THE HARVEST OF KNOWLEDGE
NEWALA, towards the end of September, 1906.
Having witnessed—thanks to Sefu, and to a favourable conjuncture of
circumstances—the festive ceremonies of the _unyago_, I have been trying
to study the theory and the details of the whole process of initiation
for both sexes. I find this extremely difficult. It is true that I have
gradually obtained a complete view of the boys’ _unyago_, though it cost
me endless trouble to ascertain all the rules; but the other part of the
problem seems to be absolutely bewitched, so many accumulated obstacles
oppose themselves to its solution. Under other circumstances, this might
drive the most patient inquirer to despair; but on the Makonde plateau,
happily, there is no time for despair, for with this question are
associated a hundred others, not less interesting and important, and
therefore demanding an answer with equal insistency.
But I see that I must arrange the account of my inquiries and their
principal results in a systematic way in order to present them in a form
which can be satisfactorily grasped by the reader.
Taken all round, the whole environment of Newala is such as to offer a
sort of resistance to every kind of intense intellectual work. Not that
we suffer from the heat here, at a height of about 2,460 feet above
sea-level, to the same degree as we did in the plain, which had
gradually become something like a baker’s oven. It is true that the
temperature of about 80° F. indicated by the maximum thermometer in our
_baraza_ during the early hours of the afternoon, causes the same severe
headache as the 86° F. and over of the plain; but, on the one hand, one
gets used to having one’s work suspended by the heat, and, on the other,
the natives generally sleep through the hottest part of the day, so that
I lose nothing by inactivity at that time. Much more trying is the loss
of time resulting from the cumulative effect of a series of other
circumstances, which may seem almost comical to those not immediately
concerned, and even occasionally prove amusing to ourselves, but which
are serious hindrances none the less.
In the first place, we have the daily changes of temperature. In the
grey dawn, wrapped up warmly in two blankets, I hear heavy drops falling
on the tent-roof, think half-consciously, that it is raining, and doze
off again, soon to be awakened by sounds of creaking and groaning which
make me sit up with a start. On opening my eyes I see the ropes so
tightly stretched that the tough ashen poles are bent over almost into a
half-circle. With an imprecation on the careless sentinel, I jump from
beneath my mosquito-net, call him up along with the two previously on
duty, and make them lengthen the ropes as a punishment. By the time this
is accomplished, not without severe exertion, it is quite light, and I
do not find it worth while to go to sleep again. Now comes the
pleasantest event of the day—the morning bath; at six a.m. the
temperature is between 57° and 58°, perfectly Arctic for Africa. The
long row of gourds treated the day before with alum contain water which
feels ice-cold; and the bath and the rub down afterwards, are truly
delicious. Kibwana, in his capacity of valet, has long ago become
accustomed to my white skin; but there are plenty of eyes staring
through the gaps in the _boma_ palisade or the headman’s fence, in
astonished enjoyment of this daily spectacle. When I get out, I find
there is not a vestige of rain—it was only the heavy morning dew,
dripping from the thick-foliaged mango-trees under which our tents are
pitched. The sun is as yet invisible; Newala is shrouded in a thick
mist—not even the lofty trees in the burying-ground outside the gateway
being recognizable in this rolling sea of white. Instinctively, Knudsen
and I put on the winter clothes already described, and I add a muffler
in the shape of a folded handkerchief, while he buttons his overcoat up
to his chin.
[Illustration: TWO NEWALA SAVANTS]
This has brought us to about half-past six; and, quite ready for work, I
leave the tent at the moment when the soldiers are reporting for the two
hours’ daily drill, which I introduced at Masasi, to keep them from
becoming confirmed loafers. Hemedi Maranga comes up to me to make his
report. This smart fellow has already improved the appearance of the
company; he is a born soldier, while his predecessor, Saleh, was more of
a hunter. Saleh has been sent by the District Commissioner to the
Central Lukuledi Valley to get rid of the lions which are still
decimating the unhappy inhabitants, numerous lives having been lost even
since we passed through in July. All success to him in his perilous
task!
While I am amusing myself with my breakfast—cocoa made very thick, and
the usual large omelette with bananas—the corporal and his division have
marched out into the _pori_, to practise bush-fighting or go through
their drill. “_Legt an! Feuer! Geladen!_” The word of command, strange
enough in the mouth of a native, rings out from a distance as clearly
and sharply as if spoken by the smartest of German non-commissioned
officers. But I have no time to listen to this reminder of far-off home
scenes, for already my wise elders are arriving with the slow, dignified
pace of the old native. It was agreed yesterday that they should be here
by seven. This may sound surprising, considering that the natives have
neither clocks nor watches, and would be unable to read them if they
had; but it was arrived at in the following way. When we stopped work at
sunset yesterday, all, white and black alike, too tired to sit up any
longer, I said to the fifteen old men, getting Sefu to interpret my
words into Kimakua and Kima-konde: “You are to come again to-morrow,
_saa_” (at the hour of), and completed my sentence by stretching out my
arm to the east at an angle of 15° with the horizon. The men watched me
attentively. In order to make sure, I had them asked whether they
understood, and each forthwith raised one arm and held it at exactly the
same angle. Fifteen degrees is the height reached by the sun an hour
after rising, and therefore equivalent to seven o’clock; if I want them
at a later hour, I enlarge the angle accordingly. This is no invention
of mine, but the universal custom of the country; and the people can
indicate accurately the relative position of the sun at periods
separated by the smallest intervals of time.
A couple of hours have sped quickly enough, filled up with questions and
answers relating to various points of custom and tradition, and the old
gentlemen are still squatting round me in a semicircle, on a huge mat.
On the first day of our work in common, one of them was so far from
putting any restraint on himself as to send a jet of tobacco-juice,
sailor-fashion, through his teeth just in front of my feet. “_Mshenzi!_”
(“You savage!”) I growled, half involuntarily, and since then I have had
no occasion to complain of the smallest breach of good manners. It is
true that they bring with them a strong effluvium of perspiration and
rancid oil, so that I feel worse and worse as the hours pass; and they
are accompanied by a cloud of flies, which go on doing their level best
to transfer to the white stranger the ophthalmic affections from which
the natives suffer; but otherwise their behaviour is deserving of all
respect. The observation which I have made in all places hitherto
visited, that these savages have a strong natural sense of tact, holds
good here also. If we compare their behaviour with that of certain
circles and strata of our home population, we are forced to the
conclusion that we Europeans, though we imagine ourselves to have taken
a long lease of all the culture and tact on earth, are, after all, not
very much more favourable specimens of humanity.
But the shed has all this time been growing hotter, and the northern
style of clothing is no longer called for. Off with the heavy boots,
then, and the thick woollen stockings, as well as the warm flannel
shirt, waistcoat, and neckcloth, to be replaced by thin tropical
garments affording free passage of the air. At noon the khaki coat is
flung into a corner, and a thin silk jacket assumed instead of it. This
completes the negative process, which has to be reversed again as the
sun declines. The dreaded evening gale of Newala sets in with a sharp,
icy squall, and Knudsen and I, by a simultaneous and violent sneeze,
prove that our chronic catarrh, though latent by day, is as vigorous as
ever. There is no help for it; we must put on again, piece by piece, our
whole winter stock, and, moreover, by a habit which has now become an
instinct, wrap ourselves up in overcoats when the gale, now arrived at
its height, whirls clouds of dirt and dust through our dwelling. In the
course of the four weeks we have spent here, we have had to close in
this abode more and more. The mats originally put up to protect the open
side have long since been replaced by a solid wall of thatch, which has
swallowed up one panel after another, so that now by the end of the
month only one large window remains to admit light. In the evening the
carriers tie a large tarpaulin in front of this opening, but even this
complete shutting off of the wind does not make the place comfortable.
When, about ten, I have finished developing my plates and come, bathed
in perspiration, out of the tent which serves me for a dark-room into
the _baraza_, I find my Norwegian friend a shapeless bundle, wrapped in
all the available blankets, but his teeth chattering all the same. Each
of us then makes haste to creep into his warm tent. The tents, by the
bye, have only become really warm since we have had a screen of
millet-straw, strengthened by strong stakes, built in front of them to
windward. Before this was done, they were in danger of being blown over
every night. These are the daily cares of clothing and lodging: their
amount is not excessive, but in any case they take up a certain fraction
of my precious time, on which still further inroads are made by the
necessary provision for food and health.
Next to the bush, the greatest peculiarity of the Makonde Plateau is the
fact that its surface is quite waterless; the soil, down to a
considerable depth, consisting of a loose stratification of sandy loam
and loamy sand. In the west these strata belong to the upper chalk
formation, and are called Makonde beds, in the east they are tertiary,
and are called Mikindani beds. Both are extraordinarily pervious to
water, so that all atmospheric moisture, if not evaporated or retained
by the abundant vegetation, rapidly sinks through them till stopped by
the impervious strata—the inclined plane of the Newala sandstone or the
primæval granite core (of the same nature as the insular mountains
yonder in the Masasi plain), which we must suppose to exist in the
depths of the Makonde Plateau. The water, flowing down along these
strata, does not, of course, come to the surface till it reaches the
declivity of the plateau, which, in contrast with the upper level, is a
region abounding even to excess in springs and brooks.
One might therefore expect to find the plateau itself uninhabited, and
all the people settled at its edges. That is the course which would have
been followed by Europeans like ourselves skilled in the _rationale_ of
colonization. As a matter of fact, not a human being lives below, but on
the heights there are over 80,000 Makonde, nearly 5,000 Wangoni,
thousands of Wayao and Wamakua, and a—to me—unknown number of
Wamatambwe. In recent times, however, the tendency to come further and
further down into the well-watered lowlands, has been gaining ground.
This has been caused by the cessation of the Mafiti raids and the firm
rule of the German Administration. This tendency, however, only affects
the more progressive elements, the Yaos and Makuas, not the Makonde. The
latter follow the practice which has been usual with them from time
immemorial. So soon as the most necessary work has been done in house
and garden, father and son, or mother and daughter take on their
shoulders a pole, some yard and a half or two yards long, to each end of
which is fastened a large gourd, or perhaps two. They hurry along at a
rapid walk to the edge of the plateau, from which their hamlet is
inconveniently distant, scramble down a steep declivity by a difficult
path, remain for a while in the marshy bottom and return with their load
up the almost vertical ascent of several hundred yards. At last, having
accomplished the toilsome climb, they draw a deep breath, and walk, or
rather trot, back to their village. The Makonde are said to devote the
greater part of their lives to tillage—which I find true as far as I
have gone, though I have not reached their main centre of
distribution—but beyond all doubt the second largest share of their time
is absorbed by these long excursions—so foolish a waste of time
according to our ideas—in search of water. If half the family has to
spend two hours, or even more, daily in bringing in, at the cost of
severe labour, just enough water to cook their pittance of _ugali_ and
allow every one a muddy draught all round, it is surely an economic
absurdity.
[Illustration: DANCE ON STILTS AT THE GIRLS’ UNYAGO, NIUCHI]
Newala, too, suffers from the distance of its water-supply—at least the
Newala of to-day does; there was once another Newala in a lovely valley
at the foot of the plateau. I visited it and found scarcely a trace of
houses, only a Christian cemetery, with the graves of several
missionaries and their converts, remaining as a monument of its former
glories. But the surroundings are wonderfully beautiful. A thick grove
of splendid mango-trees closes in the weather-worn crosses and
headstones; behind them, combining the useful and the agreeable, is a
whole plantation of lemon-trees covered with ripe fruit; not the small
African kind, but a much larger and also juicier imported variety, which
drops into the hands of the passing traveller, without calling for any
exertion on his part. Old Newala is now under the jurisdiction of the
native pastor, Daudi, at Chingulungulu, who, as I am on very friendly
terms with him, allows me, as a matter of course, the use of this
lemon-grove during my stay at Newala.
[Illustration: FEET MUTILATED BY THE RAVAGES OF THE “JIGGER”
(_Sarcopsylla penetrans_)]
The water-supply of New Newala is in the bottom of the valley, some
1,600 feet lower down. The way is not only long and fatiguing, but the
water, when we get it, is thoroughly bad. We are suffering not only from
this, but from the fact that the arrangements at Newala are nothing
short of luxurious. We have a separate kitchen—a hut built against the
_boma_ palisade on the right of the _baraza_, the interior of which is
not visible from our usual position. Our two cooks were not long in
finding this out, and they consequently do—or rather neglect to do—what
they please. In any case they do not seem to be very particular about
the boiling of our drinking-water—at least I can attribute to no other
cause certain attacks of a dysenteric nature, from which both Knudsen
and I have suffered for some time. If a man like Omari has to be left
unwatched for a moment, he is capable of anything. Besides this
complaint, we are inconvenienced by the state of our nails, which have
become as hard as glass, and crack on the slightest provocation, and I
have the additional infliction of pimples all over me. As if all this
were not enough, we have also, for the last week been waging war against
the jigger, who has found his Eldorado in the hot sand of the Makonde
plateau. Our men are seen all day long—whenever their chronic colds and
the dysentery likewise raging among them permit—occupied in removing
this scourge of Africa from their feet and trying to prevent the
disastrous consequences of its presence. It is quite common to see
natives of this place with one or two toes missing; many have lost all
their toes, or even the whole front part of the foot, so that a
well-formed leg ends in a shapeless stump. These ravages are caused by
the female of _Sarcopsylla penetrans_, which bores its way under the
skin and there develops an egg-sac the size of a pea. In all books on
the subject, it is stated that one’s attention is called to the presence
of this parasite by an intolerable itching. This agrees very well with
my experience, so far as the softer parts of the sole, the spaces
between and under the toes, and the side of the foot are concerned, but
if the creature penetrates through the harder parts of the heel or ball
of the foot, it may escape even the most careful search till it has
reached maturity. Then there is no time to be lost, if the horrible
ulceration, of which we see cases by the dozen every day, is to be
prevented. It is much easier, by the way, to discover the insect on the
white skin of a European than on that of a native, on which the dark
speck scarcely shows. The four or five jiggers which, in spite of the
fact that I constantly wore high laced boots, chose my feet to settle
in, were taken out for me by the all-accomplished Knudsen, after which I
thought it advisable to wash out the cavities with corrosive sublimate.
The natives have a different sort of disinfectant—they fill the hole
with scraped roots. In a tiny Makua village on the slope of the plateau
south of Newala, we saw an old woman who had filled all the spaces under
her toe-nails with powdered roots by way of prophylactic treatment. What
will be the result, if any, who can say?
The rest of the many trifling ills which trouble our existence are
really more comic than serious. In the absence of anything else to
smoke, Knudsen and I at last opened a box of cigars procured from the
Indian store-keeper at Lindi, and tried them, with the most distressing
results. Whether they contain opium or some other narcotic, neither of
us can say, but after the tenth puff we were both “off,” three-quarters
stupefied and unspeakably wretched. Slowly we recovered—and what
happened next? Half-an-hour later we were once more smoking these
poisonous concoctions—so insatiable is the craving for tobacco in the
tropics.
Even my present attacks of fever scarcely deserve to be taken seriously.
I have had no less than three here at Newala, all of which have run
their course in an incredibly short time. In the early afternoon, I am
busy with my old natives, asking questions and making notes. The strong
midday coffee has stimulated my spirits to an extraordinary degree, the
brain is active and vigorous, and work progresses rapidly, while a
pleasant warmth pervades the whole body. Suddenly this gives place to a
violent chill, forcing me to put on my overcoat, though it is only
half-past three and the afternoon sun is at its hottest. Now the brain
no longer works with such acuteness and logical precision; more
especially does it fail me in trying to establish the syntax of the
difficult Makua language on which I have ventured, as if I had not
enough to do without it. Under the circumstances it seems advisable to
take my temperature, and I do so, to save trouble, without leaving my
seat, and while going on with my work. On examination, I find it to be
101·48°. My tutors are abruptly dismissed and my bed set up in the
_baraza_; a few minutes later I am in it and treating myself internally
with hot water and lemon-juice.
Three hours later, the thermometer marks nearly 104°, and I make them
carry me back into the tent, bed and all, as I am now perspiring
heavily, and exposure to the cold wind just beginning to blow might mean
a fatal chill. I lie still for a little while, and then find, to my
great relief, that the temperature is not rising, but rather falling.
This is about 7.30 p.m. At 8 p.m. I find, to my unbounded astonishment,
that it has fallen below 98·6°, and I feel perfectly well. I read for an
hour or two, and could very well enjoy a smoke, if I had the
wherewithal—Indian cigars being out of the question.
Having no medical training, I am at a loss to account for this state of
things. It is impossible that these transitory attacks of high fever
should be malarial; it seems more probable that they are due to a kind
of sunstroke. On consulting my note-book, I become more and more
inclined to think this is the case, for these attacks regularly follow
extreme fatigue and long exposure to strong sunshine. They at least have
the advantage of being only short interruptions to my work, as on the
following morning I am always quite fresh and fit. My treasure of a cook
is suffering from an enormous hydrocele which makes it difficult for him
to get up, and Moritz is obliged to keep in the dark on account of his
inflamed eyes. Knudsen’s cook, a raw boy from somewhere in the bush,
knows still less of cooking than Omari; consequently Nils Knudsen
himself has been promoted to the vacant post. Finding that we had come
to the end of our supplies, he began by sending to Chingulungulu for the
four sucking-pigs which we had bought from Matola and temporarily left
in his charge; and when they came up, neatly packed in a large crate, he
callously slaughtered the biggest of them. The first joint we were
thoughtless enough to entrust for roasting to Knudsen’s _mshenzi_ cook,
and it was consequently uneatable; but we made the rest of the animal
into a jelly which we ate with great relish after weeks of underfeeding,
consuming incredible helpings of it at both midday and evening meals.
The only drawback is a certain want of variety in the tinned vegetables.
Dr. Jäger, to whom the Geographical Commission entrusted the
provisioning of the expeditions—mine as well as his own—because he had
more time on his hands than the rest of us, seems to have laid in a huge
stock of Teltow turnips,[46] an article of food which is all very well
for occasional use, but which quickly palls when set before one every
day; and we seem to have no other tins left. There is no help for it—we
must put up with the turnips; but I am certain that, once I am home
again, I shall not touch them for ten years to come.
Amid all these minor evils, which, after all, go to make up the genuine
flavour of Africa, there is at least one cheering touch: Knudsen has,
with the dexterity of a skilled mechanic, repaired my 9 × 12 cm. camera,
at least so far that I can use it with a little care. How, in the
absence of finger-nails, he was able to accomplish such a ticklish piece
of work, having no tool but a clumsy screw-driver for taking to pieces
and putting together again the complicated mechanism of the
instantaneous shutter, is still a mystery to me; but he did it
successfully. The loss of his finger-nails shows him in a light
contrasting curiously enough with the intelligence evinced by the above
operation; though, after all, it is scarcely surprising after his ten
years’ residence in the bush. One day, at Lindi, he had occasion to wash
a dog, which must have been in need of very thorough cleansing, for the
bottle handed to our friend for the purpose had an extremely strong
smell. Having performed his task in the most conscientious manner, he
perceived with some surprise that the dog did not appear much the better
for it, and was further surprised by finding his own nails ulcerating
away in the course of the next few days. “How was I to know that
carbolic acid has to be diluted?” he mutters indignantly, from time to
time, with a troubled gaze at his mutilated finger-tips.
Since we came to Newala we have been making excursions in all directions
through the surrounding country, in accordance with old habit, and also
because the _akida_ Sefu did not get together the tribal elders from
whom I wanted information so speedily as he had promised. There is,
however, no harm done, as, even if seen only from the outside, the
country and people are interesting enough.
The Makonde plateau is like a large rectangular table rounded off at the
corners. Measured from the Indian Ocean to Newala, it is about
seventy-five miles long, and between the Rovuma and the Lukuledi it
averages fifty miles in breadth, so that its superficial area is about
two-thirds of that of the kingdom of Saxony. The surface, however, is
not level, but uniformly inclined from its south-western edge to the
ocean. From the upper edge, on which Newala lies, the eye ranges for
many miles east and north-east, without encountering any obstacle, over
the Makonde bush. It is a green sea, from which here and there thick
clouds of smoke rise, to show that it, too, is inhabited by men who
carry on their tillage like so many other primitive peoples, by cutting
down and burning the bush, and manuring with the ashes. Even in the
radiant light of a tropical day such a fire is a grand sight.
Much less effective is the impression produced just now by the great
western plain as seen from the edge of the plateau. As often as time
permits, I stroll along this edge, sometimes in one direction, sometimes
in another, in the hope of finding the air clear enough to let me enjoy
the view; but I have always been disappointed. Wherever one looks,
clouds of smoke rise from the burning bush, and the air is full of smoke
and vapour. It is a pity, for under more favourable circumstances the
panorama of the whole country up to the distant Majeje hills must be
truly magnificent. It is of little use taking photographs now, and an
outline sketch gives a very poor idea of the scenery. In one of these
excursions I went out of my way to make a personal attempt on the
Makonde bush. The present edge of the plateau is the result of a
far-reaching process of destruction through erosion and denudation. The
Makonde strata are everywhere cut into by ravines, which, though short,
are hundreds of yards in depth. In consequence of the loose
stratification of these beds, not only are the walls of these ravines
nearly vertical, but their upper end is closed by an equally steep
escarpment, so that the western edge of the Makonde plateau is hemmed in
by a series of deep, basin-like valleys. In order to get from one side
of such a ravine to the other, I cut my way through the bush with a
dozen of my men. It was a very open part, with more grass than scrub,
but even so the short stretch of less than two hundred yards was very
hard work; at the end of it the men’s calicoes were in rags and they
themselves bleeding from hundreds of scratches, while even our strong
khaki suits had not escaped scatheless.
[Illustration: NATIVE PATH THROUGH THE MAKONDE BUSH, NEAR MAHUTA]
I see increasing reason to believe that the view formed some time back
as to the origin of the Makonde bush is the correct one. I have no doubt
that it is not a natural product, but the result of human occupation.
Those parts of the high country where man—as a very slight amount of
practice enables the eye to perceive at once—has not yet penetrated with
axe and hoe, are still occupied by a splendid timber forest quite able
to sustain a comparison with our mixed forests in Germany. But wherever
man has once built his hut or tilled his field, this horrible bush
springs up. Every phase of this process may be seen in the course of a
couple of hours’ walk along the main road. From the bush to right or
left, one hears the sound of the axe—not from one spot only, but from
several directions at once. A few steps further on, we can see what is
taking place. The brush has been cut down and piled up in heaps to the
height of a yard or more, between which the trunks of the large trees
stand up like the last pillars of a magnificent ruined building. These,
too, present a melancholy spectacle: the destructive Makonde have ringed
them—cut a broad strip of bark all round to ensure their dying off—and
also piled up pyramids of brush round them. Father and son, mother and
son-in-law, are chopping away perseveringly in the background—too busy,
almost, to look round at the white stranger, who usually excites so much
interest. If you pass by the same place a week later, the piles of
brushwood have disappeared and a thick layer of ashes has taken the
place of the green forest. The large trees stretch their smouldering
trunks and branches in dumb accusation to heaven—if they have not
already fallen and been more or less reduced to ashes, perhaps only
showing as a white stripe on the dark ground.
This work of destruction is carried out by the Makonde alike on the
virgin forest and on the bush which has sprung up on sites already
cultivated and deserted. In the second case they are saved the trouble
of burning the large trees, these being entirely absent in the secondary
bush.
After burning this piece of forest ground and loosening it with the hoe,
the native sows his corn and plants his vegetables. All over the
country, he goes in for bed-culture, which requires, and, in fact,
receives, the most careful attention. Weeds are nowhere tolerated in the
south of German East Africa. The crops may fail on the plains, where
droughts are frequent, but never on the plateau with its abundant rains
and heavy dews. Its fortunate inhabitants even have the satisfaction of
seeing the proud Wayao and Wamakua working for them as labourers, driven
by hunger to serve where they were accustomed to rule.
But the light, sandy soil is soon exhausted, and would yield no harvest
the second year if cultivated twice running. This fact has been familiar
to the native for ages; consequently he provides in time, and, while his
crop is growing, prepares the next plot with axe and firebrand. Next
year he plants this with his various crops and lets the first piece lie
fallow. For a short time it remains waste and desolate; then nature
steps in to repair the destruction wrought by man; a thousand new
growths spring out of the exhausted soil, and even the old stumps put
forth fresh shoots. Next year the new growth is up to one’s knees, and
in a few years more it is that terrible, impenetrable bush, which
maintains its position till the black occupier of the land has made the
round of all the available sites and come back to his starting point.
The Makonde are, body and soul, so to speak, one with this bush.
According to my Yao informants, indeed, their name means nothing else
but “bush people.” Their own tradition says that they have been settled
up here for a very long time, but to my surprise they laid great stress
on an original immigration. Their old homes were in the south-east, near
Mikindani and the mouth of the Rovuma, whence their peaceful forefathers
were driven by the continual raids of the Sakalavas from Madagascar and
the warlike Shirazis[47] of the coast, to take refuge on the almost
inaccessible plateau. I have studied African ethnology for twenty years,
but the fact that changes of population in this apparently quiet and
peaceable corner of the earth could have been occasioned by outside
enterprises taking place on the high seas, was completely new to me. It
is, no doubt, however, correct.
The charming tribal legend of the Makonde—besides informing us of other
interesting matters—explains why they have to live in the thickest of
the bush and a long way from the edge of the plateau, instead of making
their permanent homes beside the purling brooks and springs of the low
country.
“The place where the tribe originated is Mahuta, on the southern side of
the plateau towards the Rovuma, where of old time there was nothing but
thick bush. Out of this bush came a man who never washed himself or
shaved his head, and who ate and drank but little. He went out and made
a human figure from the wood of a tree growing in the open country,
which he took home to his abode in the bush and there set it upright. In
the night this image came to life and was a woman. The man and woman
went down together to the Rovuma to wash themselves. Here the woman gave
birth to a still-born child. They left that place and passed over the
high land into the valley of the Mbemkuru, where the woman had another
child, which was also born dead. Then they returned to the high bush
country of Mahuta, where the third child was born, which lived and grew
up. In course of time, the couple had many more children, and called
themselves Wamatanda. These were the ancestral stock of the Makonde,
also called Wamakonde,[48] _i.e._, aborigines. Their forefather, the man
from the bush, gave his children the command to bury their dead upright,
in memory of the mother of their race who was cut out of wood and awoke
to life when standing upright. He also warned them against settling in
the valleys and near large streams, for sickness and death dwelt there.
They were to make it a rule to have their huts at least an hour’s walk
from the nearest watering-place; then their children would thrive and
escape illness.”
The explanation of the name Makonde given by my informants is somewhat
different from that contained in the above legend, which I extract from
a little book (small, but packed with information), by Pater Adams,
entitled _Lindi und sein Hinterland_. Otherwise, my results agree
exactly with the statements of the legend. Washing? _Hapana_—there is no
such thing. Why should they do so? As it is, the supply of water
scarcely suffices for cooking and drinking; other people do not wash, so
why should the Makonde distinguish himself by such needless
eccentricity? As for shaving the head, the short, woolly crop scarcely
needs it,[49] so the second ancestral precept is likewise easy enough to
follow. Beyond this, however, there is nothing ridiculous in the
ancestor’s advice. I have obtained from various local artists a fairly
large number of figures carved in wood, ranging from fifteen to
twenty-three inches in height, and representing women belonging to the
great group of the Mavia, Makonde, and Matambwe tribes. The carving is
remarkably well done and renders the female type with great accuracy,
especially the keloid ornamentation, to be described later on. As to the
object and meaning of their works the sculptors either could or (more
probably) would tell me nothing, and I was forced to content myself with
the scanty information vouchsafed by one man, who said that the figures
were merely intended to represent the _nembo_—the artificial
deformations of _pelele_, ear-discs, and keloids. The legend recorded by
Pater Adams places these figures in a new light. They must surely be
more than mere dolls; and we may even venture to assume that they
are—though the majority of present-day Makonde are probably unaware of
the fact—representations of the tribal ancestress.
The references in the legend to the descent from Mahuta to the Rovuma,
and to a journey across the highlands into the Mbekuru valley,
undoubtedly indicate the previous history of the tribe, the travels of
the ancestral pair typifying the migrations of their descendants. The
descent to the neighbouring Rovuma valley, with its extraordinary
fertility and great abundance of game, is intelligible at a glance—but
the crossing of the Lukuledi depression, the ascent to the Rondo Plateau
and the descent to the Mbemkuru, also lie within the bounds of
probability, for all these districts have exactly the same character as
the extreme south. Now, however, comes a point of especial interest for
our bacteriological age. The primitive Makonde did not enjoy their lives
in the marshy river-valleys. Disease raged among them, and many died. It
was only after they had returned to their original home near Mahuta,
that the health conditions of these people improved. We are very apt to
think of the African as a stupid person whose ignorance of nature is
only equalled by his fear of it, and who looks on all mishaps as caused
by evil spirits and malignant natural powers. It is much more correct to
assume in this case that the people very early learnt to distinguish
districts infested with malaria from those where it is absent.
[Illustration: USUAL METHOD OF CLOSING HUT-DOOR]
This knowledge is crystallized in the ancestral warning against settling
in the valleys and near the great waters, the dwelling-places of disease
and death. At the same time, for security against the hostile Mavia
south of the Rovuma, it was enacted that every settlement must be not
less than a certain distance from the southern edge of the plateau. Such
in fact is their mode of life at the present day. It is not such a bad
one, and certainly they are both safer and more comfortable than the
Makua, the recent intruders from the south, who have made good their
footing on the western edge of the plateau, extending over a fairly wide
belt of country. Neither Makua nor Makonde show in their dwellings
anything of the size and comeliness of the Yao houses in the plain,
especially at Masasi, Chingulungulu and Zuza’s. Jumbe Chauro, a Makonde
hamlet not far from Newala, on the road to Mahuta, is the most important
settlement of the tribe I have yet seen, and has fairly spacious huts.
But how slovenly is their construction compared with the palatial
residences of the elephant-hunters living in the plain. The roofs are
still more untidy than in the general run of huts during the dry season,
the walls show here and there the scanty beginnings or the lamentable
remains of the mud plastering, and the interior is a veritable
dog-kennel; dirt, dust and disorder everywhere. A few huts only show any
attempt at division into rooms, and this consists merely of very
roughly-made bamboo partitions. In one point alone have I noticed any
indication of progress—in the method of fastening the door. Houses all
over the south are secured in a simple but ingenious manner. The door
consists of a set of stout pieces of wood or bamboo, tied with
bark-string to two cross-pieces, and moving in two grooves round one of
the door-posts, so as to open inwards. If the owner wishes to leave
home, he takes two logs as thick as a man’s upper arm and about a yard
long. One of these is placed obliquely against the middle of the door
from the inside, so as to form an angle of from 60° to 75° with the
ground. He then places the second piece horizontally across the first,
pressing it downward with all his might. It is kept in place by two
strong posts planted in the ground a few inches inside the door. This
fastening is absolutely safe, but of course cannot be applied to both
doors at once, otherwise how could the owner leave or enter his house? I
have not yet succeeded in finding out how the back door is fastened.
[Illustration: MAKONDE LOCK AND KEY AT JUMBE CHAURO]
This is the general way of closing a house. The Makonde at Jumbe Chauro,
however, have a much more complicated, solid and original one. Here,
too, the door is as already described, except that there is only one
post on the inside, standing by itself about six inches from one side of
the doorway. Opposite this post is a hole in the wall just large enough
to admit a man’s arm. The door is closed inside by a large wooden bolt
passing through a hole in this post and pressing with its free end
against the door. The other end has three holes into which fit three
pegs running in vertical grooves inside the post. The door is opened
with a wooden key about a foot long, somewhat curved and sloped off at
the butt; the other end has three pegs corresponding to the holes, in
the bolt, so that, when it is thrust through the hole in the wall and
inserted into the rectangular opening in the post, the pegs can be
lifted and the bolt drawn out.[50]
[Illustration: MODE OF INSERTING THE KEY]
With no small pride first one householder and then a second showed me on
the spot the action of this greatest invention of the Makonde Highlands.
To both with an admiring exclamation of “_Vizuri sana!_” (“Very fine!”).
I expressed the wish to take back these marvels with me to Ulaya, to
show the Wazungu what clever fellows the Makonde are. Scarcely five
minutes after my return to camp at Newala, the two men came up sweating
under the weight of two heavy logs which they laid down at my feet,
handing over at the same time the keys of the fallen fortress. Arguing,
logically enough, that if the key was wanted, the lock would be wanted
with it, they had taken their axes and chopped down the posts—as it
never occurred to them to dig them out of the ground and so bring them
intact. Thus I have two badly damaged specimens, and the owners, instead
of praise, come in for a blowing-up.
The Makua huts in the environs of Newala are especially miserable; their
more than slovenly construction reminds one of the temporary erections
of the Makua at Hatia’s, though the people here have not been concerned
in a war. It must therefore be due to congenital idleness, or else to
the absence of a powerful chief. Even the _baraza_ at Mlipa’s, a short
hour’s walk south-east of Newala, shares in this general neglect. While
public buildings in this country are usually looked after more or less
carefully, this is in evident danger of being blown over by the first
strong easterly gale. The only attractive object in this whole district
is the grave of the late chief Mlipa. I visited it in the morning, while
the sun was still trying with partial success to break through the
rolling mists, and the circular grove of tall euphorbias, which, with a
broken pot, is all that marks the old king’s resting-place, impressed
one with a touch of pathos. Even my very materially-minded carriers
seemed to feel something of the sort, for instead of their usual ribald
songs, they chanted solemnly, as we marched on through the dense green
of the Makonde bush:—
[Music:
(_An octave lower on the piano._) Air A.
Da-si-ge mu-rum-ba ba-na m-kub-wa u-si-ga-we nam-ba cha-
ku-la ni ma-li si-ri-ka-li nam-ba wa-ku-ho-fu ni na-
1. _Leader_ 2. Air B.
ni da-si-ge ni mn-pe-le-ka-ge mu-pe-le-ka ju-va na ba-na m-ku-bwa
_Leader_ Air A.
sim-ba mli-ma go-do - ka ma-na-ku-ba Da-si-ge mu-rum-ba ba-na
m-ku-bwa u . si . ga - we nam - ba cha - ku - la ni ma - li si -
Air B
ri - ka - li nam-ba wa - ku-ho-fu ni na - ni mu-pe-le-ka-ge
mu-pe-le-ka ju-va na ba-na-m-ku-bwa sim-ba mli-ma go-do - ka
Air A
da-si-ge mo-rum-ba ba-na - m-ku-bwa u-si-ga - we nam-ba cha -
Air B
ku-la ni ma-li si - ri-ka-li nam-ba wa - ku-ho-fu ni na - ni
mu-pe-le-ka ge
mu-pe-le-ka ju - va na ba-na m-ku-bwa sim-ba mli-ma go-do-ka
Air A
da - si - ge mu-rum - ba ba-na m-ku-bwa n-si-ga-we nam-ba cha-
ku-la ni ma-li si - ri-ka-li nam-ba wa - ku-ho-fu na ca - ni.]
“We shall arrive with the great master; we stand in a row and have no
fear about getting our food and our money from the Serkali (the
Government). We are not afraid; we are going along with the great
master, the lion; we are going down to the coast and back.”
With regard to the characteristic features of the various tribes here on
the western edge of the plateau, I can arrive at no other conclusion
than the one already come to in the plain, viz., that it is impossible
for anyone but a trained anthropologist to assign any given individual
at once to his proper tribe. In fact, I think that even an
anthropological specialist, after the most careful examination, might
find it a difficult task to decide. The whole congeries of peoples
collected in the region bounded on the west by the great Central African
rift, Tanganyika and Nyasa, and on the east by the Indian Ocean, are
closely related to each other—some of their languages are only
distinguished from one another as dialects of the same speech, and no
doubt all the tribes present the same shape of skull and structure of
skeleton. Thus, surely, there can be no very striking differences in
outward appearance.
[Illustration: THE ANCESTRESS OF THE MAKONDE]
Even did such exist, I should have no time to concern myself with them,
for day after day, I have to see or hear, as the case may be—in any case
to grasp and record—an extraordinary number of ethnographic phenomena. I
am almost disposed to think it fortunate that some departments of
inquiry, at least, are barred by external circumstances. Chief among
these is the subject of iron-working. We are apt to think of Africa as a
country where iron ore is everywhere, so to speak, to be picked up by
the roadside, and where it would be quite surprising if the inhabitants
had not learnt to smelt the material ready to their hand. In fact, the
knowledge of this art ranges all over the continent, from the Kabyles in
the north to the Kafirs in the south. Here between the Rovuma and the
Lukuledi the conditions are not so favourable. According to the
statements of the Makonde, neither ironstone nor any other form of iron
ore is known to them. They have not therefore advanced to the art of
smelting the metal, but have hitherto bought all their iron implements
from neighbouring tribes. Even in the plain the inhabitants are not much
better off. Only one man now living is said to understand the art of
smelting iron. This old _fundi_ lives close to Huwe, that isolated,
steep-sided block of granite which rises out of the green solitude
between Masasi and Chingulungulu, and whose jagged and splintered top
meets the traveller’s eye everywhere. While still at Masasi I wished to
see this man at work, but was told that, frightened by the rising, he
had retired across the Rovuma, though he would soon return. All
subsequent inquiries as to whether the _fundi_ had come back met with
the genuine African answer, “_Bado_” (“Not yet”).
[Illustration: BRAZIER]
Some consolation was afforded me by a brassfounder, whom I came across
in the bush near Akundonde’s. This man is the favourite of women, and
therefore no doubt of the gods; he welds the glittering brass rods
purchased at the coast into those massive, heavy rings which, on the
wrists and ankles of the local fair ones, continually give me fresh food
for admiration. Like every decent master-craftsman he had all his tools
with him, consisting of a pair of bellows, three crucibles and a
hammer—nothing more, apparently. He was quite willing to show his skill,
and in a twinkling had fixed his bellows on the ground. They are simply
two goat-skins, taken off whole, the four legs being closed by knots,
while the upper opening, intended to admit the air, is kept stretched by
two pieces of wood. At the lower end of the skin a smaller opening is
left into which a wooden tube is stuck. The _fundi_ has quickly borrowed
a heap of wood-embers from the nearest hut; he then fixes the free ends
of the two tubes into an earthen pipe, and clamps them to the ground by
means of a bent piece of wood. Now he fills one of his small clay
crucibles, the dross on which shows that they have been long in use,
with the yellow material, places it in the midst of the embers, which,
at present are only faintly glimmering, and begins his work. In quick
alternation the smith’s two hands move up and down with the open ends of
the bellows; as he raises his hand he holds the slit wide open, so as to
let the air enter the skin bag unhindered. In pressing it down he closes
the bag, and the air puffs through the bamboo tube and clay pipe into
the fire, which quickly burns up. The smith, however, does not keep on
with this work, but beckons to another man, who relieves him at the
bellows, while he takes some more tools out of a large skin pouch
carried on his back. I look on in wonder as, with a smooth round stick
about the thickness of a finger, he bores a few vertical holes into the
clean sand of the soil. This should not be difficult, yet the man seems
to be taking great pains over it. Then he fastens down to the ground,
with a couple of wooden clamps, a neat little trough made by splitting a
joint of bamboo in half, so that the ends are closed by the two knots.
At last the yellow metal has attained the right consistency, and the
_fundi_ lifts the crucible from the fire by means of two sticks split at
the end to serve as tongs. A short swift turn to the left—a tilting of
the crucible—and the molten brass, hissing and giving forth clouds of
smoke, flows first into the bamboo mould and then into the holes in the
ground.
The technique of this backwoods craftsman may not be very far advanced,
but it cannot be denied that he knows how to obtain an adequate result
by the simplest means. The ladies of highest rank in this country—that
is to say, those who can afford it, wear two kinds of these massive
brass rings, one cylindrical, the other semicircular in section. The
latter are cast in the most ingenious way in the bamboo mould, the
former in the circular hole in the sand. It is quite a simple matter for
the _fundi_ to fit these bars to the limbs of his fair customers; with a
few light strokes of his hammer he bends the pliable brass round arm or
ankle without further inconvenience to the wearer.
[Illustration: SHAPING THE POT]
[Illustration: SMOOTHING WITH MAIZE-COB]
[Illustration: CUTTING THE EDGE]
[Illustration: FINISHING THE BOTTOM]
[Illustration: LAST SMOOTHING BEFORE BURNING]
[Illustration: FIRING THE BRUSH-PILE]
[Illustration: LIGHTING THE FARTHER SIDE OF THE PILE]
[Illustration: TURNING THE RED-HOT VESSEL]
NYASA WOMAN MAKING POTS AT MASASI
[Illustration: MAKUA WOMAN MAKING A POT. SHOWS THE BEGINNINGS OF THE
POTTER’S WHEEL]
Pottery is an art which must always and everywhere excite the interest
of the student, just because it is so intimately connected with the
development of human culture, and because its relics are one of the
principal factors in the reconstruction of our own condition in
prehistoric times. I shall always remember with pleasure the two or
three afternoons at Masasi when Salim Matola’s mother, a slightly-built,
graceful, pleasant-looking woman, explained to me with touching
patience, by means of concrete illustrations, the ceramic art of her
people. The only implements for this primitive process were a lump of
clay in her left hand, and in the right a calabash containing the
following valuables: the fragment of a maize-cob stripped of all its
grains, a smooth, oval pebble, about the size of a pigeon’s egg, a few
chips of gourd-shell, a bamboo splinter about the length of one’s hand,
a small shell, and a bunch of some herb resembling spinach. Nothing
more. The woman scraped with the shell a round, shallow hole in the
soft, fine sand of the soil, and, when an active young girl had filled
the calabash with water for her, she began to knead the clay. As if by
magic it gradually assumed the shape of a rough but already well-shaped
vessel, which only wanted a little touching up with the instruments
before mentioned. I looked out with the closest attention for any
indication of the use of the potter’s wheel, in however rudimentary a
form, but no—_hapana_ (there is none). The embryo pot stood firmly in
its little depression, and the woman walked round it in a stooping
posture, whether she was removing small stones or similar foreign bodies
with the maize-cob, smoothing the inner or outer surface with the
splinter of bamboo, or later, after letting it dry for a day, pricking
in the ornamentation with a pointed bit of gourd-shell, or working out
the bottom, or cutting the edge with a sharp bamboo knife, or giving the
last touches to the finished vessel. This occupation of the women is
infinitely toilsome, but it is without doubt an accurate reproduction of
the process in use among our ancestors of the Neolithic and Bronze ages.
There is no doubt that the invention of pottery, an item in human
progress whose importance cannot be over-estimated, is due to women.
Rough, coarse and unfeeling, the men of the horde range over the
countryside. When the united cunning of the hunters has succeeded in
killing the game; not one of them thinks of carrying home the spoil. A
bright fire, kindled by a vigorous wielding of the drill, is crackling
beside them; the animal has been cleaned and cut up _secundum artem_,
and, after a slight singeing, will soon disappear under their sharp
teeth; no one all this time giving a single thought to wife or child.
To what shifts, on the other hand, the primitive wife, and still more
the primitive mother, was put! Not even prehistoric stomachs could
endure an unvarying diet of raw food. Something or other suggested the
beneficial effect of hot water on the majority of approved but
indigestible dishes. Perhaps a neighbour had tried holding the hard
roots or tubers over the fire in a calabash filled with water—or maybe
an ostrich-egg-shell, or a hastily improvised vessel of bark. They
became much softer and more palatable than they had previously been;
but, unfortunately, the vessel could not stand the fire and got charred
on the outside. That can be remedied, thought our ancestress, and
plastered a layer of wet clay round a similar vessel. This is an
improvement; the cooking utensil remains uninjured, but the heat of the
fire has shrunk it, so that it is loose in its shell. The next step is
to detach it, so, with a firm grip and a jerk, shell and kernel are
separated, and pottery is invented. Perhaps, however, the discovery
which led to an intelligent use of the burnt-clay shell, was made in a
slightly different way. Ostrich-eggs and calabashes are not to be found
in every part of the world, but everywhere mankind has arrived at the
art of making baskets out of pliant materials, such as bark, bast,
strips of palm-leaf, supple twigs, etc. Our inventor has no water-tight
vessel provided by nature. “Never mind, let us line the basket with
clay.” This answers the purpose, but alas! the basket gets burnt over
the blazing fire, the woman watches the process of cooking with
increasing uneasiness, fearing a leak, but no leak appears. The food,
done to a turn, is eaten with peculiar relish; and the cooking-vessel is
examined, half in curiosity, half in satisfaction at the result. The
plastic clay is now hard as stone, and at the same time looks
exceedingly well, for the neat plaiting of the burnt basket is traced
all over it in a pretty pattern. Thus, simultaneously with pottery, its
ornamentation was invented.
Primitive woman has another claim to respect. It was the man, roving
abroad, who invented the art of producing fire at will, but the woman,
unable to imitate him in this, has been a Vestal from the earliest
times. Nothing gives so much trouble as the keeping alight of the
smouldering brand, and, above all, when all the men are absent from the
camp. Heavy rain-clouds gather, already the first large drops are
falling, the first gusts of the storm rage over the plain. The little
flame, a greater anxiety to the woman than her own children, flickers
unsteadily in the blast. What is to be done? A sudden thought occurs to
her, and in an instant she has constructed a primitive hut out of strips
of bark, to protect the flame against rain and wind.
This, or something very like it, was the way in which the principle of
the house was discovered; and even the most hardened misogynist cannot
fairly refuse a woman the credit of it. The protection of the
hearth-fire from the weather is the germ from which the human dwelling
was evolved. Men had little, if any share, in this forward step, and
that only at a late stage. Even at the present day, the plastering of
the housewall with clay and the manufacture of pottery are exclusively
the women’s business. These are two very significant survivals. Our
European kitchen-garden, too, is originally a woman’s invention, and the
hoe, the primitive instrument of agriculture, is, characteristically
enough, still used in this department. But the noblest achievement which
we owe to the other sex is unquestionably the art of cookery. Roasting
alone—the oldest process—is one for which men took the hint (a very
obvious one) from nature. It must have been suggested by the scorched
carcase of some animal overtaken by the destructive forest-fires. But
boiling—the process of improving organic substances by the help of water
heated to boiling-point—is a much later discovery. It is so recent that
it has not even yet penetrated to all parts of the world. The
Polynesians understand how to steam food, that is, to cook it, neatly
wrapped in leaves, in a hole in the earth between hot stones, the air
being excluded, and (sometimes) a few drops of water sprinkled on the
stones; but they do not understand boiling.
To come back from this digression, we find that the slender Nyasa woman
has, after once more carefully examining the finished pot, put it aside
in the shade to dry. On the following day she sends me word by her son,
Salim Matola, who is always on hand, that she is going to do the
burning, and, on coming out of my house, I find her already hard at
work. She has spread on the ground a layer of very dry sticks, about as
thick as one’s thumb, has laid the pot (now of a yellowish-grey colour)
on them, and is piling brushwood round it. My faithful Pesa mbili, the
_mnyampara_, who has been standing by, most obligingly, with a lighted
stick, now hands it to her. Both of them, blowing steadily, light the
pile on the lee side, and, when the flame begins to catch, on the
weather side also. Soon the whole is in a blaze, but the dry fuel is
quickly consumed and the fire dies down, so that we see the red-hot
vessel rising from the ashes. The woman turns it continually with a long
stick, sometimes one way and sometimes another, so that it may be evenly
heated all over. In twenty minutes she rolls it out of the ash-heap,
takes up the bundle of spinach, which has been lying for two days in a
jar of water, and sprinkles the red-hot clay with it. The places where
the drops fall are marked by black spots on the uniform reddish-brown
surface. With a sigh of relief, and with visible satisfaction, the woman
rises to an erect position; she is standing just in a line between me
and the fire, from which a cloud of smoke is just rising: I press the
ball of my camera, the shutter clicks—the apotheosis is achieved! Like a
priestess, representative of her inventive sex, the graceful woman
stands: at her feet the hearth-fire she has given us beside her the
invention she has devised for us, in the background the home she has
built for us.
At Newala, also, I have had the manufacture of pottery carried on in my
presence. Technically the process is better than that already described,
for here we find the beginnings of the potter’s wheel, which does not
seem to exist in the plains; at least I have seen nothing of the sort.
The artist, a frightfully stupid Makua woman, did not make a depression
in the ground to receive the pot she was about to shape, but used
instead a large potsherd. Otherwise, she went to work in much the same
way as Salim’s mother, except that she saved herself the trouble of
walking round and round her work by squatting at her ease and letting
the pot and potsherd rotate round her; this is surely the first step
towards a machine. But it does not follow that the pot was improved by
the process. It is true that it was beautifully rounded and presented a
very creditable appearance when finished, but the numerous large and
small vessels which I have seen, and, in part, collected, in the “less
advanced” districts, are no less so. We moderns imagine that instruments
of precision are necessary to produce excellent results. Go to the
prehistoric collections of our museums and look at the pots, urns and
bowls of our ancestors in the dim ages of the past, and you will at once
perceive your error.
[Illustration: MAKING LONGITUDINAL CUT IN BARK]
[Illustration: DRAWING THE BARK OFF THE LOG]
[Illustration: REMOVING THE OUTER BARK]
[Illustration: BEATING THE BARK]
[Illustration: WORKING THE BARK-CLOTH AFTER BEATING, TO MAKE IT SOFT]
MANUFACTURE OF BARK-CLOTH AT NEWALA
To-day, nearly the whole population of German East Africa is clothed in
imported calico. This was not always the case; even now in some parts of
the north dressed skins are still the prevailing wear, and in the
north-western districts—east and north of Lake Tanganyika—lies a zone
where bark-cloth has not yet been superseded. Probably not many
generations have passed since such bark fabrics and kilts of skins were
the only clothing even in the south. Even to-day, large quantities of
this bright-red or drab material are still to be found; but if we wish
to see it, we must look in the granaries and on the drying stages inside
the native huts, where it serves less ambitious uses as wrappings for
those seeds and fruits which require to be packed with special care. The
salt produced at Masasi, too, is packed for transport to a distance in
large sheets of bark-cloth. Wherever I found it in any degree possible,
I studied the process of making this cloth. The native requisitioned for
the purpose arrived, carrying a log between two and three yards long and
as thick as his thigh, and nothing else except a curiously-shaped mallet
and the usual long, sharp and pointed knife which all men and boys wear
in a belt at their backs without a sheath—_horribile dictu!_[51]
Silently he squats down before me, and with two rapid cuts has drawn a
couple of circles round the log some two yards apart, and slits the bark
lengthwise between them with the point of his knife. With evident care,
he then scrapes off the outer rind all round the log, so that in a
quarter of an hour the inner red layer of the bark shows up
brightly-coloured between the two untouched ends. With some trouble and
much caution, he now loosens the bark at one end, and opens the
cylinder. He then stands up, takes hold of the free edge with both
hands, and turning it inside out, slowly but steadily pulls it off in
one piece. Now comes the troublesome work of scraping all superfluous
particles of outer bark from the outside of the long, narrow piece of
material, while the inner side is carefully scrutinised for defective
spots. At last it is ready for beating. Having signalled to a friend,
who immediately places a bowl of water beside him, the artificer damps
his sheet of bark all over, seizes his mallet, lays one end of the stuff
on the smoothest spot of the log, and hammers away slowly but
continuously. “Very simple!” I think to myself. “Why, I could do that,
too!”—but I am forced to change my opinions a little later on; for the
beating is quite an art, if the fabric is not to be beaten to pieces. To
prevent the breaking of the fibres, the stuff is several times folded
across, so as to interpose several thicknesses between the mallet and
the block. At last the required state is reached, and the _fundi_ seizes
the sheet, still folded, by both ends, and wrings it out, or calls an
assistant to take one end while he holds the other. The cloth produced
in this way is not nearly so fine and uniform in texture as the famous
Uganda bark-cloth, but it is quite soft, and, above all, cheap.
Now, too, I examine the mallet. My craftsman has been using the simpler
but better form of this implement, a conical block of some hard wood,
its base—the striking surface—being scored across and across with more
or less deeply-cut grooves, and the handle stuck into a hole in the
middle. The other and earlier form of mallet is shaped in the same way,
but the head is fastened by an ingenious network of bark strips into the
split bamboo serving as a handle. The observation so often made, that
ancient customs persist longest in connection with religious ceremonies
and in the life of children, here finds confirmation. As we shall soon
see, bark-cloth is still worn during the _unyago_,[52] having been
prepared with special solemn ceremonies; and many a mother, if she has
no other garment handy, will still put her little one into a kilt of
bark-cloth, which, after all, looks better, besides being more in
keeping with its African surroundings, than the ridiculous bit of print
from Ulaya.
[Illustration: MAKUA WOMEN]