TO THE ROVUMA
NEWALA, beginning of September, 1906.
For the last few days I have been living in a different world, and
nearer heaven, for I am here at a height of more than 3,000 feet above
the level of the Indian Ocean, and look down on the vast greyish-green
plain in the west from an altitude of over 1,600 feet. This view over
the plain is wonderful, extending, on the south-west across the broad
channel of the Rovuma, which just now, it is true, holds very little
water, and on the north-west to the distant Masasi range; while it also
embraces the numerous insular peaks appearing at various distances in
the south, west, and north-west. I can only enjoy this view, however, by
walking back westward for about half-a-mile from my present position,
for Newala is not on the precipitous edge of the plateau, but lies about
a thousand yards away from it. And the climate here! What a contrast to
the _Inferno_ of Chingulungulu and the Purgatory of Akundonde’s! Here it
is cool as on the crest of the Thüringer Wald, and we Europeans had to
get out our warmest clothes immediately on arriving. Double blankets at
night and a thick waistcoat in the morning and evening are not enough,
and we have both had to take to overcoats.
But again I am anticipating! Between our departure from Chingulungulu
and our arrival at Newala only eleven days intervened. But how many, or
to be more accurate, what varied experiences were crowded into this
interval! Never before had my carriers been so noisy with sheer high
spirits as on the morning which put an end to their long inactivity at
Matola’s. Wanyamwezi porters cannot endure sitting still, they want to
be always on the move, always seeing something new; and in the end, if
kept too long inactive in one place away from home, they realise the
proverb about the sailor with a wife at every port. I had the greatest
trouble to steer my twenty-four men (I had already, with no regret
whatever, discharged the Lindi Rugaruga at Masasi), through the dangers
of this Capua; they became violent, committed assaults on women and
girls, and gave other cause for complaint as well. I did all I could to
keep them out of mischief, as, for instance, employing them to make long
tables for the _baraza_ out of halved bamboos; but all to no purpose. On
the morning of our departure, however, they skipped along like young
calves, in spite of their loads of sixty or seventy pounds, as we
marched along to the Rovuma. How cheerily we all marched! We had soon
left the shadeless bush of Chingulungulu far behind. A sharp turn of the
road from west to south, and a short steep declivity brought us to the
Nasomba, which had a small thread of water at the bottom of its deep
gorge. On we went, over extensive stubble-fields of maize and millet,
between beds of beans and splendid plantations of tobacco. High
ant-heaps showed the fertility of the soil; little watch-huts fixed on
high poles told how the crops were endangered by wild pigs, monkeys, and
other foes belonging to the animal world. Knudsen was able to indulge
his love of the chase on this trip, and from time to time, one of his
venerable shooting-irons lifted up its voice over hill and valley.
Meanwhile I had passed the Lichehe Lake, a sheet of water almost choked
with reeds, which according to the map ought to be close to the Rovuma.
The vegetation, too, indicated a greater abundance of water than
hitherto; we passed enormous baobabs, forced our way through low
palm-thickets and heard the leaves of stately fan-palms rustling far
above our heads. Just as I was about to push through another clump of
bushes, the strong hand of my new corporal, Hemedi Maranga, dragged me
back. “_Mto hapa, Bwana_”—(“There is the river, sir”). One step more,
and I should have fallen down the steep bank, some sixteen or eighteen
feet in height, at the foot of which I now see the gleam of those broad
reaches which Nils Knudsen has so often described to me, and which have
not failed to impress men so free from enthusiasm as Ewerbeck. Having so
often heard the word _hapana_, which is really beginning to get on my
nerves, the corporal’s _hapa_ was a pleasant surprise, and it is no
wonder that I felt inclined to bless him. What shall I say of the five
or six pleasant days passed on the banks and islands of this river,
consecrated by the memory of Livingstone?[38] The ethnographer finds
little to do there at the present day. Forty years ago, when Livingstone
ascended it, its banks were covered with settlements of the Wamatambwe,
its current carried a thousand canoes of that energetic fishing tribe,
and a busy, cheerful life prevailed everywhere. But here, too, the
Wangoni came down, like frost on a spring night, and of the once
numerous and flourishing Matambwe only scanty remnants are to be found,
irregularly scattered along the immense Rovuma valley, or absorbed into
the Makua, Yao and Makonde. The traveller is lucky—as, by the way, I
usually am—if he sees a few individuals of this lost tribe.
[Illustration: TWO MATAMBWE MOTHERS FROM THE ROVUMA]
We made our first camp close to the river. My tent, as usual, was
pitched furthest to windward, and next to the water, Knudsen’s being
next to it; while the carriers had to seek shelter more to leeward,
under an overhanging bank. Steep banks like this are very common here.
During the rains the river carries down an immense volume of water to
the sea, and piles up masses of alluvial drift to a greater height every
year, but in the dry season, as now, its bed, nearly a mile wide, is
almost dry, consisting of a vast expanse of sand and gravel banks.
Between these the river takes a somewhat uncertain course, sometimes in
a single channel about as wide as the Elbe at Dresden, but usually
divided into two or three easily-forded arms. Yet, in spite of its
powerlessness, the river is aggressive, and constantly washes away its
banks at the bends, so that we frequently come upon trees lying in the
stream which have been undermined and fallen. Its bed is, therefore,
continually changing, as is the case with the Zambezi and Shire, and, in
fact, most rivers of tropical Africa.
It is late afternoon: a dozen natives are standing in a circle on a
level spot in mid-channel and looking round them attentively, almost
timidly, staring straight at the water, as though anxious to penetrate
to the bottom. What are they after? Has the white man lost some valuable
property for which he is setting them to look? The answer is much
simpler than that. Look within the circle, and you will see two hats
floating on the surface of the current. When they raise themselves a
little from the shining level, you will see two white faces—those of the
Wazungu, Knudsen and Weule, who, delighted to escape for once from the
rubber bath with its mere half-bucket of water, are cooling their limbs
in the vivifying current. And the natives? The Rovuma has the
reputation—not altogether undeserved—of containing more crocodiles than
any other river in East Africa, and therefore it is as well to station a
chain of outposts round us, as a precautionary measure. It is highly
amusing to watch the uneasy countenances of these heroes, though the
water for a long way round does not come up to their knees.
Evening is coming on; a stiff westerly breeze has sprung up, sweeping up
the broad river-channel with unopposed violence, so that even the scanty
current of the Rovuma makes a poor attempt at waves. Glad of the unusual
sight, the eye ranges far and wide down the river. Everything is still
as death—no trace remains of the old joyous Matambwe life as it was in
the sixties. There, far away, on the last visible loop of the river,
appears a black dot, rapidly increasing in size. Our natives, with their
keen sight, have spied it long ago, and are staring in the same
direction as ourselves. “_Mtumbwi_”—(a canoe)! they exclaim in chorus,
when the dot coming round a bend becomes a black line. In a quarter of
an hour the canoe has reached us, a dug-out of the simplest form, with a
mournful freight, an old woman crouching in the stern more dead than
alive. I feel sorry for the poor creature, and at a sign from me an
elderly man and a younger one spring lightly to the bank. A few
questions follow. “She is very ill, the _bibi_,” is the answer, “we
think she will die to-day.” I can see for myself that no human help will
avail. The two men return at their paddles, and in ten minutes more we
see them landing higher up on the other side, carrying between them a
shapeless bundle across the sand-bank into the bush. A human destiny has
fulfilled itself.
Nils Knudsen had in his usual enthusiastic way been telling me of the
marvels to be found at Naunge camp, higher up the Rovuma, where he
insisted that we must go. This time he was not so far wrong; in fact,
the wild chaos of rocks beside and in the river, the little cascades
between the mossy stones, and the dark green of the vegetation on the
banks, made up an attractive picture enough. But the state of the ground
itself! The trodden grass and broken bushes, as well as the unmistakable
smell, showed plainly enough that it was a popular camping-place and had
been used not long before. “No, thank you!” said I. “_Safari_—forward!”
Here, where we were directly on Livingstone’s track, the open bush
begins a couple of hundred yards away from the bank. With three _askari_
to cover my left flank, I therefore marched up stream, through the
vegetation lining the bank, at the cost of indescribable toil, but
rejoicing in the view of the river with its ever-changing scenery. At
last I found what I was looking for. In mid-channel, at a distance from
us of perhaps six or seven hundred yards, rose an island, steep and
sharply-cut as the bow of a man-of-war, its red cliffs shining afar over
the silvery grey of the sand-banks, but covered at the top with a
compact mass of fresh green vegetation. With a shrill whistle to call my
followers across from the _pori_, and one leap down the bank, I waded
through the deep sand direct for the island.
The idyllic life which I enjoyed for some days on this island in the
Rovuma has left an indelible impression on my memory. Nils Knudsen was
always hunting, and never failed to return with a supply of meat for
roasting, which kept the men in high good humour. Our tents were pitched
in a narrow sandy ravine at the foot of the cliff, which may have been
twenty-seven or twenty-eight feet high; the men were encamped at some
distance to leeward, and I myself was alone in a green bower at the top
of the island, where no one was allowed to approach me without
announcing himself in the words prescribed by Swahili etiquette, “_Hodi
Bwana!_” Only my personal attendants might bring me, unannounced, the
repasts prepared by Omari, who has now learned to cook some things so as
not to be absolutely uneatable. Altogether it was a delightful
interlude.
[Illustration: TYPICAL HUT IN THE ROVUMA VALLEY]
Equally delightful was our last camp on the Rovuma. It was at the mouth
of the Bangala, its largest northern tributary, so imposing on the map,
but just now only a dry channel. The water was still flowing
underground; but we should have had to dig down several yards to reach
it. We did not find it necessary to do so, having abundance of clear
water in the Rovuma itself, where my men led quite an amphibious life.
How neat and clean they all looked as soon as daily washing became
possible. “_Mzuri we!_” (“How fine you are!”) I remarked appreciatively
in passing to Chafu koga, the Dirty Pig, for that is the approximate
rendering of his name. The self-complacent smile on his bronze-coloured
face was by itself worth the journey to Africa.
There is only one drawback to life on the Rovuma: the gale which springs
up about sunset and, gradually rising till it becomes a veritable
hurricane, sinks again about midnight. No reed fence is any protection
against it, neither is it any use to seek shelter behind the tent; and
no contrivance so far devised will keep the lamp from being blown out,
so that there is nothing for it but to go to bed at eight.
Our nights, moreover, were disturbed by unwelcome visitors. Elephants,
it is true, which, though abounding in this part of the country, are
very shy, always made a wide circuit round our camp; but lions seemed to
be fond of taking moonlight walks up and down between the sleeping
carriers. At the Bangala, the sentry, who had stood a little way off
with his gun at the ready, related to me with a malicious grin how he
saw a lion walk all along the row of snoring men, and stop at Omari, the
cook, seemingly considering whether to eat him or not. After standing
like this for some time, he gave a deep, ill-tempered growl, as if he
did not consider Omari sufficiently appetising, and slowly trotted back
into the bush.
Luisenfelde Mine—I do not know what Luise gave it its name—will long
remain in my memory as a greeting from home, in the heart of the African
bush; it sounds so enterprising and yet so pleasantly familiar. It is
true that the mining operations did not last long, though the former
owner, Herr Vohsen, in the pride of his heart, bestowed on the lustrous
red garnets produced there the name of “Cape rubies.” Garnets are so
cheap and found in so many places that in a very short time the market
was glutted. Herr Marquardt, the enterprising manager, went home, and
Nils Knudsen, his assistant and factotum, remained behind forgotten in
the bush. Literally in the bush, for the well-built house with its
double roof of corrugated zinc protected by an outer covering of thatch,
was shut up, and the Norwegian had to find shelter as best he could in
one of the two outhouses. We halted here, on our march northward from
the Rovuma, for three or four hours, so as to eat our Sunday dinner
under the verandah of the manager’s house. Here we had before us a
double reminder of the past: in the middle of the compound a great heap
of the unsaleable “Cape rubies” which were to have realised such
fortunes, and now lie about as playthings for native children, and in
the foreground the grave of Marquardt’s only child, a promising little
girl of three, who came here with her parents full of health and life.
We prosaic Europeans have no faith in omens; but it appears that the
child’s sudden death was no surprise to the natives. Knudsen tells me
that one day a native workman from the garnet-pits came to him and said,
“Some one will die here, sir.” “‘Nonsense!’ I said, and sent him away.
Next day he came again and said the same thing. I sent him about his
business, but he kept coming. Every night we heard an owl crying on the
roof of Marquardt’s house. This went on for a whole fortnight, and then
Marquardt’s little girl was taken ill and died in a few hours. The bird
never came after that. They call it _likwikwi_.”
[Illustration: DESERTED BUILDINGS, LUISENFELDE MINE]
One story suggests another. Matola told us several of the same sort, as
we sat round the lamp of an evening. Here are one or two samples:—
“Between this (Chingulungulu) and Nyasa,” said Matola, “is a high
mountain, called Mlila; the road passes close to it. Beside the road are
two axes and a shovel,[39] and no one can carry them away. If anyone
picks them up and takes them on his shoulder, he has not gone far before
he feels as if they were no longer there, and when he turns he sees them
going back to their place. But the owner of those axes and that shovel
is Nakale.”
[Illustration: UNYAGO BOYS PLAYING ON FLUTES OUTSIDE THE NDAGALA AT
AKUNDONDE’S]
[Illustration: LIKWIKWI, THE BIRD OF ILL OMEN, AS DRAWN BY A MAKUA. (See
p. 372)]
The other story is as follows: “At Mtarika’s (the old Yao chief now
dead), people saw a great wonder. The grains of _Usanye_ (a red kind of
millet) cried in the basket. It came to pass in this way: The people had
cut off the heads of _usanye_ in the garden and put them into a basket.
And as they were pressed together in the basket the grains began to weep
and to scream. The people did not know where the crying came from, and
turned out the basket, to look in it and under it, but they could find
nothing, and heard nothing more. Then they put the grain back into the
basket and the crying began again, and the people were frightened and
ran away to fetch others. These searched, too, but could find nothing,
and they all went away much astonished. But when they got home, they
found the mortar dancing, and all the large earthen bowls (_mbale_) were
dancing too, and Jongololo, the millipede, was building himself houses.
Next day they all assembled to ask each other what could be the meaning
of all this. And three days after, Mtarika died. That was the meaning of
it.”
[Illustration: LISAKASA (RING OF HUTS FOR THE UNYAGO) IN THE FOREST NEAR
AKUNDONDE’S]
It was only in part for the sake of the past that we visited
Luisenfelde; we should scarcely have done so but for the fact that the
road from the mouth of the Bangala to Akundonde’s runs directly past it.
A march of an hour and a half or two hours up the deeply-excavated
ravine of the Namaputa, and a short, steep ascent to the crest of the
next ridge, brought us to Akundonde’s. We saw before us the typical
native settlement of these parts, a moderate-sized, carefully-swept open
space with the _baraza_ in the middle—a roof supported on pillars, and
open all round. This is surrounded by some half-dozen huts, round or
square, all with heavy thatched roofs, the eaves reaching nearly to the
ground, other groups of huts being scattered at long intervals all along
the crest of the hill. Akundonde, though he said he had been expecting
our visit, did not seem very obliging or communicative. We could
scarcely attribute this to the after effects of his recent libations—his
throat must be far too well seasoned for that; but thought it more
probable that his bad leg made him feel indisposed for society. I had
just one bottle of “_jumbe_ cognac” left, that delectable beverage,
which smells like attar of roses, but has a taste which I cannot attempt
to describe, and this I bestowed on the old chief, but took no further
notice of him, which I could well afford to do without endangering the
success of my enterprise. The junior headman of the village,—a smart
Yao, quite a dandy according to local standards, who even wore a watch
on a very large chain and consequently had to look at the time every two
minutes—proved a much more competent guide to the life and customs of
this remote district than morose old Akundonde. The young man showed us
plenty of indigenous works of art—we had only to go from house to house
and look under the eaves to find the walls covered with frescoes. He
also conducted us to a small burying-ground—a few Yao graves sheltered
by low thatched roofs (now somewhat dilapidated) which, with the cloth
fastened on the top, I now saw for the first time.
[Illustration: YAO GRAVES AT AKUNDONDE’S]
Having previously heard that the _unyago_ was taking place this year at
Akundonde’s, we made every effort to see and hear as much as possible.
The promise of a princely remuneration soon brought about the desired
result, but the _jumbe_ told me that the carriers and soldiers could not
be allowed to come with me, though Moritz and Kibwana would be admitted.
My two boys are by this time heartily sick of campaigning, and their
sense of duty requires stimulating in the usual way; but this done, they
trudge along, though reluctantly, behind us with the camera.
The headman leads us out of the village through byways, evidently
desiring to escape notice, and then our party of five plunges into the
silent bush, which here, with its large trees almost reminds me of our
German forests; the foliage, too, is fresher and more abundant than we
ever saw it on the other side of Chingulungulu. In the natural
excitement of the new discoveries awaiting us, I pay no heed to place or
time—I cannot tell whether we have been walking for half-an-hour or an
hour, when, breaking through a thicket, we see a small hut before us and
find that we have reached our goal.
Our exertions have been amply rewarded. Before I have yet had time to
note the size, construction and workmanship of the hut, we are
surrounded by a troop of half-grown boys. With loud cries and energetic
gestures the _jumbe_ orders them back, and I now perceive the approach
of an elderly man who must have come out of the hut, for he suddenly
appears as if he had risen out of the ground. This is the _wa
mijira_,[40] the man who presides over all the ceremonies of the boys’
_unyago_. He greets us solemnly and signals with a barely perceptible
motion of his eyelids to the boys. These are already drawn up in a long
row: strange, slight figures in the wide grass kilts which make them
look like ballet-dancers. Each one holds to his mouth a flute-like
instrument from which they proceed to elicit a musical salute. Once more
I have to regret my lack of musical training, for this performance is
unique of its kind. After hearing the not unpleasing melody to its
close, I approach near enough to make a closer inspection of the band.
The instruments are nothing more than pieces of bamboo, each differing
from the rest in length and diameter, but all closed-at the lower end by
the natural joint of the reed, and cut off smoothly at the upper. In
this way, each of the little musicians can only play one note, but each
produces his own with perfect correctness and fits it so accurately into
the concerted “song without words” as to form an entirely harmonious
whole. Moritz has meanwhile been attending to his duties as Minister of
Finance, and some of the boys have even been persuaded to retire behind
the hut and show me the result of the surgical operation which they
underwent about a month ago, but which in some cases is still causing
suppuration. Now, however, I wish to see the inside of the hut.
[Illustration: NDAGALA (CIRCUMCISION-LODGE) IN THE FOREST NEAR
AKUNDONDE’S]
The European in Africa soon grows accustomed to do without luxuries for
his own part, and would never dream of looking for them in the dwellings
of the natives; but the primitive roughness of this place in which
fifteen boys are expected to live for several months, baffles
description. The _ndagala_, as the circumcision-lodge is officially
called, is a good-sized building, being about thirty-two feet by
thirteen, but neither the walls, constructed of crooked, knotty logs,
with gaps between them affording free admission to the wind, nor the
very airy and badly-kept thatch of the roof, are much protection against
the cold at night. There is a doorway in the centre of each longitudinal
wall, but no doors. On entering one sees in the first instance nothing
but millet-straw mixed with heaps of ashes. This straw covers the floor,
lies in heaps against the walls, and is spread out untidily over sixteen
originally, doubtless, quite decent beds. One of these couches is
appropriated to the master, the others are those on which his disciples
have not only slept, but undergone the painful operation without
anæsthesia or antiseptic treatment of any kind, but with set teeth and
in silence. Every sign of suffering on such occasions is sternly
forbidden by the Yaos, these East African Spartans. If, in spite of all
his resolution, some poor little fellow, really only a child, is unable
to suppress a cry of pain, he finds himself roared down by the
_anamungwi_, his master and his companions.
The fifteen beds are already much dilapidated; some are quite broken,
and others show but scant traces of the neat arrangement of straw which
distinguished them at first. The great heap of ashes beside every bed
shows that the little patients try to protect themselves against the
cold at night by keeping up a good fire. They all look thoroughly
neglected, and are thickly encrusted with dirt, dust and ashes from head
to foot, so that the bath which concludes the ceremonies in the
_ndagala_, and therefore the novitiate of the candidates, is not only a
long foregone pleasure, but a direct necessity.
In the centre of the hut we see the branch of a tree set up in the
ground. It is painted in various colours and hung with strips of skin,
tails of animals and skins of birds. This is called the _lupanda_, and
from it the whole ceremony takes its name, the term _unyago_ being
applied to initiation ceremonies in general, that of _lupanda_ to the
boys’ “mysteries” only. Nothing more is to be got out of the old man, so
that I shall have to find some other informant, especially with regard
to the girls’ _unyago_, which, by all I hear must be at least as
interesting as the _lupanda_. Part of my wish was unexpectedly gratified
a day or two later. The _jumbe_, roused to enthusiasm by the fee
received for his services, came to us in great haste just after dinner.
We have pitched our camp on a spot with a beautiful view but imperfectly
sheltered from the evening gale, at the edge of the bush on the highest
point of the hill. Knudsen at first pleaded, as on previous occasions,
for the occupation of the _baraza_; but our old enemy the whirlwind,
which of course surprised us just as the pea-soup was being dished up,
soon brought him to a better mind. As we were dozing under the _banda_,
a shelter of branches and grass, such as every _mnyampara_ and his men
can set up in a few minutes, pressing our hands from sheer habit to our
aching temples and thinking of nothing—unquestionably the best
occupation in these latitudes—the _jumbe_ came running up, shouting from
afar that a _chiputu_ was going on at Akuchikomu’s. The _bwana mkubwa_
and the _bwana mdogo_ might see a great deal if they would go, but the
women were shy and timid, and the carriers and soldiers could not be
allowed to come with us. In a few minutes we were on the road, Moritz
and Kibwana being heavily loaded, as this time I brought not only my
large camera, but the cinematograph, too long inactive, from which I
hoped great things. The walk was a longer one than on the previous day,
the road at first leading north-eastward along the crest of the ridge,
and then turning to the west and descending into the green valley of a
babbling stream. Before reaching the valley we found the road barred by
a huge circle of huts—structures of the most primitive kind consisting
merely of a few poles driven into the ground, upright or slanting, and
joined at the top by a horizontal cross-piece, the whole thatched with
the long African grass. But these sheds were arranged with almost
mathematical precision in a continuous circle of over fifty yards in
diameter. This is the real place where the festival—not, however, the
ceremony we have come to see, but the _lupanda_—is held. Here the long
series of observances begins with dancing, feasting and singing, and
here, when the boys return after their three or four months’ absence,
recovered from the operation and initiated into the mysteries of sexual
life and the moral code of the tribe, the closing celebration takes
place. So out with tripod, camera, and plates. Though but a beginner in
photography when I started, I have long ago by dint of continual
practice become a _fundi_ who can take his twenty or thirty negatives in
a few minutes. One glance at the two little mounds of ashes occupying
fixed positions in the arena, and then we were off again.
By two in the afternoon we had reached a miserable little Makua village;
indeed, it scarcely deserves the name of a village, though the
inhabitants of its two or three wretched huts had taken upon themselves
to entertain the whole neighbourhood. In fact, a large crowd was
assembled, consisting chiefly of women and girls, the men being
decidedly in a minority. This alone would be sufficient to stamp the
festival as one belonging peculiarly to the women.
The structure where this ceremony was to take place was typically
African, not over large, but quite sufficiently so for the object in
view. The natives thoroughly understand the art of putting up buildings
admirably suited to the purpose they are to serve, and also quite
pleasing in style and shape, out of the cheapest materials and with the
simplest appliances, in a very short time. This hut was circular, with
an encircling wall of poles and millet-straw, between six and seven feet
high. It was about thirty feet in diameter, with two doorways facing
each other, and a central post supporting the roof. The women were just
entering in solemn procession, while the tuning up of several drums was
heard from the inside. The _jumbe’s_ hint as to the shyness of the women
was abundantly justified; those who caught sight of us at once ran away.
The participants only grew calm when we had succeeded in getting up
unseen close to the outer wall of the building and there finding shelter
in a group of men disposed to be sensible. It was, however, even now
impossible to sketch any of the women. I am in the habit, wherever I
can, of jotting down in a few rapid strokes every picturesque “bit” I
come across, and here I found them in unusual number. Since I left the
coast, labrets, nose-pins, and ear-studs have become quite hackneyed,
but hitherto I had come across no specimens of such size or racial types
so markedly savage and intact. When one of these women laughs, the
effect is simply indescribable. So long as her face keeps its normal
serious expression, the snow-white disc remains in a horizontal
position, that is to say, if the wearer is still young and good-looking.
If, however, she breaks into the short, giggling laugh peculiar to the
young negress, the _pelele_ flies up with an abrupt jerk and stands
straight up over the ivory-white and still perfect teeth, while the
young woman’s pretty brown eyes flash with merriment, and the weight of
the heavy wooden plug sets up a quick vibration in the upper lip, which
is dragged out by almost a hand-breadth from its normal position. Then
the baby on the woman’s back (nearly all of them are carrying babies),
begins to cry piteously under the searching gaze of the strange white
man; and, in short, the whole spectacle is one which must be seen to be
appreciated—no pen can describe it.
Our place was well chosen, and enabled us to survey the whole interior
of the hut without let or hindrance. I noticed three youths sitting on
stools of honour in a reserved part of the hall, and inquired of the
_jumbe_, who stood beside me, obligingly ready to be of use, who those
three little shrimps were? It appeared that they were the husbands of
the girls whose _chiputu_ was being celebrated that day.
[Illustration: LAUGHING BEAUTIES]
And what is _chiputu_? It is the celebration of a girl’s arrival at
womanhood; but that is a long story, which we have no time to
investigate just now, for the drums have struck up, in that peculiar
cadence, heard at every _ngoma_, which no one who has visited East
Africa can ever forget. At the same moment the closely-packed throng of
black bodies has already arranged itself for a dance. With a step
something like the gait of a water-wagtail, they move, rhythmically
gliding and rocking, round the central posts, at which three old hags
stand grinning.
“Who are those?” I ask.
Those are the _anamungwi_, the instructresses of the three girls; they
are to receive the reward of their work to-day. “See now, sir, what is
happening.” For the moment nothing happens, the dance goes on and on,
first in the way already described, then changing to one which is not so
much African as generally Oriental: it is the so-called _danse du
ventre_. At last this too comes to an end, the figure breaks up in wild
confusion, one snatching in this direction, another in that, and
everyone gathers once more round the _anamungwi_. These are no longer
smiling, but comport themselves with great dignity as they have every
right to do. One after another, the women come forward to hand them
their gifts, pieces of new cloth, strings of beads, bead necklaces and
armlets, and various items of a similar character. “That is all very
fine,” their looks seem to say, “but is this an equivalent for the
unspeakable trouble which the training of our _amwali_, our pupils, has
given us for years past? We expect something more than that!” However,
the festive throng are not in the least disturbed by this mute
criticism; people all chatter at once, just as they do in other parts of
the world, and everyone is in the highest spirits.
[Illustration: GIRLS’ UNYAGO AT THE MAKONDE HAMLET OF NIUCHI]
Now comes a new stage. “_Hawara marre_” mutters the _jumbe_. This even
Nils Knudsen cannot translate, for it is Kimakua, which he does not
know, but the _jumbe_, like all intelligent men in this country, is a
polyglottist. He says the Yao for it is “_Chisuwi mkamule_” (“The
leopard breaks out”). At this moment something unexpected happens. The
three young fellows rise quick as lightning, and, with loud crashing and
rustling, they have burst through the fragile hut-wall and are seen
retiring towards the outskirts of the village. I have not yet clearly
made out whether these youthful husbands themselves represent the
leopard or whether they are to be thought of as pursued by an imaginary
leopard. In either case, the leisurely pace at which they stroll away is
scarcely convincing and still less imposing; less so, certainly, than
the song of _Hawara marre_, rendered by the women with equal spirit and
energy, which rings out into the sun-baked _pori_ long after the three
leopards have vanished in the distance.
Now comes another picture; the hall is empty, but the open space beside
it, which has been carefully swept, swarms with brightly-coloured
fantastic figures. It is only now that we can see how they have adorned
themselves for the occasion. The massive brass bangles, nearly an inch
thick, which they wear on their wrists and ankles, shine like burnished
gold, and the calico of their skirts and upper garments is of the
brightest colours. These cloths, in fact, have just been bought from the
Indian traders at Lindi or Mrweka, at great expense, by the gallant
husbands, who have recently made an expedition to the coast for the
purpose. The white _pelele_ seems to shine whiter than usual, and the
woolly heads and brown faces are quite lustrous with freshly-applied
castor oil, the universal cosmetic of these regions. Once more the
_anamungwi_ take up a majestic pose, and once more all the women crowd
round them. This time the presents consist of cobs of maize, heads of
millet, and other useful household supplies, which are showered
wholesale on the recipients.
Once more the scene changes. The drummers have been tuning up their
instruments more carefully than usual, and at this moment the fire
blazes up for the last time and then expires. The first drum
begins—_boom, boom, boóm, boom, boom, boóm, boom, boom, boóm_: two short
notes followed by a long one. How the man’s hands fly! There are more
ways of drumming than one, certainly,—but the art as practised here
seems to require a special gift. It is by no means a matter of
indifference whether the drumhead is struck with the whole hand, or with
the finger-tips only, or whether the sound is produced by the knuckles
or finger-joints of the closed fist. It is pretty generally assumed that
we Europeans have an entirely different mental organization from that of
the black race, but even we are not unaffected by the rhythm of this
particular kind of drumming. On the contrary, the European involuntarily
begins to move his legs and bend his knees in time to the music, and
would almost feel impelled to join the ranks of the dancers, were it not
for the necessity of maintaining the decorum of the ruling race, and of
keeping eye and ear on the alert for everything that is going forward.
The dance which the women are now performing is called _ikoma_.[41] Our
eyes are insufficiently trained to perceive the slight differences
between these various choric dances, and so we grew tired with mere
looking on long before the natives, who are exerting themselves to the
utmost, begin to weary. In this case the sun contributes to the result,
and Moritz is already feeling ill, as he says, from the smell of the
crowd; though he certainly has no right to look down on his compatriots
in this respect. It is true that he has improved since the day at Lindi,
when I drove him before my kiboko into the Indian Ocean, because he
diffused around him such a frightful effluvium of “high” shark, that it
seemed as if he himself had been buried for months. I am just about to
pack up my apparatus, when the uniform, somewhat tedious rhythm in which
the crowd of black bodies is moving suddenly changes. Hitherto,
everything has been characterized by the utmost decency, even according
to our standards, but now what do I see? With swift gesture the
bright-coloured draperies fly up, leaving legs and hips entirely free,
the feet move faster, and with a more vivacious and rapid motion the
dancers now circle round one another in pairs. I am fixed to the spot by
a sight I have often heard of, but which has never come in my way
before:—the large keloids which, in the most varied patterns cover these
parts of the body. The scars are raised to this size by cutting again
and again during the process of healing. This, too, belongs to the ideal
of beauty in this country.
Unfortunately, I was not able to await the end of the _ikoma_. The
performers, in spite of the small silver coin which I had distributed to
each of them, were evidently constrained in the presence of a
European,—a being known to most of them only by hearsay—and the
spontaneous merriment which had prevailed inside the hut was not to be
recovered. Besides, I was forced, out of consideration for Moritz, who
was now quite grey in the face, to return as quickly as possible.
Akundonde’s junior headman is excellent as a practical guide, but has
little theoretic knowledge,—he is probably too young to know much of the
traditional lore of his own tribe and the Makua. Old Akundonde himself
keeps silence,—perhaps because he needs a stronger inducement than any
yet received. This, however, I am unable to offer, especially as we
ourselves have to subsist on our tinned goods, the usual lean fowls and
a few old guinea-fowl shot by Knudsen. There is no trace of the liberal
gifts of _pombe_ which had delighted our thirsty souls at Masasi and
Chingulungulu.
It was, therefore, with light hearts that we left Akundonde’s on the
fourth day for Newala. The stages of our three days’ march were
Chingulungulu, where we had left a considerable part of our baggage, and
Mchauru, a very scattered village in a district and on a river of the
same name, in the foothills of the Makonde plateau. Mchauru is
interesting enough in several respects. First, topographically: the
river, which has excavated for itself a channel sixty, in some places
even ninety feet deep, in the loose alluvial soil, runs south-westward
towards the Rovuma. On reaching the bottom of this gorge, after a
difficult climb, we found no running water, but had to dig at least a
fathom into the clean sand before coming on the subterranean supply. The
deep, narrow water-holes, frequently met with show that the natives are
well aware of this circumstance. The vegetation in this whole district,
however, is very rich, and it is not easy to see at present whence it
comes, since we are on the landward side of the hills whose seaward
slope precipitates the rains. It is possible that the soil here holds
more moisture than in other parts of the plain.
Mchauru has not only charming scenery but abounds in ethnographic
interest. It possesses, in the first place, a _fundi_ who makes the
finest ebony nose-pins in the country, and inlays them with zinc in the
most tasteful manner, and secondly, a celebrated magician by the name of
Medula. In fact, it was on account of these two men that I halted here
at all. The nose-pin-maker was not to be found—we were told that he was
away on a journey—but Medula was at home.
From our camp, pitched under a huge tree beside the road, we—that is
Knudsen and I, with my more immediate followers carrying the
apparatus—walked through banana groves (which I now saw for the first
time), and extensive fields of maize, beans, and peas, ready for
gathering, in a south-westerly direction for nearly an hour. At
intervals the path runs along the bed of a stream, where the deep sand
makes walking difficult. At last, on ascending a small hill, we found
ourselves before an open shed in which an old native was seated, not
squatting in the usual way, but with his legs stretched out before him,
like a European. After salutations, my errand was explained to him,—I
wanted him to tell me all about his medicines and sell me some of them,
also to weave something for us. According to native report, there are
only two men left in the whole country who still possess this art,
already obsolete through the cheapness of imported calico. Medula is one
of these weavers,—the other, a tottering old man, I saw, several weeks
ago, at Mkululu. I was greatly disappointed in him; he had not the
faintest notion of weaving, and there was nothing in the shape of a loom
to be seen in his hut; the only thing he could do was to spin a
moderately good cotton thread on the distaff.
[Illustration: PARTICIPANTS ASSEMBLING AT THE UNYAGO HUT]
[Illustration: PRESENTATION OF CALICO BY THE MOTHERS]
[Illustration: DANCE OF THE OLD WOMEN]
[Illustration: ARRIVAL OF THE NOVICES]
GIRLS’ UNYAGO AT THE MATAMBWE VILLAGE OF MANGUPA. I
[Illustration: OLD WOMEN GROUPED ROUND THE GIRLS TO BE INITIATED]
[Illustration: DANCE OF THE OLD WOMEN ROUND THE INITIATES]
[Illustration: DANCE OF THE INITIATES BEFORE THE OLD WOMEN]
[Illustration: DEPARTURE OF THE INITIATES]
GIRLS’ UNYAGO AT THE MATAMBWE VILLAGE OF MANGUPA. II
[Illustration: OLD MEDULA LIGHTING HIS PIPE]
I expected more satisfactory results from Medula; but the medicines were
the first point to be attended to. We haggled with him like Armenians,
but he would concede nothing, finally showing us one or two of the usual
calabashes with their questionable contents, but demanding so exorbitant
a price that it was my turn to say, as I had great satisfaction in
doing, “_Hapana rafiki_” (“It won’t do, my friend”). Medula is a
philosopher in his way—“Well, if it won’t, it won’t,” appeared to be his
reflection, as he turned the conversation to the subject of his name,
then tried to pronounce mine, and gradually passed over to the second
part of our programme. All this time I was on the watch with my camera,
like the reporter of some detestable illustrated weekly. Medula was
seated in an unfavourable position: bright light outside—deep shadow
within his cool hut. I requested him to change his seat—he declined. My
entreaties and flatteries had no other result than to make him grin,
deliberately get out his pipe, light it with a burning coal, and puff
away without moving. Trusting to my Voigtländer’s lens, I at last let
him alone, as things had come to a standstill, and I wanted to see the
loom and its use. Medula said that he must first make the thread. I
submitted; the old man put a leisurely hand into a basket, deliberately
took out a handful of cotton-seeds, husked them _secundum artem_ and
began beating the flaky white mass with a little stick. In a
surprisingly short time a fairly large quantity of cotton was reduced to
the proper consistency; Medula seized it in his left hand and began to
pull out the thread with his right. So far the process looked familiar;
the people who came over every winter during my boyhood from Eichsfeld
to our Hanoverian village, to spin the farmers’ wool for them, always
began in the same way. The parallel, however, ceased with the next step,
and the procedure became entirely prehistoric. The new thread was
knotted on to the end of that on the distaff, the latter drawn through a
cleft which takes the place of the eye on our spinning-wheel, the
spindle whirled in the right hand, the left being extended as far as
possible—and then both arms moved downward; the spindle was quickly
rolled round on the upper part of the thigh, and the thread was ready
for winding. Medula contrived to weary us out with this performance, but
never produced his loom, in whose existence I have entirely ceased to
believe. He promised at our parting—which was marked by a decided
coolness—to bring the implement with him to Newala; but not even the
most stupid of my men gave any credit to his assurance.