FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF THE INTERIOR
MASASI, July 20, 1906.
Few people, I fancy, will know where Masasi is, yet those interested in
the Colonies might well be acquainted with its situation, for in its own
small way it is quite a civilizing centre. The English Mission[6] has
been at work here for nearly the third of a century, and, since the
suppression of the rebellion, a native corporal with a dozen black
German soldiers has been gallantly maintaining his ground, in a _boma_
specially built for the purpose, in case of any renewed warlike impulses
on the part of the interior tribes.
I preferred to take up my quarters with the soldiers, not from any
hostility to religion, but because the two clergymen at the mission
station, about an hour’s walk from us, are both advanced in years, and
it would be unfair to trouble them with visitors. Besides their station
was burnt down during the rebellion, so that they are leading for the
moment a more idyllic than agreeable life in their former cattle-shed.
In spite of this, the two old gentlemen, as I had every opportunity of
convincing myself in the course of two long visits, enjoy
extraordinarily good health. Archdeacon Carnon, the younger of the two,
in particular, took as lively an interest in the German Emperor and his
family as if he lived in a London suburb, instead of in a negro village
at the ends of the earth. Canon Porter seems to be failing a little, but
this is only to be expected as he is getting on for eighty and has been
in the country nearly thirty years.[7] In former days I understand that
he studied the ethnology of his district (inhabited by Wanyasa, Wayao,
and Wamakonde) very thoroughly, so that up to yesterday I had great
hopes of profitable results from my intercourse with him and his more
active colleague. But in this I was disappointed. At the ceremonious,
and, I must say, sumptuous breakfast which the two clerical gentlemen
set before us two worldlings, Ewerbeck and me, whenever I began to speak
about the inhabitants of the neighbourhood and their tribal affinities,
the conversation was invariably diverted towards the Emperor and his
family! He must have made a truly extraordinary impression on other
nations.
However, our business is with the native African, not with the white
intruder, even though he should come in the peaceful guise of the
missionary.
My landing at Lindi of itself implied the main course of my journey. A
glance at the map of East Africa shows that the extreme south-eastern
corner of our colony, considered with regard to population, stands out
like an island from the almost uninhabited country surrounding it. The
region north of the Middle, and partly also of the Upper Rovuma is (as
Lieder, the geologist, whose early death is such a loss to science,
described it) a silent _pori_ for hundreds of miles, extending far
beyond the Umbekuru and into the hinterland of Kilwa—an uninhabited
wilderness, where not a single native village speaks of the large and
peaceable population found here by Roscher, Livingstone and Von Der
Decken nearly half-a-century ago. Only a narrow strip running parallel
to the coast some distance inland connects this island of population
with the north, while another, much more scantily peopled, runs up the
Rovuma to the Nyasa country.
[Illustration: MAKUA WOMEN FROM THE LUKULEDI VALLEY]
[Illustration: A MAN OF THE MWERA TRIBE AND A YAO]
Being thus cut off from surrounding tribes, the south-east—_i.e._, the
Makonde Plateau, the Lukuledi Valley north of it, and the wide plain to
the west of these highlands—forms a compact, well-defined whole, an
ideal sphere of work for one who, like myself, has only a limited time
at his disposal, but wishes the work done in this time to be as far as
possible complete. The Wamwera, whom I had in view in the first
instance, have had, to my great regret, to be postponed for the present.
I left Lindi on July 11th, with the Imperial District Commissioner, Mr.
Ewerbeck. Ngurumahamba, the first noticeable place on the Lukuledi road,
still bears the impress of the Coast—there is even a stone house among
the huts of the Waswahili; but on the second day we reach the Yao tribe
at Mtua. Here we first come in touch with the far interior, for these
are the advance guard of the great migration which brought this vigorous
and energetic race about the middle of the last century from its old
home south-east of Lake Nyasa towards the shores of the Indian Ocean,
and which is still going on. As to the way in which these migrations are
accomplished, we are apt to be misled by the picture—no doubt a very
incorrect one—which has remained in our minds from our school-days, in
connection with the migration _par excellence_—the great westward
movement of our own forefathers. We think of men, horses, and waggons, a
dense, compact wave of people, rolling on slowly but irresistibly across
the countries lying in its track. Here we find nothing of the sort. It
is true that these Mtua Yaos are not typical of their tribe in this
respect, as they were rescued from the Wangoni, further north, on the
eastern shore of Nyasa, about ten years ago by Captain Engelhardt, and
transferred to this settlement. But otherwise the immigration of foreign
(though still African) elements takes place, here in the south, quietly
and almost imperceptibly—a band, a horde, a group of families,
sometimes, but not always, under the command of a chief, appears one
fine day, hoes a piece of land at a suitable place in the _pori_, builds
a few airy huts, and the immigration is complete. Conflicts, more or
less sanguinary, between the aborigines and the intruders may have
occurred—may even have been the rule—in former times; nothing of the
kind seems to happen to-day. Whether the native has become more
tolerant, or the firm hand of the German Government, to whom every
accession of population must be welcome, has produced a change in his
views, I am compelled to leave undecided.
In outward appearance these Yaos can scarcely be distinguished from the
Swahilis of the coast. The women are dressed in precisely the same kind
of _kanga_ (calico printed in brightly-coloured patterns, and
manufactured in Holland), as the Coast women, though not so neatly and
fashionably as the girls at Dar es Salam, where the patterns in vogue
change faster than even at Paris. They also wear the same coquettish
little pin in the left nostril as the Coast ladies. Of Indian origin,
this _kipini_, called _chipini_ in Yao, has conquered the whole east
coast of Africa, and is spreading, as a symbol of higher culture and
refinement, among the more progressive tribes of the interior. In its
simplest form a mere cylinder of pith, the better specimens are
made—according to the means of the wearer—of ebony, tin, or silver. The
ebony pins are almost always very tastefully inlaid with tin. To our
notions, the _chipini_ hardly beautifies the human countenance; but once
the beholder is accustomed to its effect, it becomes quite pretty and
attractive, lending a coquettish touch to the brown face it adorns.
[Illustration: RUINS OF NYANGAO MISSION STATION]
The more distant hinterland inhabited by the Wamwera contrasts very
unfavourably with the well-cultivated zone near the coast. The condition
of Nyangao, the Benedictine Mission station, is a symptom of all the
misery which the rebellion so short-sightedly conjured up by the natives
has brought on this part of Africa. Up to the summer of 1905, the
Fathers and Sisters here were peacefully engaged in their work of
evangelizing and teaching, when the poison of the _majimaji_ (magic
water) idea spread to the Rondo Plateau and the central Lukuledi Valley.
Before the unsuspicious missionaries had even any thought of coming
disaster, it was already upon them. After fighting desperately for their
lives, and losing one of the Sisters, the whole staff had to fly, and
all the extensive buildings were destroyed by the rebels. The present
state of Nyangao is shown in the accompanying photograph. Three of the
Fathers (whose acquaintance I had the pleasure of making on board the
_Prinzregent_), have ventured back to their old station, and, living in
the house formerly occupied by the Sisters, surrounded by heaps of
ruins, have courageously and indefatigably taken up their work once
more.
The _Majimaji_ rebellion still forms the principal topic of conversation
at native camp-fires, though the Lindi District has long been at peace
again. Its origin belongs to the most interesting phenomena in military
history, showing, as it does, the general and almost instantaneous
amalgamation of the severed fragments of a race under the influence of a
superstitious notion, once it has gained a hold and welded them into a
unit animated by a common and fervid enthusiasm. So far as one can
gather at present, the idea underlying the rising was that of shaking
off the white man’s yoke by means of a concerted effort on the part of
the whole native population. Without _dawa_, _i.e._, charms of some
sort, such a rising would have been difficult, if not impossible to
bring about, and thus the instigators of this disastrous war had
recourse to the _dawa_ of the “magic water.” As to this, several
versions are current. According to one, the real ringleader was a man
living near the Pangani Rapids on the Rufiji, who taught that he was
commissioned by the Almighty, and communicated with Him by means of a
serpent which had its abode in the river. This serpent had told him to
make all the men drink the water of the hot springs at Kimambare, which
would give them strength and courage to drive the Germans into the sea,
and at the same time render them invulnerable to European bullets.
The other version current in Usagara, in the north of the Colony, says
nothing of the serpent or the hot water, but states that the sorcerers
began by ordering large beer-drinkings in every village. When the
_pombe_ had produced its effect, the villagers were initiated into the
conspiracy, and received their _dawa_, of whose composition no details
are given, but which, in this case also, was supposed to possess the
power of making them invulnerable, so that the bullets of the Germans
would simply be changed into water as soon as they left the
rifle-barrel. The Majimaji soon discovered, in the course of numerous
battles that this was not the case, but nevertheless, the fanaticism of
these natives, who, under a murderous fire, charged up to within a
spear’s length of the machine-guns—the _bumbum_, as they call them—is
truly astonishing.
From the coast to a little beyond Nyangao the character of the
vegetation is essentially different from that which we find farther
west. The greater part of the road (the _barabara_, in the carriers’
jargon, that is to say, the path cut to the regulation width on which
all the long-distance traffic takes place) runs as far as Nyangao
through thick scrub from 10 to 15 feet high, from which rise here and
there single trees of twice or three times that height. Several times in
the course of the day’s march the traveller comes across large open
spaces in the bush on either side of the path. It is clear from the
absence of underwood and the presence of charred stumps that this is old
cultivated ground—no doubt the sites of former villages. But where are
the huts and where the people who once hoed their gardens here? Here we
find a typical touch of African history, more especially in recent
times, when its primitive conditions have been modified by the modern
plantation system with its demand for labour and the necessity for a
native military force. Originally and in himself the African is by no
means shy, on the contrary, he is inquisitive and fully alive to the
attractions of town life and social intercourse. But he cannot stand
having his private affairs interfered with. Every caravan of inland
natives on their way to the coast, whether to sell their supplies of
wax, tobacco or what not, or to engage themselves as labourers to some
European, considered that they had a natural right to expect food and
drink from the villagers along their route. Even the caravan of a white
man is apt to make the same sort of demands on the villagers. How often
have I seen my men scatter at every halt, to ask for some service or
other—perhaps merely the loan of a gourd dipper—at one or other of the
straggling huts, which may be half-a-mile apart. However good-natured
and obliging the native may be, he cannot put up with an indefinite
continuance of such disturbances to the quiet of his home life, and
therefore prefers to pull down his huts and build new ones in the bush
at a distance from the main road, where they can only be reached by
narrow side paths.
Anthropologically speaking, one might take the Wamwera for Indians, such
is the lustrous copper tone of their skins. At first I thought that this
marked redness of tint was a peculiarity of the tribe, but have since
met with many individuals of exactly the same shade among the Makua of
Hatia’s, Nangoo and Chikugwe, and a few among the Yaos at this place and
those at Mtua, and Mtama. In fact, it seems to me very difficult to do
any really satisfactory anthropological work here—the types are too much
mixed, and it is impossible to tell from any man’s features the tribe to
which he belongs. Probably, indeed, there is no distinction of race at
all, for Wamwera, Wangindo, Wayao, Makonde, Matambwe and Makua alike
belong to the great sub-group of the East African Bantu. This is one
additional reason, when time is so precious, for giving to anthropology
even less attention than I had originally planned. Let the gentlemen
come out here themselves with their measuring instruments, compasses and
poles—we ethnographers have more urgent work to attend to.
The Wamwera are just now in a deplorable condition. The whole of this
tribe was concerned in the rising, and though refusing to acknowledge
defeat in battle after battle, were ultimately forced to take refuge in
the bush. The mere fact of living for months without shelter in the
rainy season would of itself cause suffering enough; and when we add
that they have had no harvest, being unable to sow their crops at the
beginning of the rains, it can readily be understood that numbers must
have perished. Now that most of the ringleaders have been secured and
sent down to the coast, the survivors are gradually coming forth from
their hiding-places. But what a spectacle do the poor creatures present!
encrusted more thickly than usual with dirt, emaciated to skeletons,
suffering from skin-diseases of various kinds, with inflamed eyes—and
exhaling a nauseous effluvium. But at least they are willing to face the
white man—a sign of newly-established confidence in our rule which must
not be undervalued.
Several hours’ hard marching from Nyangao bring us to the residence of
“Sultan” Hatia. He is the fourth of his name on this tiny throne of the
Makua. The grave of his predecessor, Hatia III, lies in a deep cave on
the Unguruwe mountain. This mountain is really a promontory of the
Makonde plateau projecting far into the Lukuledi plain. It is visible
from the road for several days before we reach it, with its gleaming red
cliff-face, which might fitly be described as the emblem of the whole
Central Lukuledi region. It also plays a great part in the myths and
legends of the local tribes. The traditions of the past had already
gathered round it before the burial of Hatia III; but now that the dead
chief rests in a dark ravine forbidden to every profane footstep, from
the toil and turmoil of his life, the Unguruwe has become in popular
belief a sanctuary where, on moonlight nights, Hatia rises from his
grave, and assembles the ghosts of his subjects round him for the dance.
Hatia IV had returned to his capital just before our arrival, having had
some months’ leisure on the coast, in which to think over the
consequences of the rising. He impressed me as a broken man, physically
in no better case than his subjects; moreover he was no better lodged,
and certainly no better provided with food than they. On the day of our
halt at his village, he was more than ordinarily depressed. A few hours
previously a lion, whose impudence has made him famous throughout the
country, had in broad daylight dragged a woman out of a hut, not far
from the chief’s dwelling. The prints of the enormous paws were still
quite clear in the sand, so that we could track the robber right round
the hut in which a man with his wife and child had been sitting at their
ease. The great brute had suddenly sprung on the woman who was sitting
next the door. Her husband tried to hold her, but was weak from illness,
and could offer no effectual resistance. Though for some time the poor
creature’s shrieks, “_Nna kufa! Nna kufa!_”—“I die! I die!”—could be
heard in the bush, growing fainter and fainter, no one could come to her
help, for the people have been deprived of their guns since the rising,
and even if they had had them, there was no ammunition, the importation
of this having been stopped some time ago.
The nephew and heir of Hatia IV is to take the part of avenger. He is a
handsome, jet-black youth with a small frizzled moustache on his upper
lip, and an enviably thick growth of woolly hair on his scalp. Armed
with a rifle, of which he is unconscionably proud, he has come with us
from Lindi in order to deliver his people from the plague of lions. Such
an expression is, in truth, no exaggeration as far as this place is
concerned. It is said that the whole length of the road from Nyangao to
Masasi has been divided between four pairs of lions, each of which
patrols its own section, on the look-out for human victims. Even the
three missionaries at Nyangao are not safe; Father Clement, when out for
a walk, not long ago, suddenly found himself face to face with a huge
lion, who, however, seemed quite as much startled by the incident as the
good Father himself.
After examining the architecture of the present Wamwera huts, I can
easily understand how the lion at Hatia’s could drag the woman out from
the interior. Anyone desirous of studying the evolution of the human
dwelling-house could very well see its beginnings here. Most of these
dwellings are nothing more or less than two walls, consisting of bundles
of grass roughly tied together, and leaning against each other in a
slanting position. The addition of gable-ends marks quite a superior
class of house. Besides this, the Wamwera have been compelled to build
their huts, such as they are, in the untouched jungle, since they have
lost all they had, even the necessary implements for tillage and for
clearing the bush. Their villages, containing their only possessions of
any value, were of course levelled with the ground by our troops. The
lion is shy of open spaces, but feels at home in the _pori_, which he
looks upon as his natural hunting-ground, and where he can creep unseen
close up to a hut before making his deadly spring.
One point I must not forget. Even before leaving Lindi, my mouth had
watered at the descriptions I heard of the extraordinary appearance
presented by the Wamwera women. But I find that these descriptions come
far short of the reality. The famous Botocudos of Brazil with their
labrets are nothing to the southern tribes of German East Africa. I had
long known that the Makonde plateau and the whole surrounding country
belong to the region of the _pelele_, or lip ring, but I have never come
across a good illustration of earlier date than my own. The accompanying
reproductions of photographs will show the nature of this extraordinary
decoration more clearly than any description.
The _pelele_, or, as it is called in Kimwera, _itona_, is only worn by
the women, but among them it is universal. It is a peg, in older persons
even an actual disc, of ebony, or else of some light-coloured wood
bleached snow-white with argillaceous earth, inserted in the upper lip,
which is perforated and stretched to receive it. Of course, a disc the
size of a two-shilling piece is not inserted all at once: the operation
is very gradual and begins by piercing the lip, between a girl’s seventh
and ninth year, with the end of a razor which is ground into the shape
of an awl.[8] The hole is kept open by inserting a foreign body of small
size, such as a thin stalk of grass, or the like. It is then enlarged by
adding another stalk at regular intervals; and after a time, a strip of
palm-leaf rolled up into a spiral is substituted. This, being elastic,
presses against the sides of the opening, and so, in due course renders
it large enough to receive the first solid plug. Among the Wamwera the
diameter of this varies from the thickness of a finger to the size of a
florin; the older Makonde women, however, are said to have them twice as
large. Naturally I am all impatience to see these people, whose country,
moreover, is as yet a complete _terra incognita_, as far as science is
concerned.
[Illustration: A MWERA WOMAN]
[Illustration: YOUNG MAN OF THE MWERA TRIBE]
Not content with the _itona_, the old women sometimes wear a pin or peg
in the lower lip, called _nigulila_. It is long and slender, ending in a
round knob, and is intended to divert the eye from the withered skin and
faded charms of the wearer.[9] Discs or plugs inserted in the lobe of
the ear are also very general. Furthermore, the countenance of these
fair ones are covered with extraordinary scars which, at a distance,
suggest that they must have passed their youth at a German university.
On a close inspection it will be found that these are not scars, left by
straight cuts, but consist of a multitude of small keloids arranged in
various patterns. The patterns are made by parallel rows of small cuts
(usually vertical), which have been prevented from healing by repeatedly
opening them during the process of cicatrization. Thus in the course of
weeks and months they take the form of conspicuous swellings which, in
their totality, give a distinctive character to the whole physiognomy.
[Illustration: MWERA WOMAN WITH PIN IN LOWER LIP]
Even this is not enough to satisfy the craving of the Wamwera women for
adornment. If the cloth draping chest and back slips aside for a moment,
either through an incautious movement on the part of the wearer or
through the inseparable baby being shifted from its usual place on its
mother’s back to her hip—the astonished eye discovers that the surfaces
thus revealed are adorned with markings similar to those on the face.
Even the hips and upper part of the thighs are said to be covered with
them. The ethnographer, reflecting on these and other queer
manifestations of human vanity, may be tempted, perhaps, to indulge in a
comfortable sense of superiority. But, after all, the fashion of wearing
earrings is not quite extinct in Europe; and the advantages of the
corset, considered as an aid to beauty, might be quite as much open to
discussion as the African ornaments we have just been describing. I am
alluding, of course, to those women who think that tight lacing improves
the figure. Otherwise I am inclined to agree with Max Buchner of Munich,
who thinks that some form of this article would be of great service to
the women of all the less-clothed races among whom appliances for
supporting the bust are unknown.
Up to the present, I have been able to see but little of the real life
of the inland tribes, yet that little has been very interesting. On the
march to Masasi I noticed that wherever the natives had taken an active
part in the rebellion, the roads were in perfect order, while in the
territory of the friendly tribes they were nearly impassable with high
grass, and sometimes bushes. These allies of ours are now, secure in the
consciousness of their past services, saying to themselves that they may
take things easy for a time, as the “Mdachi” will surely consider their
loyalty and make no very severe demands on them. Captain Ewerbeck,
however, has been laying down the law with great precision and energy to
the Akidas and Jumbes, the district chiefs and village headmen, who are
responsible for order within their own districts.
One can enjoy magnificent spectacles by night in Africa. Sitting in
front of my tent on the way here, or now, when I step out in front of
the Baraza—the rest-house in which I have taken up my abode—I see,
wherever I turn my eyes, the red glow of flames on the horizon. This is
the burning of the grass—a custom practised by the Africans for
thousands of years. It may be remembered that when Hanno, on his voyage
from Carthage, sailed down the West coast of Africa, nothing produced
such a deep and lasting impression of terror on himself and his crew as
the streams of fire seen to flow down from the coast-ranges at night. In
my opinion, which, of course, I do not consider decisive, these streams
of fire were certainly not, as has so often been maintained, connected
with any volcanic phenomena, but resulted from the processes still put
into operation by the inhabitants of the Dark Continent every night
during the dry season.
[Illustration: ROAD THROUGH THE BUSH IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF
CHINGULUNGULU]
Much has been written in our Colonial publications with regard to the
benefit or injury to be derived from this grass-burning. Some condemn it
as deleterious to the growth of trees, while others take the part of the
natives and say that only by burning off the high grass and brushwood of
the African forest at regular intervals can they possibly get the upper
hand of the vermin, which would otherwise increase by myriads. Besides,
it is said, the ashes are for the present the only manure that can be
applied on a large scale. I do not feel justified in attempting a
decision, but confine myself to admiring the magnificent effect of the
near and distant fires, reflected in the most varied gradations of light
and colour in the misty atmosphere. None of these fires, moreover, is
dangerous to the traveller; where the flames seize a patch of completely
dry grass, they rush along, it is true, with a noise like the crackling
of musketry-fire; but otherwise, and indeed in general, the people have
to keep up the conflagration by systematic kindling of the grass in
fresh places. In any case they have the direction and extent of the fire
fully under control.
This burning is, so far as I am enabled to judge, only possible where
the remarkable form of vegetation prevails which characterizes the
greater part of Africa, and covers the whole extent of the great plain
on the west and north-west of the Makonde plateau. This is the “open
bush and grass steppe” (_lichte Baumgras-steppe_) as it has been very
appropriately named by the geologist Bornhardt. In fact, this form of
vegetation is neither exclusively forest nor altogether steppe; it
unites the characters of the two. Imagine a particularly neglected
orchard, in some rural part of Germany (where I am sorry to say the
farmers still pay far too little attention to this branch of
cultivation), and fill up the spaces between the scattered apple, pear
or plum trees, not with our modest German grass but with the African
variety, two or three yards high and more like canes, mix this with
underwood—thorny, but not very close—and finally bind together the tops
of the trees (which are not very high—certainly none of them over forty
feet—and all varieties having a sort of general resemblance to our
maple) by means of a system of airy lianas. Having done all this, you
have, without any further strain on the imagination, a fairly correct
picture of what is here generally called _pori_, though in the North the
name of “_myombo_ forest” is more usually applied to it. During the
rains, and just after them, this _pori_ must undeniably have its
charms,—in fact, Ewerbeck and his companion Knudsen are indefatigable in
singing its praises as it appears in that season. Now, on the other
hand, in July, it is anything but beautiful: it neither impresses us by
the number and size of its trees, nor refreshes us with any shade
whatever, nor presents the slightest variation in the eternal monotony
which greets the traveller as soon as he leaves Nyangao and crosses to
the right bank of the Lukuledi and from which he only escapes after a
march of several weeks, high up on the Upper Rovuma. “So this is the
exuberant fertility of the tropics, and this is what an evergreen
primeval forest looks like!” I thought, after enjoying this spectacle
for the space of a whole day. Just as with regard to the alleged want of
appetite experienced by Europeans in the tropics, we ought to see that
the general public is more correctly informed as to the supposed
fertility of Equatorial Africa, and so saved from forming extravagant
notions of the brilliant future in store for our colonies.
The _pori_ becomes downright unpleasant wherever the owners of the
country have just been burning it. To right and left of the road extends
a thick layer of black or grey ashes, on which, here and there, lies a
dead tree, steadily smouldering away. Now that there is no grass to
obstruct the view, the eye ranges unhindered through what at other times
is impenetrable bush. For the sportsman this state of things is a
pleasure, as he can now see game at almost any distance; but for the
traveller, especially if encumbered with a large caravan, it is nothing
less than torture. This is not so much the case in the early morning,
when the fine particles of dust are laid by the heavy dews; but, when
the sun rises higher, marked differences of temperature are produced
within a comparatively small area. Tramping on through the glowing heat
of noon, suspecting no harm and intending none, the traveller suddenly
sees something whirling in front of his feet—a black snake spinning
round in a raging vortex, rises straight up, dances round him in
coquettish curves, and then vanishes sideways behind the trees, with a
low chuckle, as if in derision of the stranger and his immaculately
clean khaki suit. The native followers have not suffered, being of the
same colour as the insidious foe. But what is the aspect presented by
the leader of the expedition! Though not guaranteed to wash, he presents
a sufficiently close resemblance to a blackamoor, and under the
circumstances, the faithful Moritz and Kibwana, as soon as we have
reached camp, will have no more pressing task than to prepare the bath
for their master and thoroughly soap him down from the crown of his head
to the sole of his foot. And all this is the work of the _pori_
whirlwind.
In these small distresses of life on the march, the imperturbable
cheerfulness of the natives is always a comfort. Among the Wamwera on
the scene of the late rising, there was little inclination for dancing
and merriment—the prevailing misery was too great; but everywhere else,
before our camp was even half arranged, the inhabitants of the place had
assembled in crowds, and the scene which ensued was always the same in
its general features, though varying in detail. The negro _has_ to
dance. As the German, whenever anything lifts him out of the dead level
of the workaday mood, feels irresistibly impelled to sing, so the
African misses no opportunity of assembling for a _ngoma_. The word
_ngoma_, in its original signification means nothing more than a drum;
in an extended sense it denotes all festivities carried on to the sound
of the drum. These festivities have an indisputable advantage over ours,
in that the instrumental music, dancing, and singing are all
simultaneous. The band drums, but also occasionally improvises songs,
the audience standing round in a circle form the chorus and at the same
time march round the band to the rhythm of the song. This is the usual
picture, with all its strangeness so fascinating that the oldest
residents in the coast towns do not think it beneath their dignity to
honour this expression of aboriginal life by attending from time to
time, if only for a few minutes. Other and less sophisticated whites are
regular habitués at these festivals, and never let a Saturday evening
pass—this being the day when _ngomas_ are allowed by law—without
standing for hours among the panting and perspiring crowd. One of these
dances, executed by the women of every place I have so far visited, on
every possible occasion, is peculiarly pleasing. It is called _likwata_
(“clapping of hands”). A number of women and girls stand in a circle,
facing inwards. Suddenly arms rise into the air, mouths open, feet
twitch in unison, and all goes on in exact step and time; hand-clapping,
singing and dancing. With the peculiar grace which characterizes all
movements of native women, the whole circle moves to the right, first
one long step, then three much shorter. The hand-clapping, in time and
force, accurately follows the above rhythm, as does the song, which I
shall presently reproduce. Suddenly, at a certain beat, two figures step
out of the line of dancers—they trip in the centre of the circle, moving
round one another in definite figures, the movements in which,
unfortunately, are too rapid for the eye to follow—and then return to
their fixed places in the circle to make way for two more solo artists.
So the game goes on, without interruption or diminution of intensity,
hour after hour, regardless of the babies who, tied in the inevitable
cloth on their mothers’ backs, have gone through the whole performance
along with them. In this confined, hot, and often enough dirty
receptacle, they sleep, wake or dream, while the mother wields the heavy
pestle, pounding the maize in the mortar, or grinds the meal on the
stone, while she breaks the ground for sowing, hoes up the weeds or
gathers in the crops, while she carries the heavy earthen water-jar on
her head from the distant spring, and while, as now, she sways to and
fro in the dance. No wonder if, under such circumstances, the native
baby is thoroughly familiar with the national step and rhythm even
before he has left the carrying-cloth and the maternal breast. The sight
of tiny shrimps of three and four moving with absolute certainty through
the mazes of the grown people’s dance, would almost of itself be worth
the journey to East Africa.
And now come the very profound words accompanying this dance which seems
so full of meaning and poetry. The spectator standing by and watching
the varied and graceful movements of the women—perhaps working the
cinematograph at the same time—is apt, in spite of all previous
resolutions, to pay too little heed to the words sung. When, the dance
over, he arranges the performers before the phonograph, he is tempted to
believe that his ears have deceived him, so utterly inane are these
words. I have made records of the _likwata_ at a number of different
places, but never succeeded in getting any other result than the
following—
[Music:
Voices in Chorus. Hand-clapping.
_Da capo ad lib_:
äh äh äh äh äh äh][10]
The reader will agree that no undue amount of intellect has been
lavished on this ditty, but this is a trait common to all native songs
here in the South. Even those acknowledged _virtuosi_, my Wanyamwezi,
cannot do very much better in this respect. Here we have really every
right to say, “We Wazungu are better singers after all!”
[Illustration: MOUNTAINS NEAR MASASI. DRAWN BY SALIM MATOLA]