MY CARAVAN ON THE SOUTHWARD MARCH
CHINGULUNGULU, beginning of August, 1906.
It is not very easy to locate my present abode on the map. Masasi and
its exact latitude and longitude have been known to me for years, but of
this strangely named place,[17] where I drove in my tent-pegs a few days
ago, I never even heard before I had entered the area of the inland
tribes.
One trait is common to all Oriental towns, their beauty at a distance
and the disillusionment in store for those who set foot within their
walls. Knudsen has done nothing but rave about Chingulungulu ever since
we reached Masasi. He declared that its _baraza_ was the highest
achievement of East African architecture, that it had a plentiful supply
of delicious water, abundance of all kinds of meat, and unequalled fruit
and vegetables. He extolled its population, exclusively composed,
according to him, of high-bred gentlemen and good-looking women, and its
well-built, spacious houses. Finally, its situation, he said, made it a
convenient centre for excursions in all directions over the plain. I
have been here too short a time to bring all the details of this highly
coloured picture to the test of actual fact, but this much I have
already ascertained, that neither place nor people are quite so
paradisaical as the enthusiastic Nils would have me believe.
[Illustration: YAO HOMESTEAD AT CHINGULUNGULU]
To relate my experiences in their proper order, I must, however, go back
to our departure from Masasi which, owing to a variety of unfortunate
circumstances, took place earlier than originally planned. To begin
with, there was the changed attitude of the inhabitants, who at first,
as already stated, showed the greatest amiability, and allowed us, in
the most obliging way, to inspect their homes and buy their household
furnishings. In my later sketching and collecting expeditions, I came
everywhere upon closed doors and apparently deserted compounds. This
phenomenon, too, comes under the heading of racial psychology. However
much he may profit by the foreigner’s visits, the African prefers to
have his own hut to himself.[18]
In the second place, we began, in the course of a prolonged residence,
to discover the drawbacks of our quarters in the rest-house. Knudsen,
who is very sensitive in this respect, insisted that it was damp, and we
soon found that the subsoil water, which indeed reached the surface as a
large spring on the hillside a little below the house, was unpleasantly
close to our floor. Even on the march up from the coast, Knudsen had
suffered from occasional attacks of fever. These now became so frequent
and severe that he was scarcely fit for work. His faithful old servant,
Ali, nursed him with the most touching devotion, and never left his
bedside night or day.
I had myself on various occasions noticed a curious irritation of the
scalp, for which I could discover no cause, in spite of repeated
examination. One day, while hastening across from the dark-room to the
rest-house, with some wet plates in my hand, I was conscious of intense
discomfort among my scanty locks, and called out to Moritz to take off
my hat and look if there was anything inside it. He obeyed, inspected
the hat carefully inside and out, and, on pursuing his researches under
the lining, turned grey in the face, and ejaculated with evident horror,
“_Wadudu wabaya!_”[19] The case becoming interesting, I put my plates
down and instituted a minute investigation into Moritz’s find, which
proved to consist of a number of assorted animalcules, with a sprinkling
of larger creatures resembling ticks. This was somewhat startling. I had
come to Africa with a mind entirely at ease as regards malaria—I swear
by Koch and fear nothing. But remittent fever is another matter. In Dar
es Salam I had heard enough and to spare about this latest discovery of
the great Berlin bacteriologist, and how it is produced by an
inconspicuous tick-like insect which burrows in the soil of all sites
occupied for any length of time by natives. The mosquito-net, I was
told, is a sufficient protection against the full grown _papasi_, as
they are called, but not against their hopeful progeny, which can slip
unhindered through the finest mesh. This particular kind of fever,
moreover, was said to be most especially trying—you were never seriously
ill, and yet never really well, or fit for work; and nothing, not even
quinine, would avail to keep the attacks from recurring every few days.
Small wonder if, at the sight of these _wadudu wabaya_ in the shape of
ticks, I too turned pale at the thought of the ignoble end possibly
awaiting my enterprise before it was well begun.
I had already found out that Masasi was not precisely an abode of all
the virtues, and that an appreciable percentage of the soldiers forming
the garrison at the _boma_ were suffering from venereal diseases; but
the incident which precipitated our departure was the following. The
_akida_, or local headman (a former sergeant in the Field Force), was
the owner of a small herd of cattle, and with the good-nature which is
one of the most striking traits in the African character, earned my
warmest gratitude by sending me a small jar of milk every day. After a
time we heard, and the rumour gained in definiteness with each
repetition, that the _akida_ was a leper. I could not refuse the milk,
which continued to arrive regularly, and came in very handy for fixing
my pencil drawings.
[Illustration: THE YAO CHIEF MATOLA]
In their totality the evils enumerated may not signify more than a
succession of pin-pricks; but even such trifling interferences with
human well-being may in the end appreciably diminish one’s enjoyment of
life. With the attractions of Chingulungulu as an additional inducement,
it was not surprising that only a day or two intervened between the
first suggestion that we should migrate southward and our actual
departure. With their usual monkeylike agility, my carriers one evening
packed a large heap of specimens in convenient loads, and as quickly the
order was given to Saleh, the corporal in command of the _askari_, and
Pesa mbili, the leader of the porters, “_Safari_ to-morrow at six!”
Next to Matola, the Yao chief of Chingulungulu, no man in the country is
oftener in men’s mouths than his illustrious colleague and fellow
tribesman, Nakaam, of Chiwata in the north-western part of the Makonde
plateau. The Europeans on the coast are not agreed as to which of these
two chiefs is the more powerful. In the interior, however, Matola seems
to be far more looked up to by the natives than the chief of Chiwata.
Nevertheless, I thought it absolutely necessary to visit the latter and
his people. My plans are not based on any fixed line of march, but were
expressly arranged so that I should be able to take whatever route
circumstances might render most convenient.
I must confess that my stay at Masasi has turned out a disappointment as
regards the customs, habits and ideas of the natives, though I have
gained a very fair insight into the outward, material details of their
life. But here too, Nils Knudsen is ready with consolation and
encouragement. “What can you expect, Professor? the people here are a
terribly mixed lot, after all, and have lost all their own traditions
and customs. Don’t waste any more time in this wretched hole of a
Masasi, but come to Chingulungulu; you have no idea what a fine place
that is!”
[Illustration: NAKAAM, A YAO CHIEF]
We marched at daybreak on July 31. The road through the Masasi district,
as already mentioned, skirts the great chain of insular mountains on the
east, passing, at a sufficient height to afford an extensive view to the
east and south, over an escarpment formed by the products of aerial
denudation from the gneiss peaks. Did I say the plain? it is an ocean
that we see spread out before our eyes, a white, boundless expanse,
studded with islands, here one, there another, and yonder, on the misty
horizon, whole archipelagoes. This wonderful spectacle, passing away all
too quickly as the sun climbs higher—the peaks rising like islands from
the sea of the morning mist, while our caravan trails its length along
the shore—pictures for us as in a mirror the aspect it presented in
those distant ages when the blue waves of the primæval ocean rolled
where now the blue smoke of lowly huts ascends to the heavens.
The goal of our first day’s march was Mwiti, where, to judge from the
importance given to it on the map, I expected a large native settlement.
Not far from the Masasi Mission station, the road to Mwiti branches off
from the Coast road on the right. I order a halt; the column opens out;
I shout into the fresh morning air “_Wapagazi kwa Lindi!_” (“the
carriers for Lindi!”); and the oldest and also the tallest of my
porters, a Mnyamwezi of pronounced Masai type, strides up with a heavy,
swaying motion like a camel.
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF A COMPOUND AT MWITI]
His name, Kofia tule, was at first a puzzle to me. I knew that _kofia_
means a cap, but, curiously enough it never occurred to me to look up
_tule_ (which, moreover, I assumed to be a Nyamwezi word) in the
dictionary. That it was supposed to involve a joke of some sort, I
gathered from the general laughter, whenever I asked its meaning. At
last we arrived at the fact that _kofia tule_ means a small, flat cap—in
itself a ridiculous name for a man, but doubly so applied to this black
super-man with the incredibly vacant face.
Kofia tule, then, comes slowly forward, followed by six more Wanyamwezi,
and some local men whom I have engaged as extra carriers. With him as
their _mnyampara_ they are to take my collections down to the Coast, and
get them stored till my return in the cellars of the District
Commissioner’s office at Lindi. The final instructions are delivered,
and then comes the order, “You here, go to the left,—we are going to the
right. March!” Our company takes some time to get into proper marching
order, but at last everything goes smoothly. A glance northward over the
plain assures us that Kofia tule and his followers have got up the
correct _safari_ speed; and we plunge into the uninhabited virgin
_pori_.
There is something very monotonous and fatiguing about the march through
these open woods. It is already getting on for noon, and I am
half-asleep on my mule, when I catch sight of two black figures, gun in
hand, peeping cautiously round a clump of bushes in front. Can they be
Wangoni?
For some days past we have heard flying rumours that Shabruma, the
notorious leader of the Wangoni in the late rebellion, and the last of
our opponents remaining unsubdued, is planning an attack on Nakaam, and
therefore threatening this very neighbourhood. Just as I look round for
my gun-bearer, a dozen throats raise the joyful shout of “Mail-carrier!”
This is my first experience of the working of the German Imperial Post
in East Africa; I learnt in due course that, though by no means
remunerative to the department, it is as nearly perfect as any human
institution can be. It sounds like an exaggeration, but it is absolutely
true, to say that all mail matter, even should it be only a single
picture post-card, is delivered to the addressee without delay, wherever
he may be within the postal area. The native runners, of course, have a
very different sort of duty to perform from the few miles daily required
of our home functionaries. With letters and papers packed in a
water-tight envelope of oiled paper and American cloth, and gun on
shoulder, the messenger trots along, full of the importance of his
errand, and covers enormous distances, sometimes, it is said, double the
day’s march of an ordinary caravan. If the road lies through a district
rendered unsafe by lions, leopards, or human enemies, two men are always
sent together. The black figures rapidly approach us, ground arms with
soldierly precision and report in proper form:—Letters from Lindi for
the _Bwana mkubwa_ and the _Bwana mdogo_—the great and the little
master. As long as Mr. Ewerbeck was with us, it was not easy for the
natives to establish the correct precedence between us. Since they
ranked me as the new captain, they could not possibly call me _Bwana
mdogo_. Now, however, there is not the slightest difficulty,—there are
only two Europeans, and I being, not only the elder, but also the leader
of the expedition, there is nothing to complicate the usual gradation of
ranks.
[Illustration: CAMP AT MWITI]
By the middle of the afternoon, a broken hilly country had taken the
place of the undulating plain. Every few minutes our path was crossed by
clear streams, running in steep-sided gullies almost impassable for my
mule and the heavily-laden carriers. The vegetation became greener and
more abundant, but at the same time the heat in these narrow ravines
proved well-nigh suffocating. I rode along, trying to read my home
letters, regardless of the logs which from time to time formed barriers
across the path, or the thorny bushes which overhung it. Our guide, no
other than Salim Matola, the lanky jack-of-all-trades, had marched on
far ahead. I had on the previous day, attracted by his many good
qualities, formally engaged him as my collector-in-chief; whereupon,
true to his character, he inaugurated his new functions by demanding a
substantial sum in advance. Unfortunately for him, I am already too old
in African experience to be caught so easily. “First show me what you
can do,” was my response, “and then in a few weeks’ time you may ask
again. Now be off and be quick about it!” Salim had declared on oath
that he knew the road well. The map is not to be relied on for this part
of the country; but according to our calculation we should have reached
Mwiti long before this. With a sudden resolution I struck my heels into
the flanks of my lazily-ambling mule and, starting him into a gallop,
soon overtook the guide striding along at the head of the column.
“_Mwiti wapi?_” (“Where is Mwiti?”) I roared at him. “_Sijui Bwana_” (“I
don’t know, sir,”) was the somewhat plaintive answer. “_Simameni!_”
(“Stop!”), I shouted at the top of my voice, and then followed a grand
_shauri_. None of my carriers knew the country, nor did any of the
_askari_ or their boys appear any better informed. There was nothing for
it but to march by the map, that is to say, in our case, turn to the
right about till we struck the Mwiti stream again, and then follow it up
till we reached the place itself. It was late in the afternoon when the
longed-for goal at last came in sight. Salim Matola now brought back a
half-rupee received from me, protesting that it was “bad,” by which he
meant that the Emperor’s effigy had sustained a very slight damage. The
young man’s exit from my presence was more speedy than dignified, and
illustrated the miraculous effect of an energetic gesture with the
_kiboko_ (hippo-hide whip). But such are the ways of the native.
[Illustration: SHUTTER WITH INLAID _SWASTIKA_, in NAKAAM’S HOUSE AT
MWITI]
Africa is the land of contrasts. Masasi, at a height of from 1,300 to
2,000 feet, was on the whole pleasantly cool, while we had been
half-roasted on the march across the plain between the insular mountains
and the Makonde plateau; and now at Mwiti a heavy fur coat would have
been acceptable, so bitterly cold is the strong wind which, directly the
sun has set, sweeps down from the heights with their maximum atmospheric
pressure to the rarefied air of the plain which has been baking in the
heat all day long. Our camping-place seemed to have been specially
designed to catch all the winds of heaven. With startling strategic
insight, Nakaam has chosen for his palace a site on a promontory ending
a long range of heights and surrounded on three sides by a loop of the
Mwiti River. On these three sides it falls away in precipitous cliffs,
the only easy access being from the south. If I call Nakaam’s house a
palace, I am not exaggerating. This chief has not only the reputation of
being the shrewdest native in the southern district, but he must be
comparatively wealthy; otherwise he would scarcely have been able to
employ a competent builder from the Coast to erect for him a really
imposing house with many rooms and a high, steep roof. The rooms are
actually well lighted with real though unglazed windows, which, in the
apartments devoted to the chief’s harem, can be closed with shutters.
The architect has put the finishing touch to his work by ornamenting all
the woodwork in the typical Coast style with incised arabesques. From my
long chair, into which I threw myself quite worn out on arriving, I
gazed in astonishment at the wide verandah shading the front of this,
considering its surroundings, doubly remarkable building. Suddenly I
started up and, leaping over the confusion of trunks and packing cases
just laid down under the verandah by the carriers, hastened to one of
the windows, scarcely able to believe my eyes. A _swastika_, the
“fylfot,” the ancient symbol of good fortune, here in the centre of the
Dark Continent! “May you bring me luck too!” I murmured to myself, still
greatly surprised. In fact, it was the well-known sign, or something
exceedingly like it, neatly inlaid in ivory in the centre of the
shutter. When Nakaam appeared, within four hours, in response to an
urgent summons despatched on our arrival, one of my first questions,
after the customary ceremonious salutations, related to the name and
meaning of the figure let into this window-shutter. My disappointment
was great when he simply answered “_Nyota_—a star.” We must therefore
suppose that the _swastika_ is unknown to the natives of the interior.
In the present case it was probably, like the rest of the ornamentation,
introduced by the builder from the Coast. At Mwiti we remained a day and
a half and two nights, without much benefit to my ethnographical
collection. Either Nakaam has very little influence over his subjects,
or they must be very few in number. The passing traveller can scarcely
judge of this, for the hilly nature of the country prevents any
comprehensive survey, and the tribes hereabouts live scattered over so
wide an extent of ground that the small area visible in one view is no
criterion for the whole. All the more varied and interesting are the
psychological observations I have been able to make in this place.
Nakaam himself is a short, stout man of middle age, dressed quite after
the Swahili fashion in a long white kanzu or shirt-like upper garment.
As to his nationality I had been already informed—the jolly _pombe_
drinkers at Masasi had told me with malicious grins that Nakaam in his
conceit called himself a Yao, but was in reality “only” a Makua.
[Illustration: YAO HUT]
In the evening, Nakaam, Knudsen and I were sitting under the verandah,
by the light of my lamp, which, however, maintained a very precarious
existence in spite of all the mats and blankets we had hung up to
windward, and was more than once extinguished by the furious hurricane
which roared down from the crest of the plateau. Nakaam accepted with
much dignity two bottles of so-called “_jumbe’s_ cognac,”[20] which I
found among my stores, and the conversation began with a discussion of
Chiwata, its situation, the number of its inhabitants, the tribes they
belonged to, and similar matters, We ascertained that Nakaam’s subjects
were chiefly Wayao, “And you—are you a Yao yourself?” “_Ndio_” (“Yes”),
he replied with evident conviction. But I could not refrain from
objecting, “All the men in this country say you are not a Yao but a
Makua.”
The negro, unfortunately, cannot blush[21] or it would have been very
interesting to see whether this noble representative of the race was
liable to that reflex action. He wriggled for a time, and at last, in a
quite inimitable accent, came his answer, “Long ago, it is true, I was a
Makua, but now, for a very long time, I have been a Yao.”
His metamorphosis will appear somewhat strange to those who have paid no
attention to African ethnography. It is only intelligible in the light
of what has taken place among the population of this region in the
course of the last hundred years. In Livingstone’s time, between forty
and fifty years ago, the whole Rovuma territory was at peace, the people
who had lived there from time immemorial planted their millet and
manioc, and went hunting whenever they pleased.[22] Then from the far
south, hostile elements swept into the country in successive waves,
rolling northward on both shores of Lake Nyasa. Bands of armed warriors,
in sudden onset, without the slightest warning, throw themselves on the
old, defenceless tribes, and sweep them before their onward rush. Not
till they reach the north end of Nyasa does the devastating flood come
to a stop, two or three Zulu kingdoms—for the intruders belong to that
brave and warlike race—are founded, and a new era begins. But what
consequences ensue for the whole of East Africa! In wars and raids
repeated again and again over hundreds of miles, the new rulers of the
land have made a wilderness of the old thickly-populated and well-tilled
land. Under the name of the Mazitu, they were the terror of the country
between Nyasa and Tanganyika by the end of the sixties. Later on, in the
early days of German colonial rule, they became, under that of Mafiti, a
far worse terror to the whole vast region between Nyasa and the Indian
Ocean. Under the further designations of Wamachonde, Magwangwara and
Wangoni, they still form an unpleasant topic of conversation at caravan
camp-fires. To-day, indeed, there is scant justification for the dread
they inspire, for within the last few years the supremacy of these Zulus
has come to an end—the effect of the German arms has been too lasting.
Only one of their chiefs, the Shabruma already mentioned, is still, with
a small band of followers, making the country unsafe; all the others
have unconditionally accepted our terms.
This Wangoni invasion—Wangoni is the name which by tacit agreement is
used to include all these immigrant South African elements—has been the
proximate cause of the following remarkable process.
The old residents of the country, so far as they remained—for in many
cases their men were all killed by the Wangoni, and the women and
children carried off to the cool, damp region east of the north end of
Lake Nyasa, and incorporated with the Zulu tribe—saw that the Mngoni,
with his short spear, his oval hide shield and his fantastic ornaments
of vulture’s feathers, strips of leopard-skin and so forth, was
irresistible. These people never understood that the formidable
appearance of the enemy was only in a slight degree responsible for this
result, which in truth was mainly achieved by the greater courage of the
Wangoni and their serried charge with the short stabbing assagai—a
terrible weapon, indeed, at close quarters. They took the appearance for
the reality, copied the Wangoni style of dress, and tried also to
imitate the rest of their martial equipment. This notion is prevalent
among the same tribes even at the present day.[23] This whole process
may be described, in biological terms, as a kind of mimicry, still more
interesting by reason of the circumstance that it has found its exact
counterpart in the north of the colony, near Kilimanjaro, and in the
districts west and south-west of it. There the resident Bantu tribes,
having experienced the superiority of the Masai with their gigantic
spears, their huge, strong leather shields, and their fantastic war
ornaments, have immediately drawn their own conclusions, and to-day one
sees all these tribes—Wachaga, Wapare, Wagweno, Wagogo, and so on, in a
get-up which makes the nickname “apes of the Masai” appear quite
justified.
Here in the south, however, the part played by mimicry in native life is
by no means exhausted by this aping of the Wangoni. The far-reaching
confusion which, since the Zulu king, Tshaka, took the stage in 1818,
has never allowed South Africa to come to rest, has set off other tribes
besides the Zulus on a northward migration. The peoples most immediately
affected by this were the Yaos and the Makua: the former are penetrating
from their original seats between the Rovuma and the Zambezi, slowly but
persistently into the German territory, while the Yaos are moving
forward, as imperceptibly and perhaps still more persistently, from
their country which lies further west, at the south end of Nyasa. Thus
these two waves of population collide just here, in the district I am
studying, at an acute angle, and this was one of my principal reasons
for proceeding to this remote corner, when the rebellion prevented my
journey to Iraku.
Now the Makua, or at least some individuals among them, seem to be like
many Germans abroad—they begin to look on themselves and their
nationality as something inferior and contemptible, and their first
preoccupation is to dismiss from their minds every recollection of their
own country and their native language. In this country, since the terror
of the Wangoni, whose last raids took place about 1880, has somewhat
faded from the memory of the rising generation, the Wayao are the
aristocrats. No wonder that so vain a man as Nakaam undoubtedly is,
flatly denies his own nationality, in order to be considered socially up
to the mark.
A most comical effect is produced when a native wishes to emphasize some
notion as being quite out of the common—as for instance when he wishes
to say that something is very high or very distant, very beautiful, or
only to be expected in the far future, or the like. This is expressed by
an inimitable screwing up of the voice on the adjective or adverb in
question to the highest possible falsetto. I shall come back later to
this, which is an unusually interesting point in linguistics; for the
present I can only recall with intense pleasure my amusement when
Nakaam, in saying “_Mimi Makua, lakini wa zamani_” (“I am a Makua, but
one of long ago”) so lengthened out the syllables “_mani_” and elevated
the “_ni_” so far into the top of his head, that I feared he would never
find his way back to the present.
Having thus convinced Nakaam, though not precisely to his own
satisfaction, of his real origin, we were about to pass on to a
different and, for him, more pleasing topic, when we suddenly found
ourselves in the dark. The roar of the gale had steadily increased
through the evening, the occasional squalls had become fiercer and more
frequent, and now a real hurricane was raging round the swastika-palace
and the tents; and our mats and blankets were flapping about our ears
like storm-lashed sails. The heavy roof of the house creaked and groaned
in all its joists, and our tents could scarcely stand against the
tremendous force of the wind. Every attempt to light the lamp once more
would have been vain, and considering the highly inflammable nature of
our surroundings, extremely dangerous. There was nothing for it but to
put an end to the interview, just as it began to grow interesting, and
crawl into one’s tent, to bed.
Sleeping in Africa has its peculiar discomforts. First, the trough-like
camp bed is less conducive to rest than the broad iron bedsteads of the
coast; then, the fall in the temperature about an hour before sunrise
awakens one and forces one to reach for another blanket; and, finally,
the chorus of coughing always to be heard from a large caravan most
effectually murders sleep! On the march from Lindi to Masasi, the whole
troop of police had always camped for the night in a close circle round
our tents, heads pointing outward; and in the bitterly cold nights at
Nangoo and Chikugwe, there was such a coughing and spitting that one did
not know which deserved most compassion, the unhappy wretches shivering
outside, or ourselves. Here at Mwiti, I wanted to quarter both the
escort and the carriers at a distance from my own tent; but the corporal
in command of the dozen men assigned me in the former capacity by
Ewerbeck, explained that it would not do, as the Wangoni were
approaching. So I had once more to let them lay down their mats, and
plant the poles on which to hang their guns and cartridge-belts, all
round my tent, and could get no sleep for their coughing; but this time
pity was stronger than irritation. There was only too much cause for the
former: the small open space in front of Nakaam’s house, where we have
pitched our tent, is almost treeless and quite unprotected against the
icy wind from the heights. Each man builds a good fire beside his mat,
but this does not avail to keep them warm in their thin khaki suits.
The native is certainly, an incomprehensible being. Next morning I
called all the men together and told them to build themselves grass
huts, or, if that was too much trouble, at least screens to protect them
against the wind.—“_Ndio, Bwana_,” (“Yes, sir,”) answered the whole
company; but when the afternoon came, and I inquired about their
shelters, it came out that there were none. I was going on in a few
days, it seemed, and so there was no object in building shelters. “Very
good!” I replied coldly, “then you may just freeze. But those who come
to me with colds, in the next few days,” I added to myself, “shall not
be treated with anything pleasant, like aspirine, but with quinine; and
they shall not have it in water, but dry; and I mean to make the rascals
chew this beautiful strong _dawa_ before my eyes.” Thus does Africa
spoil the character and, unfortunately, not that of the natives only.
[Illustration: ELDERLY MAKONDE WOMAN IN GALA DRESS]
My second day at Mwiti was fraught with yet other instructive
experiences. The fever, from which I have only just recovered, must
still be hanging about me, for I felt a strange slackness, and quietly
went to sleep during the forenoon in my long chair under Nakaam’s
_baraza_. I was awakened by strange sounds, a smack and a howl
alternately, and, glancing to the left, perceived that the fair-haired
Nils, in his quality of interim sub-prefect, was dispensing justice like
a second Solomon. I have been present at several trials since I first
arrived at Lindi, but such an experience is always interesting; so I was
on the spot in a moment. The delinquent had in the meantime, howling
loudly, received his five blows in full tale, and now stood upright once
more, rubbing the injured part with excusably mixed feelings, though
still looking impudent enough. Being, according to the present custom of
the country, somewhat disguised in drink, he had, in the course of his
examination, gone so far as to address Knudsen by a particular
name—apparently the nickname by which he was known to the natives behind
his back. This could not be passed over: hence the execution. The
native, it may be said, looks on this as a matter of course, and would
be much astonished if any want of respect failed to meet with condign
punishment on the spot. In fact, he would think us very slack, and quite
unfit to be his masters.
The next case, of which likewise I only witnessed the conclusion, also
had a touch of tragi-comedy. I saw Corporal Saleh hastening across the
square with a piece of stout cocoa-nut rope, such as is used by carriers
to tie up their loads, in his hand. Before I could look round he had
seized a young man standing before Knudsen and bound his arms tightly
behind his back. The culprit submitted quietly, but a deafening outburst
of talk arose when Saleh, throwing the rope like a lasso, fastened the
other end round the waist of a young woman standing by, who chiefly
attracted my attention by the truly Hottentot development of her figure
about the hips. I ventured to interrupt this remarkable scene by
inquiring what was up.
“Just look at this other man,” said the modern Solomon, “He is the
woman’s husband, and she has been living for months with the other,
while he was away on a journey. And when he came back and found them
together, the scoundrel bit him in the hand into the bargain.”
“Oh! and to reward this precious couple you are fastening them
together?”
“Not exactly as a reward; but they must be sent down to Lindi for trial.
He is sure to get a month or two on the chain-gang; and I have no other
way of sending them down.”
I have seldom seen such delighted faces as those of the two delinquents
as they were led away.
All day long I had seen one of my carriers lurking about my tent. In the
afternoon he plucked up courage and approached, saying that he wanted
_dawa_. “What for?” I asked, somewhat distantly. “For a wound.” I
supposed that he had somehow hurt himself on the march, and sent for
Stamburi, the soldier who is entrusted with the treatment of all cases I
do not care to undertake myself. Stamburi had some little difficulty in
getting rid of the crust of dirt which encrusted the wounded leg, but at
last succeeded in laying bare an old ulcer on the shin, which had eaten
down to the bone and was in a horrible condition. Indignantly I turned
on Mr. Sigareti,—such is the dirty fellow’s name—and told him that he
had cheated me; he was no porter, but a sick man who ought to be in
hospital. This wound was not recent, but months old, and I should send
him back to Lindi at the first opportunity. With quiet insolence he
replied, “_Lindi hapana, Bwana_;” he had been engaged for six months,
and should not dream of leaving any sooner. It was a very unpleasant
predicament for me, ignorant as I was of the regulations bearing on the
case. If I kept the man it was probable that he might become
incapacitated, or even die on the road; if I sent him off into the bush,
he was sure to be eaten by lions. In any case it is interesting to note
the one-sided development of this honest fellow’s sense of justice—he
insists on the letter of his bond, but only so far as it is to his own
advantage. The whole black race may best be characterized by two little
words, _hapana_ (literally “there is not” or “it is not there,” but
usually employed in the sense of “no”), and _bado_, “not yet.” At least
ninety-nine out of every hundred questions are answered by one or other
of these two expressions. “Have you done so and so?” or, “Where is such
a thing?”—asks the European: the answer will be in the first case,
“_Bado_,” and in the second, “_Hapana_.” I have before now suggested
that all the Bantu idioms of East Africa might be comprehended under the
collective designation of Kibado or Kihapana. At first one finds it
rather amusing, especially if one notices the affected intonation of the
“_bado_” but in the end the incessant repetition of these two words,
never varied by a _Ndio_ (“Yes,”) or “_Nimekwisha_” (“I have finished,”)
becomes monotonous, and drives the long-suffering traveller to his
_kiboko_.
Towards the evening of this same memorable day, about an hour before
sunset, a small boy of eight or nine came up and offered for sale a
number of small ornamental combs. The things were indeed beautifully
made, the comb itself being composed of thin, rounded slips of wood, and
the upper end covered with different-coloured pieces of straw, arranged
in neat geometrical patterns. “Where are these things made?” I demanded
of the little merchant. “_Karibu sana_” (“Very near”), was the prompt
answer. “And who makes them?” “A _fundi_” (a master-workman), said the
boy, evidently surprised at the ignorance of the white man, who might
surely be expected to know that in this country everything is made by a
_fundi_. The bargain was quickly concluded, and having as quickly
exchanged my sun-helmet for a light felt hat, and told Kibwana (who ran
up with unusual nimbleness) with some asperity to leave behind the gun
which he had hastily snatched up, I started on my way through the
forest. The little man hastened forward at a wonderful pace. Five, ten,
fifteen minutes passed, and every time I asked whether we were not
nearly there, came the deprecatory reply, “_Karibu sana!_” The fifteen
minutes became forty and then sixty, and when the sun had already sunk
behind the hills, we seemed to be no nearer the goal. All my questions
produced evasive answers; sometimes a distant _shamba_ was pointed out
as the _fundi’s_ abode, sometimes he was affirmed to be just in front of
us.
At last, growing tired, I sprang on our fleet-footed little guide from
behind, seizing him, in the absence of any other suitable point of
attack, by the ears. A severe cross-examination, assisted by gentle
reminders applied in the same quarter, elicited the fact that our
destination was high up in the hills, and quite as far ahead as we had
already come. This meant that I should not get there before seven, or
perhaps eight, by which time it would be quite dark; and I was unarmed
and had no prospect of shelter for the night. My enthusiasm for native
arts and crafts not running to such a length as that, I pulled our
guide’s ears once more, with a short explanation of European views on
the subject of distance, dismissed him with a slight slap, and returned
empty-handed. At that time I was filled with irritation at this
inscrutable people and their ways; to-day, when I come to think of it, I
am forced to acknowledge that things are really not so very different at
home: one man thinks twenty miles a mere trifle, another finds half a
mile quite enough for a day’s march. I have already noticed, however,
that the native is accustomed to greater distances and bases his
calculations on greater powers of walking than we.
Once more the lamp is flickering unsteadily under Nakaam’s _baraza_,
which is better protected than yesterday, though the storm is out of all
proportion more violent.
“So there are sixty millions of people in Ulaya?” asks Nakaam in
astonishment. “Sixty millions! But what is a million? Is it _elfu elfu
elfu_—a thousand times a thousand times a thousand?”
Heavens! think I—the fellow is going it! 1,000 × 1,000 × 1,000—that is a
thousand millions. Sixty thousand millions of Germans! My poor country!
Population statistics for ever! But shall I undeceive Nakaam? Certainly
not—we have not so much prestige that we can afford to part with a jot.
So I answer “_Ndio, elfu elfu elfu_” and let it go at that.
“And how many soldiers has the Sultani ya Ulaya, the German Emperor?”
Here I felt quite justified in sticking to the truth. “When we are not
at war we have 600,000 _askari_, but in war-time we have six millions.”
Nakaam is not a man to be easily impressed, but as he silently made the
calculation, “six times _elfu elfu elfu_” it was plain that we were
rising in his estimation. However, he is not only of a critical turn of
mind, but also knows something of recent history.
“Is it not true,” he asks, “that in the great war between the Russians
and the Japanese, the Russians were beaten?” This fact I could not
indeed deny, however much I might wish to do so; but I thought it
advisable to add, in the same breath with my affirmative answer, that
this defeat signified nothing to us, for we, the Wadachi, were much
stronger than the Russians, the Japanese and the English all together.
Nakaam certainly looked convinced, but whether he was genuinely so or
not, who can tell?
In geography my boy Moritz headed the class till recently. I heard him
giving his friends, and anyone else who cared to listen, long lectures
on Ulaya and America. He spoke of Berlin, Hamburg and Leipzig and
explained to an interested audience with inexhaustible patience what was
the end and aim of his master’s being in distant Ulaya. I was the _Bwana
mkubwa_, so he said, of a great—a very great house—in which were the
mats and stools and pots and spoons and cocoa-nut graters of all the
tribes in the world; and I had come into this country to get more of
such things and take them to Ulaya. It must be acknowledged that Moritz
gave a pretty fair interpretation of the end I had in view; but his fame
was soon eclipsed when, a day or two before we left Masasi, Ali, the
far-travelled, came up from Lindi, to enter Knudsen’s service once more.
Moritz’s squeaky voice was now silenced, for Ali was able to relate what
he had seen with his own eyes at Berlin and Hamburg, having once visited
Germany with a former master. His only regret was that he did not know
Leipzig.
Nakaam’s topographical knowledge was, like Moritz’s, of a purely
theoretic nature, and it only went as far as Berlin. But what an intense
interest this man took in every possible detail of a European town! He
wanted to know the length of the streets, the height of the houses, and
how one could ascend such towers as they seemed to be, and how many
people lived in one house, where they cooked their food, and a hundred
other things. For me, with my scanty Swahili vocabulary, it was, of
course, quite impossible to satisfy this thirst for information to its
fullest extent, and I was the more grateful to Knudsen for his help.
Next day we marched to a God-forsaken hole called Mkululu, not as yet
marked on any map. The miserable huts here were a complete contrast to
Nakaam’s house, and the village square and _baraza_ were dirty and
neglected. Both had to be thoroughly cleaned before we could have our
tents pitched close to the rest-house. Yet we were compelled to be
grateful to the fate which had instinctively as it were directed our
steps to the shelter of its thatched roof. The gale which had spoilt our
evenings at Mwiti arose here likewise, soon after sunset. It would have
been absolutely impossible to remain out of doors with such a quantity
of dust, leaves, grass and twigs whirling through the air. Even under
the _baraza_ it was unendurable, so there was nothing for it but to make
for our tents and get into our warm beds. Alas! this adjective did not
apply, and all efforts to get warm, even with the help of a second
camel’s hair blanket, were vain. I shivered with cold and my teeth
chattered so that at intervals they were audible above the roaring of
the gale. This roaring became louder and more formidable every quarter
of an hour, and, thinking that the chill I felt was merely due to the
usual fall of temperature in the evening, I got up to make the tent a
little more weather-tight. Though I did not even get outside, I was
sincerely thankful to return to its shelter. The world outside was given
up to a veritable witches’ sabbath. Howling, shrieking and whistling,
the storm, carrying with it dense clouds of dust and rubbish, raged
round my tent; and the moment I attempted to set foot out of doors the
whirlwind seized me in its embrace. At the same time an incessant
crashing of falling trees and breaking branches, some of them, to judge
by the sound, of considerable size, went on all round us. I never closed
an eye during this night: the cold fit soon yielded to a violent
perspiration, and only the inexorable necessity of marching on got me
out of bed in the early morning.
I should prefer to say nothing about the forced march from Mkululu to
Chingulungulu, as I must have played but a sorry part that day in the
eyes of our followers. Knudsen, too, was suffering from fever. In the
early morning, while the air was still cool and the bush fresh and
green, it was not so bad, though riding was out of the question. Our way
now ran close under the western edge of the Makonde plateau, through an
area of deep sedimentary deposits, and at the same time of numerous
springs. Consequently, every few hundred yards, the caravan found itself
on the edge of a deep ravine with almost vertical sides, excavated by a
stream in the loose soil. With unsteady feet one stumbles down the steep
declivity, and only succeeds in scrambling up the other side by
straining every muscle and nerve in the fever-weakened body. After this
has happened more than a dozen times, the guide turns off the path to
the right and disappears in the bush. This now becomes more and more
open the farther we leave the escarpment of the plateau behind us, and
at last it is the typical “open tree and grass steppe:” every tree
exactly like every other; fresh foliage only at intervals; underwood
also rare, but thorny where it occurs; grass in most places already
burnt off. Where this is the case, an impenetrable cloud of ashes,
stirred up by local whirlwinds, and still more by the steps of our
party, circles round us in the glowing heat of noon, covering everything
with a thick layer of black dust. I have long ago dropped the reins on
the mule’s neck, and he has twice, in his innate apathy and
determination to keep a straight course, run into a thornbush, so that I
had to let myself fall off him backwards, whether I liked it or not. At
last the Yao chief Zuza’s stately house came into view, and a few
minutes later we and our men lay panting in its shade.
[Illustration: GROUND PLAN OF HUT]
The strength of will of a civilized man is after all something to be
proud of. In spite of our wretched condition, Knudsen and I could
scarcely hold out five minutes on our camp stools, before we entered
Zuza’s house and began to ask questions, sketch and collect. It proved a
very good opportunity, for Zuza seems not only to be personally quite a
unique representative of his race, but his house is arranged in a way
one would never expect from a native. He himself, with his long black
beard and intelligent face, is well and cleanly dressed in white calico,
and his house is high, with an unusually neat and clean plastering of
clay, light and airy. The hearth is really, in its way, a small work of
art; the usual three stones rest on a raised clay platform about a yard
wide, close to the wall and occupying the whole width of the kitchen.
All round the fire itself is a series of very curious clay stands, by
their shape evidently intended for supports to the round-bottomed pots.
In Zuza’s own sleeping apartment we see—not indeed a European sofa, such
as every Kamerun native has in his hut (I am thankful to see that the
East Africans have not yet advanced so far)—but the prototype of all
couches: a clay platform, about a foot high and something over a yard
wide, with bevelled edges, and an inclined plane at the upper end, to
rest the head and shoulders on, the whole being covered with
beautifully-made clean mats.
[Illustration: ZUZA’S COUCH AND FIREPLACE]
Yet even a man like Zuza cannot change his skin. After inspecting every
part of the interior, we walked round the house; and I noticed an object
hanging from a stick fixed under the eaves, strongly resembling a large
sausage. It was the fruit of the _Kigelia_, which is called by Europeans
the “German sausage tree,” though its resemblance to a sausage ends with
its appearance. Zuza, after some hesitation, explained that this fruit
was _dawa_—a medicine or a charm, or whatever is the proper name for
such a preservative. Its task was no easy one, and consisted in
protecting the house against the whirlwinds which habitually blow here
with such violence that it is said they frequently carry away the roofs
of huts. What association of ideas led these people to attribute to this
inoffensive fruit the power of vanquishing Nature in her strongest
manifestations, Zuza could not or would not inform me.
[Illustration: YAO WOMEN WITH NOSE-STUDS]
Not only our halt at this place, but the preceding march through the
bush gave me the opportunity for one or two interesting observations. We
had halted for breakfast at a comparatively green spot in the bush—my
caravan lying on the ground in picturesque confusion, Knudsen and I
seated somewhat apart, as my olfactory nerves were at this stage of the
fever more sensitive than usual. Suddenly I heard shouts whose import
resembled the coarse witticisms uttered by our soldiers at home when any
being of the female sex passes within earshot of a company. In fact,
when I looked, I saw a young woman trying to avoid the group of
strangers by making a circuit of twenty or thirty yards. This in itself
was nothing particularly exciting, but suddenly my men, who have long
ago discovered what interests me, shouted all together, “_Kipini,
bwana!_” (“The nose-pin, sir!”) In another second, some of them had
brought the fair one before me. She had, in fact, an exceptionally fine
specimen of an ebony stud in her left nostril, inlaid with tin if
possible still more prettily and gracefully than usual. At first she
flatly refused all offers to purchase, but in the end the fear of so
many strange men, wild-looking ones, too, seemed to be more effectual
than even the lustre of a quarter-rupee. Hesitatingly she put her left
hand to her nose, the right following almost instantaneously. She must
have taken out the _kipini_ with a dexterous pressure of the former, for
the next moment she was already handing over the ornament, while all the
time, with an inexplicable shyness and persistency, she kept her nose
covered so that the process of extraction was quite invisible. Even long
after receiving her piece of silver, she still held her hand to her
face, in spite of a renewed fire of jokes from my men. Undoubtedly the
removal of the _kipini_ is felt to be a breach of modesty, hence the
instinctive concealment of the exposed spot.
Such a displacement, as we may call it, of the sense of modesty is
nothing rare in ethnography. It is a never-failing delight to me to
re-read the passage in what I may call my Bible, viz., Peschel’s
_Völkerkunde_, where the author describes the feelings of a pious Muslim
from Ferghana if he were to be present at a European ball. Peschel
thinks that the bare shoulders of our wives and daughters, the
quasi-embraces of our round dances, would fill him with silent wonder at
the long-suffering of Allah, who has not yet rained down fire and
brimstone on this sinful and shameless generation. It is quite
consistent with the same views that the Arab woman should bare her foot,
leg or bosom without embarrassment, while to let anyone see the back of
the head is supposed to be still more indecent than the exposure of the
face, carefully as the latter is hidden. Still more divergent from our
ideas are those of the Chinese, who would think it the height of
immodesty for a woman to show a man her deformed foot, of which, in
fact, it is improper even to speak. If we were in this way to make a
survey of the whole world, we should encounter an immeasurable mass of
the most various and, according to our ideas, the strangest notions, as
to what is proper and improper. Our own views on this point are only a
single item in a long series, and they have no better foundation than
any of the rest; for all these opinions have this in common as regards
their origin, that nothing appears reprehensible or objectionable _a
priori_. Only after a definite view has been formed as to which parts of
the body are to be covered and which left uncovered, a breach of the
rule becomes an act to be reprobated—not before.
[Illustration: INFANT’S GRAVE (MAKUA)]
The other observation is of a more serious nature. While riding through
the _pori_, half dozing in the heat, I suddenly found myself nearly
thrown out of the saddle, and saw, on recovering my balance, that my
mule had shied at a mysterious object rising obliquely from the ground.
This on closer inspection resolved itself into a bark cylinder half
buried in the earth. The thing is about half-a-yard in length and closed
at the uncovered upper end with two or three slabs of bark stuck into
the ground in front of the opening. None of our men knew what to make of
this, but some local natives happening to come along at the time,
explained that it was the grave of a still-born child. The Makua, it
appears, always bury them in this fashion.
After a short rest at Zuza’s, we started once more in order to reach
Chingulungulu the same day. On the march, Knudsen and I were again
attacked by fever. I could only maintain myself in the saddle by
convulsively clinging on, and Knudsen had the greatest difficulty in
keeping on his feet. We could see no end to the deadly monotony of the
open scrub gliding past us, tree after tree. I had lost all feeling in
my legs; the incessant throbbing and hammering in my skull amounted to
torture; and the misery of our progress lengthened out the hours
seemingly to infinity, so that I caught myself looking at my watch every
few minutes.
At length there appears a fixed point in the boundless ocean of trees; a
fallen giant blocks our path. The Norwegian sinks down on it like a log,
and only by long-continued persuasion can I induce him to make a fresh
start. We struggle on once more, till suddenly a confused murmur of
voices breaks on the ear. As if through a haze I recognize Matola, whom
I have already met at Masasi, surrounded by a number of men dressed in
white; they keep on bowing solemnly, while I smile and wave my hand. We
come to a house with many pillars. I dismount with infinite trouble, my
teeth chattering in spite of the almost vertical sun. With a pleasant
smile, Matola places his pillared mansion at my disposal and offers me a
jug of deliciously cool milk. My thoughts are not fixed on material
enjoyments—I want nothing but rest and darkness. My eye seeks Knudsen
and finds him just as he vanishes staggering into the tent the men have
hastily set up. Two minutes later I, too, am wrapped in a couple of warm
camel’s hair blankets, to my inexpressible comfort! And now here goes
for my first fever.
NOTE.—It is a little surprising to find Dr. Weule complaining (see p.
108) that he should have been unable, in a stay of less than a
fortnight, to get at the psychology of the native. His disappointment
at Matola’s, in the next chapter, (p. 139) seems even less reasonable,
and it seems strange that he should have expected to get information
on subjects of which natives are never very eager to talk, by means of
direct leading questions. This, quite apart from the fact that, by his
own admission, his methods were not always conciliatory.—[TR.]
[Illustration: MATOLA’S COMPOUND]