GONǰA TO LONDON.
Leaving this settlement of Gonǰa we walked through a beautiful and
well-forested plain, brimming over with fertility, although little
cultivated. We camped at Kihuṅgwe’s, another Zegūha chief of Semboǰa’s
family, who has made a settlement on the banks of the Mkomazi river, and
attracted to his precincts vagabonds and fugitives from all adjacent
countries. We were now at the northern entrance of a broad and level
plain which stretches between the mountains of Pare and Usambara and
slopes very gently to the River Ruvu. It is perhaps forty miles in
width, uninhabited save by a few harmless bands of Masai, whose spirit
has been broken by repeated defeats received from the Wa-sambara and the
Wa-pare, and who are now too meek to demand tribute from passing
caravans. I met some of these people on the road, and stopped to chat
with them and glean some more notes about their language. We also
encountered some of the Wa-mbugu, a curious race of cattle-keepers
dwelling at the foot of the Usambara hills.
This plain is covered with thin shrubs and stunted trees, with
occasional patches of emerald-green grass. It is the resort of immense
quantities of game, which here finds cover, sustenance, and water, for
the Mkomazi flows through the centre.
We found the recent spoor of elephants, and saw at different times
giraffes, elands, gnus, and cobus antelopes. I shot a cow eland, but she
managed to get away into the dense bush, and we had not time to follow
her trail. Baboons were singularly abundant in the big trees, and as for
the guinea-fowls!—I never saw the like in any part of Africa. Altogether
this Mkomazi valley teemed with life, and would doubtless prove as fine
a hunting-ground as Ṅguruṅgani, or the vicinity of Lake ǰipé.
As we approached Mazindi, the capital of King Semboǰa, the forest trees
grew loftier and richer in foliage, and the ground began to change from
the flat plain to a succession of ridges and low hills. We were, indeed,
approaching the verge of Usambara; in fact a kind of “undercliff,” lying
at the foot of those extraordinary mountains which towered from 4000 to
7000 feet above the plain. In all my varied African experiences, in the
Atlas Mountains of Algeria, in the Chella range of Southern Angola, on
Kilima-njaro, or elsewhere, I have never seen anything so unique and
strangely imposing as the western aspect of Usambara. Imagine giant
cliffs of granite and limestone rising nearly like a sheer wall 4000
feet and more from the plain. The ascent _looks_ impossible, and one
imagines a descent might only be performed by lowering oneself from the
top with several thousand feet of rope. At the back of this giant
barrier of granite there lies a lovely land of forests, streams, and
mountain meadows, wherein reside—strange as it seems to us who wander in
this savage wilderness!—Englishmen, labouring hard to spread all that is
best in religion and civilization among the docile inhabitants. Scarcely
more than forty miles in a direct line from where we are gazing over
Usambara, are European houses, churches, schools, dispensaries, and, I
dare say, tennis-courts and cricket-grounds.
The thought that civilization was so near us rendered me impatient with
the wilderness which, for a wonder, began to lose its potent charm. I
hurried along the red track, and gazed so fixedly towards our goal, a
distant clump of huts and stone walls, which is called Mazindi, that I
bestowed but little observation on the surrounding landscape.
Nevertheless I could not but notice the numbers and numbers of handsome
hyphœne[32] palms that lined the way. We walked through a stately grove,
which, but for the different species of palm, reminded me of Elche in
South-Eastern Spain. My men could not resist stopping to gnaw the
gingerbread-like fruit of the hyphœne, and so I got far ahead of them
and arrived alone at the gate of Mazindi.
Women were returning from the river with their filled pitchers
gracefully poised on the head. Their faces were pleasing, and their
complexions a clear olive—I was just going to write “evidently from Arab
intermixture,” but I hesitate. The subject of the origin of these
Usambara people is rather a complicated one, and their lightness of
complexion seems to be due to some other cause than a strain of Arab
blood. I cited this as the reason why the Wa-zegūha of Gonǰa were so
different to the negro type, but I did so in despair of any other
solution, and because I knew that the Wa-zegūha on the coast had for
centuries come into contact with the Arabs; but with the Wa-sambara,
whom I first met here in Mazindi it is different. The Arabs had
penetrated very little into the hills and valleys of Usambara, so
difficult of entry in the opposition of a sturdy people, and therefore a
theoretical cross with them would not satisfactorily account for the
yellow skins and fine features of _some_ of the Wa-sambara. Possibly the
aboriginal mountaineers, who preceded the Bantu invasion, were allied to
the Galla or Masai in race, and have largely transmitted their
characteristics to the modern inhabitants.
There are, as it were, two towns of Mazindi: one, built on the steep
rise of the undercliff, and simply the residence and court of Semboǰa,
the chief; and the other a regular rambling African village in the plain
below, surrounded by banana groves and a dense euphorbia hedge. There
are besides many gipsy-like encampments of Masai, and even temporary
“towns” of those cattle-keeping rovers, who have, after years of border
warfare, made friends with Semboǰa, and are gradually changing in
character from restless thievish nomads to honest settled
agriculturists—in short, here you may see Masai in the process of
becoming “Wa-kwavi,” as the Swahili traders call them. Far too much has
been made of this slight distinction. One man has written a vocabulary
of “Kwavi,” and another of “Masai,” and each ignored the fact that they
were independently treating one identical tongue. Of course other
grammarians and generalizers followed suit like parrots, and so you see
the Masai family of languages solemnly divided into two main branches:—
(_a_) Masai,
(_b_) Kwavi;
which would be as silly as announcing that the English “languages”
offered two distinct groups—
(_a_) Cockney,
(_b_) Provincial.
Though the nomad Masai and the agricultural Masai (Wa-kwavi) differ so
much in habits they do not differ at all in language, other than where
they may border on Bantu settlements and borrow a few Bantu words. If
you ask the “Wa-kwavi” of Mazindi what they are, they will reply at
once, “Masai.” And if you ask a nomad Masai of the Ruvu, or elsewhere,
what he calls his congeners of Mazindi—who, perhaps, a generation ago
were fighting in the same clan—he will answer contemptuously,
“Em-barawuio,” a feminine word of not very pleasant signification.[33]
“Kwavi” is supposed to be a corrupted version of “El-oigob,” “the people
of the soil.” This is a term used in common by Masai and Kwavi, but is
more especially affected by the latter, as it implies a settled
residence.
Though the Masai of Mazindi and the Mkomazi valley speak their language
with purity, whether agriculturists or rovers, yet in race they
certainly alike betray a mingling with alien people. In their midst are
still residing helot tribes, of undecided relationships, who may
represent the remnant of conquered and partially absorbed races,
previously owners of the land.
High above Semboǰa’s citadel waves the bloodred Arab-flag of Zanzibar.
Semboǰa is eager to own himself a vassal of Sayyid Barghash. When I went
to see him on the morning of my arrival I found myself ushered into an
African imitation of the Oriental “divan,” a low-pitched, thatched
building, in the interior of which a low wooden seat bordered three
sides of the oblong room, the fourth side being a half-open verandah.
Many Swahili and Arab traders and courtiers were seated there, squatting
on their haunches, and imperturbably smoking. A few lazy greetings were
muttered, but I thought their tone rather insolent, and very coldly
replied. At the end of the bench, near the verandah, was a gorgeous silk
cushion and a Persian carpet. I was about to seat myself thereon,
imagining it was the guest’s place, when the Sultan, Semboǰa, suddenly
entered and shouldered me out, taking me by the arm and forcing me down
beside him. I was rather hurt at this cavalier proceeding, but soon
recovered my good humour when I found no offence was intended. Semboǰa
was a little Arab-like, wizen old man, with a very quizzical expression.
Two bright eyes sparkled amid his crow’s feet and wrinkles. He had
villainous teeth, stumpy, and red with much chewing of betel-nut. His
costume was quite Arab in style, and in perfect taste. His well-trimmed,
elegant feet were shod in inlaid sandals. On a finger of his right hand
was a fine signet ring, which he turned round and round as he spoke. The
most elegant Swahili came from his lips, intermingled with Arab terms
and phrases, much as, some years ago, English people had the
questionable taste to interlard their conversation with scraps of
French. Semboǰa was evidently quite a cultured man—a more civilized
Mandara. At the time I visited him he was much concerned about German
aggression, rumours of which had just begun to get abroad. He therefore
repeatedly announced himself a faithful vassal of Sayyid Barghash. When
I presented to him the letter of recommendation which the Sultan of
Zanzibar had kindly given me at the outset of my journey, he kissed the
seal reverentially, and listened attentively while it was read aloud by
his scribe. At the conclusion he turned to me and said, “All my
possessions are yours. Take what you will. What do you want?” I replied,
laughing, “Nothing but your good will, and a little fresh milk.” But
Kiongwe, who was more practical, said to Semboǰa, with a deprecatory
cough and a grin, “The white man is very fond of the flesh of sheep and
oxen.” “Good,” exclaimed Semboǰa; “in the things of Europe I am a poor
man, but of cattle, sheep, and milk I have plenty, and will not let my
guest go lacking.” Accordingly, soon after we returned to camp, some
soldiers of Semboǰa arrived with a fine fat bullock, two goats, and a
sheep, and the women of his household sent us gourds of both fresh and
fermented milk, the latter being most esteemed by Africans. As a return
for this hospitality I gave Semboǰa a 12-bore fowling-piece and 100
cartridges, some coloured pictures which he much desired, a suit of
pyjamas, and quantities of gaudy handkerchiefs and clothes for his
wives.
Mutually pleased, we parted with many effusive compliments, and,
refreshed by my short rest at Mazindi, I pursued my course to the
borders of the Ruvu. On reaching this turbulent stream we walked along
its banks with little incident as far as a point about fifteen miles
from the coast, called the “Mašamba,” or “plantations” of Pangani. Here,
with a few of my men, I took to a canoe and descended the river to its
mouth. After rather a dangerous voyage in this rickety “dug-out,” we
fortunately reached the beach of Pangani without a catastrophe. It was a
pitch-dark night when I landed on this unfamiliar shore, and I felt more
strange and friendless than I had ever done in the wilderness. Where
should I find a decent shelter for the night in this dirty Arab town? As
I wandered up into the bazaar I sought in vain for the face of some one
to assist me. At length I entered a better street and paused before the
stately dwelling of a rich Hindu. I entered the hall and inquired for
the master. A portly, yellow-faced man, in richly embroidered garments,
came forward. “Can you tell me,” I asked him, “where I can obtain
houseroom for the night? I have just come from the interior.” “I suppose
you had better go to the Mission,” he said curtly, and turned away.
“What Mission?” I inquired of my men. I did not know there was an
English Mission in Pangani. I knew the Universities’ Mission had
stations on other parts of the coast and in Usambara, but I had never
heard of one in Pangani. As a matter of fact they really only possessed
a house there as a _pied à terre_ used in passing to and fro between
Usambara and Zanzibar.
I went back into the dark, dirty street, and clutched the first boy I
saw. “Now,” I said, “I will give you a rupee if you will lead me to the
English Mission.” “Orright,” he replied delightedly in broken English,
“cum ’long!” A few turns and twists in the labyrinth of sordid streets
brought us to a more open space, and we were suddenly conducted into the
courtyard of a large house. Here our guide pulled a loud, clanging bell,
screamed out something in Swahili, and left us. Immediately a
pleasant-looking man and woman came out of a side door opening on to the
yard, and giving a respectful salutation, invited us to ascend a broad
ladder which led to a terrace and some upper apartments. The woman
carried a lamp, and the man a bunch of keys. Without another word the
man opened the door of a spacious, well-lit room, and the woman placed
the lamp on the table within. “What shall I get you?” she asked. “Will
you have some _chai_ (tea)?” I said gratefully I would, and secretly
wondered all the time where were the white occupants of the house. Why
were they not made aware of my coming? Presently the woman returned, and
began to make the bed. Then she pointed to a large chest, and said, “You
must open that; only white men know how.” I looked at the box, and saw a
word in Greek letters printed on it. It was a letter lock, and I
comprehended the woman’s meaning. The key-word was printed in Greek, so
that the mission servants, I suppose, who could read English, should not
understand the mode of opening the lock, and make too free with the
contents of the chest, which, on opening, I ascertained to be all the
necessaries for the table—cruets, knives, forks, cloths, napkins,
glasses, and plates. I opened another box, and found therein well-chosen
books, reviews, and newspapers, food for the mind. And yet no host to
greet me! Really, this was like some fairy tale, where you enter an
enchanted castle whose owner has been turned into a cat, or a monkey, or
a marble statue, and find no responsible master to bid you welcome, but
yet a mute hospitality on every hand, and all your wants forestalled and
provided for.
“Where are the Wa-zungu (white men) who live in this house?” I asked the
housekeeper as she brought my supper. “They left in the steamer two days
ago.” “Did you expect me?” I continued. “No.” “Then perhaps I am taking
someone else’s room.” “No,” she said, “there are other chambers if
others come, and all white men who come to Pangani lodge here.”
In the best sense of the word the Universities’ Mission keeps open house
at Pangani. I did not need much pressing to make this residence my
headquarters during my short stay in the town.
The proud Hindu whom I had met on first landing cashed my note of hand
for a large amount of rupees, and I was thus enabled to pay off my
caravan men at Pangani. They nearly all of them received presents on
account of their good conduct and fidelity. It was with some display of
feeling on both sides that I parted with my Zanzibari servitors,
especially with those who had borne all the anxieties and dangers of our
stay in Čaga, and we could only console ourselves by supposing that our
journeyings and companionship would soon be renewed. Indeed I trusted to
be back in Pangani in another fortnight, ready to return to
Kilima-njaro.
Hiring a dirty, evil-smelling Arab dau (all were dirty and
evil-smelling, so I had little choice, except as to the particular kind
of dirt and variety of odour), I set out with a few followers and my
luggage for Zanzibar. The vessel was so leaky and old, that I am sure we
should have gone to the bottom in the least bit of a gale. Fortunately
the sea was like oil, or glass, or a millpond, or whatever simile best
produces to your imagination absolute unruffled stillness. Yet this safe
extreme of calm had its disadvantages. In vain our Swahili captain
whistled, and cried “Njōō Kazkazi!” (Come, north wind!); not a breeze
would fill our drooping sail. The men rowed with long oars, and I
suppose that had some effect; at any rate, whether it was current, wind,
or oars, we must have had some motive-power, because at four o’clock we
were off the island of Zanzibar, and by seven in the evening we had
reached the town and harbour of that name. I left my servants on board
to guard the luggage, and went alone into the lamp-lit streets. I could
hardly walk soberly, nor keep my lips from parting in exultant smiles
when I thought how I was going to take Sir John Kirk by surprise. Here
he was, if he thought about me at all, imagining that I must be still
living with Mandara on Kilima-njaro, and yet I was within but a few
strides of his house. I pictured my entry—I would hastily explain to the
servant, and run upstairs unannounced, and knock at Sir John’s door as
he was dressing for dinner. What astonishment, what laughing
explanations there would be! How we would sit and talk half the night
over our coffee and grog in the pretty drawing-room, hung with Oriental
porcelain! Thus musing, I reached the Consulate and knocked at the outer
door, which I was surprised to see closed. After a long delay, bolts and
bars were withdrawn, and a sleepy janitor looked out. “Don’t you
remember me?” I asked anxiously, “the Bwana mdogo that went to
Kilima-njaro?” “Ah, yes,” he replied, his face growing friendly with
recognition, “to be sure! but,” shaking his head sadly, “the Bwana
mkubwa (the great master) is not here.” “Not here?” I exclaimed, sick
with disappointment, “then where is he?” “Gone to Kilwa in the
steamer—won’t return till steamer does.” I turned away sadly, and
thought I might just as well have slept the night on board the smelly
dau. Then I remembered the Judge of the Consular Court lived hard by. I
went to him, and he gave me a capital dinner, told me all the news, and
alleviated my disappointment. The doctor,[34] who was dining with him,
offered me a bed, and so I was spared the fleaey quarters of a Zanzibar
hotel. The next day, whether it was the disappointment of missing Sir
John Kirk, or the sudden change to the relaxing climate of Zanzibar, I
fell ill with a feverish languor, and lost interest and appetite. I
could not even stir myself to read my letters, except so far as to
ascertain that there were no fresh funds forthcoming with which to
continue the expedition. My collections were already packed, and I had
nothing to do but to await the arrival of the homeward-bound steamer.
Fortunately, in this despondent condition, Captain Dowding, of H.M.S.
_Osprey_, then stationed at Zanzibar, ran across me and carried me off
to his pretty ship. Here, in the soothing cleanliness and comfort of a
man-of-war, I recovered my health and spirits, and waited resignedly the
steamer’s coming. Sir John Kirk just returned in time to welcome me back
and see me off, and then, regretfully, I put away Kilima-njaro, Taveita,
Kitimbiriu from my memory, and tried to look forward with pleasure to a
return to Europe.
Our voyage from Zanzibar to Aden was a slow agony of nearly a
fortnight’s duration. The monsoon was dead against us, and the ship
was—well, not worthy of the company that owned her. The days dragged by
like continual repetition of an uneasy dream. If was too rough to write,
I had nothing to read, and even the last resource of the weary
voyager—an interest in his meals—failed me. From what I remember of the
bill of fare, tinned salmon and currant buns were the standing dishes at
every repast. I was so far fortunate in having fellow-sufferers of an
agreeable disposition, and in mutual sympathy we derived the means of
alleviating our discomforts and awaited patiently our release at Aden.
After a few days at this unjustly vilified spot, where, perhaps, the
kind hospitality of General and Mrs. Blair caused me to view everything
too much—not _couleur de rose_, that would be out of place in Aden,
where a hot red tint preponderates—but _couleur de verdure_, I set out
for Suez, and had an exceedingly rapid passage, in the British India
S.S. _Dacca_, of under five days. Owing to the quarantine, however, this
advantage was neutralized, as I just missed the overland mail, and had
to resign myself to a week in Egypt, which was not unpleasantly spent in
looking up old friends and revisiting old haunts.
Then travelling _viâ_ Brindisi and Calais, I reached London on the 31st
of December, 1884; in spite of all delays, not much more than six weeks
after I last saw the snow-peaks of Kilima-njaro from the reedy shores of
Lake ǰipé.
Thus ends the history of my expedition to the snow mountain of Eastern
Equatorial Africa.
A sketch of the results of my researches and observations in Natural
History, Anthropology, Languages, &c., will be given in the following
chapters.