NAIROBI.
XIII.
UP FROM THE COAST.
Nairobi is situated at the far edge of the great Athi Plains and just
below a range of hills. It might about as well have been anywhere else,
and perhaps better a few miles back in the higher country. Whether the
funny little narrow-gauge railroad exists for Nairobi, or Nairobi for
the railroad, it would be difficult to say. Between Mombasa and this
interior placed-to-order town, certainly, there is nothing, absolutely
nothing, either in passengers or freight, to justify building the line.
That distance is, if I remember it correctly, about three hundred and
twenty miles. A dozen or so names of stations appear on the map. These
are water tanks, telegraph stations, or small groups of tents in which
dwell black labourers--on the railroad.
The way climbs out from the tropical steaming coast belt to and across
the high scrub desert, and then through lower rounded hills to the
plains. On the desert is only dense thorn brush--and a possibility that
the newcomer, if he looks very closely, may to his excitement see his
first game in Africa. This is a stray duiker or so, tiny grass antelopes
a foot high. Also in this land is thirst; so that alongside the
locomotives, as they struggle up grade, in bad seasons, run natives to
catch precious drops.[5] An impalpable red dust sifts through and into
everything. When a man descends at Voi for dinner he finds his
fellow-travellers have changed complexion. The pale clerk from indoor
Mombasa has put on a fine healthy sunburn; and the company in general
present a rich out-of-doors bloom. A chance dab with a white napkin
comes away like fresh paint, however.
You clamber back into the compartment, with its latticed sun shades and
its smoked glass windows; you let down the narrow canvas bunk; you
unfold your rug, and settle yourself for repose. It is a difficult
matter. Everything you touch is gritty. The air is close and stifling,
like the smoke-charged air of a tunnel. If you try to open a window you
are suffocated with more of the red dust. At last you fall into a doze;
to awaken nearly frozen! The train has climbed into what is, after weeks
of the tropics, comparative cold; and if you have not been warned to
carry wraps, you are in danger of pneumonia.
The gray dawn comes, and shortly, in the sudden tropical fashion, the
full light. You look out on a wide smiling grass country, with dips and
swales, and brushy river bottoms, and long slopes and hills thrusting up
in masses from down below the horizon, and singly here and there in the
immensities nearer at hand. The train winds and doubles on itself up the
gentle slopes and across the imperceptibly rising plains. But the
interest is not in these wide prospects, beautiful and smiling as they
may be, but in the game. It is everywhere. Far in the distance the herds
twinkle, half guessed in the shimmer of the bottom lands or dotting the
sides of the hills. Nearer at hand it stares as the train rumbles and
sways laboriously past. Occasionally it even becomes necessary to
whistle aside some impertinent kongoni that has placed himself between
the metals! The newcomer has but a theoretical knowledge at best of all
these animals; and he is intensely interested in identifying the various
species. The hartebeeste and the wildebeeste he learns quickly enough,
and of course the zebra and the giraffe are unmistakable; but the
smaller gazelles are legitimate subjects for discussion. The wonder of
the extraordinary abundance of these wild animals mounts as the hours
slip by. At the stops for water or for orders the passengers gather from
their different compartments to detail excitedly to each other what they
have seen. There is always an honest superenthusiast who believes he has
seen rhinoceroses, lions, or leopards. He is looked upon with envy by
the credulous, and with exasperation by all others.
So the little train puffs and tugs along. Suddenly it happens on a
barbed wire fence, and immediately after enters the town of Nairobi. The
game has persisted right up to that barbed wire fence.
The station platform is thronged with a heterogeneous multitude of
people. The hands of a dozen raggetty black boys are stretched out for
luggage. The newcomer sees with delight a savage with a tin can in his
stretched ear lobe; another with a set of wooden skewers set fanwise
around the edge of the ear; he catches a glimpse of a beautiful naked
creature very proud, very decorated with beads and heavy polished wire.
Then he is ravished away by the friend, or agent, or hotel
representative who has met him, and hurried out through the gates
between the impassive and dignified Sikh sentries to the cab. I believe
nobody but the newcomer ever rides in the cab; and then but once, from
the station to the hotel. After that he uses rickshaws. In fact it is
probable that the cab is maintained for the sole purpose of giving the
newcomer a grand and impressive entrance. This brief fleeting quarter
hour of glory is unique and passes. It is like crossing the Line, or the
first kiss, something that in its nature cannot be repeated.
The cab was once a noble vehicle, compounded of opulent curves, with a
very high driver's box in front, a little let-down bench, and a deep,
luxurious, shell-shaped back seat, reclining in which one received the
adulation of the populace. That was in its youth. Now in its age the
varnish is gone; the upholstery of the back seat frayed; the upholstery
of the small seat lacking utterly, so that one sits on bare boards. In
place of two dignifiedly spirited fat white horses, it is drawn by two
very small mules in a semi-detached position far ahead. And how it
rattles!
Between the station and the hotel at Nairobi is a long straight wide
well-made street, nearly a mile long, and bordered by a double row of
young eucalyptus. These latter have changed the main street of Nairobi
from the sunbaked array of galvanized houses described by travellers of
a half dozen years back to a thoroughfare of great charm. The iron
houses and stores are now in a shaded background; and the attention is
freed to concentrate on the vivid colouring, the incessant movement, the
great interest of the people moving to and fro. When I left Nairobi the
authorities were considering the removal of these trees, because one row
of them had been planted slightly within the legal limits of the street.
What they could interfere with in a practically horseless town I cannot
imagine, but I trust this stupidity gave way to second thought.
The cab rattles and careers up the length of the street, scattering
rickshaws and pedestrians from before its triumphant path. To the left
opens a wide street of little booths under iron awnings, hung with gay
colour and glittering things. The street is thronged from side to side
with natives of all sorts. It whirls past, and shortly after the cab
dashes inside a fence and draws up before the low stone-built,
wide-verandahed hotel.
FOOTNOTES:
[5] The Government does much nowadays by means of tank cars.
XIV.
A TOWN OF CONTRASTS.
It has been, as I have said, the fashion to speak of Nairobi as an ugly
little town. This was probably true when the first corrugated iron
houses huddled unrelieved near the railway station. It is not true now.
The lower part of town is well planted, and is always picturesque as
long as its people are astir. The white population have built in the
wooded hills some charming bungalows surrounded by bright flowers or
lost amid the trunks of great trees. From the heights on which is
Government House one can, with a glass, watch the game herds feeding on
the plains. Two clubs, with the usual games of golf, polo,
tennis--especially tennis--football and cricket; a weekly hunt, with
jackals instead of foxes; a bungalow town club on the slope of a hill;
an electric light system; a race track; a rifle range; frilly parasols
and the latest fluffiest summer toilettes from London and Paris--I
mention a few of the refinements of civilization that offer to the
traveller some of the most piquant of contrasts.
For it must not be forgotten that Nairobi, in spite of these things--due
to the direct but slender thread of communication by railroad and
ships--is actually in the middle of an African wilderness--is a black
man's town, as far as numbers go.[6]
The game feeds to its very outskirts, even wanders into the streets at
night.[7] Lions may be heard roaring within a mile or so of town; and
leopards occasionally at night come on the verandas of the outlying
dwellings. Naked savages from the jungle untouched by civilization in
even the minutest particular wander the streets unabashed.
It is this constantly recurring, sharply drawn contrast that gives
Nairobi its piquant charm. As one sits on the broad hotel veranda a
constantly varied pageant passes before him. A daintily dressed,
fresh-faced Englishwoman bobs by in a smart rickshaw drawn by two
uniformed runners; a Kikuyu, anointed, curled, naked, brass adorned,
teeters along, an expression of satisfaction on his face; a horseman,
well appointed, trots briskly by followed by his loping syce; a string
of skin-clad women, their heads fantastically shaved, heavily
ornamented, lean forward under the burden of firewood for the market; a
beautiful baby in a frilled perambulator is propelled by a tall, solemn,
fine-looking black man in white robe and cap; the driver of a high cart
tools his animal past a creaking, clumsy, two-wheeled wagon drawn by a
pair of small humpbacked native oxen. And so it goes, all day long,
without end. The public rickshaw boys just across the way chatter and
game and quarrel and keep a watchful eye out for a possible patron on
whom to charge vociferously and full tilt. Two or three old-timers with
white whiskers and red faces continue to slaughter thousands and
thousands and thousands of lions from the depths of their easy chairs.
The stone veranda of that hotel is a very interesting place. Here gather
men from all parts of East Africa, from Uganda, and the jungles of the
Upper Congo. At one time or another all the famous hunters drop into its
canvas chairs--Cunninghame, Allan Black, Judd, Outram, Hoey, and the
others; white traders with the natives of distant lands; owners of farms
experimenting bravely on a greater or lesser scale in a land whose
difficulties are just beginning to be understood; great naturalists and
scientists from the governments of the earth, eager to observe and
collect this interesting and teeming fauna; and sportsmen just out and
full of interest, or just returned and modestly important. More
absorbing conversation can be listened to on this veranda than in any
other one place in the world. The gathering is cosmopolitan; it is
representative of the most active of every social, political, and racial
element; it has done things; it contemplates vital problems from the
vantage ground of experience. The talk veers from pole to pole--and
returns always to lions.
Every little while a native--a raw savage--comes along and takes up a
stand just outside the railing. He stands there mute and patient for
five minutes--a half hour--until some one, any one, happens to notice
him.
"N'jo!--come here!" commands this person.
The savage silently proffers a bit of paper on which is written the name
of the one with whom he has business.
"Nenda officie!" indicates the charitable person waving his hand
towards the hotel office.
Then, and not until this permission has been given by some one, dares
the savage cross the threshold to do his errand.
If the messenger happens to be a trained houseboy, however, dressed in
his uniform of khaki or his more picturesque white robe and cap, he is
privileged to work out his own salvation. And behind the hotel are rows
and rows of other boys, each waiting patiently the pleasure of his
especial bwana lounging at ease after strenuous days. At the drawling
shout of "boy!" one of them instantly departs to find out which
particular boy is wanted.
The moment any white man walks to the edge of the veranda a half-dozen
of the rickshaws across the street career madly around the corners of
the fence, bumping, colliding, careening dangerously, to drop
beseechingly in serried confusion close around the step. The rickshaw
habit is very strong in Nairobi. If a man wants to go a hundred yards
down the street he takes a rickshaw for that stupendous journey. There
is in justification the legend that the white man should not exert
himself in the tropics. I fell into the custom of the country until I
reflected that it would hardly be more fatal to me to walk a half-hour
in the streets of Nairobi than to march six or seven hours--as I often
did--when on safari or in the hunting field. After that I got a little
exercise, to the vast scandal of the rickshaw boys. In fact, so unusual
was my performance that at first I had fairly to clear myself a way with
my kiboko. After a few experiences they concluded me a particularly
crazy person and let me alone.
Rickshaws, however, are very efficient and very cheap. The runners, two
in number, are lithe little round-headed Kavirondos, generally, their
heads shaved to leave a skull cap, clad in scant ragged garments, and
wearing each an anklet of little bells. Their passion for ornament they
confine to small bright things in their hair and ears. They run easily,
with a very long stride. Even steep hills they struggle up somehow,
zigzagging from one side of the road to the other, edging along an inch
or so at a time. In such places I should infinitely have preferred to
have walked, but that would have lost me caste everywhere. There are
limits even to a crazy man's idiosyncrasies. For that reason I never
thoroughly enjoyed rickshaws, save along the level ways with bells
jingling and feet patpatting a rapid time. Certainly I did not enjoy
them going down the steep hills. The boy between the shafts in front
hits the landscape about every forty feet. I do not really object to
sudden death, but this form of it seemed unfair to some poor hungry
lion.
However, the winding smooth roads among the forested, shaded bungalows
of the upper part of town were very attractive, especially towards
evening. At that time the universal sun-helmet or double terai could be
laid aside for straw hats, cloth caps, or bare heads. People played the
more violent games, or strolled idly. At the hotel there was now a good
deal of foolish drinking; foolish, because in this climate it is very
bad for the human system, and in these surroundings of much interest and
excitement the relief of its exaltation from monotony or ennui or
routine could hardly be required.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] Fifteen hundred whites to twelve thousand natives, approximately.
[7] This happened twice while I was in the country.
XV.
PEOPLE.
Considered as a class rather than as individuals, the dark-skinned
population is easily the more interesting. Considered as individuals,
the converse is true. Men like Sir Percy Girouard, Hobley, Jackson, Lord
Delamere, McMillan, Cunninghame, Allan Black, Leslie Tarleton,
Vanderweyer, the Hill cousins, Horne, and a dozen others are nowhere
else to be met in so small a community. But the whites have developed
nothing in their relations one to another essentially different. The
artisan and shopkeeping class dwell on the flats; the Government people
and those of military connections live on the heights on one side of the
little stream; the civil service and bigger business men among the hills
on the other. Between them all is a little jealousy, and contempt, and
condescension; just as there is jealousy, and contempt, and
condescension elsewhere. They are pleasant people, and hospitable, and
some of them very distinguished in position or achievement; and I am
glad to say I have good friends among them.
But the native is the joy, and the never-ceasing delight. For his
benefit is the wide, glittering, colourful, insanitary bazaar, with its
dozens of little open-air veranda shops, its "hotels" where he can sit
in a real chair and drink real tea, its cafes, and the dark mysteries of
its more doubtful amusements. The bazaar is right in the middle of town,
just where it ought not to be, and it is constantly being quarantined,
and threatened with removal. It houses a large population mysteriously,
for it is of slight extent. Then on the borders of town are the two
great native villages--one belonging to the Somalis, and the other
hospitably accommodating the swarms of caravan porters and their
families. For, just as in old days Mombasa and Zanzibar used to be the
points from which caravans into the interior would set forth, now
Nairobi outfits the majority of expeditions. Probably ten thousand
picked natives of various tribes are engaged in the profession. Of
course but a small proportion of this number is ever at home at any one
time; but the village is a large one. Both these villages are built in
the native style, of plaster and thatch; have their own headman
government--under supervision--and are kept pretty well swept out and
tidy. Besides these three main gathering places are many camps and
"shambas"[8] scattered everywhere; and the back country counts millions
of raw jungle savages, only too glad to drift in occasionally for a look
at the metropolis.
At first the newcomer is absolutely bewildered by the variety of these
peoples; but after a little he learns to differentiate. The Somalis are
perhaps the first recognizable, with their finely chiselled,
intelligent, delicate brown features, their slender forms, and their
strikingly picturesque costumes of turbans, flowing robes, and
embroidered sleeveless jackets. Then he learns to distinguish the savage
from the sophisticated dweller of the town. Later comes the
identification of the numerous tribes.
The savage comes in just as he has been for, ethnologists alone can
guess, how many thousands of years. He is too old an institution to have
been affected as yet by this tiny spot of modernity in the middle of the
wilderness. As a consequence he startles the newcomer even more than
the sight of giraffes on the sky-line.
When the shenzi--wild man--comes to town he gathers in two or three of
his companions, and presents himself as follows: His hair has been grown
quite long, then gathered in three tight pigtails wound with leather,
one of which hangs over his forehead, and the other two over his ears.
The entire head he has then anointed with a mixture of castor oil and a
bright red colouring earth. This is wiped away evenly all around the
face, about two inches below the hair, to leave a broad, bandlike
glistening effect around the entire head. The ears are most marvellous.
From early youth the lobes have been stretched, until at last they have
become like two long elastic loops, hanging down upon the shoulder, and
capable of accommodating anything up to and including a tomato can. When
in fatigue uniform these loops are caught up over the tops of the ears,
but on dress parade they accommodate almost anything considered
ornamental. I have seen a row of safety pins clasped in them or a number
of curtain rings; or a marmalade jar, or the glittering cover of a
tobacco tin. The edges of the ears, all around to the top, are then
pierced. Then the insertion of a row of long white wooden skewers gives
one a peculiarly porcupinish look; or a row of little brass danglers
hints of wealth. Having thus finished off his head, your savage clasps
around his neck various strings of beads; or collars of iron or copper
wire, polished to the point of glitter; puts on a half-dozen armlets and
leglets of the same; ties on a narrow bead belt, in which is thrust a
short sword; anoints himself all over with reddened castor oil until he
glistens and shines in the sun; rubs his legs with white clay and traces
patterns therein; seizes his long-bladed spear, and is ready for the
city. Oh, no! I forgot--and he probably came near doing so--his strip of
'Mericani.[9] This was originally white, but constant wear over castor
oil has turned it a uniform and beautiful brown.
The purpose of this is ornament, and it is so worn. There has been an
attempt, I understand, to force these innocent children to some sort of
conventional decency while actually in the streets of Nairobi. It was
too large an order. Some bring in clothes, to be sure, because the white
man asks it; but why no sensible man could say. They are hung from one
shoulder, flap merrily in the breeze, and are always quite frankly
tucked up about the neck or under the arms when the wearer happens to be
in haste. As a matter of fact these savages are so beautifully and
smoothly formed; their red-brown or chocolate-brown skin is so fine in
texture, and their complete unconsciousness so genuine that in an hour
the newcomer is quite accustomed to their nakedness.
These proud youths wander mincingly down the street with an expression
of the most fatuous and good-natured satisfaction with themselves. To
their minds they have evidently done every last thing that human
ingenuity or convention could encompass.
These young men are the dandies, the proud young aristocracy of wealth
and importance; and of course they may differ individually or tribally
from the sample I have offered. Also there are many other social grades.
Those who care less for dress or have less to get it with can rub along
very cheaply. The only real essentials are (_a_) something for the
ear--a tomato can will do; (_b_) a trifle for clothing--and for that a
scrap of gunny sacking will be quite enough.
The women to be seen in the streets of Nairobi are mostly of the Kikuyu
tribe. They are pretty much of a pattern. Their heads are shaven,
either completely or to leave only ornamental tufts; and are generally
bound with a fine wire fillet so tightly that the strands seem to sink
into the flesh. A piece of cotton cloth, dyed dark umber red, is belted
around the waist, and sometimes, but not always, another is thrown about
the shoulder. They go in for more hardware than do the men. The entire
arms and the calves of the legs are encased in a sort of armour made of
quarter-inch wire wound closely, and a collar of the same material
stands out like a ruff eight or ten inches around the neck. This is
wound on for good; and must be worn day and night and all the time, a
cumbersome and tremendously heavy burden. A dozen large loops of
coloured beads strung through the ears, and various strings and
necklaces of beads, cowrie shells, and the like finish them out in all
their gorgeousness. They would sink like plummets. Their job in life,
besides lugging all this stuff about, is to carry in firewood and
forage. At any time of the day long files of them can be seen bending
forward under their burdens. These they carry on their backs by means of
a strap across the tops of their heads; after the fashion of the
Canadian tump line.
The next cut above the shenzi, or wild man, is the individual who has
been on safari as carrier, or has otherwise been much employed around
white men. From this experience he has acquired articles of apparel and
points of view. He is given to ragged khaki, or cast-off garments of all
sorts, but never to shoes. This hint of the conventional only serves to
accent the little self-satisfied excursions he makes into barbarism. The
shirt is always worn outside, the ear ornaments are as varied as ever,
the head is shaved in strange patterns, a tiny tight tuft on the crown
is useful as fastening for feathers or little streamers or anything else
that will wave or glitter. One of these individuals wore a red label he
had, with patience and difficulty, removed from one of our trunks. He
had pasted it on his forehead; and it read "Baggage Room. Not Wanted."
These people are, after all, but modified shenzis. The modification is
nearly always in the direction of the comic.
Now we step up to a class that would resent being called shenzis as it
would resent an insult. This is the personal servant class. The members
are of all tribes, with possibly a slight preponderance of Swahilis and
Somalis. They are a very clean, well-groomed, self-respecting class,
with a great deal of dignity, and a great deal of pride in their
bwanas. Also they are exceedingly likely to degenerate unless ruled with
a firm hand and a wise head. Very rarely are they dishonest as respects
the possessions of their own masters. They understand their work
perfectly, and the best of them get the equivalent of from eight to ten
dollars a month. Every white individual has one or more of them; even
the tiny children with their ridiculous little sun helmets are followed
everywhere by a tall, solemn, white-robed black. Their powers of
divination approach the uncanny. About the time you begin to think of
wanting something, and are making a first helpless survey of a boyless
landscape, your own servant suddenly, mysteriously, and unobtrusively
appears from nowhere. Where he keeps himself, where he feeds himself,
where he sleeps you do not know. These beautifully clean, trim,
dignified people are always a pleasant feature in the varied picture.
The Somalis are a clan by themselves. A few of them condescend to
domestic service, but the most prefer the free life of traders, horse
dealers, gunbearers, camel drivers, labour go-betweens, and similar
guerrilla occupations. They are handsome, dashing, proud, treacherous,
courageous, likeable, untrustworthy. They career around on their high,
short-stirruped saddles; they saunter indolently in small groups; they
hang about the hotel hoping for a dicker of some kind. There is nothing
of the savage about them, but much of the true barbarism, with the
barbarian's pride, treachery, and love of colour.
FOOTNOTES:
[8] Native farmlets, generally temporary.
[9] White cotton cloth.
XVI.
RECRUITING.
To the traveller Nairobi is most interesting as the point from which
expeditions start and to which they return. Doubtless an extended stay
in the country would show him that problems of administration and
possibilities of development could be even more absorbing; but such
things are very sketchy to him at first.
As a usual thing, when he wants porters he picks them out from the
throng hanging around the big outfitters' establishments. Each man is
then given a blanket--cotton, but of a most satisfying red--a tin water
bottle, a short stout cord, and a navy blue jersey. After that ceremony
he is yours.
But on the occasion of one three months' journey into comparatively
unknown country we ran up against difficulties. Some two weeks before
our contemplated start two or three cases of bubonic plague had been
discovered in the bazaar, and as a consequence Nairobi was quarantined.
This meant that a rope had been stretched around the infected area, that
the shops had been closed, and that no native could--officially--leave
Nairobi. The latter provision affected us; for under it we should be
unable to get our bearers out.
As a matter of fact, the whole performance--unofficially--was a farce.
Natives conversed affably at arm's length across the ropes; hundreds
sneaked in and out of town at will; and from the rear of the infected
area I personally saw beds, chests, household goods, blankets, and
clothes passed to friends outside the ropes. When this latter condition
was reported, in my presence, to the medical officers, they replied that
this was a matter for police cognizance! But the brave outward show of
ropes, disinfectants, gorgeous sentries--in front--and official
inspection went solemnly on. Great, even in Africa, is the god of red
tape.
Our only possible plan, in the circumstances, was to recruit the men
outside the town, to camp them somewhere, march them across country to a
way station, and there embark them. Our goods and safari stores we
could then ship out to them by train.
Accordingly we rode on bicycles out to the Swahili village.
This is, as I have said, composed of large "beehive" houses thatched
conically with straw. The roofs extend to form verandas beneath which
sit indolent damsels, their hair divided in innumerable tiny parts
running fore and aft like the stripes on a water melon; their figured
'Mericani garments draped gracefully. As befitted the women of
plutocrats, they wore much jewellery, some of it set in their noses.
Most of them did all of nothing, but some sat half buried in narrow
strips of bright-coloured tissue paper. These they were pasting together
like rolls of tape, the coloured edges of the paper forming concentric
patterns on the resultant discs--an infinite labour. The discs, when
completed, were for insertion in the lobes of the ears.
When we arrived the irregular "streets" of the village were nearly
empty, save for a few elegant youths, in long kanzuas, or robes of
cinnamon colour and spotless white, on their heads fezzes or turbans, in
their hands slender rattan canes. They were very busy talking to each
other, and of course did not notice the idle beauties beneath the
verandas.
Hardly had we appeared, however, when mysteriously came forth the
headman--a bearded, solemn, Arab-like person with a phenomenally ugly
face but a most pleasing smile. We told him we wanted porters. He
clapped his hands. To the four young men who answered this summons he
gave a command. From sleepy indolence they sprang into life. To the four
cardinal points of the compass they darted away, running up and down the
side streets, beating on the doors, screaming at the tops of their lungs
the word "Cazi"[10] over and over again.
The village hummed like a wasps' nest. Men poured from the huts in
swarms. The streets were filled; the idle sauntering youths were
swamped, and sunk from view. Clamour and shouting arose where before had
been a droning silence. The mob beat up to where we stood, surrounding
us, shouting at us. From somewhere some one brought an old table and two
decrepit chairs, battered and rickety in themselves, but symbols of
great authority in a community where nobody habitually used either. Two
naked boys proudly took charge of our bicycles.
We seated ourselves.
"Fall in!" we yelled.
About half the crowd fell into rough lines. The rest drew slightly to
one side. Nobody stopped talking for a single instant.
We arose and tackled our job. The first part of it was to segregate the
applicants into their different tribes.
"Monumwezi hapa!" we yelled; and the command was repeated and repeated
again by the headman, by his four personal assistants, by a half-dozen
lesser headmen. Slowly the Monumwezi drew aside. We impressed on them
emphatically they must stay thus, and went after, in turn, the Baganda,
the Wakamba, the Swahilis, the Kavirondo, the Kikuyu. When we had them
grouped, we went over them individually. We punched their chests, we ran
over all their joints, we examined their feet, we felt their muscles.
Our victims stood rigidly at inspection, but their numerous friends
surrounded us closely, urging the claims of the man to our notice. It
was rather confusing, but we tried to go at it as though we were alone
in a wilderness. If the man passed muster we motioned him to a rapidly
growing group.
When we had finished we had about sixty men segregated. Then we went
over this picked lot again. This time we tried not only to get good
specimens, but to mix our tribes. At last our count of twenty-nine was
made up, and we took a deep breath. But to us came one of them
complaining that he was a Monumwezi, and that we had picked only three
Monumwezi, and--We cut him short. His contention was quite correct. A
porter tent holds five, and it does not do to mix tribes.
Reorganization! Cut out two extra Kavirondos, and include two more
Monumwezi. "Bass! finished! Now go get your effects. We start
immediately."
As quickly as it had filled, the street cleared. The rejected dived back
into their huts, the newly enlisted carriers went to collect their
baggage. Only remained the headman and his fierce-faced assistants, and
the splendid youths idling up and down--none of them had volunteered,
you may be sure--and the damsels of leisure beneath the porticos. Also
one engaging and peculiar figure hovering near.
This individual had been particularly busy during our recruiting. He had
hustled the men into line, he had advised us for or against different
candidates, he had loudly sung my praises as a man to work for,
although, of course, he knew nothing about me. Now he approached,
saluted, smiled. He was a tall, slenderly-built person, with
phenomenally long, thin legs, slightly rounded shoulders, a forward
thrust, keen face, and remarkably long, slim hands. With these he
gesticulated much, in a right-angled fashion, after the manner of
Egyptian hieroglyphical figures. He was in no manner shenzi. He wore a
fez, a neat khaki coat and shorts, blue puttees and boots. Also a belt
with leather pockets, a bunch of keys, a wrist watch, and a seal ring.
His air was of great elegance and social ease. We took him with us as
C.'s gunbearer. He proved staunch, a good tracker, an excellent hunter,
and a most engaging individual. His name was Kongoni, and he was a
Wakamba.
But now we were confronted with a new problem: that of getting our
twenty-nine chosen ones together again. They had totally disappeared. In
all directions we had emissaries beating up the laggards. As each man
reappeared carrying his little bundle, we lined him up with his
companions. Then when we turned our backs we lost him again; he had
thought of another friend with whom to exchange farewells. At the long
last, however, we got them all collected. The procession started, the
naked boys proudly wheeling our bikes alongside. We saw them fairly
clear of everything, then turned them over to Kongoni, while we returned
to Nairobi to see after our effects.
FOOTNOTES:
[10] Work.