
space at the back of Mandara’s compound. Hereupon we were directed to
pitch our camp. The tent was soon up, and the loads were carefully piled
in front of it, packed as compactly as possible, so as not to excite too
much cupidity by a rash display of wealth. When this was finished, a
messenger from Mandara arrived leading an unwilling goat. This animal
was killed in my presence, skinned and cut up, and a small piece of the
hide was made into a ring for my finger, which I was instructed to wear
immediately as a sign of friendly peace, a similar bit being cut off and
sent to Mandara for the same purpose.[10] The flesh of the goat was then
handed over to my cook, to prepare for my next meal, and, as a matter of
fact, it turned out delicious eating, for the slain animal was a plump
young gelding, specially fattened for food.
[Illustration:
Fig. 25.—Trees with Honey-boxes.
]
Being informed that Mandara would not pay me a visit until the
afternoon, preferring that his guest should eat and refresh himself
after his long journey, I had a little leisure to look about me, as
far as the laughing, staring crowds of Čaga people who thronged the
encampment would allow. We were here about 3500 feet in altitude,
relatively at the foot of the mountain, but yet with splendid views
over the plains, which lay fifteen hundred feet below. All around were
signs of agriculture of a high order, and though the people were
naked, one could see they were anything but savages. There was nowhere
a congeries of houses that could be called a town, but the whole
country, where it was cultivated, was equally inhabited. Here and
there the yellow thatch of a beehive hut peeped out from the green
fronds of the banana groves. The fields were intersected with numerous
runnels of water, diverted at different levels from the parent streams
in the ravines above. The air was musical with the murmur of trickling
rivulets and tinkling bells, for the flocks and herds were now being
driven in from the pastures to the natives’ compounds, to be shut up
from the afternoon heat. Wherever the ground was not in cultivation it
was covered with brilliantly-coloured wild flowers—balsams,
hibiscuses, dissotises, green and white ground orchids, scarlet aloes,
and numberless species whose names I knew not, and from all these the
bees were taking toll. The mild-eyed kine driven from the pastures
suggested supplies of milk; the throng of bees about the blossoms
implied that honey was also to be had. On the branches of all the big
trees hereabouts were hung oblong cases—boxes—made of bark, in which
these half-domesticated bees constructed their hives and stored their
honey. These “honey-boxes,” called by the natives “Mizinga,” which
word is also applied to cannons on the coast, are familiar objects in
East Africa, and may generally be met with in the vicinity of
villages.